birkeleyX LIBRARY I UNIvn^alfT OF j CALIFORNIA J V7 Digitized by tlie Internet Arcliive in 2008 witli funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation littp://www.arcliive.org/details/englislipoeticalwOOmaccricli IN HIS 74t!i YEAR. THE EJSTGLISH POETICAL WO^RKS OF EVAN JlAoCOLL, Authoi- of " Clarsach Nam Beann." WITH ^ f iogtiiphical §kctclt of the ^utltor, By A. Mackenzie, f.r.s.s., Inverness. HUNTER, ROSE & CO. Edinburgh :— MACLACHLAN & STEWART, Inverness :— A. & W. MACKENZIE. 1883. Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and eighty-three, by Evan MacColl, in the office of the Minister of Agricul- ture. PRINTED AND BOUND Bv Hunter, Rose & Co., TORONTO. CHARLES BROOfiUM DEDICATED BY SPECIAL PERMISSION TO HIS EXCELLENCY THE RIGHT HONORABLE SIR JOHN DOUGLAS SUTHERLAND ©AMPBELL, K. T., G. C. M. G., Etc. MARQUIS OF LORNE, Governor General of Canada. 982 CONTENTS. Dedication iii A Biographical Sketch of the Author 9 The Mountain Minstrel :— A May Morning: in Glen-Shira 31 My Own Native Cot 33 Jessie of Carlunnan 34 An Autumn Day on Loch Lomond 35 Raven Tresses 38 Lines written on the passage of the Act abolishing Slavery in the British West India Colonies 39 The River Beauly 40 The Castle of Lochavich 43 Glen-Urquhart 55 Annie's Eyes 5(5 The Findhorn 57 Definition of a Poet 59 Staffa Visited 60 loua 64 Maggie the Pride of Lochgair. . ' 68 On a lady playing the Harp 69 Donald and Sawney 70 Love ill Hiding 74 On Viewing Tobermorry Bay 76 Shams • 77 My three Charmers 81 Lines addressed to a young poetical Friend 82 A Snow fall in (Jlen-tlrquhart 83 Craigantairve, Argyleshire 85 Britain vs Afghanistan ." 87 Mary Mine 89 An Impromptu 89 The Fisherman's Return 90 On the Death of a beloved Parent 91 Duncan's Bay Head 92 To Mary 94 Love's last Appeal 95 A Stolen Kiss 97 A Warning Word 98 The Metamorphosis ... 99 My first Railway trio 103 Sellars and his Shears 105 Contents. PAGE An Epistle to a Poetical Friend 107 Elegiac Stanzas 110 To the Morning Star 112 A Dreamland Delight 113 Lines written on the banks of the Dee, near Chester 116 Lines written in The Dingle, a scene on the banks of the Mersey.. . 117 " What means thy long absence " 118 Sonnet— The Primrose 119 Sonnet— To a robin singing 119 Sonnet — Addressed to J. Ferguson of Carlyle . 120 Disenchanted 121 Tarlochan's advice to his Son 122 To Maggie S. , on her birthday 12.3 To 124 A last fond Farewell 125 The captured bird 126 Where dwelleth happiness 128 Lines written in an Album jus^t presented to a fair Friend 129 Lines written on a similar occasion 131 To J. F. S., on her birthday IM The Ministrel to his harp 135 Translations— Loch- duich 136 Elegiac Stanzas -. 139 Mairi Laghach— from the Gaelic of J. McDonald 141 The Child of Promise — A translation fr( m the author's Gaelic, by Kev. Dr. Buchannan, 144 Another version of the same poem, by Lachlan McLean 145 Songs :— Who loves not to think of Glenfinnan ? 147 The Hills of the Heather 149 I love thee, Glenara 150 The Highland Emigrants last Farewell 151 Ellie Bhoideach ; 152 When I am far away 153 Bonnie Isabel 1,54 .The lass wi' the bricht gowden hair 155 Sweet Annie Bhan of Inverglen 155 My Morven Maid 15(5 The Maid of Leven-side 157 The Lass of Loch-shin 158 Winna the siller make up for an old man ? 159 The Lass (!f Glenfyne 161 The betrayed one to her child 162 Sweet Annie of Glenara 163 The Shepherd boy 164 Bella , 165 Maggie Stuart 166 'Twas a Highland wooer '. 167 I love thee not, April 168 Poems, Songs, and Sonnets— Chiefly written in Canada : — The Chaudiere 173 The Relief of Lucknow 174 Creag-a-Gharie 176 To Professor G e, on his last Historical Discovery 179 Contents. PAGE Robert Burns ]fl The Modern Hercules 1^- Canadian Girls : }^' The Clans of 'Forty-five Ipo A " Fabled" Ossian ]->\ The Lake of the Thousand Isles 19^ A Scottish Syren. IQ-.i Sonnets descriptive of the scenery of Loch-Awe, Argyleshire— I. Loch-Awe I-}'' IL The Brander Pass 19!5 III. Innis-Druidhnich 19^ IV. Kilchurn Castle 19'^ V. Fraoch-Eilean l-'9 VI. Glenorchy 200 VII. A Summer morning at Dalmally -^01 Keep your powder dry, Boys 20] The Presi:^ 203 DomhnuU Piobaire and the Bagpipes ^05 " Stands Scotland where it did ? " 208 To Mary sleeping in an Arbor 210 A day with the Muse 212 My Rowan Tree pl-5 Erin Machree 218 My first St. Andrew's night in Canada 5^20 Elci^iac Stanzas 2z2 A time that yet shall be 2'24 The modern Moloch 22t> From the sublime to the ridiculous 228 William Lyon Mackenzie and his Traducers 229 A girl I know , 230 Glory to the Brave 231 Scottish Church Music 232 A New Year's Morning Reverie 234 A Missing Minstrel 237 John Bull on his travels 239 Lines written to a fair friend 240 The Wallace Monument rs. " Old Humphrey " '242 Let us do the best we can 244 Verses addressed to John F. Campbell, of Islay 245 Canada's Welcome to the Prince of Wales 247 A very ill-used Squad, Sir 241) Mac Aulay vs. Scotland 251 Garibaldi the Brave 253 Curling vs Shinty 256 Christmas Time 2.>S Remember the Poor 259 Lines, in response to a Yule-time greeting from a friend 2S0 Lines to the same friend on a similar occasion 261 The Wellington Street Peacock 262 Verses written for the Burn's Anniversary of 1860 264 The Tandys .-. 266 Captain Creighton 269 Abram IJncoln 272 A Highland Hero's " Coronach " 273 Contents. PAGE My wherry, " Brunette "... 276 The Land of the Lakes 277 How long, O Lord, how long '! 279 On a would-be Canadain Poet 280 England s mighty dead 2^2 Our Canada— an Extravaganza 283 A bit ot advice 285 My model Highlander ^8f» A word with the Fenian Brotherhood 288 Up and at them ! ;*pare them not ! 290 The Cadi Ben-Brammach to his Beaks 291 The ordering of the Medal 292 To John Carruthers, Esq. , Kingston 294 Lord Lome and the Lady Louise 295 A Prologue 296 Epigram on the Poet Breeze ^J8 An impromptu response 2 J9 A voice from the desk j^OO Ontario's Volunteers ^02 Problems waiting solution 1^0^ Canada's Kesolve 304 A gathering Call, 1863 _. 305 Lines written on a similar occasion, 18C5 30o The Newsboy 307 The bold Chief of the brave British Whih:ical Slxtch. him a day of special horror and anguish. On all such oc- casions it became necessary to send him out of the way until the necessary proceedings were over, It led him also, often at the expense of much rough treatment from boy companions older than himself, to become a regular littte knight-errant in the defence of his favourite wild- birds and their brood from the harrying propensities so common to most boys ; and a lapwing could not more successfully wile away from her nest the searcher after it than he often did from their mark the would-be-despoilers of some poor robin's cuacJi, as yet undiscovered by them. With a boy so constituted, we may well believe him when he writes in his poem on " Creag-a-gharaidh" given to the public a few years ago, that These were the days a planet new Would joy its finder less than there I To find some blackbird's nest, known to Myself alone in Creag-a-gharrie. Like most Highland boys brought up in rural life, MacColl was early trained to all the various duties and labour in- cidental to that sphere of life — the spade, the plough, and the sickle, being, for many years, implements far more familiar to him than the pen. The herring fishing season in Lochfyne was also to him for several years of his early manhood a period of more than ordinary activity — himself and his wherry, " Mairi Chreagh-a-gharaidh," the praises of which have been already sounded in excellent Gaelic verse in these pages, being generally foremost in opening the fishing campaign, and seldom missing a fair share of Biographical Sketch. 19 its spoils. And, further, his father, in addition to the la- bour demanded by the cultivation of his small holding at Kenmore, was seldom without a road contract of some kind, or another on hand, generally the making or repair- ing of roads within the policies of the Duke of Argyll at Inveraray. During the last ten years of the father's resi- dence in Scotland, before emigrating to Canada, in 1831, he held a contract for keeping a considerable stretch of the county roads in repair, to which he confined himself exclusively in that particular department. These repairs were usually carried on during the winter, and the bard and his brothers had to work along with the other labour- ers employed, thus making the whole year to them one unceasing round of hard and active labour. The bard was thus employed for several years — years however dur- ing which many of his best Gaelic lyrics were composed. "When his father, accompanied by all the other unmar- ried members of his family, emigrated to Canada, Evan could not make up his mind to leave his native land, even to accompany those whom he loved above all others in the world — he having already secretly resolved that be- fore following them, he would try to leave his country- men at home something to be remembered by, — a poetic volume, in short, the materials for which were daily grow- ing on his hands. How well he succeeded in his purpose remains now to be shewn. His first publication in volume form appeared in 1886, under the title of The Mountain Minstrel, containing Gaelic songs and poems, and his earliest attempts in Eng- 20 Bior/raphical Shtch. lisli. Thougli the name of MacLachlan and Stewart ap- pears upon the title page, the work was entirely pub- lished at the risk of the Author. It was well received the sale covered the cost of publication, and left a smaP balance to the bard. During the next two years he wrote several new pieces both in Gaelic and English, and in I808, the Messrs- Blackie, of Glasgow, published the Gaelic work now known as " Clarsach Nam Beann." containing all the Gaelic pro- ductions of the bard till that date. Simultaneously with the " Clarsach " the same firm brought out the first ex- clusively English edition of the Mountain Minstrel, the first edition of which, we have seen, was partly Gaelic and partly English. A second edition of this Mountain Min- strel was published in 1847, and another in 1849 ; but neither of these produced any great financial result to the author. On the appearance of his two volumes in 1838, Mac- Coll was hailed as a rare acquisition to Gaelic literature* and his right to stand in the front rank of modern Celtic bards was at once established and acknowledged. Of his Mountain Minstrel or "Poems and Songs in English," some of the best contemporary authorities in Britain wrote in the very highest praise. The late Dr. Norman MacLeod, reviewing it in an Edin- burgh paper, writes : — " Evan MacColl's poetry is the pro- duct of a mind impressed with the beauty and the gran- deur of the lovely scenes in which his infancy has been nursed. We have no hesitation in saying that this work Biographical Sketch. 21 is that of a man possessed of much poetic genius. Wild, indeed, and sometimes rough are his rhymes and epithets ; yet there are thoughts so new and striking, images and comparisons so beautiful and original, feelings so warm and fresh, that stamp this Highland peasant as no ordi- nary man." Hugh Miller, says, in the Inverness Courier : " There is more of fancy than of imagination in the poetry of MacColl, and more of thought and imagery than of feeling. In point, glitter, polish, he is the Moore of High- land song. Comparison and ideality are the leading fea- tures of liis mind. Some of the pieces in this volume are sparkling tissues of comparison from beginning to end. The images pass before us in quick and tantalizing suc- cession, reminding us of the figures of a magic lantern, hurriedly drawn athwart the wall, or the patterns of a webb of tapestry, seen and then lost, as they sweep over the fi-ame. Even when compelled to form a high esti- mate of the wealth of the bard from the very rapidity with which he flings it before us, we cannot avoid wish- ing at the same time that he had learned to enjoy it a lit- tle more at his leisure. This, if a fault, however, and we doubt it after all, is a fault of genius," Dr. Browne, author of " The History of the Highland Clans," noticing the work in the Caledonian Mercury, wrote: — " Genius wherever it displays itself, constitutes nature's title of nobility, with heaven's patent right visibly stamped upon it, and thus levels all other distinctions. Here, for in- stance, we have it Ijreaking out amidst every disadvan- tage in the person of a Western Celt, — one, who, obedient 22 Biographical Sketch. to the voice within, sought to embody in song those feelings and emotions which external nature had kindled up in his bosom ; and who, with none of the means and appliances furnished by the schools, has thrown together in his Mountain Minstrel, more gems ' of purest ray se- rene ' than could be found in a decade o^ lustra amongst the measured dulness of the choristers and songsters in the cities of the south." This is surely high praise, but we must yet quote Bailey, the celebrated author of " Festus " and of the " Angel World." " There is a freshness, a keenness, a heartiness in many of these productions of the Mountain Minstrel, which seem to breathe naturally of the hungry air, the dark, bleak, rugged bluffs among which they were composed, alternating occasionally with a clear, bewitch- ing, and spiritual quiet, as of the gloaming deepening over the glens and woods. Several of the melodies to- wards the close of this volume, are full of simple and ten- der feeling, and not unworthy to take their place by the side of those of Lowland minstrels of universal fame." Our minstrel having thus established for himself a name which his countrymen " will not willingly let die' the time to leave his beloved Lochfyne-side, not for Canada, but England, at last drew near. For, having been in the spring of 1839, through the influence of Mr. Campbell, of Islay, then M.P. for Argyleshire, appointed to a clerkship in the Liverpool Custom House, he, in that year, bade his native home an affectionate farewell, and exchanged the Highland hills and heather, which had so Biographical Sketch. 23 often occupied his poetic mind, for a sphere of life which, with its necessary duties and surroundings, had little at- traction for one of his temperament, tastes and feelings. In 1850, the health of our bard having become some- what impaired, he obtained six months' leave of absence to enable him to visit his friends in Canada, and at the same time recruit his overworked constitution. Shortly after his arrival there he happened to come in contact with an old friend of his father's family, the Hon. Mal- colm Cameron, then a member of the Canadian Govern- ment, and was by this distinguished countryman invited to transfer his clerkship in the Liverpool Customs for a somewhat better position at the time in the Provincial Customs of Upper Canada. Unfortunately for him, we think, he fell in with this friendly suggestion, and was shortly after, appointed to a situation at Kingston, a posi- tion in which he remained until 1880, when he was super- annuated. Promotion in the public service in Canada, being a mat- ter almost entirely dependent on political influence, — and the Liberal pjarty, — that to which MacColl owed his ap- pointment, having, unfortunately for him, been left in the cold shades of opposition, with but a very short interval during the whole of his official life in that country, his portion at the " public crib " was never much to boast of. We suspect that a further barrier to his advancement lay in a suspicion that not a few of the political lyrics anony- mously contributed from time to time to the Reform press, were from his pen. It is certain that the bard never pro- 24 Biograpliical Sketch. fessecl to be much of an admirer ofhis countryman Sir John A. Maeclonalcl, the leader of the Conservative party there ; and this being the case, he made it a point of honour never to solicit any favour at his hands. Yet, Sir John, who had it so often in bis power to befriend him, can hardly be excused for not acting towards him in a more generous spirit than he seems to have done. It was hoped that when, in 1874, Mr. Mackenzie, the leader of the Liberal party, came into power, MacColl's well-established claims to promotion would result in some lucrative place being at once given him. A promise to that effect was cheer- fully made ; but yielding to political exigencies, Mr. Mac- kenzie delayed its fullilment, more clamorous claimants having to be provided for, — while the bard, too modest to press his claims, and altogether too confident that the time would come when his patience would be amply re- warded, kept vainly trusting on until the upset of the Mackenzie government, in 1878, suddenly put an end to all his hopes of preferment. We have said enough to show the stamp of man, whom we (on this side of the Atlantic) had almost permitted to die out of remembrance, but we must yet be allowed to add one more tribute in his piuise from a bro- ther Canadian bard, of no mean powers himself ; for it is not often that one poet can be found to speak so well of another. We quote from a Biographical Sketch, written by the poet, Charles Sangster, for General Wilson's work on the Scottish Bards, published a good man}^ 3'cars ago, l)y the Harpers, of New York. Biographical Sketch. 25 " MacColl," writes Sangster, " is considerably past the middle of life, but bids fair to weather the storm of ex- istence for many years to come. In private life he is, both by precept and example, all that could be desired. He has an intense love for all that is really good and beauti- ful, and a true, and manly scorn for all that is false, time- serving, or hypocritical ; there is no narrow-mindedness, no bigotry in his soul. Rind and generous to a fault, he is more than esteemed, and that deservedly, by all who properly know him. In the domestic circle, all the warmth, in the man's heart — the full flow of genuine feeling and affection — is ever uppermost. He is a thoroughly earnest man, in whose daily walks and conversation, as well as in his actions, Longfellow's ' Psalm of Life ' is acted out in verity. In his friendships, he is sincere ; in his dislikes, equally so. He is thoroughly Scottish in his leanings, his national love burns with intensity. In poetry, he is not merely zealous, but enthusiastic, and he carries his natural force of character into all he says and does. Con- sequently, he is not simply a wooer, but a worshipper of the muse. Long may he live, the ' Bard of Lochfyne,' to prostrate his entire heart and soul in the Temple of the Nine." Among MacColl's literary friends and acquaintances in the Highlands were, first and foremost, John Mackenzie, of " The Beauties," allowed, like many more of his class, to die prematurely in neglect and poverty, though his great services to the Celtic cause are now being fully acknowledged. The late Robert Carruthers, LL.D., 26 Biographical Sketch. he met several times, " first of all in the studio of my dear departed friend, Mr. Alexander Maelnnes, the artist, then a resident of Inverness." He met Hugh Miller too more than once, the last time being at the old Crom- arty homestead, celebrated in his " Schools and School- masters." He also spent some time with the brothers So- beiskie Stewart, at Eilean-Aigais, and drank with them out of a cuacJi once the property of Prince Charlie. In Glasgow, he could claim among his friends James Hed- derwick, of the Citizen ; Dugald Moore, author of " Scenes before the Flood," and " The Bard of the North ;" Alex- ander Rodgers, the author of " Behave yourself before Folk," and many other popular songs and lyrics ; and last, but not least, the Rev. Dr. Norman MacLeod, the gifted author of LeoJbhar Nan Cnoc, and editor of the celebrat- ed Teachdaire Gaidhealach. In Edinburgh, the late Dr. Robert Chambers made him the lion of a dinner party at his own house, in Princes Street, to which were invited a dozen of the then literary stars of " modern Athens," the poets Gilfallan and Vedder being among the number. In Liverpool, he made the acquaintance and secured the friendship of James Phillip Bailey, the author of " Festus," and the late Robert Leighton, autlior of the " Christening of the Bairn," and other well-known poems. " When first I knew Leighton," MacColl writes, "he was quite a raw, un- sophisticated callant, fresh from Dundee, and with seem- ingly no conception of the poetic power afterwards deve- loped in him." Biographical Shetch. 27 In London, he was intimately acquainted with James Logan, author of " The Scottish Gael ; " Fraser, of Fraser's Magazine, and Hugh Fraser, an Invernessian, the pub- lisher of " Leabhar Nan Cnoc." These, in all, form a circle of litei-ary friends, though not altogether our most brilliant stars, with whom the Bard of Lochfyne might well be highly pleased, indeed gratified. MacCoU has been twice married, his first wife being Frances Lewthwaite, a native of Cumberland, while his present worthy and hospitable partner is of Highland parentage, though born in Canada — her father, James Mac Arthur, as also her mother, MacCallum by name, being natives of Mull, in Argyleshire. Of a family of nine sons and daughters, Evan, the poet's eldest son, has been edu- cated for the ministry, and is now pastor of the Congi-ega- tional Church, at Quebec. The readers of the Celtic Magazine are already familiar with some of his daughter Mary's productions, and her fair promise as a poet to be- come worthy of her sire. Fanny, another daughter, is a teacher under the Ontario Board of Education, while the more youthful members of his most interesting family give ample promise of proving themselves worthy of the stock from which they sprang. Ulie ^Icuutatn ^liiiBlitl THE MOUNTAIN MINSTREL. A MAY MORNING IN GLEN-SHIRA. Lo, dawning o'er yon mountain grey The rosy birth-day of the May ! Glen-Shira knoweth well 'tis Beltane's blissful day. The Maum has donned its brightest green. The hawthorn whitens round Kilblane, And shews Dunchorvil's crest its own heath-purpling sheen. Hark ! from yon grove that thrilling gush Of song from linnet, merle, and thrush ! To hear herself so praised the morning well may blush. The lark, yon crimson clouds among, Rains down a very flood of song ; An age, that song to list, would not seem lost or long. Yon cushat by Cuilvocan's stream The spirit of some bard you'd deem — One who had lived and died in love's delicious di'eam. 31 32 MacColl's Poems. Thrice welcome minstrel ' now at hand, The cuckoo joins the tuneful band : A choir like this might grace the bowers of fairy-land ! Now is the hour by Duloch's tide To scent the birch that decks its side, And watch the snow-white swans o'er its calm bosom glide. Now is the hour a minstrel might Be blameless if, in his delight, He Druid-like adored the sun that crowns yon height ! O May ! thou'rt an enchantress rare — Thy presence maketh all things fair ; Thou wavest but thy wand, and joy is everywhere. Thou comest and the clouds are not — Eude Boreas has his wrath forgot — The gossamer again is in the air afloat. The foaming torrent from the hill Thou changest to a gentle rill — A thread of liquid pearl, that faintly murmurs still. Thine is the blossom-laden tree — The meads that white with lambkins be — Thine too the nether world that in each lake we see. Cheer'd by thy stnile, the herd-boy gay Oft sings the rock-repeated lay, And wonders who can be the mocker in his way. MacGolVs Poems. Thou givest fragrance to the breeze, A gleaming glory to the seas, Nor less thy grace is seen in yonder emerald leas. Around me in this dewy den Wild flowers imparadise the scene, — Some look up to the Sun — his worshippers, I ween : Some here and there, with modest grace, Yield to the butterfly's embrace. While others coyly share the bee's more rude caress. Above — around me — all things seem So witching that I almost deem Myself asleep, and these, creations of a dream ! But cease, my muse ambitious ! frail Thy skill in fitting strains to hail The morn that makes a heaven of Shira's lovely vale. MY OWN NATIVE COT. My own native Cot, aye so dear unto me — Whose hearth to the homeless was always so free, — Though long from it roaming, and far from it too. That home of my childhood is always in view : That home where the stranger found welcome unbought, That home where sweet fancies came to me unsought, — Its place in my heart nothing else e'er can fill : God bless the old Cot at the foot of the hill ! 34 MaeCoWs Poems. Methinks I still see the sweet neuk of bright green, Where calmly it nestles, half hid and half seen ; I hear the bees hum in the sycamores fair That vied with each other to shelter it there ; The burn wimpling nigh it still sings in its glee. The go wan and primrose still bloom there, for me : Illusions, alas ! yet my heartstrings they thrill : God bless the old Cot at the foot of the hill. Though much in the city I well can admire ; Though song, wit and beauty to charm .me conspire ; Yet love I far better the birch-belted lake, And the song of the thrush in the balm-breathing brake. Then give me again the old homestead to see, Its threshold though lowly is holy to me ; The warm love I bear it death only can chill : God bless the old Cot at the foot of the hill. JESSIE OF CARLUNNAN. I OWN that in the Lowlands fair Blooms many a winsome marrow ; But for a charmer past compare, Give me Carlunnan's Jessie dear : Love's queen, when she would gods ensnare Might well her graces borrow ! Her mouth and breath find emblems fit In June-time's opening roses ; MacColl's Poems. 35 Her eyes are of the hue deep-set In spring-tide's dew-gem'd violet ; The Greek's ideal nymph complete Her form all-perfect shows us. No wonder that such love for her Within my heart is springing ; — But that I know that maiden fair Oft blushes her own praise to hear, How glad I'd make her beauty rare The theme of all my singing ! AN AUTUMN DAY ON LOCH LOMOND. Lake of peerless grace and grandeur, All enchanting Lomond rare, Fondly to thee would I render Praise befitting scene so fair. Matchless mirror of the Highlands, Cold's the heart that feels no glow, Viewing thee with all thy Islands — Heaven above and heaven below. All, from margin unto margin, Sleep'st thou in thy glowing grace, Calmly-fair as might a virgin Dreaming of some chaste embrace, 36 MacColVs Poems. Lo ! where, watching thee serenely, Takes yon Ben his kingly stand ! Hills that else were great look meanly In Ben Lomond's presence grand. How yon group in grand confusion, Now seem piercing heaven's concave. Now seem in as grand profusion Overturned in Lomond's wave ! See yon eagle skyward soaring — Air's proud empress lightning-eyed : Lo, she swoops ! The prey alluring Was her image in the tide. Here, the wary heron seemeth Watching me with careful look ; There a salmon sudden gleameth. In his spring to catch— the hook. Hapless trout ! Exultant angler. Vaunt not too much of thy skill : Thou hast met a sturdy wrangler. One that yet may thwart thy will. Coasting Innis-chailleach holy, * Mark yon otter wide awake ! Doubtless there the knave sups duly On the best of all the lake. Where the insect-chasing swallow Hither-thither skims thy breast, MacCoWs Poems. 37 And yon wild duck — timid fellow — Flaps his wings in awkward haste, See with what an air of scorning Sails yon swan in beauty's pride, Bright as sunbeam of the morning, Fairer far than Eastern bride ! Little recks the yeoman yonder Wliat to me such rapture yields ! More to him than all thy splendour Are his own gold-tinted fields. 'Tis for him yon maids the corran* Ply among the yellow corn, Cheered on by the chorused oranf Of such happy labours born. Hark now ! 'tis some youthful shepherd Whistling all his cares away Near yon fold where lately upward To the milking went his May. Nature now is hushed to silence, Ceased the sportsman's pastime fell ; 111 becomes his licensed violence 1 - Heath-clad Fruin's fairy dell. Now thy face, loved Lake, is bearaless ; Dies the daylight in the west ; — * Reaping-hook. t Song. 38 MacCoUs Poems. Never mind, my beauty blameless, Stars will soon bedeck thy breast ! Vanished is the ray that crimson'd Yonder sky-sustaining pile. And like captive newly ransomed. See how Vesper now doth smile. 'Tis the witching hour of gloaming; Just the very time to hear Fairy footsteps lakeward roaming, Fairy minstrels piping near. From his lair the fox is stealing, Quits the owl her hermit cell ; Vision fair, past all revealing. Dear Loch Lomond, now farewell ! August, 183G. RAVEN TRESSES. Of fair flaxen ringlets oft sung I the praises, Oft found my heart caught in the auburn's loved mazes ; But of all the sly snares cunning Cupid possesses There's none like one woven of dark raven tresses. Yes — raven-black hair that, a wavy web weaving, Would in vain veil the bosom below it fond-heaving Like a sunbeam that bursts through some dark cloud's caresses — A contrast delightful to dark raven tresses ! MacColVs Poems. 39 To see them, Louisa, thy fair shoulders hiding, Or down to thy waist in their glossiness gliding, What mortal can wonder that Beauty well guesses Her spells most bewitching are dark raven tresses ! The poets, fond fools ! in the days 'clept the olden, Described Love's own queen proud of locks that golden ; But had they seen thee they would own that the Graces Misjudged in not giving her dark raven tresses. were Then choose whoso will beauties auburn or flaxen, Give me, when I mate — be she Celtic or Saxon — A girl who can add to the sweetest of faces The rarest profusion of dark raven tresses. LINES WRITTEN ON THE PASSAGE OF THE ACT ABOLISHING SLAVERY IN THE BRITISH WEST INDIA COLONIES. Hurrah ! thrice hurrah for the news just received ! A victory rare in Truth's cause is achieved ; — One link more is broken in slavery's chain ; — Heav'n grant quick destruction to those that remain ! All honoured be they through whose labours beloved Britain finds a foul stain from her forehead removed : Shame on her past record ! — 'tis high time indeed Man's possession in man should be dropt from her creed. 40 MacGolVs Poems. No more in her Isles of the West far away Shall the slaver accursed find a mart for his prey : There's a price on his head ; — he must henceforth steer shy Of a coast where, if caught, like a dog he must die. Of profits unhallowed no more left to boast ; Hark the howl of the hell-hounds whose harvest is lost I By hell only pitied, long let them howl on ; Their traffic was worthy of demons alone. 0, for the quick advent of that happy time Foreseen by the prophet of Patmos sublime — That time when, as brothers in loving accord, Earth's tribes all shall joy in the smile of her Lord 1 THE RIVER BEAULY. Of all the witching scenes the North Can boast of well and truly, — Haunts which no bard of any worth Would fail to honour duly, — There's none, I ween. To match that scene Where quits it's Dream, the Beauly, And laughing leaps into the plains Where plenty smiles on happy swains. I've stood by Foyers' thundering leap, Seen Lora's rush astoundinef. MacColl's Poems. 41 Heard the swift Brander's moaning deep 'Mong Gruaclian's caves resounding : These have their share Of grandeur rare, But, Beauly, thee surrounding Are scenes that might Elysium grace, The beauty-spots on nature's face I 'Tis grand thy ciystal flood to view Benvaichard's borders leaving, Nor less to see the Strath below Thy fuller flow receiving ; But grander far To see thee where Its narrowing bounds thou'rt cleaving Through rocky ridges opening wide In very terror of thy tide. Now through the Dream's dark gorges deep Methinks I see thee going, Half hid 'mid woods that love to keep Fond watch upon thy flowing From rock to rock. With flash and shock, And fury ever growing ; A giant fettered, it is true, Yet bound all barriers to subdue. O for a home on Agais fair Nigh which, anon, thou wendest c 42 MacCoWs Poems. Thy way, proud-rushing on to where In thy great might thou rendest The one more chain That strives in vain To fetter thee, and lendest Unto the Dream thy grandest gift of all, The gleaming glory of Kilmorack's Fall ! O scene most magically wrought ! What minstrel pen can paint thee ? Thy charms, fantastic beyond thought, Art never could have lent thee : Enchanting spot, I wonder not Tl^ muses love to haunt thee ; And long, loved Dream ! may they delight to stray Through thee with tuneful King-descended Hay.* Majestic stream ! methinks I see Thee now, past all commotion, Like virtue to eternity. Glide calmly to the ocean. Soon in thy grave. The German wave, Shall ever cease thy motion — Cease f deathless flood ! till time shall cease to run. Thy race is finished, and yet but begun. * John Sobieskie Stuait Hay, author of "The Bridal of Kilchum" and other poems of great merit, and who for some years resided in the vicinity of the scene here alluded to. MacCoU's Poems. 43 THE CASTLE OF LOCHAVICH. A WEST HIGHLAND LEfiEND. The Castle of Lochavich (better known in the traditionary lore of the West Highlands as " Caisteal na h-ighinul rnaidh") stands on a little islet lying close to the western shore of that lake — a lake whose legendary associations, altogether apart from its romantic beauty, may well justify a pilgrimage to Glendovan, the valley in which it is situated. Tradition points to Innis-luna, the islet already alluded to, as having been in Ossianic times, the scene of a rather tragic occurrence —that which forms the subject of a poem well known to all students of ancient Gaelic poetry as '^ Laoidh Fhrauich." There is no question whatever as to Lochavich having been at a period much less remote, the scene of the leading inci- dents related in the following poem, and which in all their main features form " an ower true tale." Lochavich's banks are fair to view, The swan loves well its bosom blue, And well the angler is aware His paradise of sport is there. Yet, pilgrim to that solitude, However sceptical thy mood, I would not counsel thee to bide On Avich's breast at twilight tide. And least of all, to ply the oar Near Innisluna's haunted shore. It is an islet green, where lave The birch her branches in the wave. 44 MacColVs Poemft. And towers a time-worn pile — although The winds wail through its chambers wide, It looks upon the flood below, With something yet of feudal pride. When night resumes her dusky sway, The shepherd shuns yon beechward way ; The hunter, lated and alone, May well with quickened pace move on Whenever meets his watchful eye That pile unhallow'd frowning nigh. For there between him and the tide, A maiden form doth often glide. Now with a low beseeching wail, Now silent as a cloudlet frail Dissolving in the moonlight pale, Till sudden passing from his sight, She startles with her shrieks the night ! " It is the Nighean ruadh," he says — " Protect me. Heaven good ! " And while he yet doth wilder'd gaze, She sinks into the flood. But listen, stranger, while I tell A legend old of Dovan-dell, So may thy doubting mood give way To a wise wish that Heaven may Be from all ill thy shield and stay. MacColV:^ Poems. 45 Glendovan's Chief — a chief far-famed For daring deeds unblest, — untamed And fierce as wild boar of the wood, Lived in Glendovan's solitude. Where, in a wild, barbaric way, Five hundred clansmen owned his sway. Alas for them, or friends or foes, Who would stout Ardan's will oppose ! A chief was he who never long From strife his hand could stay : The leader of a reiving throng Who ne'er distinafuished rio-ht from wronjj- His creed was that unto the strong The weak were lawful prey. But now at length grown grey in strife, With foemen thirsting for his life, And deeming insecure, I ween, His home ancestral in the Glen, He plans that on yon isle ere long. Shall tower a castle stout and strong, Where, if in war no longer famed, He'll pass life's winter still untamed. When Art can wield his father's brand, And chiefs contend for Runa's hand, (Fair Runa, his sole daughter mild — The Sunbeam of Glendovan styled) — Stern Ardan on his castled rock. His stoutest foe right well may mock. 4G MacColVs Poems. What speck is that upon the wave ? Where fleetly glides yon biorlinn brave ? It hastens off to Erin's shores In search of Patrick of the Towers. No castle then on Albin's coast Could match with those by Patrick planu'd, And Erin of no towers might boast Like those which own'd his master hand. Famed Patrick found, — himself and son — (A youth he fondly doated on, Though loving harp and song much more Than all his sire's masonic lore — ) Together with the strangers sail ; Straight steers their bark for Erraghael, And by propitious breezes borne, Safe reaches now the coast of Lome. On haste her crew o'er waste and wild To where, 'mid hills o'er hills high-piled, Lochavich fair in sunshine gleams — Lochavich that forever seems Calm-listening to the voice of streams. Glendovan's chief was glad to see Wise Patrick, and they soon agree As to the site — the plan — the fee ; Nor did sage Patrick lose a day His skill masonic to display ; Grim Ardan ill can brook dela3^ MacCoU's Poems. 47 ' Why, Fergus, is that frequent sigh ? That dreamy, unobservant eye ? Thy duty fitly to fulfil, Needs all thy wonted zeal and skill. My cares are doubled since the day Thou'st taken to this moody way. It seems, m}^ son, as thou wouldst have Us never more to cross the wave, — As if the day our task is done. You'd have it only just begun ! " Ah, Patrick, thou art old as wise, 'Tis long since love could wake thy sighs But yet experience might thee shew What woman's witching smile may do, And how in vain would youth defy Th' omnipotence of Beauty's eye. But to my tale and Fergus : — Fain Would I describe in fitting strain How thrilled beneath his minstrel art Each fibre of the Highland heart ; How — oftener than his father knew — His evening walk he would pursue To where, begirt by rock and brake, An airidh overlooked the lake, — A scene whose features wildly fair Young Runa loves, and oft is there With maids who milk her father's flocks. The while they vocal make the rocks, 48 MacCoWs Poems. With songs whose melody so sweet Alone might thither tempt his feet. Nor did their hlting charm for nought, The youth who thus their presence sought For often, when encouraged by A word or glance from Runa nigh, He'd touch his harp, and sing, the while, Some thrilling lay of Erin's Isle. The wondering shepherds praise his skill. Confessing Torran's fairy hill Could boast no minstrel to compare One moment with that harper rare ! Their fair companions though they pnuse Less loud, list with as glad amaze ; Or rude or gentle — one and all His music held in willing thrall. Another and another strain Succeed, — so charms he heart and brain, The briefest silence seems a pain ! But why, like wavelet in the light Of sunbeams on the lake. Heaves Runa's gentle bosom bright { Can song such tumult wake ^ Ah Runa I be upon thy guard ' Thou lov'st the music well, — - Yet frequent sighs may well be spared. And blushes more than tell the bai'd How much he doth excel ; — Then tempt him not 'gainst fate to cope : Alas, what will not minstrel hope ! MacColVs Poems. 49 Time passes on ; the builders skill Is shewn to be unrivalled still, And Ardan's castle soon shall stand The stoutest structure in the land, And soon, too, Patrick hopes to hail Once more his native Innisfail. Alas, poor Patrick ! never he That land beloved again may see. * He little weens that when he has His task complete, and would be gone, Resolved is Dovan's chieftain base To rob of life both sire and son ! Why should o'er ocean's distant How The guerdon of their labours go i His steel is sharp — yon rock is steep, — His gold shall never cross the deep ! His daughter sees his brow assume From day to day a deeper gloom. And strives in winsome way to chase Tliat gloom unwelcome from its })lace. As well that maiden fair might try With smiles to chase the cloud That in its sable canopy The thunderbolt doth shroud. One night, when oft the cup went round Orim Ardan's table plenty-crown'd. Strange whisp'rings reached young Runa's ear She heard what it was death to hear ;— MacColVs Poems " 'Tis fixed— this niglit must be their last Let fox and cub alike be cast Together o'er yon rocky steep — The lake below is dark and deep. The gold with which they hope to swell Their purse, will portion Runa well ! " Poor Runa ! well thy heart may quake, — What can be done for Fergus' sake ? Another hour may seal his doom ; Yon lake may be the minstrel's tomb. that he had but time to fly ! O that some warning voice were nigh The idol of her secret sigh ! He whom, alas ! she cannot tell. Yet feareth much she loves too well. Silent she stealeth forth : Ah me, What may not in extremity By woman's love accomplish'd be ! One minute, and whate'er befall. The revellers in Ardan's hall Unconscious prisoners will be all. And Fergus ere the dawn of*day Be from Lochavich far away. 'Tis done ! she locks the pondrous door. And quitteth now with quick' ning pace That home to which in life no more She may her path retrace — Resolved her lover's life to save Or with him sleep beneath the wave. MacGoWs Poems. 51 'Twas midnight : Just behind yon Ben The crescent moon had set ; Upon Lochavich's breast serene Her parting smile seemed yet To linger, as if loth to die Amid such sweet tranquillity. Fair lake, no grief disturbs thy rest ; Young moon, no terrors thee molest ; And thus ye both can calmly sleep Unheeding of her anguish deep Who — as some fear-struck doe might fly From hounds whose bay betray them nigh — Speedeth the lake's green margin by, Till now, in Innisluna's sight — Her lover's resting place at night — She halts, and sends her voice where, woe ! The flood forbids herself to go — A trembling voice that yet may reach His tent on Innisluna's beach. THE WARNING. O Fergus, wake ! Hence quickly take Thy flight, for death lurks by thee ! A ruthless knife That seeks thy life Gleams at this moment nigh thee ! MacCuWs Poems. Awake ! awake ! Beyond the lake Afar thy flight betaking, Else wilt thou sleep That slumber deep From which there's no awaking Such was the fateful warning wail Of Runa's anguish born. Can Fergus hear it and yet fail Its meaning dread to learn ? He heareth, haply, yet may he Suspect her but some lone Banshee Who fain would frighten him, maybe, And, haply, thus he may Within his tent list, laughingly, That warning sent his way. O that she had but wings to fly, Or shallower the tide ; Then, spite of maiden modesty, She'd soon be at his side ! Ye streamlets, why so rudely rush ? Ye birds of night, your discords hush ! What if too late her voice he hear ? What if dread Ardan's step is near ? The thought is horror, well I trow — Alas, GK'nlushes not a few, With fluttering heart she springs away, Much wondering what " mamma " will say, When in some social circle free She finds some other girl with me, I know she loves me by the care She takes to keep a distance rare, Vain-trying, in her maiden pride. The shadow on her brow to hide. When in her praise my verses flow. The light within her eyes well show A joy her lips would quite disclaim — A revelation all the same To me that, hide it as she may, She loveth well both bard and lay. 'Tis thus, despite the willing ways. Familiar to that darling dove ; My songs are all in Mary's praise, My hopes all centered in her love. 76 MacCoWs Poems. ON VIEWING TOBERMORRY BAY. Sweet Tobormorry Bay ! well may Thy beauty in the poet's lay Oft find expression free. No storm-tossed mariner am I, And yet I feel a perfect joy Thy bosom fair to see. How grand, when waves without run high, To see thee, their wild tumult nigh, Enjoying slumber calm ' Nought to disturb thy peace profound, Save airs that from the groves around Delight in stealing balm. Yon pebbly shore of rarest sweep. Near which the salmon, in his leap, Oft stirs thy placid tide,^ The woods that grace thy margin fair, The streams whose murmurs charm my ear, As on to thee they glide, — Yon Isle that guards thee from the sea. The fisher's song so full of glee. The sea-bird's joyous cry, — All, all have bound me with a spell ; — To scene so sweet to bid farewell 'Tis sweet to heave a si<:jh ! MacGolVs Poems. 77 SHAMS . There are some honest folks who would be What nature never meant they should be — Men who, themselves alone deceiving, Are always mighty things achieving ; But since what they so fain would seem Is what they really may esteem, Poor souls ! we bid them quick adieu, — I see the Hypocrite in view, — That knavef in heart, though saint in face, That creature basest of the base, Yet finding favour oft, withal, Where men more upright get the wall ! My muse unheeding who may blame, Would make him, for the nonce, her theme. Here goes he, solemn as an owl. His forehead hid in priestly cowl ; There in Geneva cloak and bands. Your ready reverence he commands : So meek look both — you'd think they'd die Ere either would have hurt a fly. Alas to think that, after all, Q'here should be found less grace than gall Within their hearts, as one may well See from the mutual relish fell They judge each othei-sure of h — ! 78 MacColVs Poems. What matters that ? Do they not each Of charity and mercy preach, And ape the saint in such a key As mio^ht make Satan lauo^h to see ? Small wonder that their flocks oft place In bigot zeal the sign of grace, And judge that man most grace-possessed His neighbour's ci-eed who damneth best ! If in the Ebenezer camp You would appear a shining lamp. You'd best consult my neighbour Jones, Who shows his wealth of grace in groans ; Or, to make surer of thy name Attaining quick to saintly fame, Feign horror at a laugh or song. Thy speech into a drawl prolong, — Aim at a Pharisaic air. Be very lengthy in thy prayer, — Find in all pastime only evil, Be loud in railing at the devil ; Nor wall it harm thee to throw in Something about the " Man of Sin," And how all good men soon cause common Should make against " The Scarlet Woman. If but, withal, you learn to prate About " Foreknowledge, Will and Fate," And to the Church with liberal air. Give of thy worldly wealth a share, MacColUs Poems. 79 You may bo all a rascal can, Yet pass for a most godly man ! I might enlarge— for thick as peas Are painted sepulchres like these — Some of that hue, and some of this, And some of colours mixed, I wis — Here, in Episcopalian ground. And there in Baptist borders found : But let them pass : I would not choose To press too hard on saintly toes. Since not alone in churchly regions Are hollow shams and shows in legions. Think how they swarm in Fashion's train- The Bench and Bar's red-tape domain — The Court, the Camp, the Senate Hall, ' And Marts commercial most of all : Scarce one profession you may name Where humbug rules not all supreme. Leaving to bards more gifted to Give to such shams the justice due, I would, in winding up my lay, One or two minor shams pourtray. Would'st thou, at quite an easy rate, Pass for a man of learning great ? The more a thing transcends thy reach, The more pretentious be thy speech ; Commit to memory, carefully. Quotations classic, two or three ; so MacCoUs Poems. Seem quite familiar with the flames Of mythologic gods and dames ; Get most great minstrel names by rote From Homer down to Walter Scott ; Prate much about " the tale divine Of Troy," and eke " the sacred Nine," " The Graces three," " Calypso's cave," And " Venus rising from the wave." Affect to find Herodotus . Making of History quite a muss ; Keep babbling 'bout the wondrous store Of Egypt's hieroglyphic lore ; Be great on " the Draconian Code," Nor quite forget " The Sapphic Ode." If .to all this thou should'st essay A promj)t, dogmatic Yea, or Nay To leading questions of our day, 'Tis ten to one thou'lt soon be owned " A man of learning most {profound ! " Would'st thou, with parts however mean, Wi«h to be thought a critic keen ? Get practised in sarcastic sneers, Looks consequential, gibes and jeers. Though by thee never read, yet still. Feign finding " Orion " work up-hill. The " Vestiges " a failure sad. And " Festus" simply " prose run mad." McbcColVs Poems. 81 Talk of this bard as writing trash, That other, writhing 'neath thy lash — This novel, one of interest deep, And that, first-rate to make one sleep. Though thy sole standing with the Press May be of the waste-basket class, Hint that thou art of TJie Review The " Veritas " or " O. P. Q."— That even Blackwood could not stand Without thy modest helping hand, Chime in with those who labour hard To make a myth of Selma's bard ; There's "Junius" also — subject grand For sage conjectures second hand ! The Bacon -Shakespear question too, To help thy purpose, much may do. To make thy chances still more fair. Thou might'st do worse than join that Club Who once a week their learning air At The Athenic, 10, Goose-dub. M^ THREE CHARMERS. Oft myself I question which of Three dear girls my bride should be Jeanie owns a. treasure rich of Golden hair well loved by me. 82 MacCoWs Poems. Raven-huecl are Jessie's tresses — Contrast sweet to sunny brow, While not least of Maggie's graces Are rich locks of auburn glow. Let my heart be ne'er so joyless, One fond glance from Jeanie fair Sets it dancing: Jessie's smile has A care-killing grace as rare ; — • "When a rougher mood needs smoothing 'Tis with Maggie I would be, Finding in her converse soothino- For my choice a ready plea. Jeanie has a wit excelling, Jessie loveth speech demure ; Grace and goodness love-compelling Meet in Maggie's bosom pure. Law— not love — must rest the fault on, If mine only one must be, For, if free to play the Sultan, Gladly would I wed the three I LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG POETIUAL FRIEND. Six\G on, my brother minstrel young, — Sing on, unheeding them Who now may in thy rustic song Find less to praise than blame. MacColVs Poems. When did the blackbird's woodland lays The hawk forbearance teach ? When was the fox e'er found to praise The grapes he could not reach ? A joy above all joys supreme Does to the bard belong ; Far more than India's wealth to him His own proud gift of song. Then sing thou on, regardless though Thine yet be scanty praise ; The time may come thy gentle brow May wear unfading bays. Be thine the patriot in thy veins Oft in thy verse to shew, Nor yet forget the sweeter strains To Love and Beauty due. Thus may'st thou win, spite fortune's slight, A fame for ever growing ; Not the least welcome stars^ at night, Are those through cloud-rifts glowing. A SNOWFALL IN GLEN-URQUHART. Offspring fair of cloud and cold, Glorifying wood and wold. Who could, mute, thy grace behold ? Welcome, welcome, snow ! 84 MacGolVs Poems. Painter matchless ! nought to me Gives more gladness than to see Earth thus beautified by thee : Welcome, welcome, snow ! Unlike Flora's offerings fair, Partial spread, thy kindly care Beautifies her everywhere : Welcome, welcome, snow ! At thy touch, behold, to-day The dark Holly looks as gay As the Hawthorn does in May : Welcome, welcome, snow ! See how 'neath thy gentle tread, Bright as bride to altar led. Bends the Lady -birch her head : Welcome, welcome, snow ! Yonder cascade, in its glee Down the hillside dashing free, Looks like darkness matched with thee Welcome, welcome, snow ! Fields that late looked bare and brown. Whiter now than Solan-down, Well uphold thy fair renown : Welcome, welcome, snow ! MacColVs Poems. 85 Let him boast of landscapes green "Who no Highland Glen hath seen Mantled in the chaster sheen Lent it by the snow. Oh to be thus always nigh When Glen-Urquhart lovingly Dons the virgin livery Of the falling snow! Ha ! thou ceasest — scarce a flake Falleth now o'er bank or brake. Good-bye, Meekley's lovely lake ! Good-night, snow ! CRAIGANTAIRVE. A SCENE IN NETHER LORNE, ARGYLESHIRE. Where, when comes the joyous Spring, Is first heard the carolling Of the songbirds loving well 'Mong our Highland woods to dwell ? Where first tries the tuneful thrush, Perched on the yet leafless bush, To drown Winter's dying sigh In a flood of melody — Merles and linnets glad as she, Joining with her in her glee, — MacColVs Poems. While the skylark, no less gay, Far among the clouds away, Pipeth,in her heavenward flight. Music such as seraph might Almost fill with envy to Listen to its thrilling flow ! Would you know ? then, hither come, And make Craigantairve your home. Where — when, after absence long. The cuckoo resumes her song. Is first heard her welcome lay Bringing in the happy May ! Where — his harem's love to gain — Joys to croon- the heathcock vain, With his wings outstretched wide — Twenty fair ones at his side 1 Where delighteth most the bee On sweet blooms to banquet free — Finding them abundant too Almost all the long year through ! Would you know ? then hither come, And make Craigantairve your home. "Where be the green woodlands where Finds the roe his choicest lair ? Where, the grassy hillsides green First to don their emerald sheen, And the clovered meadows fine Dearest to the milky kine, MacGoWs Poems. And the streamlets, clear and cool Marged by birches beautiful Whose wind-wafted fragrance rare Miles around perfume the air ! Would you know '. then hither come, And make Craigantairve your home. Scene beloved ! who here can view All thy graces, ever new, Would not pity men who toil 'Mid the city's sad turmoil, Making "fortunes," if they can, Careless how, so it be done ! Give to me to spend my days Among Highland birks and braes, Finding there the best of wealth, Rural joys and rosy health, And, when wedded, proudly find Mine some mountain maiden kind — ■ One who, like the matchless flower Blossoming in yonder bower, Would make any place to be Quite a paradise to me 1 BRITAIN vs. AFGHANISTAN. WRITTEN IN 1843. 'Tis grand to grasp the glaive Some sacred cause to shield ; 'Tis grand to find a grave In freedom's battle field. MacColVs J'oems Not thus fight they who seek JNow, ia ignoble strife, 'Mid Afghan's mountains bleak The Afghan's country — life, O Britain ! when will be Thy lust of conquest quenched ? 'Tis infamy to see Thy skirts so blood bedrenched. Rude though the Afghan be, He loves his native land, And well may dread to see Its rule in thy red hand. Let Kyber's fateful fight And Ackbar's blade of doom Warn thee to shun the fight Where freemen strike for home. The brave respect the brave — Thou seek'st revenge : For shame Go, sheathe thy braggart glaive, Aspire to honest fame. If Afghan thou wouldst lord. Go blessing — not to slay, — The Bible, not the Sword, Paving for thee the way. MacCoWs Poems. 89 How beautiful upon The mountains then would be Thy feet ! This— this alone Were conquest worthy thee. MARY MINE. They tell thee that I'm a deceiver ? A deceiver ! Mary mine, While this heart beats, never, never Can it be aught else than thine. What although of other Maries I may sometimes sing the charms, Not the less my heart's sole care is To live only in thine arms. Moons may change in yonder heaven. Ocean still may ebb and flow ; But my love, so fondly given, Chanoje nor ebb shall ever know. AN IMPROMPTU. (On seeing in the studio of Mr. Alex. Maclnnes, Inverness, a painting representing a very young girl— his own beautiful daughter— in the atti- tude of caressing a favourite Newfoundland dog.) Was ever mortal maiden half so fair As thou, the form all-perfect pictured there ! If breath were thine, I'd almost wish to bo Myself a dog, to be caressed by thee. 90 MacGoWs Poem^. THE FISHERMAN'S RETURN. 'TwAS night ; Dark lour The storm-clouds scowling ; O'er main and moor Wild winds rush howling ; Rocked Ellen's cot In manner fearful ; Yet not for that She there sits, tearful. " My love is tossed Upon the billow ! O that my breast Were now his pillow ! " The storm increased — Her heart beats wildly ; " Rest, rude waves, rest ! Ye Avinds, blow mildly '. " When j ust as die All hopes within her. In steps, O joy 1 Her brave bread-winner. Love's couch is spread, Love's kiss is given ; The fisher's shed Is now a heaven. MoAiColVs Poems. 91 ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED PARENT. THOU, whose love was dear as life to me, — My first, best, fondest friend beneath the skies ! Though hence removed by Heaven's all-wise decree. Yet seem'.st thou still as present to mine eyes, — The same fond look, the same endearing voice — Thy face so fair, thy smile so sweet to see ! Alas, that all too late I've learnt to prize Thy peerless worth ! — a worth that well may be Within my heart of hearts a treasured memory. Methinks I see thee by the couch of pain, — Thy presence fraught with healing — keen complaint Changing to grateful smiles, or making fain Some orphan'd home with needful nourishment. How often o'er my bed of sickness bent Thy form beloved — an angel seeming there, — Night after night in weary watching spent Counting as nothing, in thy tender care That I should nothing lack a m,other's love could spare. How recreant I, could I forget the zeal With which to me, in boyhood, day by day. Thou would'st fresh fountains of delight unseal. Making Instruction's path a pleasant way. 'Twas thine to show Vice smiles but to betray. Thine to persuade me ever to pursue The path of duty, nor from that e'er stray, No matter what of sacrifice ensue — Thine own example still to all thy precepts true. 92 MacColVs Poems. If friends departed may permitted be — To mingle sj^mpathies with those they "best Loved on this earth, be thou still to me A guardian spirit, chasing all unrest And sorrow from my oft despondent breast, — Bidding me hopeful tread life's journey o'er. Cheered by the thought that, when at heaven's behest, Hence called, I'll meet thee on that blissful shore, Where re-united friends are parl:ed never-more. DUNCAN'S-BAY HEAD. (Written in a Yisitors'Albiim kept at the Hnna Inn, Julin 0' Groat's.) PiLGEiM, not when skies are smiling. And old Ocean lies asleep, But when raves the blast despoiling Should you view your headland steep. When o'er liquid hills and hollows Pipes the wind an anthem grand, Heard o'er all the roar of billows Breaking on the rock-ribbed strand, — When, o'erhead, the storm-cloud's marge is Brightened by the lightning's play. And, far down, the foaming surges Dashing, die in clouds of spray, — 1838. MacGoWs Poems. 93 When upon the distant skerrie Cowers the cormorant in fear. While the screaming seagull merry Rides upon the wave-crest near, — • When the scud that o'er it sweepeth The vext Pentland's visage veils, Where some stout ship, nathless, keepeth On her path, 'neath close-reefed sails, — Then it is that fancy pictures Haco and his galleys good Swallowed up where oft, as victors, Rose their war-cries o'er the flood ; — Then it is that / would, cheerful, Tarry on your gidd}' height ; Then old Ocean's turmoil fearful In my soul wakes wild delight ! Tides in which, with zest untiring Sea-birds many-millioned feed, — Wave-girt rocks more awe-insj)iring Than earth's proudest pyramid, — Cliffy scaurs of rarest grandeur. Crags where broods the eagle grey, Chasms, caves, where wild waves thunder — These thy charms are, Duncan's-bay. 94 MacColVs Poems. TO MARY. Mary, once my loving, fond one, Though thou wiliest it to be That all hope I now abandon. More I blame myself than thee. Had I, spite thy charms alluring, Made thee less my all in all — Never owned my heart, adoring, Thine — thine onl}', past recall, — Haply, the old oak tree under, Mine were yet to oft enjoy Thy love-lighted glances tender, Smile for smile and sidi for si^-h. Was it that I made thy beauty My choice theme in many a lay. Making it my muse's duty All thy graces to portray. Was it that I thought of heaven Far less often than of thee. That my love so ill has thriven, That no hope is left for me ? Think how, by yon river, queenly Flowing thy loved home anear, Thou oft promised, ! how vainly All thy life with me to share. MacGolVs Poems. Think — but no, — the thought might sadden Thee too much ; so take thy way, Of sad thoughts, that come unbidden, Leaving me alone the pvey. LOVE'S LAST APPEAL. Fair maid of Adgartan ' Heai" me while I fain Would pour out my heart in One appealing strain — My last appeal to thee, if now T plead in vain. Once thou'dst fondly question Aught in my dispraise ; Once thine eyes could rest on Mine with loving gaze, Or droop, as soul to soul sent love's electric rays. Though all unavailing- No w such memories be, — • Bootless as the wailing Of the winds my plea, — Song soothes the wounded swan — it, too, may comfort mo. As some gem enriching, Lost as soon as found. — As some strain bewitching In a discord drown'd, — As Eden fruit within some fair forbidden bound, — 96 MacCoWs Poems. As a starlet looking On some wreck-strewn tide, — With its brightness mocking The destruction wide, — So is to my fond heart thy beauty and thy pride. What though all unmatched Be thy mien and mould, Would the slave less wretched Feel if chained with gold ? The victim of the block, should crimson him enfold ? Tell, bewitching creature ! Tell me why thou art Angel in each feature. Tyrant in thy heart ? A rosebud that yet wills no odour to impart ? Suns were made to warm us, Stars to cheer us shine. Soars the lark to charm us With her song divine : think not less to please such peerless graces thine I Love, thou archer clever. If thy shafts must tly, Aim at Anna, — give her In her turn to sigh, Or teach me of thy grace her scorning to defy. MacColVs Poems. 97 Ah, too well Love knowetli The attempt were vain ; Much as Beauty oweth To the minstrel train, Weak is the pow'r of song where wealth her smiles v/>:uld gain. Memory, gift of Heaven To the happy — gay ! My poor heart is driven Mad beneath thy sway, Thou vulture at my breast, exulting o'er thy prey ! Hopeless love, bright maiden, Is a fever strong. But the grave once laid in, We sleep sweet and long : Alas, that Lethe's stream flows but in idle sons: ' A STOLEN KISS. No, Maggie ! I'll take no denying : Anear thee, my winsome wee witch. What dullards deem proper decorum I never could practise or preach. Come, come, then ! my sweet, blushing bright one, What needs you should take it amiss If from those red lips so inviting I sometimes should pilfer a kiss. 08 MacColVs Poems. Let gommerals, lilind to thy beauty, A better behaviour shew, — 'Twere nonsense to find in such fellows, A rule by which others must go. As for me, love, I must and tvill win it, Whate'er be the price of my bliss : Your mamma — will be here in minute ! Ma£f's lover, of course, had the kiss ! A WARNING WORD. (Addressed to a friend who expected an appointment in a certain public establishment.) If thou canst at once agree, sir, To be what /ne'er could be, sir, Bend th}^ head — the yoke is near ; Come, devoted one, come here. Would'st thou (let me plainly speak, sir) Kiss the foot that would thee kick, sir ? Treadmill toils, meanwhile, thy share — Then, by all means, hasten here. Wouldst thou for thy masters know, sir, Things thou once would think too low, sir. For aught else than scorn ? Ne'er fear Finding them in dozens here. MacGolVs Poems. 09 If the flunky thou whould'st play, sir, Fawn and flatter all the day, sir, In that ease — that only — steer Quick along- — thy port is here. Yet, for all such prospects cheery, If thou comest, much I fear me, Thou will often, sighing, swear " Better I were hansfed than here ! " THE METAMORPHOSIS. Since moralizing's out of fashion, And gossipping the " ruling passion," Methinks it were but little harm here To sing you of a certain charmer. And first, it might be well to state here How lords and lairds were " wooing at her, In youthful prime, when every charm Of hers a monarch's heart might warm ; How many Colins she had slain. How many Strephons sigh'd in vain ; How many sonnets in her praise Were penn'd by bards of other days : But lest ye'd think my tale too long, We'll leave her " dancing days" unsung. 100 MacCoUs Poems. Behold — her gay meridian past, Her charms deceitful fading fast, Her fond admirers getting rare. Her hope fast dwindling to despair — Behold her cursing pride and painting. And wisely fall in love with salntlng, As many of her sisters do When WQ, poor sinners, cease to sue. No more she apes the peacock gay, Attending opera or play, No more she heedeth Fashion's call ; She hates to hear of rout or ball, And thinks such scenes of sinful mirth Should be quite banished from the earth. How sad that not to hide but slwiu Their nakedness most girls dress noiv ! Deeming a kiss as nought unlawful — And then the waltz — 'twas really awful To think how some she knows can prance Unblushing through that wanton dance ! Woe to the hand that ever would Its presence on her waist intrude ! No — never in her life would she Admit of so much liberty ; She always ivas ofrtien afraid, And hopes to live and die a maid ! Behold her now a saint full-fledged, On social problems much engaged ; MacColVs Poems. 101 So full of charity she's grown, Each cast-ofF mantle, shoe, and gown Is duly sent to clothe the poor ; Pale Hunger, laughing, quits her door : And then, she visits all the sick — Was ever lady half so meek ? Condemns Sir Walter, quotes good Boston- Was ever lady half so Christian ? She lives in very pious hope To see the downfall of the Pope, And wonders when his time is " up :" She tells such interesting news 'Bout Juggernaut and the Hindoos, With all that's done among the Jews— And then, with what a grace she coaxes Your mite to Missionary boxes ! Who could suppose that, after all, Some will all this " pretension" call — Hinting she cares about the Jews As much as I for cast-ofF shoes, And falls as short of saintly mark As any damsel — in the dark ! They've seen her often, when at churcli. Like any sinner nod and lurch, However much the preacher there Might merit more attentive ear. 'Twas but the other Sund;iy she Attended in most holy key ; 102 MacCoU's Poems. A psalm is given forth — our saiut, Smelling of perfume and of paint, Tarns up her book, when lo ! that rake Don Juan, carried by mistake ! Is't possible ? Mysterious fate : Behold her now in married state ; A swain who much admired her purse Proposed " for better or for worse " — She took him at his word, of course. Hymen, dread transforming god, What changes follow at thy nod ! The angel forms of Cupid's day, Become much like to mortal clay ; Enchanting syrens learn to be Much in the curtain lecture key ; Adored Clarindas wear the trews, And goddesses turn famous shrews. But turn we to our saint — fie On mortal mutability ! In one short month the dame so graced, So high among the godly placed, Comes down to quite a different level, Where — where, in short, she plays the d — 1 ; Forgets her charities and prayers, For sick or naked never cares ; Is first each night to see the play, Tho' last to church on Sabbath day ; MacCoWs Poems. 103 Talks scandal — reads each new romance, Nor thinks it any harm to dance ! So pirates, once their prize made fast, Give their true colours to the mast ; So butterflies, for aught I learn, To dirty grubs again return. MY FIRST RAILWAY TRIP. Oltr fare is paid— 'tween fear and hope. We hear " Just to depart " ; Our seats are ta'en — the steam is up — And now we're on the start ! ' Oh, fire and fury — how we go ! Thou magic-working thing ! What speed can match with thine ? I trow The eagle on the wino-, ' Resistless, darting on her prey. Glides not more swift than thee, Untiring still, away, away. Upon thy journey free I ' There ! there ! like Hecate on her broom. Or Scott on Satan's back — Or meteor through the midnight gloom— Or arrow on its track, — ■ 104 MacCoUs Poems. Or Eurus on his car of clouds — Or Lora's leaping tide — Or rushing of the torrent floods Down Cruachan's streamy side, — Or like the swift and sudden gleams Of sunshine passing by — Or fancy in excursive dreams, — From scene to scene we fly ! " Thus far a bard. A pause ensued — Some felt as on the rack ; Some, as if travelling in a cloud Upon the whirlwind's back. Our nag's the boy ! " some chap remarked- " Needs neither corn nor stall. No rest needs he, however worked ; My troth ! but he beats all. Tell me no more of Gilpin's feat At Edmonton so gsij, Nor yet of Johnny Cope's retreat From Preston's fatal fray. Not swifter over field and fell Our horse and we could hie If demons after us did yell, And we for life did fly ! " MacCoWs Poems. 1()."> Thus on we go. What ! can it be Old Airdrie ? By the powers, 'Twas but the other minute we Left fair St. Mungo'.s towers ! Whiss ! whiss ! goes forth a deafning sound; Like breath of Polar whale ; Our Pegasus his goal has found, And we the ground, all hale ! SELLARS AND HIS SHEARS. (Mr. David Sellara — one of the most notorious of the agents engaged in the celebrated Sutherlandsbire clearances — having, at an agri- cultural dinner attended by him, his health proposed by a noble- man present thereat, he is reported as having acknowledged, in a strain of unblushing self-glorification, the honour thus done him. The following verses are an attempted interpretation of the thoughts that must have crowded on him as he rose to express his thanks.) Here stand I before you, a veteran who Has done good clearing work in my time. Thank Heaven for laws that so wisely allow The pursuit of a work so sublime. That was a smart feat I accomplished of late, — 'Tis as true as his Grace declares. That Ardtornish's* walls — Donald Govms proud halls — I have stormed with my good old shears. * In allusion to Sellara' then recent purchase of the Ardtornish estata, Argyleshire, « 106 MacCoU's Poems. Those shears of mine all shears outshine ; Spite of every resistance rude, They have " clear'd " your lands more than marshalled bands Of the Roman or Dane e'er could ; Wherever they dip into the " clip," 'Tis all up with the mountaineers ; Like a mist they're gone, while I flourish on, — Then, hurra for old Sellars's shears ! But not always thus was my success; — Where my first campaign began. Though friend Nick and I all our skill did ply To proceed with the " clearing " plan. Firm as rooted oaks 'mid their native rocks Stood those stubborn serfs for years. Till the land's good Chief, to our great relief, Brought the Sword to assist the Shears. Then we stopt the plough, and the Casch,om too. And we laugh'd, in our very mirth. At the sight so gay, my cross-breed at play Round a many extinguished hearth, 'Mong the witless lairds of the Glens and Airds What a change in a few short years By my Shears was wrought — for their lands I bought Then hurra for old Sellars' Shears .' The Celt talks of a prescriptive right To the land that he loves so well ; J love it too, — by old Nick ! I do — As tlie Celt to his cost can tell. MacGoll's Poems. 107 Sure, the hamlets burned, and the thousands turned From their homes, amid sobs and tears, Are enough to prove how this land I love ; Then, hurra for old Sellars' Shears ! My love of this land is written deep In the Exile's wither'd heart ; While my ways are found with such success crowned, From that love I will not depart ; Green depeopled Straths are the chosen paths I would have for my fleecy cares : Long may all who combine to such paths make mine Share the luck of old Sellar's Shears '. 1859. AN EPISTLE TO A POETICAL FPJEND. Written in June, 1848. With meikle shame to think that I Should have allowed your last to lie Unanswered two whole months well nigh, 'Tis high time, Watty, That I a fit response should try, So, here goes at you ! And how have you been all this while ? Proving the Chartists all that's vile. Or smartly stirring Tory bile With Free Trade speeches ? Or quietly basking in the smile Of " Yorkshire witches ? " 108 MacGoU's Poems. Or may it be that you have crossed The Channel, joining that brave host Now crushing despot rule unblest All Europe through — Thrones built on blood and bayonets, tossed The devil to ? Or have you been to Erin's strand. Cheering her gallant patriot band Fond-hoping for the hour at hand She \rill once more 'Mong Europe's nations take the stand She held of yore ? If there indeed, I hope that you' May quickly join the minstrels true Who, in The Nation pitch into John Bull's rough hide ; To end his base misrule, to do Or die, their pride ! For me, my rhyming days are o'er — As well seek grapes in Labrador As Bardic visions by the shore Of Mersey muddy ; 'Mid traffic's wretched stir and stour No minstrel should be. Who would become the Muse's pride Must learn to woo her as a bride, MacColVs Poems. 109 And never, never quit her side At any cost ; Let meaner aims the heart divide, And all is lost. Oh for the days that once have been Oh for the Aray's wildvvood Glen, And thou, lost Harp ! to wake again The echoes near me, And maidens bright and honest men To charm and cheer me ! Though living in the humblest cot, If by the Muse neglected not, Princes might envy me my lot So blest — so free ; — Let others in your cities rot, The hills for me ! But wheresoe'er I live or die — Doom'd in forgotten grave to lie. Or, haply, up Parnassus high Thy steps attend, Believe me, till my latest sigh, Thv faithful friend. 110 MacGoWs Poems. ELEGIAC STANZAS. (Occasioned by the death, at a very early age, of John Henry, the first-born son of Lord John Campbell, of Ardincaple, afterwards 7th Duke of Argyll ) A SHADOW rests on Aray's strand, O'er all the West is wail and woe ; The heir to all MacCailean's land In death's relentless grasp lies low. O youth so loved, so gifted ! though The cruel grave has closed o'er thee, Long by the Aray's murmuring flow Shall flourish green thy memory. Oft, as we watch 'd thy life's bright morn. How fondly did we hope to see The statesman just — the warrior stern — A second " Iain Rudah " in thee — The stoutest friend of liberty — The glory of the Campbell Clan : Alas that thus so soon should be That day-dream bright forever gone ! We well could see, without a sigh. The whirlwind in its mad career Uproot the dozened beach-tree dry. The gloomy yew or hemlock sere ; But when the oak of promise rare Is torn untimely from its place Who, seeing, would not wish that there The tempest had shewn better grace ? MacColVs Poems. Ill Yon stately Pile may well be grey, — Deserted — desolate, though long, From thee it hoped a better day — The flow of mirth, the voice of song, The charity that has no tongue, The ever-hospitable board. The steps of beauty mild and young, The presence of a gallant lord. Oh, Death ! thou art a monster blind, For ever groping for thy prey ; And oft, by sad mischance, doth find The young when thou shouldst get the grey- Those who should never die, while they Escape who daily for thee sigh ; — Ah I why flew not that welcome way The dart which did our hopes destroy ? Farewell, illustrious youth, farewell ! Though deep and long be our regret, An earthly thou hast surely well Exchanged for heavenly coronet. O be thy last, long slumber sweet. By Enda's bark-frequented strand : Our sun — our morning sun — is set ! A shadow hath come o'er the land ! 112 MacColUs Pocim TO THE MOENING STAR. Fairest and proudest gem Placed in Night's diadem, Morn's liappy usher 1 I hail thee with joy : Hail to thy presence bright, Over yon distant height Queenly resuming thy place in the Sky ? Thou wakest the skylark — Allured by thy smile, hark ! In heaven already how blissful she sings ! The fox — midnight rover — Now steals to his cover, The blackcock makes love where the cool fountain springs. The elfin knights prancing, The elfin maids dancing, The witch at her cantrips, thou fill'st with dismay ; Ghosts from thy presence ^y, Owlets no longer cry, — Wand'rer benighted, now smile on thy way ! Star of the golden gleam ! Where dost thou hide thy beam When the young Morn her bright eyelids unclose ? Thou which like God's own eye Look'd where I see the sky Now bashful-blu'^hing — one wide-spreading rose I MacGolVs Poems. 113 Quick in the twilight grey, Vanish thy sisters gay, — Gone is the light of thy own brighter eye Yet shall I hail thy smile, Over yon mountain pile, Queenly resuming thy place in the Sky ! A DREAMLAND DELIGHT. (A.ddressed to a fair friend who had sent the author a piece of bride-cake which, according to a custom prevalent among young people in some parts of Scotland, he was expected to place under his pillow, with the assurance that the result would be a very pleasant dream — one to be afterwards fully told to the donor of the cake.) Young Jeanie expects me to let her know all That to me, yestreen, did in dreamland befall. And now I right gladly respond to her call. Alone on my couch in the deep midnight still, When sleep had left fancy to wander at will, " I dream'd a dream " — 'twas a dream of bliss — A vision such as I would not miss For all that has ever yet been my shave Of joy in this waking world of care ; Once more but to taste of that bliss so brief I would sutler long years of despair and grief, 114 MacColVs Poems. What was it, think you, was this dream divine ? Seem'd I feasting with kings in some Palace fine, Where from goblets of gold the red wine they drain, And royalty smiles on a courtly train. With the sceptre of Power in my potent hand, Did myself seem the Chief of some far-famed Land ? Did I deem I was own'd in the World's glad sight A Hero unmatch'd in fair Freedom's fight ? Or a Sage taught to bless and enrich mankind With the wisdom and lore of a godlike mind ? In the Temple of Fame was it mine to be, The chief of the Sons of bright Poesy ? Did I seem in possession of stores untold Of the brightest gems — of the purest gold ? Did some daughter of Beaut}^ with hand of snow Wake the harp to fond strains I loved long ago ? Was I charm'd by the tones of some seraph Choir ? Seem'd I list'ning the Angel of Love's own lyre, As around him were join'd, in the Land of Bliss, The Fond-hearted whose loves had been cross'd in this ! In my Highland Home did I seem to stray ? Was my step with the Morn on the mountain grey When its peak with the sun is in glory crown'd. And the rocks to the cries of the Chase resound ? Seem'd my bark o'er the breast of the blue Lochfyne Bounding fearless and fleet, as in days longsyne. When a swelling sail and a heaving sea Were a joy to my little bark and me ? MacColl's Poems. 115 These be fancies I own, that might well delight, Yet had nothing to do with this Vision bright. Can you guess then, sweet girl, what could really be The cause of a joy so supreme to me — A joy for surpassing all others won By me since my life on this earth began ? You cannot, — and so, although only to you, I'll tell you my dream, without further ado. I dreamt I was sitting, at gloaming's hour, Within the sweet shade of a garden bower ; A maiden of beauty surpassingly bright Sat near me — her eyes full of love's own light. Brief time passed we there till her grace made me bold To tell how I loved her ; — my arms, while I told, Found their way, uureproved, round her lithesome waist, Her fair face meanwhile, fondly laid on my breast, Half hid itself there like a bird in its nest. And just as she owned her young heart all my own, And just as I showered loving kisses upon The chaste, rose-red lips of that dear darling one, I awoke. Jeanie dear, if that joy of joys It ever may mine be to realize, You only can say, since the beautiful elf Of that vision of mine was — your own sweet self. 116 MacGolVs Poems. LINES WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE DEE, NEAR CHESTER. Shake oflf, my soul, each earth-born care : A glimpse of paradise is here ! Scene like this to see, Wakes a doubt in me How a curse can be on a world so fair ! Here — the blackbird sings like some spirit blest ; There — the skylark springs from her secret nest, And in heaven away Pours so sweet a lay As might envy wake in a seraph's breast. Let those who hst far distant go To gaze on scenes of sterner shew ; Enough for me Is the joy to be Where the winding Dee delights to flow. Ye bards, let fancy wander free ; Think what earth's fairest spot should be ; Then hither stray In flowery May And view the gay reality ! 24th May, 1841. MacGoll's Poems. 117 LINES WRITTEN IN "THE DINGLE." A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE MERSEY, ENGLAND. I've been mid scenes where horn and hound Make hills and valleys ring all, But ne'er in such a fairy bound As thine, delightful Dingle I Her sweetest bloom the " stars of earth," Here the wood minstrels mingle Notes such as only could have birth In Eden — or the Dingle. Here, ever verdant shrub and spray The richest odours fling all On Zephyr's wings, while on his way Flow'r-kissing in the Dingle. Here sunny slopes invite the view, Here, bowers where fond hearts tingle ; There, glides the Mersey, calmly blue, Proud to reflect the Dingle. Ye bachelors, come here, and then I dare ye to live single ; How can ye, where such nymphs are seen As love to haunt the Dingle ? 118 MacColVs Poems. "WHAT MEANS THY LONG ABSENCE." What means thy long absence, beloved Jeanie Stuart, The home of thy childhood so far distant from ? Far friends may be kind, yet the darling that thou art Should surely forget not thy friends left at home. Return, then, sweet truant ! my soul longs to see thee. The bud always fair, now a rose in full bloom ; The winter that now storms and scowls, would with me be. Quick changed into summer, if thou wert at hom.e. Come, welcome as calm after storm on the ocean, Come, fair as the dawn after darkness and gloom ; Come, proving how vain was the fear that my chosen Could ever forget me, — come, loved one, come ! Come, proving how well may my joy and my pride be Our sweet gloaming love-trysts once more to resume ; Come shewing that death, only death, can divide thee Again from thy lover, — then O hasten home ! . MacColVs Poems. 119 SONNET. THE PEIMROSE. Of all the gems that Earth's green bnsom grace, Give me the Primrose, May-dew-drinking flower, That loves not gay parterre nor gaudy bower, But gives its beauty to each desert place. 80 Innocence, rare guest in Palaces, Blooms in yon Cot upon the bleak hill-side ! So sweet Content, unknown to Wealth and Pride, With rustic toil her quiet dwelling has. Loved Flow'r ! thy term of life is brief, but thou Enjoy'st it in the Seasons' golden age. When the wood-minstrels chaunt on ev'ry bough, And larks to Heaven make vocal pilgrimage ; I well may deem, of all things fair below. Thy praise doth most their thrilling songs engage. SONNET. TO A ROBIN SINGING ON A NOVEMBER MORNING. Emblem of Hope ! thou minstrel sweet, that sings When eild and sadness fall upon the Year, And Winter tramples on the leaflet sere. And flowers are not — Oh tell me what thus brings Joy to thy heart ? Dost thou in memory stray To the bright May-time, when on wanton wings 120 MacCoWs Poenif^. Thy fond mate thou hast courted ? — whenaii-^.iysdo Is musical as Heaven's own bowers, and springs The skylark from the gowan'd swai'd to chaunt Her matin song ? Sweet bird ! it so must be ; — Of present pleasures little canst thou vaunt ; Yet is thy lot an envied one to me, To whom reflection much of sorrow brings. Whose memory is a snake of many stings ! SONNET. Address to J. Ferguson, of Carlyle, on reading his " Shadow of the Pyramid " — a volume of Sonnets descriptive of a tour through Egypt and the Holy Land. Bard of the lay that tells of Egypt's land. Who would not own the magic of thy rhyme ? Palace and pyramid and temple grand — Titanic structures fashion'd for all time — Gracefully conjured up at thy command, I gaze enraptured on their forms sublime. I see the chosen Chief, whose wondrous wand Awed and confounded prince and priest and seer, , O'er the Red Sea majestic stretch his hand — • The foes of God and Israel pressing near : The waves once more divide — God's chosen band Walk safely through,while Egypt's hosts are drown d : Thy song is as if, 'mid the desert sand, The harp inspired of Miriam thou hadst found ! MaoCoU's Poems. 121 DISENCHANTED. So thou hast " changed thy mind," What then ? A common thing- in woman-kind, To wonder at were quite as vain As wond'ring that the wind Can vary. If the minstrel sings, 'Tis for the balm that music brings. No, Amy, if I now repine, 'Tis not that others bend the knee In welcome homage at the shrine Once sacred unto me ; I grieve that I could ever bow Where ev'ry fool may worship now ! And this is she I once could deem A being less of earth than Heaven ! Alas, I only then did dream — The veil at length is riven — And I can see, through all thy smiles, A heart of treachery and wiles. Farewell, fair, fickle one ! A while, A little while of bitter thought. And I may learn to scorn the smile That could with gold be bought ; And thou wilt also learn to prove That wealth's a poor exchange for love. H 122 MacCoU's Poems. The stricken deer may seek the shade, — 'Mid scenes where beauty is not sold My heart shall yet to joy be wed, My love-tale shall be told ; Then, Image of the False, depart ! I tear thee ever from my heart. TARLOCHAN'S ADVICE TO HIS SON. (paraphrase from the GAELIC.) One advice I would give you, my son, in this strain — It may serve when a- wooing you go : Be not daunted too much by a seeming disdain, — With deceit to the truthful your soul never stain, — If you wear it at all, wear but slightly Love's chain, — It may save you a many heigho ! Should you meet " a fine girl " — as fond fools it express — Be not lured by her shape or her air ; — Snakes oft lurk among flower.s — and if heedless you pass, You may live, when too late, to exclaim " What an ass, Not to think she might false be as fair! " Beneath a bright landscape the earthquake may sleep ; In the rosebud a canker may be ; The river where calmest is always most deep, And balmy the breeze that may oftentimes sweep O'er a rock-bosom'd, ship-wrecking sea. MacCoU's Poems. 123 Then seek you in woman the charms of the mind, — Those charms that with youth will not die ; — Mere rose-tinted cheeks, air or accent refined, Must not win your young heart, or too late you may find You have built on the ice — you have trusted the wind — You have made your whole lifetime a sigh. TO MAGGIE S., ON HER BIRTH-DAY. Let others hail this happy morn As that on which a Queen was born ; * / hail it with an equal glee, Because the birth-day blest of thee ' Of thee, thou bud of beauty gay. Fit offspring of the happy May, Whose smile is like its sunshine bright. Whose step is as its zephyrs light, Whose neck is as its lilies fair, Whose breath is like its perfumed air, Whose voice has borrowed from the grove Its sweetest, softest notes of love. Unlike the fate that threatens me. Sweet One ! may thy life happy be ; May 3^outh sit long upon thy brow, May virtue make thy heart her shrine ; And if thy tears should ever flow, Be they for others' woes, not thine. *The 24th May, Her Majestj' Queen Victoria's Birth-day. 124 MacCoWs Poems. May worldly wiles ne'er come between Thy heart and his who loves thee best But sharing fortune's happy mean, With him and him alone, be blest ! And now, in ending this brief lay, I cannot less than fondly pray Thy next recurring birth-day may That of thy wedding also be, And the glad groom perhaps be — me 1 TO Thp]Y bid me forget thee — they hint, in their pride, Mine can ne'er be the hand of my soul- wedded-bride ; And they heartlessly hope my beloved one shall be The woo'd and the won of one richer than me : But true love is strong in its faith, and I heed not The tale that proclaims thou wilt leave me to mourn ; Oh ! what to reward it can love like thine need, but A love that is deathless and deep in return. If another could love thee more fondly, more true, — If for only thyself and not wealth he should woo, I could then bear to lose thee, contented that thine Were a wooer more worthy to kneel at love's shrine ; But so long as none other can love thee as / do. So long as thou'rt gentle and fond as thou'rt fair, Let them blush who would teach thy young heart to deny me. And learn that I need not and ivill not despair. MacCoWs Poems. 125 A LAST FOND FAREWELL. As some beacon-light, far-throwing Through a night of starless skies Its blest rays, the seaman showing Where his wished-for haven lies. Loved one ! thus, when shadows dreary All around my pathway lay, Came thy gentle smiles to cheer me, Chasing all the gloom away ; Giving hopes, however lowering My life's sky might sometimes prove, I could aye find refuge sure in Tiie calm haven of thy love. Wherefore, thou delightful visioii, Was thy stay so very brief ? Woe's me that a joy elysian Should so sudden chano-e to o-i-jef 1 Parted now, forever parted — Malice well has played her part, — I, the lorn and broken-hearted, Thou — I ask not what thou art. Still within my heart adoring Lives thine image ever fair ; Like a rose in Winter tlow'ring, Blooms my love amid despair. 120 MacCoWs Poems. So the sun, himself evanisli'd, Leaves his beams upon the hill ; So the wretch from freedom banish'd, Tastes in dreams of freedom still. Fare thee well ! yon heaving ocean Farther soon shall us divide ; Still, till death shall end its motion. Thou shalt be my heart's fond bride THE CAPTURED BIRD. A FABLE. A Maiden once planted a cunning snare, And she caught a wdld bird of plumage rare ; And she tamed him so, that at last thought she, " This bird has no heart for liberty ; Let me do with him whatsoe'er I may, He has neither the wish nor the pow'r to stray. When his mistress had kept this bird so long That he almost forgot his woodland song, And his forest mates, to him once so dear, She thought she had nothing more to fear, He had been so long her imprison'd slave, So grateful for every crumb she gave, That it seemed, be her favours however small, He could not but choose to live still in thrall. MacColVs Poems. 127 But not thus, from its native joys exiled, Can a bird to its cage be reconciled ; The string that is play'd on too long may break. And a yoke, tho' of gold, soon must tire the neck. What flow'r can long bloom amid frost and snow ? What joy, without hope, can the fond heart know ?] no, — it is not from all joy exiled That a bird brought up in the forest wild Can be to such bondage reconciled. One day she open'd his cage in play, With a " Go, foolish thing, if thou wilt, away," Never dreaming her captive one inch would stray. The fond bird heard the insulting word, Aud his native pride was within him stirr'd ; So he flapped his wings to her wond'ring view. And away, and away, fast and far he Sew. It was then that the sigh of his mistress proved That the bird she lost was a bird beloved ; — He returned to his bower in the forest green. And her captive caged never more was seen ! il/o7'a^. — Love is the bird, ye maidens bright, Of which the minstrel sings ; Then, never may you with caprice light, Or seeming scorn, or wanton slight. Forget that he has win^s. 128 MacCoU's Poems. WHERE DWELLETH HAPPINESS ? O WHERE dwelleth Happiness — where ? With the peasant in yon low-roof d cot ? So sages and statesmen declare, Yet the peasant knows thei'e she dwells not. Is her home then in palaces grand, Proud Royalty's favourite guest ? With the gay and the great of the land. Does she dwell 'mid the dance and the fenst 1 Alas ! neath the coronet there, Oft hid is a dark aching brow ; Oft the purple but hides in its glare The choice victims of care and of woe. Does she dwell with the famous in song ? Most of all there the search would be vain, Since the strains that our raptures prolong Are oft pour'd from a bosom of pain ! With the Learned and the Wise surely she Makes herself no rare guest, one would deem, Lo, the fool, as he passes, may see She abides not with any of them : Yet with Friendship she surely is found ? No — not there, to my sorrow, I know, With Love, then ? The feverish bound Of my heart proves that Love is her foe ! MacCoWs Poems. 129 Where, where then at all dwelleth she ? Alas ! since from Eden sin-driven, Man here all in vain would her see ; Her sole, chosen dwelling is Heaven. LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM JUST PRESENT- ED TO A FAIR FRIEND. Friendship's gift so fair to see, What can I say worthy thee ? Thou'rt a tablet far too fair For aught else than fancies rare — Tablet where, in sequence bright, Rare gems of thought shall yet have place. As, one by one, the stars at night Come out, adorning heaven's face. Book of beauty, let me shew What should grace thy page of snow, What the themes on which may turn "Thoughts that breathe and words that burn." ]\Iinstrel fancies " short and sweet " Here may find admittance meet : Patriots struggling for the right Here, in verse, may win the fight ; Tyrants who the world would thrall Here, in verse, unpitied fall, — Here, too, may the bondsman's wrong Find a fitting voice in sono- ■ 130 MacCoH's Poems Here the artist's pencil may All things beautiful pourfcray ; Here the moralist may teach, Here the lover ma}^ beseech, To the idol of his heart Doing homage like a true man ; Never pleases minstrel art More than when the theme is womaiK Woman — pearl of priceless worth ! Nature's purest, fairest birth ! "Woman — to whose grace is given To make Earth almost a Heaven ! Never in this book be penned Aught that virtue may offend ; Let the knave in friendship's guise Elsewhere vent his flatteries. Dullards, pray keep distance wide ; Hands oft', all ye slaves of pride ! Wits whose pens are dipt in gall, Misanthropes and sceptics all, Aught that ye might have to spare her Least of all would Jeanie care for. Type of infancy ere yet Thought has its impression set On the brow that may be found Yet with the proud laurel crowned,- MacCoWs Poems. 131 Joyful as a mother may Watch the dawn of reason's ray Growing into perfect day, Thus may thy fair mistress see All that she may wish in thee Growing, till thy glowing pages Prove thee all her heart presages. LINES WRITTEN ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. What though my muse be more at home Oa mountain side than drawing-room, At fair Eliza's sweet request 1 still would gladly do my best To leave within this casket rare Some proof of my regard for her — A rustic offering fondly flung Where " orient pearls at random strung " In rich profusion haply may Appear at no far future day. Fain would I write to please the Fair — Shall War then be my theme ? — the glare Of murdering steel — the onset dire — The rampart storm'd — the town on fire ? The nobler strife on battle plain — The " glorious " wounds — the thousands slain What though that widows — orphans, weep For thousands left in death's cold sleep. 132 MacGoUs Poemn. h\ " Glory's bed " they rest I then whj^ Such tears for fellows paid to — die ? Kings must have sport, and warriors fame- Shall war, then, be my thrilling theme ? Ah ! no — Eliza would not choose To have me sing of scenes like these ; Far other themes, the minstrel knows, Her gentle bosom best may please. Lady, small joy 'twould thee afford To sing thee of the festive board; The venal muse's flattering strain Applause of thine may never gain ; Nor wouldst thou praise, if I should try With shaft satiric to annoy My erring brother passing by : The evils which we cannot cure But by inflicting greater, sure 'Tis best in silence to endure. * iS- * * "Were mine the Harp of Ettrick old, Here would Tradition's tales be told — The sheeted Ghost, that faithless swain Would shun, but ever shuns in vain ; The Witch upon her midnig.ht broom ; The Seer foretelling death and doom ; The Fairy fold in mantles green, In this blind age but seldom seen. Yet, to our fathers known full well. And seen more oft than tonorue can tell i MacGolVs Poems. 133 Fond strains that mourn the early lost, O come in all your s w'eetness here ; Of tender memories wake a host, And let each memory claim a tear. Here also be the soul-born song That kindles at the Bondsman's Avrong, And bids him, as our brother, be, O'er all the earth, a brother free. And here be, too, the strain that tells Of woodlands green and ferny dells — The mountain tow'ring in its pride. The torrent dashing down its side, The heather blooming on its breast, The red-deer in its corries chased, The gray mist curling round its brow, The lake, reflecting all, below — Yes, ev'n in fancy but to see My Highland Home is bliss to me ! But more than all, of themes most dear. Let woman's love find favour here — Love ! richest boon to mortals given. Sun of my life's oft-clouded sky ! I would not give its anguish even For any other earthly joy. Without its magic power, I ween. Earth's sweetest songs had never been, And even this poor lay I sing- Were poorer still, but that it has The inspiration following, The wish to win Eliza's praise. 134 MacCoUs Posms. TO J. F. S. ON HER BIRTHDAY. Some love the Springtime's promise bright, Some Summer's fuller joys ; Some most in Autumn's charms delight, Yet Winter most / prize. For thou wert in the Winter born — Thou to my heart so dear That for thy smile I'd gladly spurn All else this life can spare. 'Tis true no scent of flowers, nor hymn Of forest songsters free, Nor aught of beauty, marks the time Of thy nativity, — Yet in thy presence dear, to me 'Tis summer all the while ; Yea, more than all its charms I see In thy love- lighted smile. Hail, then unto thy natal day ! And ever with it be Affection — friendship's warmest ray, And health and wealth to thee. Love, too, I would have wish'd thy guest, But that I know it brings Less balm than poison to the breast, That snake of many stings ! MacColVs Poems. 135 Long bloom, thou flow'r of Beauty, bloom, Safe from each chilling blast ; Thy sun be never lost in gloom. But radiant to tlie last. And when to beautify our Earth No longer thou art given, Oh, raay'st thou have a brighter birth, And ever bloom, in Heaven ! 23rd Nov., 1845. THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP. I've learned to look on fame as A breath of passing air ; Thy favours, fickle fortune, Were never much my care ; The crown poetic never May on my brow be set But, O my rustic wild harp, I love, I love thee yet ! To Beauty's smile is given My worship now no more ; From home and kindred driven, Sad thoughts are all my store Yet sweeter than the blossoms Of summer to the bee. Than fountain to the desert Is my wild harp to me. 136 MacCoWs Poems. TRANSLATIONS. LOCH-DUICH. {From the Aailior's " Clarsach Nam jBeami.") LocH-DUiCH, hail I thou scene resplendent ! Weie the grand harp of old Ossian mine, Then, then in strains as my theme transcendent Thy charms unmatched would forever shine. While storms are often o'er ocean sweeping, Unbroken here is thy slumber deep, — Like childhood blest in the bosom sleeping Of some sad mother who wakes to weep. Well may the skiff of the fisher daring. When storm-toss'd out on a sea more wide, Be often seen towards thee glad steering, Assured of safety on thy calm tide. Ye hills that soar in stern beauty yonder. Proud watchers over Loch-duich's rest, Well may ye pride in your own famed grandeur Thus mirror'd daily in Duich's breast ! How grand the sight when, with night advancing, The stars seem touching your summits bold ! Nor less the charm when with smiles entrancing The morning crowns you with wreaths of gold. MacColVs Foems. 137 Hark ! 'tis yon urchins among the heather, — They see green woods in the lake below, And fondly question each other whether Brown nuts and berries may 'mong them grow ! The herd boy near them, with no less wonder Sees kine within the lake's bosom clear, And thankful seems, as he looketh on there, The herd he tendeth himself still near ! DuN-DoNNAN ! * rising there grim and hoary — Tliou ghost of greatness long pass'd away, Outliving scenes once thy grace and glory, Good cause hast thou to look sad and gray. Thou seem'st like Ossian, alone, lamenting His vanish'd prowess — his kindred dead ; Time, thy stern foeman, knows no relenting ; Soon, soon shall all but thy fame be fled. 'Tis said, when moonbeams are round thee gleauiin Oft by thy sea-circled base is seen A fair-hair'd form of the gentlest seeming, And sad her song as thyself, I ween. 1)11 1 not for thee is she sad, grey Tower — Her plaint reveals she has loved in vain ; While he who far from her coral bower Has lured her, comes not to soothe her pain. * More properly Oaisteal Donnain, once the residence of the " 1 son of Lord Kenneth, high Chief of Kintail ! " I 138 MacCoUs Poems. Sing on, fond nymph ! sing thy song relieving : — Alike on Earth or in Ocean born, The heart with fondest affection heaving, Thus— ever thus lives most sorrow torn ! Ye streams, that ever in grateful numbers Pour to Loch-duich your tribute due, I marvel not it so often slumbers, When lull'd by anthems thus sung by 3-ou. Here — through the flow^'r-mantled meadow passing. Ye, lingering, waken your softest song ; There — down the steep, bright as sunbeams tiashiui Ye ceaseless roar, rage, and rush along. Soue-Orain, chief of a thousand mountains ! Storm-swept and bare though thy forehead be, The stag delights to live by thy fountains — Hark ! 'tis the cry of the Chase in thee. What though, in Heetness the winds excelling, The quarry far to the desert flies, — Ere ends that yell 'mong the rocks far-pealing, The antler'd Pride of the Forest dies. Fain would 1 sing of yon dell roe-haunted, And thou, Kintail, of the woodlands gay, Where the cuckoo's first spring notes are chanted And wild flovvers grace even winter's sway. MacCoWs Poems. 139 Nor would Glensheil in my song find wanting The praises due to its minstrel throng, But most of all to the charmers haunting That happy Eden of love and song. Bui time forbids. Fare thee well Loch-duich ! — Though thy green banks I no more may see While life's warm stream in my bosom floweth, A memory sweet thou shalt be to me. ELEGIAC STANZAS. (An abbreviated free translation of one of the author's earliest Gs lie productions.) Ix vain do spring-time's many charms essay To chase the gloom in Aray's glen to-day ; The strains that there once charmed my listening ear Can ne'er again avail my heart to cheer. When that fair star, so late my soul's delight ; Hath vanished, never more to cheer my sight, — When my fond heart, sad-missing joy so brief, Lies in tlie dust, enamoured of its grief, — When for the couch she soon might reach, love-led. The grave becometh Jessie's bridal bed, Well may the tears of friendship freely flow, And life to me be an unendino- woe. 140 MclgCoIVs Poems. Insatiate Death \vas it to make us see How all impartial fly thy shafts, that she Should thus become thy prey whose graces might Make even thee ashamed our prayers to slight ? Alas for Life ! its frail, unequal thread Is like the gossamer in sunshine spread, The ready wreck of the first passing blast. And yieldeth first where it should longest last, 'Tis thus that all, too soon, in death's cold sleep Closed Jessie's eyes, while mine are left to weej) Better it were, than thus be left, to have My own last sleep beside her in the grave. Shade of my love ! if it indeed be true That spirits blest, though hidden from our view. May still be round us — guardian angels rare. Oh, be it mine to feel thee often near, — An inspiration ever leading me To justify thy loving sympathy By actions such as may alone secure The conscious favour of thy spirit pure. ( 'ome then, in all thy wonted loving grace. Making the grief, now my sole guest, give place To the sweet hope that, this vain life once o'er, I'll see thee and be near thee evermore. MacOolVs Poetns. 141 MAIRI LAGHACH. (From tlie Gaelic of J. McDonald, a Rosshire bard of the last century.) C'horu!^. — Hey, my winsome Maiy — Mary fondly free • Hey, my winsome Mary Mary, mine to be ! Winsome, handsome Mary, Who so fair as she ? My own Highland lassie, Dear as life to me ! Long ere in my bosom Lodged Love's arrow keen, Often with young Mary In Glensmeoil I've been ; Happy hours, succeeded By affection true, Till there seem'd neath heaven No such loving two ! Chorus. — Hey, my kc. Often I and Mary Desert haunts have sought, Innocent of any Evil deed or thought, — 142 MacColVs Poems. Cupid, sly cneliantcr, Tempting us to stray Where the leafy greenwood Keeps the sun at bay. Chorus. — Hey, ni}^ kc. What although all Albin And its wealth were mine, How, without thee, darling. Could I fail to pine ? As my bride to kiss thee I would prize far more Than the all of treasure Europe has in store. (Jhorus. — Hey, my &c. ' Fairer is the bosom Of my loving one Than the downy plumage Of the floating swan, Her's the slim waist graceful, And the neck whose hue Matches well the seagull's Out on Gairloch blue. Chorus. — Hey, my &c. What a wealth of tresses Mary dear can show ! Crown of lustre rarer Ne'er o;raced maiden brow. MacGoll's Poems. 143 'Tis but little dressing- Need those tresses rare, Falling fondly, proudly O'er her shoulders fair. OJlovus. — Hey, my &c. Her's are teeth whose whiteness Snow alone can peer ; Her's the breath all fragrance, Voice of loving cheer, — Cheeks of cherry ripeness, Eyelids drooping down Neath a forehead never Shadowed by a frown. Chorus. — Hey, my &c. Out on royal splendours ! Love best makes his bed 'Mong the leaves and grasses Of the Sylvan shade, Where the blissful breezes Tell of bloom and balm. And health-giving streamlets Sing their ceaseless psalm. Chorus. — He}', my &c. No mere music art-born There our pleasures crowned Music far more cheering Nature for us found. — 144 MacColVs Poem?. Larks in air, and thrushes On each flow'ring thorn, And the Cuckoo hailing, Summer's gay return ! Chorus. — Hey, my &c. THE CHILD OF PROMISE. (A translation from the aiithor's Gaelic, by the late Rev. Dr. Buchannan, Methven, Scotland.) She died — as die the roses On the ruddy clouds of dawn, ; When the envious sun discloses His Hame, and morning's gone. She died — like snow glad-gracing Some sea-marge fair, when, lo ! Rude waves each other chasing, Quick hide it 'neath their flow. She died — -like snow fair showering Some sea-marge, when, anon, In comes the wave devouring — The beautiful is gone. She died— as dies the glory Of music's sweetest swell : She died — as dies the story When the best is still to tell ! MacColVs Poem ft. 145 She died — as dies moon-beaming When scowls the rayless wave ; She died — like sweetest dreaming That hastens to its grave. She died — and died she early ; Heaven wearied for its own. As the dipping sun, my Mary, Th}^ morning ray went down ! ANOTHER VERSION OF THE SAME POEM. (Contributed to the ^' Teacltdaire Gaidhealach," by the late Lachlaan MacLean, of Glasgow.) Thy life was like a morning cloud Of rosy hue, at break of day ; The envious sun appears, and soon The rival glory melts away. Thy life was like May's sunny beams By shadows brushed o'er field and flower ; Or like the bow of heaven that sheds Its glory in a fleeting shower. Thy life was like new-fallen snow. Gracing some sea-beach lately bared ; The tide returns with heedless flow — The sky-born guest hath disappeared. 14G MacCoUs Poems. Thy life was like some tuneful harp Abruptly stopped when sweetest strung, Or like " the tale of other years" To expectation half unsung. Thy life was like a passing gleam Of moonlight on a troubled main, Or like some blissful dream which he Who dreams, may never dream again. O chihl of promise bright ! although 'Twere wrong to grudge to heaven its own, Our tears, withal, will often flow To think thy sun so soon gone down. WHO LOVES NOT TO THINK OB^ GLENFINNAN? Who loves not to tliiiik of Glenfinnan — That glen of the gathering gi'and, Where came, bonnie Charlie to welcome, The bravest and best in the land ! Well might he proud of his plaee in Their hearts all so loyal and leal ; No foe to his rights would caie facing, That day, the dread Mash of their steel. Horo, toguibh an aird ! * Horo, toguibh an aird ! What chief could be deaf to that slogan, Horo toguibh an aird. Arrayed in the garb of the Gael, In fimcy I see him still there — ■ The Prince so long loyally hoped for, Glad-trusting his cause to their care : *Ho, gather up ! — the refrain of a once popular Gaelic Jacobite song. 147 148 MacCoWs Poems So worthy the thi-ono of his fathors He looked in his bonnet so bkie, Small wonder the clans all should gather Around him to die or to do ? Horo, toguibh an aird ! Horo, toguibh an liird ! What clansman that day would not chorus Horo toguibh an aird ! Woes me foi- the mighty in battle — The heroes in honour so steeled ! No Gothrom-na Feinne " vain-seeking, They died where they never would yield. What knave could well grudge to such true hearts Their still-swelling meed of renown i Alas that the sun of. the Stuarts At such a dread cost should go down 1 Horo, toguibh an aird ! Horo, toguibh an aird ! Alas for Glenhnnan's proud slogan, Horo, toguibh an aird ! MacGolVs Poems. 149 THE HILLS OF THE HEATHER. Xis.~-TIic Boiincts of Bonnie Dundee. Give the swains of Italia 'niong myrtles to rove, Give the proud sullen Spaniard his bright orange grove, Give gold-sanded streams to the sons of Chili, But give the hills of the heather to me. Choeus — Come diink we a health to the old Highland Bens Whose heads cleave the welkin, whose feet press the glens : What Scot worth the name would not toast them with glee ? The red heather hills of the Highlands for me 1 The hills whose wild echoes delight to prolong The soul-stirring pibrochd, the stream's gushing song; Storm- vexed and mist-mantled though often they be, Still dear are the hills of the heather to me ? Chorus — Come drink we a health to the old Highland Bens That fondly look down on the clan-peopled glens : What Scot worth the name would not toast them with gloo? The red heather hills of the Hio-ldands for me I 150 MacCoJVs Poem.^. The hills where the doe loves to roam with her fawn, "Where sweetest the skylark sings joy to the dawn : I'd live where blue lakes mirror scaur, cliff and tree, Then O give the hills of the heather to me ! Chorus — Come drink we a health to the old Highland Bens, Their deer-haunted corries and hazelwood dens : What Scot worth the name would not toast them with glee ? The red heather hills of the Highlands for me ! 'Tis there neath tlie tartan beat hearts the most leal. Hearts Avarm as the sunshine, yet firm as the steel, — There only this heart can feel happy or free, Then, Oh give the hills of the heather to me ! Chorus — Come drink we a health to the old Highland Bens, Glad leaving to England, her flats and her fens : What Scot worth the name would not toast them with glee ? The red heather hills of the Highlands for me ! I LOVE THEE, GLENARA. I LOVE tliee, Glenara, right fondly, although Not for thy green hill-sides or wild woodland show, Thy tlow'r-spangled meadows, or heather-clad braes : Glenara, Glenaia, I care not for these. MacCoWs Poems. 151 I love thee — but not for thy streamlets that run, Now hid in thy birch-woods, now kissed by the sun ; The notes of thy song-birds no more charm my ear, Still less could the sportsman's rude work tempt me here. O no — for unheeded the roe now skips by ; No trout from Carlunan to tempt do I try ; A magnet surpassing all these I find in The lassie who dwells in yon cot by the linn. Yes, maiden beloved ! as a bee, that has found Some honey-bloom rare in his balm-seeking round, Returns and returns oft to feast on his prize, So seek I love's food in thy tale-telling eyes. Give poets their choice of Parnassian bays, Give Wealth's pampered puppets the crowd's ])assing praise; Away with such shadows ! yon green trysting tree And the smile of my Jessie, dear Jessie, for me ! THE HIGHLAND EMIGRANT'S LAST FAREWELL. Adieu, my native land, — adieu The banks of the fair Lochfyne, Where the first breath of life I drew. And would my last resign ! Swift sails the bark that waf teth me This night from thy loved strand : O must it be my last of thee, ^ly dear, dear Fatherland ! lo2 MacCoWs Poems. Land of the Bens and greenwood glens. Though forced with thee to part, Nor time nor space can e'er eftiice Thine image from my heart. Come weal, come woe — till life's last throe, My Highland home shall seem An Eden bright in Fancy's light, A heaven in memory's dream ! Land of the maids of matchless grace, The bards of matchless song, — Land of the bold heroic race That never brook'd a wrong ! Long in the front of nations free May Scotland proudly stand : Farewell to thee — farewell to thee, My dear, dear Fatherland ! ELLIE BHOIDHEACH. Air- " rita Lag.i o' Gouyic." Of all the many scenes that be A memory always sweet to me My heart clings most to fair Carskey, The home of Ellie bhoidheach. * There first I felt love's pleasing pain, There, told her smiles that not in vain I might aspire some day to gain The hand of Ellie bhoidheach. * Beautiful: pronounced '• voyach." MacGoWs Poems. 153 Alas that true love never may Be left to choose its own sweet way I If thus it were, my bride to-day Might be sweet Ellie bhoidheach. Yet, as the breath of zephyrs tell Of flowers that deck the distant dell, So ever in my heart shall dwell Sweet thouirhts of Ellie bhoidheach. WHEN I AM FAR AWAY. O'er yonder ocean wide and wild When I am far away Where never more thy voice, sweet child, My spirit sad may sway, This thought will cheer the minstrel's heart, Forget though others may, That thou Avilt sing my songs, sweet child, When I am far away. Unknown to fortune's fickle smile Though oft the minstrel sings. If but his lays are loved, meanwhile, He'll laugh at crowns and kings. And thus it is I comfort bring From out life's darkest day. Since thou, sweet child, my songs will sittg When I am far away. J 154 MacCoWs Poems. BONNIE ISABEL. Give fortune's favoured sons to roam However far they please, from home, And find their eventide delights 'Mong Reinish groves or Alpine heights But give to me, by Shira's flow, ■ — With none to see and none to know- Love's tryst to keep, love's tale to tell, And kiss my bonnie Isabel, A rustic maiden though she be, 'Twould puzzle all the Graces three To say where in her form or face They could have added to her grace. To see her tripping through the grove, !So fair, so full of life and love, You'd think our glen some Elfland dell, And Elliand's queen sweet Isabel. Ye guardian spirits hovering near The Cot where dwells this maiden dear. Beware the glances of her eyes — They'd make you to forget the skies. And then her lips— take care, take care \ If once you'd taste the nectar there I fear you'd get as fond s mysel' Of kissing bonnie Isabel I MacColVs Poems. 155 THE LASS Wr THE BRIGHT GOWDEN HAIR. XiR— Jessie the Floiver o' Dunhlane. The pride of all Dee-side is fair Jeanie Stuart, How dearly I love her nae words can declare : The mair I see of her, the mair my fond true heart Is charmed by the lass wi' the bricht gowden hair. Her smile is the dawn breaking o'er the horizon, Her voice is the lilt of the lark in the air ; Nae mortal can look on her face all-enticing And love not the lass wi' the bricht gowden hair. What care I who say I've in vain set my mind on A lass of whose smile richer wooers despair ? Sic fools naething ken of the love-light I find in Ilk look of the lass wi' the bright gowden hair. O for that blest day this dear maid sae enchanting * Is mine, and mine only — my life's darling care ! This world would to me be a weary world, wanting The love of yon lass wi' the bricht gowden hair. SWEET ANNIE BHAN OF INVERGLEN, A.IR— Hieland Harry: Chorus — Sweet Annie Bhan of Inverglen, Sweet Annie Bhan of Inverglen — Mair bonnie than the Maytime dawn Is Annie Bhan of Inverglen. 156 MacCoWs Poems. Ance to young Peggie of Locligair I thought my heart for ever gane, But that was ere I kent how fair Was Annie Bhan of Inverglen. Sweet Annie Bhan, &c. Fair fa her eye so sweetly sly, Its glances hae bewitched me clean ! Baith night and day nae thought 'J hae But Annie Bhan of Inverglen. Sweet Annie Bhan, kc. O that less wealthy were her kin. Or I of rivals rich had nane 1 Then micht I hae less fear to win This bonnie maid of Inverglen. Sweet Annie Bhan, &c. Yet if her mind I rightly spae She yet may be my bosom's queen, For far too kind to cause me wae Is Annie Bhan of Inverglen. Sweet Annie Bhan, &c. MY MORVEN MAID. Let minstrels to true beauty blind Think 'tis to town-bred belles confined, And, fooled by their pert, pretty ways, Upon them lavish all their praise : MitcColl's Poems. 157 I own them fair enough to see, Though rustic graces best please me, And most of all, the charms displayed By my own loving Morven maid. Let high-born beauties, proud as faii-, Bedeck themselves with jewels rare ; A richer jewel far hath she In her own sweet simplicity. No affectations mar the charm Of her fair face and faultless form ; No arts coquettish ever aid Tiie conquests of my Morven maid. The voice so sweet, the manners kind. The maiden modesty refined, The rosy cheek, the sparkling eye. The raven locks that love to lie On shoulders of a fairer glow Than sunshine on Duncorvill's snow, The heart by no vain thoughts e'er swayed, All, all are thine, sweet Morven maid ! THE MAID OF LEYEX-SIDE. Tx vain I see fair nature's face In all its springtide beauty rare ; In vain old woodland walks I trace- In search of joys once mine to sliare 158 MacColl's Poems. One face — one only — everywhere My vision haunts, my footsteps guide That witching face so heavenly fair Is thine, sweet maid of Leven-side. The swan on Lomond's breast serene Delights to please her wooer gay, The linnet in yon leafy den Rejoicing lists her lover's lay ; Could Annie thus my love repay, Unheeding who might frown or chide, How would my life be one long May ! How Eden-like fair Leven-side ! O that I were the happy herd Who of her father's kye takes care, And often a kind look or word Finds at the milking time from her. And sees her when his evening fare She does with gentle grace provide 1 To woo her though I might not dare, I still were blest on Leven-side. THE LASS OF LOCH-SHIN. Air. — The Hills of Glenon-hi/. Though fair be to see the blue lakes of the West, And many the swains who live nigh them, love -blest, Yet often find I my fond heart ill at rest When I think of the far-away Banks of Loch-shin, MacGolVs Poems. 159 Well, well may those Banks ever dear be to me, Since of all Beauty's daughters the fairest is she Who with me changed hearts and love-promises free, One bright summer night, on the Banks of Loch-shin. Give lordlings to revel in royalty's rays, Give heroes their laurels — the poet his bays, — 'Tis little reck I of rank, riches or praise While blest with the love of the Lass of Loch-shin. Each hour seems a year, thus so far from her side ; O, for that glad time I can call her my bride. And, proud as if lord of all Sutherland wide, Live, loving and loved, on the Banks of Loch-shin ! WINNA THE SILLER MAKE UP FOR AN OLD MAN. Air, — ^'Rha Diiair Lanais am Bail, Inaraora." {" The Campbells are comimi") Mother. WiNNA the siller make up for an old man ! Winna the siller make up for an old man ! 'Twere silly against sic an offer to hold on ; Lass ! let the siller make up for the old man. The old man has gowd an' braid acres a plenty ; His house is weel stored wi' a' things gude and dainty ;— Ye may live to repent in a comfortless, cold one Gin ye daftly refuse to be paired wi' the old man. Winna the siller, &c. 160 MacCoIIs Poems. Daughter. O mither, bethink ye how people wad jeer me — Less wife than a nurse to a body sae eerie ; Gin I wed not for love I'll a maid ever hold on ; Come weal, then, or wae, I will ne'er wed the old man. Winna the siller, &c. Mother. Love looks very nice as a dream,^but be sure, lass, It counts not for much when the wolf's at the door, lass ; A girnel aft toom is nae look-out sae golden That a lassie like ye should refuse sic an old man. Winna the siller, &c. Daughter. Yet, mither, 'twere sinful to wed ane sae frail-like ; His hair is sae scant an' his cheek is sae clay-like ; Just think ye of arms such as his to enfold one ! O, mither, dear mither 1 speak not of the old man. Winna the siller, etc. Mother. Nae doubt he is auld, — then the sooner may you get The chance wi' his gear to look out for a new mate ; There be young men aneuch, once his banes ye've the mould on, Will be happy to fill up the place of the old man. Winna the pi Her, &c. MacCoWs Poems. 161 Daiiglder. 'Tis true, that miglit be, — yet it seems a mean part, ma. To give up the hand where one can't give the heart, ma ; To pity his erase it may be I'm beholden, But save, mither, save me mair talk of the old man. Winna the siller, &c. Mother. In silks an' in satins he'll busk ye up line, lass ; Nor need ye wait lang till his all may be thine, lass : Alas, and alas, for the fair, fickle, sold one ! She's wed and away with the frail, foolish old man. Winna the siller, &c. THE LASS OF GLENFYNE. WOULD that my home were some green summer shieling 'Mid scenes far removed from all discord and din ! Scenes dear to the roe, and where skylarks keep trilling Their songs from the day-dawn till gloaming sets in ; There, living to love and be loved by the maiden I trj^sted yestere'en 'neath the moon's mellow shine, How would all around me seem charming as Eden — So deal" to my heart is yon lass of Glenfyne ! All day with the flock how delighted I'd roam there, No song-bird more tuneful, no man moi-e care-free ; How gladly at sundown my charge I'd bring home there, Where, ready to milk them, my Peggy I'd see ' 162 MacColVs Poems. And when with a kiss she would welcome her lover, No mortal can guess what a bliss would be mine ; Such life with a lassie perfection all over who would not live 'mong the braes of Glenfyne THE BETRAYED ONE TO HER CHILD. Gae#[c Air — gu ma slan a chi mi mo chaiUnn dileas, donn. Oh wae's me for thee, darling, And wae's me for the hour I trysted thy false faither In yonder greenwood bower I Sae sweet the tale he tauld me, Sae warmly wooed he there, My trusting heart was soon deceived My peace lost evermair ! He said my neck and bosom Were fair as winter's snow. And that the rose for redness, Was naething to my mou ; He vowed he aye would lo'e me Till death should us divide. And that as soon as e'er I pleased I'd be his wedded bride. Oh .sleep, now sleep, my dearie. Safe in thy lanely lair ! Thy mither is too eerie This nicht to sing thee mair. MacGolVs Poems. 163 Alas for the forsaken To the cold world's disdain ! When comes God's hour of reckoning Alas the faithless then ! SWEET ANNIE OF GLENARA. Let Tannahill in tender strain Sing her of Arrantennie, Let Ettrick's bard in witching vein Extol the " bright Kilmeny ; " The lassie who has won my heart Is quite as bright a fairy : You'd own it true, if you but knew Sweet Annie of Glenara. Her brow is of the lily's hue, Her lips a honey fountain ; Her cheek is as when dawn doth shew Her blushes o'er yon mountain ; As any roe that haunts our glen Her step is light and airy : In grace and mein a very queen Is Annie of Glenara. Away with fashion's fickle set ! Give me the darling creature All charming without knowing it, All woman in her nature. 164 MacColVs Poems. Vain were to me the richest boon That fortune else can spare me, Could I not with it call my own Sweet Annie of Glenara. THE SHEPHERD BOY. Ki-R.—The IniJian Student. The Shepherd boy was far away, — His heart was dowie as the song- That often in the gloaming grey To pity moved his comrades young: — They hinted of the coming May With all its wealth of bud and bloom- Yet aye the burden of his lay Was, this is no my native home ! ' There's trout to wile frae yonder burn, Our fields are white wi' lambkins gay The blackbird on yon flowring thorn To love and song gie's a' the day. Nae glen in a' the land can be Mair fit than ours to chase thy gloom Yet aye the burden of his lay Was, this is no my native home ! ' The cushat nestles in yon woo(J, The cuckoo too will soon be tliere; Our muirlands teem wi' music good Frae crouds of laverocks in the air ; MacCoWs Poems. O'er hazel dell and beriie brae We'll a', betimes, delighted roam : " Yet still the burden of his lay Was, this is no my native home ! BELLA. Ye've seen, from brightest blue, The star o' Gloamin' gleam — The rosebud wet wi'' dew, The rowan by the stream ; — But naething hae ye seen. And ne'er may see, I trow, Sae bright as Bella's een, Sae red as Bella's mou'. Ye've seen the snow-wreath high. On Cruachan's airy steep — The lake when zephyrs die, And sunbeams on it sleep ; Yet naething hae ye seen. And ne'er may see, I trow, Sae fair as Bella's skin, Sae calm as Bella's brow. 1G6 MacGolVs Poems. MAGGIE STUART. Air — hut ye're long a coming. BUT she's sweet an' bonnie, Sweet an' bonnie, blithe as ony, — O, but she's sweet an' bonnie, Lovely Maggie Stuart. Ye who would see a' that's rarest, A' to hearts like mine the dearest, A' that's purest, fondest, fairest, Look on Maggie Stuart ! O but, &c. Sweet her smile as May-morn beaming Bright her eye as starlet gleaming ; With a thousand graces teeming Is young Maggie Stuart, O, but, &c- Thinking of her late an' early, I ken ane wha sleeps but spairly ; — Wiser men than he are fairly Daft for Maggie Stuart ! 0, but, &c. Of all joys beneath yon heaven Ever here to mortals given, Mine be Deeside's banks to live on, le Stuart, O, but, &c. MacColVs Poems. 167 'TWAS A HIGHLAND WOOER. (Written to the Gaelic air of "A Mhoracj, an (hnii th>i iig]iiii}i-'') 'Twas a Highland wooer Thus addressed a Lowland lassie, As he fondly drew her 'Neath his plaid, one gloaming gray : — " Annie, gin ye love me, Do not nsiy me More, I pray thee : Now or never I must ha'e thee, Off to bonnie Inverae." Answered she, " Na, I canna; Weel tho' I'd like to gae ; Faither and mither winna Let me gang to Inverae." "Sweet along the glen, there. Sounds the herd-boy's morning carol ; Sweeter still at e'en, there, Lilts the lass her milking lay ; Nor less like to charm thee Songs of thrushes 'Mong the bushes Bending o'er each burn that rushes. Floweret-fringed, through Inverae." 1G8 MacColVs Poems. Still it was, " Na, I canna ; — Weel tho' I'd like to gae ; Faither and mither winna Let me gang to Inverae." " Ne'er was such a welcome As my bonnie bride shall get there ; Hundreds proudly shall come To our bridal banquet gay : Bards shall sound thy praises — Gladly granting, 'Mid their vaunting, Ne'er was bride so all-enchanting : Haste we, then, to Inverae." Still, though 'twas, " Na, I canna; — Weel though I'd like to gae," Long ere they parted, Annie Said she'd gan^: to Inverae ! I LOVE THEE NOT, APRIL. 1 LOVE thee not, April, — no matter how fair The blooms that rejoice in thy balm-breathing air : They mind me of one who no longer can be Thy gifts to Glenara glad-hailing with me. A maiden whose cheek wore the dawning's warm blush, Whose voice was more sweet than the song of the thrush, MacColUs Poems. 169 Alas that the flowers she so late loved to see Should so soon grace the grave that now parts her from me. From her, death divided ,small wonder I find Spring-blooms only bringing sad thoughts to my mind ; They wither to blossom again. — not so she Whose smile no new sj)ringtime can bring back to me ! Then away with thee, April ! Scarce earnest thou when Our delight changed to wailing in Aray's sweet glen; There's a stain far too deep in thy record to be E'er forgot or forgiven by lover like me. |3acm0, (Sangii, ant) ^ouuct^. |30em0, (Song^, mxb §>onntiB. POEMS, SONGS, AND SONNETS, CHIEFLY WRITTEN IN CANADA. THE CHAUDIERE. A SCENE ON THE RIVER OTTAWA. Where the Ottawa pours its magnificent tide Through forests primaeval, dark-waving and wide, There's a scene which for grandeur has scarcely a peer — • 'Tis the wild roaring rush of the mighty Chaudiere. On, onward it dashes — an ocean of spray ; How madly it lashes each rock in its way ! Like the onset of hosts, when spear breaks against spear. Is th' omnipotent sweep of the mighty Chaudiere. See ! see where it now from yon ledge wildly leaps, — Less swift down some Alp the dread avalanche sweeps ; That vortex below may well agonize where Right into its throat goes the mighty Chaudiere. Evermore, evermore, where sheer downward it springs. Its mist-mantle it weaves — its loud anthem it sings ; 173 174 MacColVs Poems. Yonder isle* in its path seems to quiver with fear — It may well dread the shock of the mighty Chaudidre. The proud conqueror s might is the boast of a day, — Thine, river majestic ! endureth for aye : Strange thought, that just thus upon Time's infant ear Came the God-speaking voice of the mighty Chaudidre ! Though for li]xs uninspired it seems almost a crime To be aught else than mute by a scene so sublime, Could I voice all I feel as I gaze on it here, How immortal in song were the mighty Chaudidre ! Sept. 13, 1859. THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW. In vain in saddest plight Lucknow's defenders fight ; Its walls to heathen might Yield at lasl ; Yet though they well might grow Appalled at that dread show, Defiance to the foe Still they cast. 'Twas then, amid the wail Of women, children frail, A daughter of the Gael, Fever-spent, * The little islet above referred to was, at the time these verses were peu- ned (1863), a conspicuous feature in the channel immediately below the Chaudiere. There is no trace of it now remaining. MacColVs Poems. 175 Found from all care and grief A merciful relief In a sweet slumber brief, Heaven-sent. Of home and kin she dreams, — Her face with gladness beams, As loved ones there she seems To embrace ; Now seems some Sabbath psalm To yield its soothing balm, So heavenly is the calm On her face. But hush ! she starts, — her eyes Uplifting to the skies, " We're saved ! we're saved ! " she cries- " Dinna ye hear The pipes ? the pipes ! Ha ! ha ! Clan- Alpine's battle ca'. The grandest o' them a', Swelling near ! " Some, 'mid that scene of death, Take heart from what she saith ; Some of more feeble faith Deemed her crazed ; Till shouted she anew, " Dinna ye hear them noo ? " They heard and shouted too, " God be praised ! " 176 MacCoWs Poems. When, lo ! through smoke and fire Advancing, nigh and nighei-, Their saviours in the attire Of the Gael ! Quick banished are all fears ; The doomed dry up their tears, And with a storm of cheers Havelock hail ! CREAG-A-GHARIE. Let others sing of towering Bens With cloud-capp'd summits stern and scaury, Give me to glory in such scenes As grace my native Creag-a-gharie. You may roam Scotland, east and west, From the Bass Rock to Staffii sparry, Yet sadly miss where she looks best Unless you visit Creag-a-gharie, Away with Erin's boasting of Her own Avoca's Vale and Tara ! There's naught in them to praise or love Compared with thee, sweet Creag-a-ghai-ie. Here towers Dunleacan o'er the lake, There loom fair Cowall's summits airy; Nor less Ben Vuidhe helps to make A setting gi-and to Ci-eag-a-gharie. MdcCuWs Poems. 177 When winds are hushed, and night's fair Queen Casts o'er Lochfyne a gleaming glory You'd think that Elfland there and then Lent all its charms to Creag-a-gh^rie. There spring's first lilies love to blow ; The gowan white and primrose starry You can't help treading on — they grow So thick all over Creag-a-gharie. There oft I've kissed (no mighty wrong) Some Hebe, spite her coy, " How dare you ! " The theft requiting with a song- Breathed in her praise in Creag-a-gharie. There first I sought thy witching smile, And won thy heart, my long-lost Mary : Alas ! that death so soon should spoil That love-dream sweet of Creag-a-gharie. How have I joyed in boyhood's days To list its woodland warblers cheerie, Nor less the lark whose thrilling lays Seem'd more for Heaven than Creag-a-gharie ! When nuts were ripe, and autumn skies Made plump the sloes on branches briery, To me there scarcely seemed a choice 'Tween paradise and Creag-a-ghaiie. 178 MacCUVs Poem These were the days a planet new Would joy its finder less than, there, I To find some blackbird's nest, known to Myself alone, in Creag-a-gharie. Nor less th^ rapture in mine eye, When some shy lythe or sea trout wary I from its native haunts, close bj^ Triumphant lodged on Creag-a-gharie. Small wonder, Alltan-eadan's stream. The music of thy cascade fairy Is ever present in each dream I have of home and Creag-a-gharie ; It was within thy bosky bound I first adventured, somewhat chary, To weave those lays long after found Remembered well in Creag-a-gharie. Twice twenty summers, woe is me ! Have pass'd since then : A weary far way Is placed between us ; — let it be, — My heart is still in Creag-a-Gharie. And thus it is, from year to year. No matter how adverse my star be, I have an offset ever dear In memories sweet of Creag-a-gharie. March 1st, 1876. MacGolVs Poems. 179 TO TROFESSOR G E, ON HIS LAST HISTOR- ICAL DISCOVERY. (The gentleman here addressed having, in a speech made at a certain public meeting, ventured to assert that "Scotsmen must admit their country to have been once conquered," the author, who was present, felt himself impelled to deny the truth of his assump- tion. Hence the following lines, written ofF-hand, and received by the professor next morning at his breakfast table.) Scotland, a conquered land ! Learned sage Pray tell us how, and in what age : Not so / read historic page. Thou canst not deem a mere invasion — A brief disputed occupation — To be the conquest of a nation ? Think'st thou the homage of a knave Binding on those he would enslave ? Let Baliol answer from his grave ! Scotland a conquered land I Ho, ho Proud Edward found it was not so When dying — vainly still her foe. No pandering, then, to Saxon pride, — Pretensions by our sires defied, Shall we not also cast aside ? Forget'st thou Carron's crimsoned strand ? Is Bannockburn, a myth or dream ? And Wallace a mere minstrel theme ? 180 MacColVs Poems. Thou speak'st of Cromwell ? Be it so : Cromwell was never Scotland's foe- How then her conqueror, let us know ? * Her friend and Freedom's, north he came ; Her noblest sons approved his aim, And Reason triumphed in his name. What such men ne'er could yield in fight, In proud disdain of England's might. They granted freely to the Right 1 Hold up thy head, then, Scotia ! When Thy sons forget that they are men. Thou may'st be conquered — not till then 1857. ROBERT BURNS. Written for the Centennial Celebration of 1859. Air— "Jr/iiselling northward, obtains his first view of Loch- Awe— its bosom adorned with a number of islands of great beauty. Chief among those more immediately in view are Innisjail, famed for its sepulchral crosses ; Innis-Druidhnkh, with its Druidical cir- cle, and Fraoch-Ellean, no less distinguished by its stern, old, dilapidated " keep," telling its own tale of times of feud and foray. 198 MacColVs Poems. II. THE BRANDER PASS. See where the Awe sweeps with resistless force Through yonder Pass where once, in days of old, Lorn's haughty chief would thwart his monarch's course, And traitor dirks struck well for English gold ! It is enough to make one's blood run cold To think what Scotland would have lost that day, If, when through yonder gorge war's tide was roll'd, And chief met chief in battle's stern array, The Bruce's sword cleared not a ready way Resistless through the thickest of the foe, Leaving Macdougall baffled of his prey ! — How few the pilgrims wandering by the flow Of Braar impetuous, think, as there they stray, How classic is the ground o'er which they go ! III. INNIS-DRUIDHXICH. Fair Innis-drui'nich ! though, in this our age, Few, save the fisher, haunt thy sylvan shore. Well worthy art thou of a pilgrimage To him who would, in thought, the Past explore. By nature sole instructed, here of yore The Druid taught his votaries to see In day's bright orb the great creative power To which he oft, adorino- bent the knee MacColVs Poems. 199 Beneath the branches of some old oak tree Towering above yon circle of grey stones : Grateful to God that better light have we, Let us tread reverent o'er the Druid's bones, And own, whate'er his faults, he reasoned well In choosing in this paradise to dwell. IV. KILCHUEN CASTLE. Lo ! yonder veteran Pile by Urchay's flow — Kilchurn ! proud home of many a w^arlike chief, Seem'st thou there brooding o'er the long ago, Like some worn warrior musing, in his grief. On years that shall return not : Time, the tliief, Has robbed thee of thy ancient pomp and j)ride — Leaving thee there, all hopeless of relief, Nodding to thy own spectre in the tide. Thy sole friend seems the ivy, spreading wade Its dark -green mantle round thy aged form ; The owl loves well within thee to abide, A lonely tenant, safe from all alarm ; While through thy halls, where beauty once enjoyed The minstrel's song, oft howls the midnight storm. FRAOCH-EILEAN. Fraoch's lonely isle ! if of a hermit life I were enamoured, 'tis on thee I'd dwell, Where all around, afar or near, seems rife With grace and grandeur more than tongue can tell. 200 MacCoU's Poerrn Yon time-worn Keep would yield a ready cell ; My drink would be the lake's pure crystal tide ; My rod and gun with fish and fowl would well An ample feast at any time provide. If ever nature's face to bard supplied True inspiration, 'twould, methinks, be here, — Loch- Awe in beauty slumbering him beside, — The sound of distant torrents in his ear, And every feature of the landscape wide Speaking of God in language loudly-clear. VI. GLENORCHY. Talk not to me of Tempe's flowery vale. With fair Glenorchy stretched before my view If of its charms he sung, I would right well Believe the Grecian poet's picture true. What were his boasted groves in scent or hue To lady-birches and the stately j^ine, The crimsoned heather and the hare-bell blue ? Be his the laurel — the red heath be mine ! No faun nor dryad here I care to see, More pleased by far to mai-k the bounding roe Sport with his mate behind the forest tree ; Nor less the joy when in the glen below Some milking Hebe sings her luinneag free, All hearts enchanting by its graceful flow. MacCoU's Poems. 201 VII. A SUMMER MORNING AT DALMALLY. 'Tis morn : the lark is up in heaven's blue, Flooding the air with melody divine : A misty mantle made of morning-dew Half hides the valley in its silky shine. The bleat of lambs, the low of milky kine, Come to my gladden'd ears from strath and hill ; The amorous blackcock in yon clump of pine His feather'd harem rules with happy skill. Here flows the winding Urchay, sweetly-still As some fair fancy through a poet's brain ; There lifts it up its voice with stronger will In fitful chantings, — to you shepherd swain A sign of rain, perhaps ere day is o'er — To me, a music glorious evermore ! KEEP YOUR POWDER DRY, BOYS. (Verses suggested by the threatened invasion of EncJani by the French in 1859.) Hark ! how the Gallic cock loud-crows A war-note vain-reliant — A note whose mood Britannia knows, And treats with scorn defiant ! The hour is coming soon, I ween, That will 3'our mettle try, boys ; Then for your country and 3'our Queen Just keep your powder dry, boys I jt 20^ MacCoWs Poems. Long did the knave, with guileful art, Of our alliance boast, l)oy8 ; Peace was the idol of his heart, And peace with Britain most, boys ! 'Tis thus the serpent seeks to chariu The bird he dooms to die, boys ; Let fools maintain he means no harm. Yet keep your powder dry, boys! The Dutchman's game within a trench. The Turk behind a wall, boys ; But Pat loves, when he meets the French, A fair field— that is all, boys ; No Scotsman then has e'ei* a thought But just to do or die, boys ! John Bull has faith in steel and shot, So keep your powder dry, hojs I Just let the upstart false come on As soon as e'er he m.ay, boys ; He and his bragging host will soon For coming dearly pay, boj's. Losh, man ! I think I see the clans Slash at them as they fly, boys ; We all must help to break their bones, So keep your powder dry, boys ! Quite long enough we've listened to Their senseless, vain bravado ; We'll give them, if they come, I trow, The fate of Spain's Armada. MacGolVs Poems. 203 From the Land's End to Pentlaud's Heads, " Have at them ! " be the cry, boys ; Then trim your flints and whet your blades And keep your powder, dry, boys ! THE PRESS. WIIITTEN IN 1861. Of all the arts by man's inventive mind, Devised to bless and benefit mankind, Good Guttenberg's invention we may deem Possessed of the best claim to our esteem ; Wanting the offspring of his fruitful brain. The world might look for " Quarterlies " in vain. Earth's Pharoahs may build pyramids, yet be Forgotten soon for all their trouble, — he Built up his Press and lives immortally ! The Press, — what meaning in that common phrase ! What feats unthought of in old Caxton's days Are of its daily triumphs ! Could he know, How would his honest heart with rapture glow ! The friend of all progression justly own'd — Alas, that land where no Free Press is found ! What champion like it to defend the right ? Who strikes a hoary wrong with such a might ? The dread of tyrants, — ah, how much is lost To any land that no Free Press can boast ! >0i MacColVs Poems. With such a pow'r to back Emmanuel brave, Thy rescued rights, fair Italy, are safe ; With such a pow'r against him to contend, Thy tyrant, France, becometh Freedom's friend ; With such a friend against thy foes to cope, For thee, poor Anderson, there yet is hope ; The Law's decree may to the >South seem good, And yet a Matthews miss the price of blood ; Missouri's blood-hounds, scent they ne'er so well, It waveth off with execrating yell ; — The monsters ! human only but in name, Their sight polhited hell itself would shame ! Joy to the Broadsheet ! In its might we prove The real lever fit the world to move. Where'er with eai'nest aim its power it wields, Oppression trembles, spite of all her shields. And Truth a victor stands in Error's chosen fields. Grey Superstition hides her ghastly face, Skulking indignant from her pride of place, While Cant and Bigotry, oppressed with light. To glooms congenial take with her their flight ! Commerce and Industrj" go hand in hand To bless and beautify a smiling land ; Science steps forward, queenly in her mien — The Arts that life embellish in her train — The very lightning yoked unto her car — She sweeps majestic on to realms afar ! Lo, with fresh triumphs ever in her view. Dauntless she cleaves the Empyrean blue, MacCoWs Poems. 205 Or, diving down through ocean's depths profound, Weave th a thread by which two worlds are bound, That wondrous cord along whose slender bars Speech travels foster than the flight of stars ! 'Tis thus, wherever thought has fitting scope, Man n^aches all we here of him can liope ; Yea, wheresoever a Free Press we find, No truth need fear, no sophistry can blind ; Genius is free to spread her wrings of flame. And on all human hearts engrave her name ; Dagons adored are from their temples driven No more to fool mankind or outrage Heaven ; Progress is stamped on everything we see, While over all, shines bright the sun of Liberty ! DOMHNULLPIOBAIRE AND THE BAGPIPES. (Written for a social " gathering " of the Kingston Caledonian Society.) Air :— " Woed an' nian-ied an' a'." Our gathering night — more's the pity — But once in a year cometh round ; Good-bye the dull cares of the city, — This evening we're heather-ward bound ! The bag-pipes to charm and to cheer us — The darlings we love in full sight — The tartan around us and near us — Who would not be proud of our Night ! 206 MacColVs Poems. List'ning Mac's gathering call, Surely his sense must be small Who would not declare such rave piping Enough any heart to entrall 1 Away with your brass-bands a-braying ! John Bull thinks them grand — but you'll own When Tubal invented such playing 'T was surely worse discords to drown. Some think that such music he planned, sirs. The wolves of his time to affright, Then fashioned the bagpipe so grand, sirs, For times like our gathering night. Heard or in hut or in hall. Who, save one as deaf as a wall, But owns, of all music 'neath heaven There's nothing to match it at all ' Let Donald but screw up his chanter, And give us the TuUaichean rare, What mortal but feeleth instanter As if he could dance in the air ! He strikes up a charge, and Proud Preston, Or famed Killicrankie's fierce fight We fight o'er again, as we listen. Loud-lauding both Mac and our Night. Piobrochds, marches, and all Enough to charm even a Saul — These are of the witcheries endless That minstrel has aye at his call, MacCoWs Poems. 207 • , There's life in the voice of the Cldrsach, But would you join rapture to praise, Just hear some sweet spring from the Olnnseach. Just dance to its Reels and Strathepeys ! Its Coronach sets us a-weeping, Its Flings makes us wild with delight : It has tones for all moods in its keeping — Rare treat for a gathering night ! Out on the thick-headed thrall Who his dislike o't would drawl ! The right way to deal with such creatures Were nailing their ears to the wall. A bicker of good Athol brose is Not bad when a battle is near ; But the right thing, when coming to blows, is The pipe's stirring notes in your ear : From Bannockburn down to this hour, sirs, Its place is the front of the fight ; Then hey for the gallant Pioh-mhor, sirs, The glory and pride of our night ! Drums and bugles and all Such things ma}^ well suit a roll-call, But the Clans, when their foes they would scatter. The pipes take to open the ball. Long, long may fair Scotia tiourish. Rejoicing in Rant and in Lilt : That day will her liberties perish She lacketh the Clans and the Kilt. 208 MacGoUs Poems. To keep her proud triumphs still swelling, Her plan is to stick to them tight, And honour the patriot feeling Begot of a gathering night. Joy then, joy be to all Ready to hasten their fall Who would in the Gael's loved homesteads The deer and the strano-er instal. " STANDS SCOTLAND WHERE IT DID. Land of the Bruce ! I marvel how, With scarce a murmur, comest thou To let it seem As if thy name Were off the list of nations now. Shall a race who ne'er, as foes, Could their rule on thee impose, Not in vain Ceaseless strain Now thy history's page to close ? Up ' or evermore disown Thy once well-won fair renown ! If, of two. One must do. Let the Saxon name s^o down, MacGoWs Poems. 209 Strange how word so brief as " Scot ' Sticketh in the Anglo throat — That Maelstrom, Like a doom, Gulping down all else we've got ! Is there any noble deed Told of men born north the Tweed ? Ten to one, " Times " or " Sun." 'Tis of Englishmen we read ! If a battle has been won By a Campbell, Gough or Gunn, Take the blows, Macs and O's, England takes the praise alone. What delusion to conceive You sometimes your Queen receive! Yours indeed, — Can't you read She's only " England's " — upon leave. Scribblers of the Cockney school, Verily you've crazed John Bull ; Saxon blood. Clear as mud ! Who but he the world should rule ! 210 MacCoWs Poems. Scotsmen, 'tis high time that we Ceased to feed such vanity, — Time to show Our old foe He is only one of three. Nobler 'twere our rights to yield, Vanquished in the battle-field; Then thus be Quietly Worse than from earth's map expelled. Teach we then, those braggarts tall Their's alone their own to call, And save in drink. To never think That England yet is all-in-all, TO MARY, SLEEPING IN AN ARBOUR. Thou feigning fair one, ope thine eyes ! She hears me not : My darling dear Seems dreaming more of Paradise Than of her lover's presence near ' Such sacred calm surrounds her bower, So rich the balm its blooms dispense, I marvel not my fairer flower Thus sleeps the sleep of innocence. MacGolVs Poems. 211 Well may the zephyrs fanning her Be glad to' pilfer from her breath ; I trow they find more fragrance there Than in all flowers that grace the heath. She dreams, methinks. Ah ! can it be The vision of some chaste embrace That causes that warm blush I see Quick-crimsoning her neck and face ? My beautiful, my darling one ! How fondly round that neck I'd throw My arms, save that no mortal man Seems pure enough to touch its snow ! Those lips, of Phydian curve divine, That bosom, too, fair-heaving nigh, Once — only once — to press to mine, Methinks that I could gladly die. Her guardian angel, hovering near, Could hardly blame me much, I trow, If, tempted by a chance so rare, I kissed at least her lily brow. Hush, hush, my heart, thy wild ado ! Here, freedom such as that would be A sin 'gainst her and heaven too. So pure, so holy seemeth she ■ 212 MacGoll's Poemt A DAY WITH THE MUSE. (The following efl'asion was written by way of apology to a friend who expected the author to devote his " next holiday" to the pro- duction of a poem wanted for a certain national celebration, then at hand — a task which he unluckily failed to accomplish.) " There's no place like home " : Quite true, I presume, If spoken regarding the Deaf and the Dumb. A bard, I opine, Should at least be both these. In a home such as mine To feel much at his ease ; Though each one of the Nine Did her utmost to please. Just fancy a house with a dozen or so Of young hearty hopefuls, all train'd a la Combe — A day to myself, and the muse all a-glow Some web, long bespoken, to work off her loom. The breakfast is taken, — As deskward I di-aw, The young ones I beckon Away with " Mamma ; " On silence I reckon — My word being law. All right — so I think, — Not the ghost of a sound ; The muse in a blink At my elbow is found, MacGolVs Poems. 213 When — horror to hear! Comes some ash-man's loud knock ; That man, it is clear, Thinks our door is a rock ! Anon, shouts the baker " Sread wanted to-day ? " "Th^ baby's awake here" Cries Fanny to May. While Betty — deuce take her ! Falls down with a tray. A cry of despair Is now heard up the stair — 'Tis Angle, who will not let Kate comb his hair, And strikes in the strug^oie his head '^ainst a chair. ■&&- Anon, comes the blessing Of silence once more ; My desk again facing, I muse as before. While Dan sits caressing The cat on the floor. Now Dan, if he may, Will have his own way, And puss is not overly partial to play : Her beard he would catch — She gives him a scratch Quick-causing a roar only thunder could match The baby its lungs (Two minature gongs — ) 214 MacGoWs Poems. Now worketh with energy fine ; The school is let out, And now with a shout Our quota are on us to dine. Each tongue goes quick as an alarm bell ; Mamma herself confesses — sooth to tell — The din of Babel imitated well ! \ mercy ! mercy ! how they ever go, In one unceasing flow! Not one there cares a jot Who listens or does not, — And yet they seem in keen contention hot, Till I could almost wish a mill-stone in each throat. In vain with sudden tramp Upon the floor I stamp ; In vain I hope for peace 'mid forks and knives. And hungry girls and boys Whose very heaven seems noise, — 1 own that man is mad who ever wives ! The dinner over and the youngsters gone Once more to school — a riddance blest ! anon, With zeal redoubled I proceed anew The thread of some fond fancy to pursue, When — hark you there ! I do declare That horrid kitchen-maid begins her scrubbing— A damsel with red hair who brooks no snubbino-. MacCoU's Poeme: 21i Flop — slop,— Bucket and mop Splashing about till I swear she must stop. What now ? Bless our lives ! She's scouring the knives ; You'd think — such the discord — a saw-mill she drives ! Now plies she the poker Till I feel like to choke her ; That woman would make a first-rate steamboat stoker ! Provoked to a passion, 1 swear by the saints To go for the fashion of living in tents, Or choose me a cave, in some solitude far, Where no such dread discords my musings may miv ; And donning my hat in a terrible ire, I bolt from the house as if all were on fire. Convinced that if ever I finish that stave It can only be after I find out the — cave. MY ROWAN TREE. Fair shelterer of my native Cot — That Cot so very dear to me; — ■ O how I envy thee thy lot, My long-lost Rowan Tree ! Thou standest on thy native soil, Proud-looking o'er a primrosed lea The skies of Scotland o'er thee smile, Thrice happy Rowan Ti-ee. '^^;'°^'"'-' that „,o„i„g fair Ak.ngdom„owwereless»yea,.e Than then my Ro„-an Tree. How proudly did I fence thee round; i J s.twh Wand honour cro;n'd Beneath my Eo„an Tree. Inviting grand-papa to see- i yet might weave some deathle,, i Beneath my Rowan Tree '^'^■"^ 'Twas thus I dream-d: That happy dav Id die to think my fate would! '^' So^oon to p,od life's iar from my Rowan Tree. Long years have passed since last I eyed Thy growing grace and symmetry ."^ As^i-angertomesitsbeside ^' «j]ong-lo6t Rowan Tree; Yet still in fancy I, ,„„,^^.^ , J,t. ''■>'-"''-'" and fragrancy, And bird., that sing from dawn'^^o dark Perched on my Ro,,an Tree ' MacCoU's Poems. :17 Like rubies red on Beauty's breast Thy clustering berries yet I see Half-hiding some Spring warbler's nest Built in ray Rowan Tree. Fair as the maple green may tower, I'd gladly give a century Beside it for one happy hour Beneath my Rowan Tree. The forest many trees can boast More fit perhaps for keel or knee, But none for grace, in heat or frost, Can match the Rowan Tree. How beautiful above them all Its snow-white summer drapery ! A cloud of crimson in the Fall Seems Scotland's Rowan Tree. Well knows the boy, at Beltane time, When near it in a vocal key. What whistles perfectly sublime Supplies the Rowan Tree. Well knows he too what ills that wretch Might look for, who would carelessly Home in his load of firewood fetch Aught of the Rowan Tree. N 2 IS MacColVs Poems. In vain might midnight hags colleague To witch poor Grumble's milk, if she Had only o'er her crib a twig- Cut from the Rowan Tree ! Alas ! that in my dreams alone I ever now can hope to see My boyhood's home and thee, my own, My matchless Rowan Tree. ERIN MACHREE.* WIJITTEN FOR, AND READ AT THE KINGSTON ST. PATRICK'S- DAY CELEBRATION OF 1868. When darkness barbaric plunged Europe in night, One spot still remained where truth's daystar shone bright ; 'Twas a land whose mere name is like music to me — That fair Ocean-Eden, old Erin machree ! Land of minstrels the sweetest on earth to be found — Land for eloquent speech and rare wit most renowned ! Pat may spoil for a fight, now and then, just a wee. Still the kindest of hearts beat in Erin machree. * Erin of my heart. The term "machree" is here used in deference to a popular though erroneous orthography: it is moie properly spelt "mo chri." MacColVs Poems. 211) Talk of Venus just sprung from the ocean-foam fair ! Old Erin has thousands of charmers as rare 'Mong the white-bosoni'd maids — all so modest, yet free, Who bloom thick as the flowers in old Erin machree ! If you wish for bright scenes, there's a choice of them there ; If for legends unmatch'd, she has plenty to spare ; — Would you like to make love to some smiling Banshee, You should just make your home in old Erin machree. Would you find the true Lethe of every ill, You should taste her poteen just fresh down from the hill ; Would you charm away grief or get dizzy with glee, All you want is the music of Erin machree. Bad luck to the bards in whose verse she appears A Niobe-nation, forever in tears : Though caught in a " caoine " she sometimes may be, There's still heart and hope in old Erin machree. guard her, kind Heaven, and make her once more The envied of nations — the Erin of yore 1 That day, so long promised, methinks I can see Alriiady fair-dawning o'er Erin machree. 220 MaCcoWs Poems. MY FIRST ST. ANDREW'S NIGHT IN CANADA. EEPOKTED IX RHYME TO A DISTANT FRIEND. Never yet in " liouff" or hall, sir, Was there such a Carnival, sir, As we " Kingston Scots' " had all, sir. At our last St. Andrew's. Verily we feasted rarely, Merrily we preed the barley ; Good Glenlivet had no parley From us on St. Andrew's. The Piob-mhor, so justly vaunted, Each and all of us enchanted : " Mac" seemed by Macrimmon haunted, Piping on St. Andrew's, Macintosh, with jibe and joke there. Saints to laughter would provoke there ; Whitehead ably played the "gowk" there, For us on St. Andrews. Shaw was great in whoop and yell, sir, Gunn in grinning did excel, sii- ; Kinghorn's horse-laughs bore the bell there, Keeping up St. Andrew's. Judge MacKenzie, as he cast there A proud glance at Scotland's past, sii-. All her foes, in fancy, thrashed there Bravelv, on St. Andrew's. MacCoWs Poems. 221 The MacEwen clan was there, sir, Emblem'd by spirit rare, sir, Charming- every heart and ear there, Singing on St. Andrew's. Jolin Kinnear, MacKay, and Keeley Cut and cabbaged pretty freely ; In them each enough for three lay, Keeping up St. Andrew's. To our host, small gain could grow out Of such forks as Scott and Mowatt ; — By the powers, but they did show it Fiercely on St. Andrew's. With the haggis faii'ly stuffed there, Losh, how Rammage groaned and puffed there The mere flavour o't set Duff there Dancing on St. Andrew's. Little wonder though old Dixon, Lured by Drummond's hot-scotch mixing, Took of it enough for six in, Blythly, on St. Andrew's. 'Twas no feast of scones and scuddan Made MacDonald to unbutton ; Dan on sheeps-head plays the glutton Aye at a St. Andrew's. MacColVs Poems. Far too narrow for his orbit Was the door to Sheriff Corbett With the good things he absorbed With us on» St. Andrew's. When the bree had thawed Carruthers, Who but he abov^e all others Claiming all mankind as brothers, Blythly on St. Andrew's ! Not one Saxon guest attended But spake Erse ere all was ended ; Pat, of course, is " Scotch-descended " Always on St. Andrew's ! The finale — fitting close there — Was a dance of Macs and O.'s, Sir ; Ending with three grand hurros there For our next St. Andrew's ! ELEGIAC STANZAS. WRITTEN ON THE UNTIMELY DEATH OF DR. H, S. LAYC'OCK OF WOODSTOCK, ONTARIO. My Laycock's star already set ! Laycock the gifted and the good ! In thought, I seem to see thee yet Where last we met, by Mersey's flood. MacColVs Poems. 223 Our steps were then on England's soil — Thou, from thy kindred far away, Donning thine armour for the toil And tug of life's stern battle-day. With gifts that well might make thee brave All obstacles to fair renown, Alas ! that th}^ untimely grave Should cheat thee of the laurel crown. Alas ! that on thy path to save Others, thine own dear life was lost ! How must thy friends across the wave Mourn, when the tale shall reach their coast ! MacLennan, Greatrex, Strype, MacBride,* And Bailey too — that gifted one "Whose ardent spirit, eagle-eyed, Has often soared where thou hast gone. If grief could aught avail, there's room Abundant to indulge it here ; Could but their prayers avert his doom, The suffering still were Laycock's care. How vain this stage of life ! Its hopes How evanescent 1 All seems gay. When, unannounced, the curtain drops. And man, the actor, turns to clay. * Members of the Liverpool Athenic Club, a literary society of which the deceased was at one time a distinguished supporter. 224 MacGoUs Poems. Peace to the dead ! However keen Our sorrow for the early lost, There's less for grief than glory in A soldier dying at his post. A TIME THAT YET SHALL BE. (Written on the advent of the year 1877.) Hail, new-born Year ! Although I may not greet thee With bacchanalian chanting loud and vain, Yet not the less right glad am I to meet thee, And give thee welcome, though in soberer strain. I bless thee for the promise thou art bringing Of angry nations sheathing up their swords, — Wisely resolved, for discords 'mong them springing, To make their battle-fields be Council Boards : Fair prelude to that time when, wholly ceasing From War's dread work, men shall see, satisfied, Nature's rude forces all employed in blessing, Power protecting where it once destroyed, Joy to the year that comes with such sweet voicing Of earth's march onward to that happy goal When her Immanuel King shall see, rejoicing. The fall fruit of the travail of his soul,-- MacColVs Poems. 225 That time milleuial when all earth shall own hiui Her Sovereign Lord supreme, the Prince of Peace, — The sons of those who once with thorns did crown Him The first to share the richness of His grace ! Not as the monarch vainly wished by Judah, But as the Victor over Death and Sin Shall Zion hail, 'mid many a hallelujah, The Lord of Life once more her gates within. Well may, the joy be great on Mount Moriah ; Well may, in Him, at last poor Israel see Not hers alone but the whole world's Messiah, And gladly own the Lord her God is He. Time that shall change all rancour and division To holy concord and assurance blest, — Time that shall give our Qarth, 'mid peace elysian. From sin and sorrow a long Sabbath rest ! — Time of the light and glory all-illuming ! Era of bliss unmatched since Eden's day ! No wonder that the hope of thy sure coming Finds joyful utterance in the Poet's lay. Well might the Seer of old, the future glassing, Be lost in rapture thy approach to see ; If then to him it was a joy surpassing, What to our surer vision should it be ? 226 MacColVs Poem,s. THE MODERN MOLOCH. There's a foe within our borders, One of most malignant might, — One who, fiend-like, loves the darkness, Though oft smiting in the light. Crowds of ever}^ rank and station. Year by year, become his prey ; What of that ? He pa3's state tribute, Wise men license him so slay ! Here, 'tis some once wise bread-winner Helpless struggles in his hold ; There, to graves untimely hastes he Men who senates once controlled ; Often from the very altar Draggeth he a victim down : Would you learn to scorn and hate him, Only think such fate your own ! If poor Bruin in some corn field Worked e'er so slight a skaith. How we make quick war upon him ! How we hunt him to the death ! Not a wolf within our forests But a price has on his head ; Meanwhile, 'mid our streets unchallenged. Strikes his prey this demon dread. MacColVs Poemi^. 227 Well ye know, ye guilty nations, Alcohol, the fiend I sing, Works ye more of ill than ever Famine, war, or pest can bring. These c:ai only kill the body, 27i?'s. corrupts and kills the soul; Wise indeed are they who never Touch or taste the " social bowl." Talk of Jaggernaut or Moloch ! Small would seem the whole amount Of their victims many-millioned, Matched with Alcohol's account. Well may Heaven indignant look on, Well may good men mourn to see Such a hell-delighting record — Such law-sanctioned misery. Think not ye whose better vision Helpeth you the pit to shun Which your brother, less observant. Falls into and is undone — Think not that a passing pity Is the sole account ye owe ; Only such as try to save hira Guiltless of his fall can go. Honour be to all whose chosen. Best-loved drink is " Adam's wine ; " Quickly may their good example Thin the crowd at Bacchus' shrine,— 228 MacCoWs Poems. Leading them to break the fetters Of a worse than Circean thrall, — Earning thus all good men's praises, And God's favour, best of all. FROM THE SUBLIME TO THE RIDICULOUS. (Lines suggested by a glance at the Visitor's Albnm, kept at the Museum, Niagara Falls.) Give up, 3-e would-be bards, your rhymes to tag here you In vain thus rack your brains to paint Niagara. A theme which even Milton's muse might beggar, you Had better let alone when at Niagara. About Lodore right well could Southey swagger, tho' Twould take ten thousand such to match Niagai'a. To all who can stand boasting fit to stagger me, I'd recommend a visit to Niagara. Hear you sleek slaver — not a bit in waggery--- Toasting the " Flag of Freedom " at Niagara! * " You Canucks," quoth he, " need the starry flag o'er you, To make you worth you salt benorth Niagara ! You cannot too soon have that British rag o'er you To disappear entirely from Niagara ! " He calculates some day to blast a crag or two, And drain Lake Erie all up from Niagara. * The above lines were penned previous to the ahohtion of .slavery in the United States of America. MacGoUs Poems. 229 He speculates, just as myself I drag away, How Etna's throat would like to gulp Niagara ! O cousins ! cousins ! what a set for brag are you ! When will you learn mere froth is not Niagara ? But I must cease, lest they should lynch or dagger me Already they have fleeced me at Niagara. WILLIAM LYON MACKENZIE AND HIS TRA- DUCERS. (Written on his Retirement from Public Life in 1858.) Asses, avaunt ! be caref nl how you kick ! The lion ye deem dead is only sick, — Sick to the heart to see how all in vain Is freedom won for slaves who hug their chain ; Sick at beholding knaves to honour mount, The test of talent a well-cooked account, Votes in the House, like apples, bought and sold, Chisseling and quirks as statesmanship extoU'd, A Punch-and-Judy Cabinet in power. A French man-monkey hero of the hour, "While over all, a Head — ill-omen'd name — Smiles blandly on, and shields them in their shame. 'Tis true, ye dastards, that, to earn your hire. Ye must abuse, — abuse then, till ye tire ; The head at which in vain your filth is cast. Will honoured be when ye have flung your last, Finding, as fitting for such scribbling knaves, Your last, best recompense in nameless graves. 230 MacColVs Poems. Alas for public virtue in a land That brooks the curse of such a helot band ! The loathsomest of Egypts plagues, I trow, Were far less fatal to our weal than you, — Creatures whose praise is censure — hate, no less The highest compliment to uprightness. for the time when, weary of their thrall, The people shall deal justice to you all. And with befitting tar-and-feathers deck Each well-whipt scoundrel up from heel to neck A retribution righteously due, — Hanging's too ffood for wretches such as von. A GIRL I KNOW. "Love's a fire that needs renewal Of fresh beauty for its fuel. — Campbell, Were the vain bard who thus could write, but once Blest with the smile of one dear girl I know. The joy exceeding born of her love-glance. He surely would not for a world forego. Tn vain would any mortal try to see, Unmoved, the wond'rous beauty of her face. Which, as her humour for the time may be, Is grave or gay, yet ever full of grace. MacCoWs Poems. 231 O but to bask forever in the light Of her sweet, sunny smile, now lost to me Save only when in visions of the night Mv soul with hers holds fond communion free GLORY TO THE BRAVE. WRITTEN OX THE DECLARATION OF WAR AGAINST RUSSIA IN 1854. Hark ye how the Czar threatens Europe's peace. Marshalling his millions for the fray ! Britons ! up and on at the despot base. Dashing in between turn, and his prey. Up ! 'tis honours cause ; Up ! and ere you pause Let the empire sought be his grave. Now 's the fated time — Crush his course of crime : Glory, glor}^ glory to the brave ! On the Euxine's wave — on the Baltic tide Soon shall our proud banners be unf url'd ; Britain and the Gaul, heart and hand allied, Well may dare to battle half a world. On then, stern as fate ! Striking ere too late Europe you from Cossack rule would save : Onward in your might — God defend the right ! Gloy, glory, glory to the brave ! 232 MacColVs Poems Waken, Poland, wake from thy dream of death ! Think of all thy wrongs yet unavenged ; Hungary, arise ! proving in thy wrath Thy old hate of tyranny unchanged : By thy sword of flame, Schamyl ! son of fame, Swear that now or never thou shalt have Thy Circassia free — Her best hope is thee: Glory, glory, glory to the brave ! Glory to the brave ! soon may they return Crown'd with wreaths of never-dying fame ; — Leaving Russia's lord, now so crousely stern, Cover'd with discomfiture and shame. Potent though he be, Europe shall him see Mercy on his knee from j^ou crave. Such be quick the fall Of earth's despots all : Glory, glory, glory to the brave ! SCOTTISH CHURCH MUSIC. A REMONSTRANCE ADDRESSED TO A CERTAIN CHURCH CHOIR-LEADER OF THE OLD SCHOOL. How canst thou, John, with conscience clear-, Join sacred song to tones so drear ? Have pity on us and forbear This owlet harmonie ! MacColl's Poems. 233 A choir of ghosts would less appal Than those dread sounds you singing call : One would need ears as deaf's a wall To stand such melodie. Chorus : — O weary sir ! weary sir ! 'T would tire a saint to hear thee, sir ; Job's patience, were he near thee, sir, Would quick exhausted be. There's something lively in the chant Of tom-cats on some spree gallant ; The bull-frog, though his notes be scant, Ne'er strikes a drawling key : But you, whate'er the Psalmist's tone Of thought may be, go m-o-a-n-i-n-g on Till some poor Grumble's dying groan Your model seems to be. Chorus : — weary sir ! weary sir ! If David could but hear thee, sir, He well might wish some thistle- burr Adown thy throat to see. Now, some old wife's asthmatic croon Seems the sole spirit of the tune ; Now, some long ha-a would reach the moon Breaks from thy choir and thee ; And now the climax grand you reach — A something 'tween a scream and screech, — Your sole'ambition seeming which The most can torture me. o 234 MacCoWs Poems. Chorus : — weary sir ! O weary sir ! dismal, dismal, dreary sir ! A whip-saw rasped or yelping cur I'd sooner stand than thee. The " kist o' whistles " may be bad, Yet, where's the mortal man, not mad. Who once heard you, would not, right glad, Give it a welcome free ? Oh ! any, anything at all To drown this Kirk-nursed caterwaul : How Scotland can it " sacred " call None but herself can see. Chorus : — weary sir ! weary sir ! Small wonder that, to hear thee, sir, 1 sometimes wish thyself and choir Down where the mermaids be. A NEW-YEAR'S MORNING REVERIE. (WRITTEN JANUARY IST, 18G9.) Year just born, while bells rejoicing- Ring thy advent, I would be In thy youthful ear fond-voicing What I most desire of thee. May'st thou, ere thy course be finished, See the Right triumphant stand. And the demon Faction banished Evermore from out our land. MacGoWs Poems. 235 Here's to every fair endeavour In Truth's holy battle-field — Every blow that helps to shiver Hoary Error's triple shield ! Here's to him who without swither Helps his brother man in need,- — Helping without asking whether This or that may be his creed. Here's a groan for him whose only Care is to increase his pelf; The mean money-grub unmanly ; May it all end with himself ! Here's confusion to all canting, All " man-millinery " creeds : Better far were Shaker ranting Than this sill}^ faith in weeds. Down with every form of folly ! Earth with hollow shews is cursed At her age 'tis melancholy To see shams so fondly nursed. Knaves are everywhere abounding, — With enough of " brass " at call. Mountebanks go empire-founding Where their betters seek the wall. 236 MacColUs Poems. Lo ! where Law looks on, scarce heeding How sleek traffic's wires are pulled ; Here, the few to fortune speeding, There the millions robbed and fooled ! Shame it is to think how nations, Christian-creeded nations too, Never lacking for occasions, Earth's fair face with blood bedew. Half the wealth they w^aste, so mad, on War's proud panoply alone, Year by year, v/ould feast and gladden All the poor beneath the sun. Time 'tis men were realizing They are brothers, one and all, And each other's welfare prizing, Ban all knaves that would them thrall. To improve the world we live in. Folded arms will never do ; He who hopeth all from Heaven Wrongs himself and Heaven too. Ho for praying less than toiling For the good time long delayed ! Never faileth Heaven to smile on All who thus its advent aid. MacOolVs Poems. 237 A MISSING MINSTREL. (His friends, in consultation with a Wizard, thus address the ghostly Presence.) Ken 3^ou aught of Erin's Bard ? * Igo and ago. Is he in this life still spared ? Iram, coram, dago. Is he gone in a balloon, Igo and ago, O'er the seas, or to the moon ? Iram, coram, dago. Is he above or under ground ? Igo and ago. In some foul enchantment found ? Iram, coram, dago, Taken to a Gipsy life ? Igo and ago : Ta'en a broomstick ride to Fife ? Iram, cofam, dago. Is he 'mong New Yorkers " guessing " ? Igo and ago, Or fair Bostonian maids caressing ? . Iram, coram, dago. "Not Tom Moore ; but the bard Alexander MacLachlan, lately residing in Erin village, Canada West, from whom the above bagatelle in the Scotch- Americcyi Journal, soon brought the author a reply to a long unan- swered letter. 238 MacColl's Poems. 'Neath Canadian snow-wreaths smothered ? Igo and ago, Or in Kentucky tarred and feathered ? Iram, coram, dago. Was he caught at Harper's Ferry ? Igo and ago. Crossed he Styx in Charron's Wherry ? Iram, coram, dago. Stands he now beyond Death's portal, Igo and ago, Fitly crown'd a bard immortal ? Iram, corum, dago. Was he mnrder'd for his gear ? Igo and ago, A poor paying job that were ! Iram, coram, dago. Was he drowned in Morton's bree ? Igo and ago — A more likely case, say we ! Iram, coram, dago. Wizard ! haste, resolve all doubt, Igo and ago ; Let us have the truth right out, Iram, coram, dago. Ghostly shade or man alive, Igo and ago. We fain would hear how Mac does thrive — Iram, coram, dago. January, 18(30. MacColVs Poems. 2.19 JOHN BULL ON HIS TRA.VELS. John Bull goes on a tour through France ; — Its people dance And laugh and sing, all happy — rich and poor : What brainless fools these French are, to be sure ! He never saw such goings on, He'll write the Tivies each in and out o't : That land is blest — that land alone Where Saxons rule, — that's all about it ! Now goes he grumbling up the Rhine, Self-superfine, — Finds Rhenish wines but sorry stuff, And the calm German " such a muff! " A boor not fit to come between The wind and his nobility ! The Teuton thinks the man insane, And leaves him to his humours free. "" Anon, he roams through Switzerland : Its mountains grand, If grand to him, is pretty much a question Dependent on the state of his digestion. He finds the Swiss sans any lord Or duke or marquis — men who must Be rulers born : The thing's absurd ! He quits the country in disgust. 240 MacCoWs Poems. The Isles of Greece now wandering through, Each fairest view Is fair or foul to him, just as the sinner Fincleth the chances of roast beef for dinner. He owns indeed the Greeks one day 'Mong nations held the foremost place ; Yet all that granted, what were they Matched with the Anglo-Saxon race ? At last arrived in Italy — What does he see ? Half-naked beggars swarming everywhere — A contrast vile, of course, to England fair ! Such sights our traveller sets a loathing, — He sighs for England once again, Where, though men starve, 'tis counted nothing, If only they but starve unseen. LINES ADDRESSED TO A FAIR FRIEND, ON HER EXPRESSING A WISH TO KNOW " WHAT I THOUGHT OF HER." Dear girl, since thou must have my mind Regarding thy sweet self defined. Think, if my task should fall behind Thy fair contenting, Perfection any bard must find No easy painting ! MacCoWs Poems. 241 You hint of maidens many a one Fair as thyself to look upon : If such there be, 'tis strange that none I ever see — Blinded perhaps by looking on My sun in thee ! Well may that mortal feel elate Who, as his bride, thy love shall get, When thy mere friendship is so sweet To hearts like mine, That my^whole being, when we meet, Seems lost in thine. Were mine the bliss to meet thee when My years were only three times ten, How more than that of any queen Thy love I'd prize ! How would I count thy hand to win The joy of joys ! Sweet one ! too soon will come the hour That takes thee to a distant shore ; Yet in my bosom's inmost core Thou'lt live enshrined, My beau ideal evermore Of womankind. 242 MacColVs Poems. THE WALLACE MONUMENT versus "OLD HUMPHREY." (The following verses were written by way of a rejoinder to a letter which appeared, anonymously in a Kingston paper during the time that subscriptions were being taken up in Canada towards the erection of the monument to William Wallace now adorning the Abbey Craig near Stirlng. ) What a Solon hath the Neics Got in Master Humphrey ! Of good counsel so profuse Is old Master Humphrey ! Liberal of naught beside — Wherefore should old Humphrey chide Men of sympathies more wide ? Fie, fie on thee, old Humphrey ! Little reck we how John Bull Likes our purpose, Humphrey ; John's wishes never were our rule, Nor shall be. Master Humphrey. Poor Pat, accustomed to his yoke, May well indulge a jealous joke. But thou, a Scotchman, thus to croak Seems downright baseness, Huniphre3'. MacColVs Poems. 243 A Scot, indeed ! Alas the day That Scotland, Master Humphrey, Can boast no sons of nobler clay Than thou art, Master Humphrey. He's no true Scot who does not own He's rich in Wallace's renown. Though parting with his last half-crown To prove it, Master Humphrey. A Cairn to Wallace — what a crime To think of, Master Humphrey ! A thing, forsooth, so out of time ! A slight to England, Humphrey ! As if a wholesome hate of wrong Can ever be indulged too long. Or Scotchmen care a cricket's song For Cockney humours, Humphrey. Out on thy Judas charity ! Five centuries, old Humphrey, We owe the debt that now shall be Paid, will ye, nill ye, Humphrey. Cease, then, thy craven counsels tame ! Enough for England is the shame Of his foul end — nor less to blame All Scots who think like Humphrey. In fancy, I already see Tow'ring triumphant, Humphrey, That pile which centuries hence shall be A pride to Scotland, Humphrey, — 244 MacCoU's Poems. A nation's homage to the brave Who died her liberties to save : Stern-frowning o'er Ambition's grave, We soon shall have it, Humphrey ! Yes — standing there, an altar, grand, To Freedom, Master Humphrey, — A sign that Scotland, heart and hand. Is still old Scotland, Humphrey, — A monitor perpetual to Earth's Edwards — to all patriots true An inspiration ever new To deeds of daring, Humphrey. LET US DO THE BEST WE CAN. Not in riches, rank, or power Is true greatness to be found ; Mere possessions of an hour; By the sordid often owned. Better far than noble blood Is the deed Samaritan ; If we can't do all we would. Let us do the best we can. Mark j-on worldling lost in self. Dead to every social glow ; Would'st thou, to own all his pelf. All life's purer joys forego ? MacGolVs Poems. 245 Truest wealth is doing good — Doctrine strange to him, poor man ! If we can't do all we would, Let us do the best we can. Did we all with one accord Labour for the common good, Nature at her ample board Would see no one lacking food. Let us then, in loving mood, Each help each through life's short span : If we can't do all we would, Let us do the best we can. VERSES ADDRESSED TO JOHN F. CAMPBELL, OF ISLAY, ox THE PUBLICATION OF HIS " POPULAR TALES OF THE WEST HIGHLANDS." THOU whose joy it is to stray The bowers of Fairyland among — Renewing o'er our hearts the sway Of Fairy tale and song. This Book of thine will long endear Thy name to all who love the land Where thou hast gleaned, with zeal so rare. Those legends quaintly grand. 246 MacGolVs Poems. As shells that on some lonely strand The sea easts careless, may confine Pearls which, when touched by skillful hand, With peerless lustre shine, So these stray waifs of ancient lore Turn, touched by thee, to treasures rare, — Rich gems of which for evermore The world will well take care. Well do I mind that long-past day I met thee first and sought thy smile, — I, a poor minstrel — thou, the gay Young heir of Islay's isle. No seer am I — yet in the boy Before me, right well could I trace The man who 3'et would provea joy, A pride to Diarmid's race, — One who, with every grace endowed Befitting rank and lineage high, Would win, withal, a place as proud In Mind's nobility. What though a stranger lords it now O'er that fair isle so dear to thee, S'ill lord o'er all its hearts art thou,— The land alone hath he. MacGoWs Poems. 247 Fortune hath wronged thee much — yet still A heritage more rich remains Than any subject to her will — Thy place in Thought's domains. Long in a field, now all thine own, Be thine to work with loving care ; Rare gems of wisdom, random strewn, Will yet reward thee there — Gems which, when thou in death dost rest, More green shall keep thy memory Than if arose above thy breast A Cairn as Cruachan hio-h. CANADA'S WELCOME TO THE PRINCE OF WALES. Blow gently, ye winds, o'er yon wide waste of ocean : Ye waves, for a season, your brawling calm down : A bark for the West o'er its breast is in motion, Its freight is the heir of Britannia's crown ! Sovereign already of Canada's warmest love, Soon shall he prove this no idle pretence : Welcome, then, o'er the tide, Albion's hope and pride ; Hail to the, Albert, hail ! God save the Prince ! 248 MacColVs Poems. New Brunswick, Cape Breton, and green Nova Scotia "Watch for thy presence, exaltant and proud ; And we, no less loyal, shall never refuse thee A " cead mile failte" as warm and as loud. Saxon, and Celt, and Gaul, Brothers seem once for all — Rivals alone in their zeal to evince Homage befitting thee — Well may that homage be Blent with the fervent prayer, God save the Prince ! From stormy Cape Sable to far-off Vancouver Triumphantly sweepeth the flood-tide of joy ; The whole land awaits, like a bride for her lover ; Each hour seems an age till thy sails we descry. Then shall the feast abound. Then shall our joys be crown'd. Then shall our pride be thy heart to convince Britain need never fear Traitor or treason here — Here, where as one, all pray, God save the Prince! Already, in fancy, I see thee approaching, 'Mid booming of cannons and chiming of bells : Whats that, so electric, the Highland heart touching ? The "set "of thy Tartan the secret reveals ! Long on thy princely breast May its rich foldings rest — Garb ever foremost in Freedom's defence ! Well may the Clans rejoice, Proud of thy kingly choice, Rending the welkin with, God save the Prince ! MacColVs Poems. 249 May the wisdom of Alfred be thine to inherit, The Bruce be thy model to do and to dare, — Thy grandeur be found still eclipsed by thy merit, Till earth's farthest ends learn to worship thy star. Humble, with all thy state — Thus be thou truly great, Thus may kind heaven its blessings dispense Ever on thee and thine : Kings rule by right divine Only where men can pray, God save our Prince ! 18G0. A VERY ILL-USED SQUAD, SIR * Let Clear Grit scribblers vent their jibes As freely as they may, sir, They'll find us Govermental scribes Well worthy of our pay sir. If mother Public plays the goose. And lays so very gleg, sir, All own we do the cackling crouse, And bravely suck the egg, sir ! Scarce work for one in every three — This really is too bad, sir ! We're kilt entirely, so we be — A very ill-used squad, sir ! * The author is willing to believe that the above picture of Civil Servicei life in Ottawa twenty years ago will be found scarcely applicable to the present day. 250 MacCoWs Foems. There's Smith, who nothing has to do Throughout the livelong day, sir. Gets Jones to help him to pass through The time as best they may, sir. At brandy " nips " those jealous chips Have quite a stifl', hard time o't : " Good fellows they ! increase their pay," Their patrons well may chime out! Scarce work, &c. Arrived at ten — love-notes we pen. Or read the papers through, sir; If more we waite, 'tis to indite Pel chance an I. 0. U., sir. What time comes lunch, at drinking jDunch We pass a pleasant hour, sir, Then yawn away as best we may The time till it is four, sir. Scaice work, ifcc. Sometimes, indeed, by way of change, Our nails we pick or pare, sir, Or through the lobbies cliatting range. Or lark from stair to stair, sir ; Or slyly pin to some one's skirt Some dusting-cloth or stamp, sir; Or watch for duns, who oft athwart Our pleasures cast a damper. Scarce work, &c. MacColVs Poems. 251 Good luck be to the bees that hive Our honey in such store, sir ! Long may they in their labours thrive, And help to bring us more, sir ! A health to all who do their best In such snug berths to moor us ; To thin us here would be, I fear, To overcrowd the poor-house. Scarce work, &c. MACAULAY versus SCOTLAND. [ " Such travesties of history cannot long survive the age in which they were written. No literary excellence ; no airs of philosophic impartiality ; no lofty pretensions to more than ordinary research, and much more than ordinary sagacity ; no silver-toned press or golden exchequer, can long save them from the fate that awaits the ill-omened productions of learning without principle, of eloquence leaning on fables and of talent in league with error." * * * We have heard, though we cannot vouch for the truth of the story, that Thomas Carlyle, when exhorting a friend to amuse him- self, after hard study, with light reading, and being asked what books he would recommend, replied, "Why Thackeray's last novel, or Macaulay's last volume, or any other of the best works of fiction." — From a revieio of Macaulay^s History of England, by Hugh Miller.] MaCaulay, Macaulay! They surely miscall thee To Scotland thy lineage who trace. Thou a Scotchman ! Good lack ! Scot alone in the " Mac " One would think far more likely thy case. MacColVs Poems. The " Arabian Nights," So renowned for its flights, We once deemed the sublime of romance But the gift to outshine Its inventions is thine, As thy " History " proves at a glance. A History, forsooth ! What an outrage on truth Thus to title a tissue of lies ! That we read it, 'tis true Though 'tis only to view Of thy figments the shape and the size. Foul defamer of men Whose stout limbs did disdain To bow down at proud Prelacy's nod — Ages after thy name Is forgot, their fair fame Shall be dear to their country and God. The apologist now Of a massacre ! thou Might defy Nicfc himself to fib harder When, with sophistry vile, Thy pet prince to assoil, Thou contrivest to justify murder. MacGolVs Poems. 25:3 O falsest of tongues ! foulest of wrongs ! prince that could sanction such deed ! " Out, out, damned spot ! " Though I fear thou will not, Spite of all this smart sophist can plead. Mac ! Mac ! do give o'er This wild work : Let's once more List the tones of thy classical lyre. Stick, sir, stick to thy " Lays ; " There alone we can praise — There alone th}^ inventions admire. GARIBALDI THE BRAVE. WRITTEN DURING THE WAR OF FREEDOM IN ITALY. Of all heroes known to fame There is no one I could name Who, Caprera's chief, can claim Rank before thee ! Not as matchless in thy might, But as Freedom's champion bright Dost thou fill the world's glad sight With thy glory. O who would not join that band Who, on fair Italia's strand, To a royal hunting grand Hasten on with gun and glaive ! 254 MacColVs Poems. who would not pant to be In the vanguard of the free, To the fight led on by thee, Garibaldi the brave ! See him in the battle's van His stern veterans leading on ! — What cares he though ten to one May the foe seem ? Swift as lightning cleaves the air Springs he at them — Bruce-like, there Dealing death to all who dare To oppose him. In the battle's wildest roar Making havoc evermore, Like Achilles famed of yore, A charmed life he seems to have : Where his falchion flashes bright, Never doubtful is the fight : God defend thee and the Right, Garibaldi the Brave ! Ever honoured may they be Who, from lands already free, Haste to do or die where he Moves victorious. Vain may Austria browbeat, Vain may Pius execrate : See where Tuscany 's crowned cheat Flies, inijlorious ! MacColUs Poems. See where Parma's prince abhorred Cowers beneath fair Freedom's sword ! Lo, where Naples' heartless lord On his knees doth mercy crave ! Such a blood-stained King- and crown In the dust to trample down Well may climax thy renown, Garibaldi the Brave ! Matched with thy career, I ween Caesar's triumphs were but mean ; In thy life no trace is seen Of Ambition. " Noblest Roman of them all " — To lead lands 'neath despot thrall Forth to freedom's festival Is thy mission. On, then, on ! and never spare Till triumphant, in the air Stout Immanuel's ensign dear O'er the Qoirinal shall wave. May that happy day soon be When all Italy, made free. Shall trium])hal wreaths decree Garibaldi the Brave ! 256 MacColVs Poems. CURLING versus SHINTY. (Verses suggested by a visit to the Strathadder Curling Rink.) Some get crazed through drinking, Some, through grief or fear ; They're horn fools, I'm thinking, Who come curling here. Chorus — Hey for famed Strathaddei', And its curlers free ! Long may they have weather 20 below Z ! At some shot by Drummond, Laughing, all admit Were the " Tee" Benlomond Tom might make a hit ! Now 'tis Craig that's likened To a frozen snail ; Now 'tis Todd that's reckoned Hardly worth his " Kail." At the broom Bob Struthers Beateth all the squad ; Practice at his mother's Bob must oft have had ! Though but sorry sport there' Kirk makes at the stone, On all fours — his forte there — ■ He makes food for fun. MacGoWs Poems. 257 To see Kerr practising Motion on his stern, Shows how, sometimes, wise men Laughing-stocks may turn. Dash away, MacMartin ! Wherefore should'st thou mind That half -yard of shirting Swinging out behind ! Just to hear their hollos. See them sweep and sprawl. One would think these fellows Fit for Bedlam all. Home themselves now dragging, None without some maim, Hark them still a-bragging Of "the roaring game." Game supreme ! The ninnies ! — • All the boys know well 'Tis but playing " stonies" On a larger scale. Ho for shinties flashing On some chosen lea ! Of all games surpassing That's the game for me, MacColVs Poems. CHRISTMAS TIME. Of all glad sounds we mortals here May listen to with grateful ear, The sweetest surely is the chime That ushers in the Christmas-time. It minds me of far Beth'lem's plain, — I seem to see that angel train Who chanted there the song sublime That told of Earth's first Christmas-time. " Glory to God in highest Heaven ! Peace and goodwill to man is given •" Yon choir from a celestial clime Seem chanting still at Christmas- time. To think of all that marked the morn On which the Prince of Peace waa born, A mood unthankful were a crime": Let's all bless God for Christmas-time ! O for the day when praise supreme Shall from all hearts flow forth to Him Who yet shall to her Eden prime : Restore our Earth some Christmas-time. MacColVs Poems. 259 REMEMBER THE POOR. A WINTER-TIME APPEAL Remember the Poor, — 'tis a duty most holy ; The terrors of winter are on them once more ; The cold winds abroad teach, with moan melancholy, Tliat now is the time to remember the Poor. Remember the Poor, — not with scorn or deriding ; Enough without this are the griefs they endure ; No good ever comes of too niggardly guiding; The best way to wealth is rememb'ring the Poor. Remember the Poor, — all experience teaches Who does so is always most blest in his store. There's none half so wretched as he who has riches Yet misses the joy of rememb'ring the Poor. Remember the Poor, nor delay till to-morrow The hallowed delight which to-day may procure ; 'Tis godlike to lessen life's great sum of sorrow : All good men rejoice in rememb'ring the Poor. Remember the Poor, — there's no rank or condition So high but misfortune upon it may low'r ; What theirs is to-day may be yet our position : He wrongs himself most who forgetteth the Poor, Remember the Poor , — the great Lord of Creation To him who gives freely will tenfold restore ; True charity is of no creed, race or station : God bless him and his who remembers the Poor ! 260 MacGolVs Poems. LINES. (Written iu response to a Yule-time greeting from a fair friend in a foreign land.) Of all good Yule-time glee, Mine ever most depends On the kind wishes wafted me From far-off, long-lovecl friends. Think, then, with what a joy I read thy greeting rare, — A joy caused less by xvhat my eye Than what my heart found there. Once more I seem to be Watching thy tell-tale sigh ; Once more I mark with ecstasy The love-light in thine eye, — Thy wealth of golden hair, And 0, thy witching face 1 — To me time makes no change whate'er In their exceeding grace. I own it not o'erwise To speak this way, — but then, I ne'er forget the gulf that lies Myself and thee between,— MacOolts Poems. 2G1 A gulf not yet o'erwide To make it sinful be To thus recall, with loving piich All thou wert once to me. ee TO THE SAME FRIEND. ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. A GREETING wafted o'er the sea I always value dearly, Though only when 'tis one from th The joy upsets me fairly. The long ago revives again — I cannot help but feel That, spite of fate, not all in vain I loved thee — love thee still ! Again I seem to hear that voice Which once could so enthrall me ; Again a thousand graces choice To love and rapture call me. Thus, basking in thy maiden charms, To crown my sum of blisses, Fond fancy paints thee in my arms. Half smothered by my kisses ! MacGolVs Poems. But I forget myself, I fear, Thus of past memories chiming ; So lest my muse should further err, I now must end my rhyming. THE WELLINGTON ST. PEACOCK. A MIDNIGHT-SOLILOQUY. If there's a torture one may deem Transcending Dante's wildest dream, It is to hear the horrid scream Of my near neighbour's Peacock. I often wish that " goblin damned " With poison to the throat was crammed. Or in some fox's jaws well jammed : The d— 1 take that Peacock ! Sure they who own this midnight grief Must be most hopelessly stone-deaf ; Else, to their neighbours' great relief, They'd quickly cook that Peacock. Talk not to me of skrieking ghoul, Or howling wolf or hooting owl ; Such noise were music to my soul, Matched with this horrid Peacock. MacGolVs Poems. 263 Hark ! there he comes ! In vain I try To shut my ears that villain nigh ; As for the shutting of an eye None thinks of near that Peacock. From roof to roof, close o'er one's nose, " Making night hideous " he goes ; Enough to break the dead's repose Were that unhallowed Peacock. Vain torturer ! he minds me well Of many a would-be-vocal swell Who thinks himself a nightingale When only but a Peacock. At dawning's hour, 'tis no rare case To see the " Chief " and Mac a space Out in their night-gowns in full chase, And swearing at that Peacock. For all the wealth of all the Jews I would not stand in that man's shoes O'er whose head hangs each curse they use, Stone-pelting that dread Peacock. for one hour where Maxwell* rare Doth law's dread thunderbolts prepare, And Jove-like hurls ! — then quick nowhere Would be that wretched Peacock. May 6th, 1873. ' The then City Magistrate of Kingston, 264 MacGoWs Poems. VERSES, WRITTEN FOR THE BURN's ANNIVERSARY OF 18G0. Again comes round that happy day More welcome than thy brightest, May ; A day that Scotia will for aye Hold sacred to her Robin. Let winds without blow e'er so chill, That Scottish heart is colder still That beats not with a joyful thrill, This day, to think of Robin. The sovereign lord of song confess'd, He lives enthroned in every breast, Where well I ween that dispossess'd Shall never be our Robin. O never was with laurels crown'd A bard more worthily renown'd ! All Scotland is made classic ground By thee, immortal Robin ! As freely as yon sun forth fiings Incessant light in dazzling rings, So, rare and bright imaginings Around him flung our Robin. The truest censor of his age — He in the bard ne'er sank the sage ; No mortal man could better gauge The human heart than Robin. MacGoWs Poems. 265 The manners of his native clime Are all made deathless in his rhyme ; Poor toiling worth throughout all time Will bless the name of Robin. What Scotsman reads his " Hallowe'en " But feel as if a boy again, And well may ask, Was ever seen A wizard like our Robin ? Though tender as the cushat's croon He sings of love by " bonnie Doon," To war he well his lyre could tune — A hero born was Robin. His " Scots wha hae " what patriot hears And pants not for the strife of spears ? He sings, and Bannockburn appears Fought o'er again with Robin ! To see the hypocrite laid bare, Just list to "Holy Willie's Pra\'er;" Let " Hornbook " and " The Calf " declare How witty was our Robin. How eloquent the grief express'd Beside yon " mousie's " ruined nest ! Oh, try him by whatever test, No bard can match with Robin. Let bigots, ready to deride, Themselves examine ere they chide, And learn, abashed, to cast aside The stone they'd fling at Robin. 2C6 MacColVs Poems. To judge of Robin by their test Of sanctity, were sure a jest I " He prayeth best who loveth best All things," and this did Robin. It may be Scotland did him wrong To leave him poor, the poor among : Yet, to her honour be it sung, She always loved her Robin. She gave him ins[)iration true Such as no other land could do ; Hurrah, then, for the matchless Two- Auld Scotland and her Robin ! January, 18G0. THE TANDYS. (The following poetical tribute to the Canadian vocalists, popu- larly known as " The Tandy Brothers," was written for, and read at, a concert at which they were the leading singers.) Earth's purest pleasure, and, I trow, that of the worlds beyond us, Is music in its sweetest flow — such music as the Tandys'. Chorus, — The ever, ever charming, clever, All-delighting Tandys ! As fit and right, let's all to-night Sing, honour to the Tandys ! MacColVs Poems. , 267 To some, a joy — I know not why — the Babel of a band is, But give to me the ecstacy of listening to the Tandys, I love right well the Pipe's grand swell, as each true- hearted man does, Yet must I own, though " Mac " may frown, 'tis nothing to the Tandys. What would our brightest concerts seem without the aid they lend us ? The play of Hamlet wanting hmi would be to miss the Tandys. All will agree that Kennedy at Scotch songs extra grand is, But for a feast of all things best, there's none to match the Tandys. Less welcome than the sparrow where the mellow black- bird land is, To me would be a galaxy of " stars " without the Tandys. With strains now like Appollo's lute, now sweet as when the swan dies, Our hearts, at will, they melt or thrill — such wizards are the Tandys * Now such the air, you'd think a-near Calypso's siren strand was. Now, clear as bells, each proud note tells you're listening to the Tandys. 268 MacColVs Poems. So mucb of heart, as well as art, is in each note they send us, One seems to hear the birds of Spring whenever sing the Tandys. Small wonder that on " Nieht's " like this they in Elysium land us ; No thought unblest finds any rest in presence of the Tandys. To cure the taste for things of paste and paint, with names outlandish, The surest plan for maid or man is once to hear the Tandys. To feel due scorn for Nigger Troupes, smut jokes, and strumming banjos, One needs but hear with half an ear such singers as the Tandys. From all such trash, ill worth our cash, may heaven in mercy fend us. And when we would feel blest and good, give us to hear the Tandys ! Final Chorus — The ever, ever charming, clevei-, All-delighting Tandys ! ^ Like ocean's roar be each encore This night we give the Tandys ! MacGolVs Poems. 2G9 CAPTAIN CREIGHTON. Let stout Chabot be Gallia's boast. Let Yankees their Paul Jones delight in ; A nobler name be mine to toast — Our own far-famous Captain Creighton ! Hip, hurrah for Captain Creighton ! True-blue aye is Captain Creighton I Here's to the tar who sails the Star, — A seaman rare is Captain Creigliton. In vain 'mong Nelson's captains keen You'd look for one to match this bright one ; They could blow up a foe, but then, For running down commmend me Creighton. Drouthy, dashing Captain Creighton ! Stout, straraashing Captain Creighton ! Here's to the tar who sails the Star, — ■ A seaman rare is Captain Creighton. The dread of wharves — 'twould try your nerves To see him at them rush at night on ; The stoutest beam must yield to steam, — Good sport it seems to Captain Creighton. Ever-blazing Captain Creighton ! All-amazing Captain Creighton 1 Here's to the tar who sails the Star, — A seaman rare is Captain Creighton. 270 MacColVs Poems. If Ailsa Craig stood in his way, Our Captain still would paddle right on 1 There's scarce a craft on lake or hay But has some mark of meeting Creighton. Spouting, yarning Captain Creighton ! Danger-scorning Captain Creighton 1 Here's to the tar who sails the Star, — A seaman rare is Captain Creighton. Now comes he silent as a ghost, Now like some fateful storm-cloud straight on Leviathan upon our coast Were a less dreadful sight than Creighton. Nothing-sparing Captain Creighton ! Devil-daring Captain Creighton ! Here's to the tar that sails the Star, — A seaman rare is Captain Creighton, With Stanley on Nyanza's lake, How would the Star its tenants frighten ! I think I see the hipos quake, As M'ell they might if meeting Creighton. Careless, fearless Captain Creighton ! Pushing, peerless Captain Creighton! Here's to the tar who sails tho Star, — A seaman rare is Captain Creighton. The cuttle-fish makes quick small bones Of all round whom its dread arms tighten ; But for short shrift to Davie Jones, Your surest way is crossing Creighton. MacCoU's Poems. 271 Moonlight larking Captain Creigliton ! Mermaid-sparking C iptain Creighton ! Here's to the tar who sails the Star, — A seaman rare is Captain Creighton. If e'er the cracken we would catch, Or the sea-serpent's backbone straighten, 'Twill be when they their strength would match 'Gainst the all-crushing StMr and Creighton. Nothing-daunting Ciptain Creighton ? Gay, gallanting Captain Creighton ! Here's to the tar who sails the Star, — A seaman rare is Captain Creighton. That North-West passage, still unfound. If ever we are doomed to light on, 'Tis plain to all smart men around Our next explorer should be Creighton. Smashing, crashing Captain Creighton. Ram-stam-dashing Captain Creighton! Here's to the tar who sails the Star. — A seaman rare is Captain Creighton. Let's hope that yet this soaring soul The frost-king's furthest haunts may sigh ten, Climb proudly up the great Nor::h Pole, And write thereon, Eureka ! Creighton ! Then hip, hurrah for Captain Creighton ! True blue aye is Captain Creighton ! Here's to the tar who sails the Star, — A seaman rare is Captain Creighton. 272 MacColVs Poems. ABRAM LINCOLN. (Written immediately after the passage of the Act abolishing Slavery in the Unittd States of America.) Let whoso will think Washington Columbia's greatest patriot son, I think him fairly matched by one, And that is Abram Lincoln. A Yankee witty, cute and smart, Yet tender, truthful, full of heart ; — No man e'er played the patriot's part More nobl}^ than does Lincoln. What though in Abram's form and face You'd little of Apollo trace, Good sense makes up for what of grace Is lacking in Abe Lincoln. No Webster-flow of diction grand Is honest Abi'am's to command; The simple, naked truth, oft-hand. Suffices good old Lincoln. The chivalry of whips and chains Would widen slavery's domains; " They'll soon sup sorrow for their pains," Quoth brave right-loving Lincoln. And so they did : Lo ! millions thralled At once to Freedom's banquet called ! The whipper's back is now the galled : " That's tit for tat," quoth Lincoln ! MacCoU's Poem/i. 273 Pray we that soon, his work to crown, The South may find her Dagon down A blessing in disguise, and own A God- sent chief in Lincoln. And when — his foes all changed to friends — His upright rule auspicious ends, The joy that work well done attends Be richly owned by Lincoln. A HIGHLAND HERO'S " CORONACH." (The following verses were occasioned by the death of Lieutenant Colonel Dnncan McVicar, one of the many brave Scotsmen, bred to military life, who accepted commissions in the United States army, at the commencement of the late civil war in that country. Returning from a reconnoitering ride into the country occupied by the Southern army, on the day immediately preceding the battle of Chancellorville, Colonel McVicar found his passage suddenly inter- rnpted by Gen. Fitzhugh Lee, at the head of a large body of the enemy, previously concealed in an adjoining wood. Determining however to break through the snare thus prepared for him, onward at a gallop, straight at the foe before him, he led his devoted troop — the 6th New York cavalry— and fell, mortally wounded by a rifle ball, while in the act of cutting his way through the enemy's ranks. Col. McVicar was a native of the Island of Islay.) My friend so late my boast, My noble-hearted one ! Alas, that he is lost To Freedom's battle-van ! 274 MacCoWs Poems. Far from his native shore — The bravest of the brave — 'Mid battle's storm and stour He found a soldier's grave, The land that gave him birth Taught him the hate of wrong : To knaves o'er all the earth That hate was fierce and strong. He round the Upas tree Of slavery abhorred Saw warring hosts, and he Instinctive grasped his sword. What boots it now to sing How he, without a pause, Gave — welcome offering — That sword to Freedom's cause. What boots it to declare How danger's post he wooed, Till, all too frequent there. His star was quench'd in blood ! I think I see him where — His path 'oy foemen crossed — He meets the shock of war, A handful to a host. MacColVs Poems. 275 One moment, and but one — The lion in his mood — He scanned the foe, then on Dashed like a lava flood ! Well might Fitzhugh admire That spirit unabashed, As through a storm of fire His gory falchion flashed. If on the strife of steel Alone the issue lay, The sands of Stuartsville Had never clasped his clay ! What though, in that foul fray Ordained his last to be, His spirit passed away TJncheer'd by victory, — Let no dull mortal think He perished all in vain ; Each patriot death's a link Snapt off" from Slavery's chain. Long to those heroes he Led, in his last dread ride, Mc Vicar's name shall be A watchword and a pride. Long shall Columbia strew Fresh laurels o'er his grave, — A homage justly due The bravest of the brave ! 276 MacColVs Poems. MY WHERRY, "BRUNETTE," CANADIAN fisherman's SONG. Though my wherry, Brunette, and yon cot by tlic shore Are all I can boast of estate. Where others with much are aye craving for more, 1 I thankfully take what I get ; And well do I ween that not many there be Who pass through this life with a heart so care-free — Getting all that I need from my good friend, the sea ; Then, hey for my wherry. Brunette ! With my boys for a crew, off each evening I go Where our train is soon cunningly set ; If only good luck be the fruit of the throw, What care we for wind or for wet ! A fish from our nets and a good oaten cake, All cooked there and then, a prime supper we make — Fond-hoping, meanwhile, for a bountiful take ; Then, hey for my wherr}^ Brunette ! At morning returning, mayhap with a haul, The joy of my heart is complete ; My wife is all smiles, and there's nothing at all Thought too good for her boys and her mate. The young ones contend who'll get first on my knee. And who shall next night go a fishing with me ; Thus I'm proud of my lot, as I right well may be ; Then, hey for my wheriy, Brunette ! MacCoWs Poems. iV/ THE LAND OF THE LAKES. (Written during the voyage of the Prince of Wales to British America, in 18G0. Air.—" When the Kye Come name.'' Safe may thy passage, Albert, Across the ocean be ! We all are almost dying A living prince to see. Ho, for arches, flags and torches ! Hurry, hurry up the cakes ! We will soon have famous feasting In the Land of the Lakes. To the Land of the Lakes, To the Land of the Lakes, Hasten then, and make us happy in this Land of the Lakes • Though we cannot match with England In the perfume of our flowers. And the music of our woodlands Be not quite so rich as yours. We have swamps alive with bullfrogs That can in a brace of shakes Get thee up a rousing concert In the Land of the Lakes. In the Land of the Lakes, In the Land of the Lakes, — Such the wonderful resources of this Land of the Lakes ! 278 MacCoU's Pc Though we leave to our smart neighbors Across the way to pufF Of mile- long alligators, Young mermaids, and such stuff, We have quite a handsome sample Of mosquitoes, skunks and snakes. As thou'ltfind, to thy great comfort, In the Land of the Lakes. This nice Land of the Lakes, This choice Land of the Lakes, — Quite a paradise to live in is this Land of the Lake ■ ! We have statesmen that your Walpoles And your Castlereaghs would shame ; We have corporation-suckers Any number you can name ; We are anything but wanting In pimps, loafers, snobs and rakes. So we proudly bid thee welcome To the Land of the Lakes ! This fast Land of the Lakes, This blest Land of the Lakes, — Quite a promisingyoung country is the Land of the Lakes Would'st thou see how " double-shuffle' May be practiced and extolled ? See the very seat of justice In the market bousrht and sold ? MacColVs Poems. 279 TVould'st thou learn how Hnmbug fattens, While his "pound" each Sh3dock takes, The right region for such studies Is the Land of the Lakes. This famed Land of the Lakes, This shamed Land of the Lakes, \Vc are all smart people — very — in this Land of the Lakes. Yet withal, there's much to charm thee In our scenes of beauty rare ; Our yeomen are leal-hearted, Our maidens kind and fair. Thou might do worse than with us Kindly choose to fix thy stakes. Helping us to make earth's grandest Of this Land of the Lakes. This fair land of the Lakes, This rare Land of the Lakes, — [Lakes, We would all be proud to keep thee in the Land of the HOW LONG, LORD, HOW LONG ? (Suggested by witnessing a riot consequent on a certain semi-religi 0U3 Procession.) How long shall, in Religion's name, Pretenders vain Religion shame With silly shows and shams supreme ? How long, Lord, how lonof ? 280 MacGuU's Poems. How long shall Popes or Princes be The Gods of men's idolatry — For such alas ! forgetting Thee ? IIow long, Lord, how long? How long, their own base ends to gain, Shall knaves a zeal they feel not, feign - Fooling with shibboleths profane Their dupes ? O Lord, how long ? How long till, wisely, men eschew Distinctions vain of race or hue. And all the weal of all pursue ? How long, O Lord, how long ? How long till each partition- wall We in our blindness build, shall fall. And thy great love encompass all ? How lone, Lord, how longr ? ON A WOULD-BE CANADIAN POET. Immortal B e pours on the town, at will, A flood of rhymes, enough to turn a mill ; Mere " machine " poetry it may be thought — - What matters it to B e, so it is bought ! Critics may laugh — he pocketeth the dimes, And weaves away his mercenary rhymes : The best o't is, that spite of scoff and scorn, He dubs himself a poet heaven-born ! MacCoWs Poems. 281 'Tis wonderful how very little varies The graces of his chosen luminaries : His muse no nice distinction incommodes ; He paints them all so many demigods. Give him the slightest hope of half-a-d'own^ And lo, a Solon where you thought a clown ! Now Reverend this, now Reverend that he praises ; Truth matters little if the wind he raises ; And thus sometimes the butter's laid so thick on, It were enough a very dog to sicken. A horse might laugh while he a D n paints The very pink of sages and of saints ; Nor less the laugh, when in his truthful page F e looms, the ^sculapius of our age. So much of slaver has our bard to spare That even S k secures an ample share : He caps the climax painting sans a flaw The sum of all perfection in John A.! Alas, poor B e ! I pity much thy pains ; Have mercy on thy little all of brains, Or soon, I guess — blest riddance to the town— Rockwood* will have a poet all its own ! Rhyming at best, is but a sorry trade ; A genuine bard requires both heart and head : Tne fact is, B e, — the truth I cannot smother — » In thy sad case there's neither one nor t'other. *The Asylum for the Insane near Kingston, 282 MacColVs Poems Be counselled, man, nor waste thy time away To vain illusive hopes a willin<^ prey : I'll undertake thy cure ; come, let me see, — Thy Pegasus a good saw-horse shall be, The only Pegasus becoming thee ; A few good sweatings o'er a pile of wood Might chase this itch of scribbling from thy blood, And give thee strength to stand a man erect. Restored to reason and to self-respect. ENGLAND'S MIGHTY DEAD. (Written on reading "a Monody on the death of Lord Macaulay, ' the burthen of which wa3 "Macaulay now is registered 'mong England's mighty dead ! ") Hech, sir ! " Macaulay 's registered 'Mong England's mighty dead ! " Let's hope that he lies buried near Her first mean-mighty Ned. Scotland can never well forget The zeal of those two men, — The one, to stab her with the sword — The other, with the pen. Of course " all England's bards are bound To praise with all their Ij'res " One who so oft maligned — disowned The country of his sires. MacGolVs Poemn. 283 The muse of History well may say She ne'er had such a son ; Such was his art, that oft he made Herself and Fiction one ! ' 'Mong England's mighty dead he lies " " In Poet's Corner " too ! Strange mate indeed for those true Scots Who rest there, not a few ! — Men who within their native earth Had been more fitly laid. Since they would rather quit their graves Than rank as " England's dead." But let that pass — he's there — John Bull Is not so much to blame ; He lived to magnify John's rule, John magnifies his name. The wonder, after all, is how John could be fooled so far As a mere meteoric light To worship as a star. OUR CANADA— AN EXTRAVAGANZA. Though scarce two centuries have rolled Since thou wert in the Red Man's hold, The best of Europe's nations old Might envy thee, Our Canada. 284 MacColVs Poems. Lo, towns where lately forests grew, Church chimes where war-whoops once we knew For savage braves we've yeomen true — ■ A happy change for Canada ! For Corduroy roads, jolts and jars, We've railways now whose Pullman cars Glide o'er them quick as shooting stars. Seen in the skies of Canada. The Steamboat supersedes the Batteau ; Where stood the shanty, lo ! the Chateau, Whose owner, now a statesman haughty, Came plackless to this Canada. To look at the St. Lawrence spanned By its Victoria Bridge so grand. You'd think that Titans own'd this land We proudly call our Canada. We tap it, and behold, the ground Sends oil in flowing floods around ; An isle of solid silver* found. Is our last " strike " in Canada ! Down East, small odds what wind prevails, The fishers' harvest never fails ; From shoals of mackerel up to whales His luck's aye sure in Canada ! * Silver I.slet, Lake Superior. MacGolVs Poems. 285 If you the Buffalo would chase Where earth seems trembling 'neath their pace, You'll find upon this globe no place More to 3^0 ar taste than Canada, But I must cease : — A country where We glory in earth's fairest fair May well command the homage rare, Her sons sflad vield to Canada. A BIT OF ADVICE. (Addressed to a certain Common School Teacher, famed for a cruel use of the tawse.) The teacher of a common school — Thou'rt yet a most ttn-common fool, Believing when a child goes wa'ong, The sovereign remedy's a thong : Could blows the least improve the dull, Nought needs them more than thy own skull ! Jack, burn thy birch without delay ; Try kindness, as the better w^ay ; Rude applications of brute force No good does ever child or horse. That teacher least commends his art Who only makes the bottom smart ; The rascal who believes in " stripping " Himself the most deserves a whipping. 286 MacColVs Poems. MY MODEL HIGHLANDER. (Inscribed to John Murdock, Esq., Editor of the " Aad-albannach, Inverness.) I SIXG not now of men who don The Highland garb their limbs upon, Forgetting that such garb alone Ne'er constitutes a Highlander. Though well T wot the man I mean Delighteth in the tartan sheen. If that were all, he ne'er had been My chosen model Highlander. The Gael true alone is he Who what he thinks speaks frankly free. And to God only bends the knee, Like to my model Highlander, — One who in all things acts the man, No matter who his course would ban. Step out, my Murdoch ! If there's one On earth, thou art that Highlander, I think I see thy manly form. Firm and unyielding as Cairngorm, The poor man's cause maintaining warm, Just like a true-souled Highlander; I see the scorn within thine eye As some evicting chief goes by — One whose forbears would sooner die Than dispossess a Highlander, MacCoU's Poems. 287 But shall those dastards have their way, And we stand by, unheeding ? Nay ! Thy cause is ours : — No true man may Sole-fighting see my Highlander. Up, clansmen ! Why alone should he Do battle with the enemy ? 'Twere nothing less than infamy To let them crush our Highlander. Think of the heartless knaves who long To rob you of your mother tongue, And thankful be the craven throng Well watched are by my Highlander. When dies its speech a nation dies, No more to a new life to rise : Would you avert such fate, be wise, And rally round my Highlander. Despoilers worse than Cumberland Are thickening on us, — law in hand, Peopling with forest beasts the grand Old homesteads of the Highlanders. 'Tis time we tried to stop their game, — If need be, facing sword and flame. And, as our proper birth-right claim The Hiofhlands for the Hio-hlanders 1 288 MacCoUs Poems. A WORD WITH THE FENIAN BROTHERHOOD. (Suggested by ihe Assrssination of Thomas Darcy McGee, in 18G8.) The Fenian Brotherhood ! the phrase sounds well, But what's your right to such a title, tell ? Strangers alike to honor, truth, and shame — Conspirators to aim at Fenian fame ! If truly sang the bard of Selma old, The Fenian race were of no cut-throa^> mould ; Though sometimes they in Erin loved to roam, A land more north was their heroic home ; The " Cothrom Feine " was their pride and boast ; Of all base things they scorned a braggart most ; Besides, 'twas not a custom in their day. Assassin-like, one's victim to way -lay And shoot unseen — contented if, cash down, The price of blood were only half-a-crown ! Fenians, indeed ! all true men of that race Fraternity with you would deem disgrace ; Fenians, forsooth ! renounce that honour'd name ; " Thugs " would more fitly suit your claim to fame ! Poor souls, I pity your demented state; You will be vicious if you can't be great. Better for Erin any fate would be. Than to be ruled by bedlamites like ye : The war of the Kilkenny cats renewed, She'd find, I think, a very doubtful good. MacColVs Poems. 2S9 O wondrous-valiant, treason-hatching crew, Jf words were deeds, what great things might ye do ! Ye, who have left your country for her good — Ye talk of righting all her wrongs in blood ! 'Tis laughable — the more so, that we feel Your necks were made for hemp, and not for steel. At Britain's lion you may spare your howls, — That noble beast is never scared by owls ; 'Tis well for you, with all your vapouring frantic. You have 'tween you and him the broad Atlantic. Let no one think that he who now ciies shame On your misdeeds, your Celtic blood would blame ; A Celt himself, his great grief is to see The land that nursed you cursed by such as ye. So bright the record of her better days, So much to love she still to us displays. So rich her heritage of wit and song, So warm her heart, so eloquent her tongue, He honours Erin. 'Tis to fools like you Alone the tribute of his scorn is due. Union is strength. Joy to the nations three As now united ! May the}^ ever be The first and foremost in fair freedom's van — An empire built upon the Shamrock plan — A seeming three, and yet a perfect one, 290 MacGoUs Poems. UP AND AT THEM! SPARE THEM NOT! (Verses Occasioned by the Threatened Invasion of Canada by the " Fenians," in 1870.) Muster ! muster ! On's the order ! On then, Saxon, Celt, and Scot ! Fenian fiends are on our border ; Up and at them ! spare them not ! Anarchists with hell in union Merit well reception hot : Cannucks all of this opinion, Up and at them ! spare them not ! On the soil they seek to plunder Give we their vile bones to rot ; Sudden as the crash of thunder Up and at them ! spare them not ! At Fort Erie quite a tasting Of their flesh the kites have got ; Cornwall's crows will soon have feasting ; Up and at them ! spare them not ! Not alone the land that bore them — Earth were well rid of the lot ; Haste we, then, the doom before them ; Up and at them ! spare them not ! MacGoWs Poems. 291 Onward ! onward ! never ceasing Till their last you'v^e hanged or shot, Earning thus all good men's blessing : Up and at them ! spare them not ! THE CADI BEN-BRAMMACH TO HIS BEAKS. A "JUSTICE shop" LYRIC* Hurrah for a dozen " drunks ! " Hurrah for a regular haul Of suckers to skin to-morrow in The Shop that maintains us all ! Haul in, my brave peelers, haul in From back street, and front street, and square ; Nothing charms me so much as a " cove " in your clutch, And the smell of fat fines on the air. What would be the use of Jails, Of Magistrates or Police, Asylums or Orphans' Homes, Were the traffic in grog to cease ? Cease ! mercy forfend, or else To us 'twere a bad look out — No fun and no fee- and for " hoi-ns " going free Think of quenching one's thirst at the spout ! * At the time the above lines were penned, Police Magistrates in Canada were allowed to pocket all the fees i-riposed by them on all " the drunk and disorderly " brought before them, 292 MacColVs Poems. What matters to us with whom lie The fault that grog shops so abound ; What matters to us who supply The cup in which reason is drown'd ? Let them answer who most are to blame — Our " fathers " — who soothly, I think, Would count it no evil to license the devil If he only came out with the " chink." 'Tis well that those magnates, so wise. Believe not in Gough or in Gow ; Else soon would no more greet my eyes Cracked skulls and dead-drunks in your tow : My name to inebriates all, A terror would soon cease to be. Hurrah then, say I, for more power to Old Eye Our good friend never-failinor is he. THE ORDERING OF THE MEDAL. Scene : — The shop of an artist celebrated for the manufacture of Leather Medals. Enter a deputation from the Trustees of a certain Tnstittdion, who thus address the man of Medals : As cats upon their feet alight. However high in air, man, They're tossed, — so Bob, that juggler bright, Turns always up our Chairman. MacCoWs Poems. 293 It" to look solemn, as an owl Were all that's wanted there, man, Save now and then, a grin or scowl. How matchless were this Cliairman ! What though that decency loud pleads A turn about but fair, man — Still, moveless as the Pyramids, He's, will you, nil you, Chairman. Tis wond'rous through what depths of slime Some go, to back that rare man: I fear the crack of doom's'^the time To rid us of this Chairman ! A nest-egg never changed, yoii know, Gets addled, — let's beware then ; Like rank results alone can flow From everlasting Chairmen. Oh, for a Board of sterner mood — Outspoken, fair and square men ! Oh, for an earthquake or a ilood To dispossess this Chairman ! That leather medal then, at once, Get ready, Mr. Fairman ; It seems to be our only chance To shelve this weary Chairman. 294 MaCcoll's Poems. TO JOHN CARRUTHERS, ESQ, ON HIS LEAVING KINGSTON FOR A YEAR'S SOJOURN IN HIS NATIVE SCOTLAND. (Written as an accompanyment to a Farewell Address from the Kingston St. Andrew's Society, of which Mr. Carruthers was then President. ) And shalt thou take thy purposed way, Carruthers, o'er the ocean tide, And friendship's voice be silent ? Nay ! We vAlls'mg of thee — smile or chide. If in this land there liveth one Than thou more ^yorthy men's esteem, I own I'd like to see the man. And bring him blushing into fame. The patriot spirit staunch as steel — The manners manly, truth severe, — The hand ne'er shut to want's appeal — To give unseen its only care. — The feelings warm, the judgment sound, — The scorn of all that's mean or base, — All, all combine to make thee owned An honour to thy name and race. Well may the country of thy birth Rejoice to welcome back her son — Not for the thousands he is worth, But for the worth that stamps the man, MacColUs Poems. 295 Farewell, our friend beloved, farewell ! Thyself and us though ocean parts, Distance can never break the spell That binds us to each other's hearts. LORD LORNE AND THE LADY LOUISE. (A song written for the rejoicings at Inveraray consequent on their first appearance there after their marriage.) Air — " The Hills of Glenorchy.'" Hurrah for the news o'er the wide M^orld just gone out ! The clans are all wild with delight to think on it : A son of the Mist (Up yet higher, my bonnet !) Has won the fair hand of Balmoral's Louise ! Glad tidings to all save the Southerns who wanted To see that rare gift to some Saxon lord gianted ; — Well might they look glum when young Lome, nothing daunted, Stept in, and walked off with the Lady Louise ! Well, well may bright bonfires, its hill -tops all over. Turn night into day in the land of her lover. And " Islay " flow freely as Aray's own river When home to its banks he brings Lady Louise. Though earth's greatest king might right glad be to wed her, She's far better matched — thanks to love 'mong the heather ; — A lad who can sport the Mac-Cailean's proud feather Is just the right mate for the Lady Louise ! 296 MacColVs Poems. A gatheiing grand on my vision is looming ; The air is alive with " The Campbells are coming ! " Dunquaich proudly echoes the " gunna cam "* booming Its own hearty welcome to Lome and Louise. Alas, that in fancy alone can / wend there, My welcome to give them, my homage to tender. And help happy thousands the welkin to rend there, Proud toasting " Lord Lome and the Lady Louise ! " A PROLOGUE. (Written for a concert given in honour of His Excellency the Marquis of Lome and Her Royal Highness the Princess Louise, on the occasion of their visit to Kingston, in 1870.) While crowds, outside, their jubilations vent 'Mid arches, torches, rockets heavenward sent. Here are we met, on gentler pleasures bent. Ears often charmed by England's nightingales, Albin's sweet thrushes, and the larks of Wales May in our " woodnotes wild " find meikle cause For kind forbearance rather than applause ; Yet here we are — resolved to do our best — ■ Leaving to you — and you — and you — the rest, * The cannon popularly known as the " gunna cam " is an old fash- ioned piece of artillery which most visitors to the plea=iure grounds arouad Inveraray make a point of seeing. Although old as the time of the Spanish Armada— there being good ground for believing it to have formed a part of the armament of the ill-ia,ted Florida sunk in Tobermorry Bay— it can still make itself bs well hsard on ^occasions of special rejoicings to the House of Argyll. MacCoWs Poems. 2U7 With this bright audience fanning fond desire, Well ma}^ the wish to please our hearts inspire ; Well may old Eriti's, England's, Scotland's lays Be sung as ne'er before, to win your praise — For, have we not in this bright companie A guest illustrious who can claim to be By right of blood linked to those nations three ? And thou, loved lady, whose fair presence shews How sweetly blends the Thistle with the Rose, Will not, however partial to Ai'gyll, List aught less pleased some lay of Erin's Isle. Daughter of our good Queen ! beloved by all, Not only for her sake : Heaven, prodigal. Has showered upon thyself such graces rare As well may claim men's homage everywhere ; Stars like to thee need no reflected light To magnify their native lustre bright. If therefore here we, in our joy elate, The Princess in the woman may forget. It must be owned we have a reason good In thine own gentle, perfect womanhood — Thy winning ways — thy speech and looks benign, Making all hearts in thy fair presence thine, — Just what we all were taught to hope for in The gifted daughter of our glorious Queen. Mac-Cailein's son ! 'twere strange indeed if we A greeting aught less loyal gave to thee — Thou whose bright promise well should make us all to Be proud to give thee a "Ciad mile failte I ' — s 298 MacCoIVs Poems. Long may this land, fair-spreading far away, llelight to boast of thy vice-regal sway, i'oo much inherits thou of patriot fire To make us doubt thy purpose to aspire Our welfare to advance — our love to win — No matter who the party, " out " or " in," — Nor less to lead us all'to keep in view That to be noble is to nobly do — That truthful lives are more than rank or station- That righteousness alone exalts a nation. Thus — thus alone — a people truly free We, in " this Canada of ours " may be ; Thus may we lifted be to virtues Spartan 'Neath the congenial shadow of the Tartan ! So much by way of prologue: Ere away We how ourselves, this further we would say, — If, after starting in a key so crouse, We may not just at once " bring down the house ' We trust it may be owned that, ne'ertheless. We are, upon the whole — '•' a great success." EPIGRAM ON THE POET BREEZE. Forbear, ye wits, to laugh at Breeze's strains ; Breeze is a poet — so himself mainiains : People will read the products of his pen When Milton is forgot — but not till then. MacColVs Poems. 299 AN IMPROMPTU RESPONSE, (Sent by the St. Andrew's Society of Kingston to a greeting from tlieir brethren of Montreal, dining there on St. Andrew's night, 18G9, and having Prince Arthur as one of their guests.) Our brithers by Mount Royal braw. We gladly greet ye, ane an' a' ! Wishing ye lochs o' uisgebough To wet your whistles Made dry, nae doubt, by mony a blaw 'Bout Kilts and Thistles I What tho' we canna boast, like ye, A plaided prince frae Hieland Dee, We're quite contented o'er our bree, An' wad be happy To pledge ye now, wi' three times three, That royal chappie. May he in due time be renown'd As Arthur of the Table Round, — In all that's noble, manly, found Within a flaw, — A prince 'mang princes peerless own'd : His health ! Hurrah ! 300 MacColVs Poems. A VOICE FROM THE DESK ; OR, THE SORROWS OF MR. SNOOK. An Ottawa employee who Loathed work and believed in Sir John, Thus mourned an experience new In tones 'tween a growl and a groan : — " Toil — toil — toil, Nothing but toil for me ! Compared with this fearful turmoil 'Twere bliss in a treadmill to be. 'Tis true that I wear no chains, 'Tis true I've no stripes on my back. Yet, never did slave to untimely grave Hurry down upon such a rack ! And it's work — woi'k — work. Till m}^ body to dust is bent ! And it's work — work — work, Like a felon to Sydney sent ! With this and that else to be done — No time left for loafing or play — No coming to duty at ten, And leaving at noon for the day,— I feel how much better must be The life of a cabman's horse Than thus to be driven like me By men without ruth or remorse : To end all my care in the friendly Chaudie' Is plainl}^ my last resource. MacCoU's Poems. 301 Well may our new masters' broad grins* Give proof of their wicked delight To see men at work like machines Where once killing time w^as all right. All round 'tis the same " hurry on " Fi'om morn till the daylight's close ; Nor yet wdien the day is done To us cometh rest or repose Dread thoughts of arrears to pull up Haunt even our sleeping hours, O ! for the good ways of Sir John's golden days, And the sinecure seats that were ours 1 " O'ercome with the thought of lost bliss, He choked, when a friend near him spoke, " 'Tis shameful, egad, so it is, In this manner to murder poor Snook ! Were it only us horrible Grits, 'Twere nothing at all, I trow, But my bosom burns and bleeds by turns. My dear Snook, to think of you. That slaves cannot breathe 'neath the flag Of Britain, is all a farce ! Snook own'd with a sigh his case proved it a lie, Adding something less kind than coarse. " 'Tis a shame," his friend resumed, "A shame most foul, I say, That good fellows like you, fond of nothing to do, Must work if they would get pay ! " The Mackenzie Government. 302 MacColl's Poem.^. Then again spoke Snook, — no swell Ever spoke in bi-aver key : " I swear by book and bell That no slave henceforth I be ! Better than what I endure Were the service of some Turk ; Better being dead than more Of this work — work — -work." So, scarce knowing where to jog, The wide worhl once more faced Snook Good for him ! the plucky Prog, He is now a — shanty -cook ! ONTARIO'S VOLUNTEERS. (Lines occasioned by the call to arras consequent on the Mason- Sliddel embroglio, in 1866.) All honour to those patriots who, to duty's call awake. Arm, ready to defend the right, or perish for its sake ! Let those who would provoke their ire consult their feet and fears. When to the deadly charge advance Ontario's Volunteers- ! not for conquest or for spoil our Volunteers go forth. No banded partizans are they of either South or North ; Their arming is a pledge of peace — they woo no strife of spears, Yet woe to them in fight who'd meet Ontario's Volunteers. MacGolVs Poems. 303 Well may fair Canada be proud of such a bold array, Her honour in their trust is safe, let come whatever may ; That they will do or die for her she owns with hearty cheers — - Hurrah then, thrice hurrah for them ! Ontario's Volun- teers : PROBLEMS WAITING SOLUTION. This life has mysteries we may not hope To solve, or trying, find we thrive but ill, — Things which, in our imperfect summing up, Seem scarce accordant with high Heaven's will. Talents God-given in the devil's pay. Honesty crush'd where rascals make their " pile," — Knaves in high places wielding wicked sway. Shams palace-housed and patriots in exile ; The poor made by oppression still more poor, The homage due to modest worth denied Till, all too late, some rich man opes his door And finds his neighbour perishing outside ; Loved ones, whose presence made our homes a heaven, Untimely carried to the silent tomb ; Friends, whose loved sight we would forever live in, Estranged or doomed in foreign lands to roam ; S04 MacColVs Poems. Fond hearts ne'er mated, or but mated ill ; The good and true linked to the vile and base ; — Creatures as angels pure and beautiful Yielding to clowns what should be Love's embi-ace In vain we darkly grope, in vain surmise How such things 'can be : Wise alone is he Who is content to let such mysteries Find a solution in the life to be. CANADA'S RESOLVE. (Written during the Howe Annexation movement in Nova Scotia, in 1808.) Shall the star that to empire late pointed our way Be quench'd all so soon ? Our proud answer be, Nay ! Though dimmed for a moment, yet quickly shall shine More brightly than ever than herald benign. Let cowards cry halt, yet its course we'll pursue ; Halloo then for Union ! Halloo, boys, halloo I Old Milton once sung of a spirit so fell, Than second in bliss, he'd the first be in — bale: Such spirits turn up ev'ry now and again ; I fear we have one somewhere down by the main : Ambition so blind must itself quick undo ; Halloo then for Union : Halloo, bovs, l.alloo ! MacColCs Poems. 30.' Let Jonathan banish his vain hopes forlorn; As friends, we can greet him — as foes, we can scorn Our good shi^) Dominion will ne'er woo the fray, Yet woe to the pirate that crosses her way ! Tiie flag at her masthead was alwaj's " true blue ;" Halloo then for Union! Halloo, boys, halloo I Would Canada prosper, a land without peer — The Atlantic her front, the Pacific her rear, — The watchword must now be of one and of all. Henceforward together we flourish or fall ! As brothers thus banded, to dare is to do: Halloo then for Union ! Halloo, bovs, halloo ! A GATHERING CALL. (Written for the Kingston Caledonian Society's Games of 1&G3.) On to the Gathering I Highlanders, on ! Sons of the Lowlands ! come every one : Let all who love Scotland the blue bonnet don, And joyfidly come to our Gathering ! The Games styled Olympic were grand in their day. Yet nothing to match with our coming display. In all manly pastimes the Scot leads the way ; Huirah then, hurrah for our Gathering ' SOG MacColVs Poems. Would you see kilted lads of the manliest frame, Would you hear the Pioh-mhor ^\ai.y|^^{ in nanner supreme, Would you see feats performed that would Hercules shame, Then take care that you miss not our Gathering. Ye who deem the famed Fe'lne extinct as a race, Believe me that this is by no means the case ;-r- 'Neath the graceful " Glengarry" their features to trace You have oidy to come to our Gathering. Come Celt and come Saxon, come Teuton and Gaul ; A right Highland Welcome we offer j^ou all : Each true Caledonian, proud of our call. Will exultantly join in our Gathering ? LINES WITTEN ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, l.T 1865. Sons of famed Scotia ! Lo, drawing near. The day of proud pastimes, Of mirth and good cheer ; When the sons of the Gael, In their native garb dressed, Shall in rivalry friendly Their manliness test At the stone, hammer, caber : — Hurrah for the best • MacColl\s Poems. 307 All pleasure attend tliem, The gay gallant throng Who joy in the magic Of music and song ! That stern mountain race Uncorrupted and free — O, who would not wish At their Gathering to be. The gentle in manner, The manly in form — Be mine to be with them In sunshine or storm ! Enjoying their converse And friendship so true The dear happy days Of my youth I renew ' THE NEWSBOY. Of all the many blessings rare Whose benefits we daily share, Methinks there's few that can compare In value with the Newsboy. As welcome as the light of day Is he alike to grave and gay ; Think of the city's dire dismay One day without the Newsboy ! j08 MacCoUs Poems. In every land where speech is free An institution rich is he ; No mental bondage long can be Where men respect the Newsboy. Though in himself a harmless wight, The tyrant trembles at his sight; A power more potent than his might Is symbol'd by the Newsboy ! How many hoar hypocrisies He helps to strip of their disguise ! How many would be vainly wise If wanting were the Newsboy ! For fools as such themselves to see. There's nothing helps so much as he ; 'Tis up-hill work with Knavery Wherever there's the Newsboy. Alas ! the land that cannot boast Of a free Press — that land is lost ; In sunshine, therefore, or in frost Let's welcome aye the Newsboy. Long may fair Canada enjoy A Press that fears no censor's eye, And hold in estimation high The labours of the Newsboy, MacColVs Poems. 309 THE BOLD CHIEF OF THE BRAVE "BRITISH WHIG." (Respectf ull}^ inscribed to J. B. Barker, Esq. , the founder of the British WJtiij, and for many years its editor also.) Your Walters and Russels and Greeleys may be, As Knights of the Broadstveet, well worthy their fee ; But the man of all men for my homage is he, The bold chief of the brave British Whig ! The Nestor revered of fair Canada's Press, Fair play is his motto, and aye will, I guess ; A falsehood to nail, or a wrong to redress, Read}^ aye is the bold BritishWhig. He may have his weak ^^oints : Who of such is quite free ? The greeih hurts his eyes, so does orange a wee ; The Red, White and Blue are his glory to see, Like a true, loyal, bold British Whig ! The foe unrelenting of buncome and bosh, Few ever forget, who have once felt his lash ; All Ritual nonsense his joy i.s to squash, Like a sensible, wise British Whig. Let blockheads beware how they tread on his corns ! Such creatures soon tind they've the bull by the horns i Not one ever tried it but helplessly mourns Ever rousing the stern British Whig. 310 MicCoWs Poems. And yet, for all this, never lamb on the lea Has a nature more gentle, more loving than he ; The pink of politeness, you all will agree, Is at all times the stout British WJdg. With a record so bright in the times that are past, I think all must own 'twere no compliment vast If Vic. at his feet her next Garter should cast, And ennoble the brave British Whig ! Sonc|0. THE THISTLE. Air.—" The Hills of GlcnordiM." John Bull, if he likes, may get smothered in roses, — The odour of leek give to Cambrian noses ; Let Pat praise the grace which the Shamrock discloses — The bonnie blue Thistle of Scotland for me ! Its stern " Nemo me impune lacessit " Has just the right ring for the race who caress it ; The}' stye come to grief who too rudely would press it : The bonnie blue Thistle of Scotland for me ! Fierce kings from far Lochlin, to break or to bend it, Oft tried all their might — vow'd by Odin to end it • Let Loncarty — Largs — show what luck them attended . The bonnie blue Thistle of Scotland for me ! The Saxon next tried with the Rose to supplant it, But found a reception ne'er dream'd of or wanted ; Retreat, or a grave, was just all he was granted I The bonnie blue Thistle of Scotland for me ! 311 312 MacCoWs Poems. Our emblem, true blue as the Heaven above it — What bard worth the name would not proudly sinf of it ? What patriot heart would not bless it and love it ? The bonnie blue Thistle of Scotland for me I Well, well may the Sons of St. Andrew revere it, All Scotsmen delight in their bonnets to wear it, And proudly defy any symbol to peer it: The bonnie blue Thistle of Scotland for me I UPPER TENDOM. Air.—-'" Behave YourseV Before Folk." Tis fit that humbler folk should show Due reverence for the great Highdow ; Hats off for Snooks ! Why, don't you know- He's of our Upper-tendom 1 Chorus — Sing he}' for Uppor-tendom ! Good luck to all who cherish it ! Though vulgar folk its claims may mock, Still great is Upper-tendom 1 Wliat though the Mother of Fitzfluke Once tvas where now she has a cook, Let's all do homage to the — puke, He goes for Upper-tendom ! Sing hey, &c. MacColVs Voems. 313 Poor Peg-tops nothing now can see Without an eyeglass ! Ten to three Peg purchased with a borrowed V That mark of Upper-tendom ! Sing hey, &c. Sir Snipp may well plain people slight — His sire was of The Goose a knight ; He now has got a double right To top our Upper-tendom I Sing hey, &c. Who doubts the Dowds from kings have sprung Had better, near them, guard his tongue ; Folk just as lately from the dung Are of our Upper-tendom ! Sing hey, &c. The Smiths, as through our streets they go, Now never own their father Joe ; What right has he, poor man, to know The Smyths of Upper-tendom ! Sing hey, &;c. Commend me always to the Coys For grubs transformed to butterflies. And making food for mirth likewise To all save Upper-tendom. Sing hey, &c. 314 MacColl's Poems. Well may plain people laugh to see Such barber-block gentility, And pray for grace to aye keep free Of aping Upper-tendom ! Sing hey, kc. EIGHT IN ONE ARE WE. (Words for a Canadian March. Written to the tune of an old Highland ZiZf beginning " Llumnsadh-mid, ruidhle-mid,'' etc.) Ho for that land never Matched for lake and river ! Canada for ever, Boys, for you and me! Living land so choice in. Who would not, rejoicing, Join us, proudly voicing " Eight in one are we ! " Chorus :— Cannucks true, ready to Do or die united, — Here we go, proud to show Eight in one are we ! Though content to stay, boys, 'Neath the old Flag aye, boys, Yet, should come a day, boys, This no more may be, MacColVs Poems. 315 On we'd march, nought caring, A new banner airing, Its device declaring "Eight in one are we ! " Cannucks true, etc. ^y our prairies flowering, By our mountains towering, Bj' the woods embowering Our loved homesteads free, Swear we nothing ever Must our union sever : None could try, and live here ! Eight in one are we ! Cannucks true, etc. Let Ambition's story Tell of conquests gory, — Peaceful triumphs more we In our path would see : Still 'gainst wrong contending. Still the right defending, — Might with meekness blending. Reach we empire free. Cannucks true, etc. 316 MacGolVs Poems. THE BONNET, KILT AND FEATHER. Air.—" The Black Watch;' or " Over the Water wi' Charlie; When Time was young, and Adam strung His leafy garb together, Then first were planned the outlines grand Of Bonnet, Kilt and Feather. Chorus — O ! dear to me as life can be The land where blooms the heather, And doubly dear the lads who wear The bonnet, kilt and feather. Your dandy vaunts his skin-tight pants, Just fit such things to tether. But give to me, all flowing free, The bonnet, kilt and feather. O ! dear to me, &c. For lordly hall, or courtly ball. Where all that's grand foregather, There's nothing seen to match the sheen Of bonnet, kilt and feather. ' dear to me, &;c. The gorgeousness of Solomon's dress Put Sheba's queen thro'-ither, — A proof to me his Majesty Di-ess'd in the kilt and feather ' ! dear to me, kc. MacColVs Poems. 317 Let despots all, both great and small, Who wish to " save their leather," Beware how they corae in the way Of bonnet, kilt and feather. O ! dear to me, &c. Let Rome's proud ranks, on Carthon's banks Quiek-scatter'd hither- thither, Tell how, of old, their own could hold The bonnet, kilt and feather. O ! dear to me, &c. Let Edward's turn at Bannockburn, Suffice to show you whether There's aught to fear for Freedom, near The bonnet, kilt and feather. ! dear to me, kc. If e'er in mood awe-stricken stood The Corsican blood-shedder, It was to scan in battle's van The bonnet, kilt and feather. O ! dear to me, &;c. On Egypt's sands they taught his bands To rue they e'er came thither ; At Waterloo, immortal grew The bonnet, kilt and feather ! ! dear to me, &c. 318 MacColVs Poems. O garb renown'd the whole world round — What mortal man would swither To toast with me — now three times three — " The bonnet, kilt and feather ! " ! dear to me, &c, ' MY MORAG." Air. — ".4??i muillean duhh." I WOULD not, if I could, declare How all-surpassing sweet and fair Art thou, my fond heart's only care, My bonnie blythesome Morag I I'd rather play the miser, dear. And hide thee as he hides his gear ; Small chance for me, did all but hear How beautiful is Morag ! Yet wert thou only once mine own. How would I praise my treasure won- Of all earth's daughters counting none So perfect as my Morag ! How would my song in joyful flow Proclaim thee queen of hearts below. And immortality bestow On dear, delightful Morag ! MacCoWs Poems. 319 PEGGY BHAN OF DRIMALEE. Air. — "Mo run Mairi inhin, mJwdhaU, Mo run Mairi mhodhail, mhin.'^ Oh ! how I love you, maiden, Peggie bhan of Drim.ilee ! Fairer far than any Eden Is her moorland home to me! As a river resting never On its pathway to the sea. So my thoughts go ever, ever To the lass of Drimalee. Oh ! how, &c. Blithesome, airy as a fairy Dancing 'neath the moon is she ; Yet as solemn as a priestess, When she likes, the lass can be. Oh ! how, &c. Tell me not of laughing Hebe, Venus, or the Graces three ; All that mortal beauty may be In my Peggy bhan I see. Oh ! how, &c. 820 MacColVs Poems. Peggy bhan has wooers plenty At her feet ; but, faith, they'll see Shira's river rolling upward Ere she breaks her troth to me ! Oh ! how, &c. THE HERO OF KARS. Air, — " When theKye come Hmnc." When mad Muscovite ambition Challenged Britain to the fight. And the bravest of the brave went forth To battle for the Right, There is none that you can name me, Of those soldiers stout, and tars. Who more nobly did his duty Than the Hero of Kars. The born Hero of Kars ! The stern Hero of Kars ! Never was a chief more gallant Than the Hero of Kars*! Think of yon beleagured city Where, like lion bold at bay. The more dread the odds against him, The more fierce he fronts the fray ; Where, beside the hostile Cossack, He with pest and famine wars, Till, in yielding, still a victor Seemed the Hero of Kars. MacCoWs Poems. 321 The boi-n Hero of Kars ! The stern Hero of Kars ! Never was a chief more gallant Than the Hero of Kars. Well may Nova Scotia proudly Boast the prowess of her son ; Long may chief so justly famous Wear the laurels he has won. Never did a grateful country Deck a truer knight with stars ; Never knight did more to win them Than the Hero of Kars. The born Hero of Kars ' The stern Hero of Kars ! Never lived a chief more gallant Than the Hero of Kars. MAGGIE MARTIN. Your flirting belle may look as gay As silks and satins well can make her, And in her own coquettish way Of fools be quite a brisk heart-breaker ; — A fickle thing all sham and show — •None such will e'er my hand or heart win You would not wonder did you know That woodland fairy, Maggie Martin, 322 MacColVs Poems. Sweetly-smiling Maggie Martin! Winning, wiling Maggie Martin ! Fond and free, and fair is she; The girl for me is Maggie Martin. In her combined, how sweet to find The charms of mind and form and feature ! No praise she courts, yet wins all hearts By the mere force of sweet good nature. Let others task their wits to bask In fame or fortune's smiles uncertain, More happy far I'd count my star If mine were darling Maggie Martin. Sweetly-smiling Maggie Martin ! Winning, wiling Maggie Martin ! This life would be, no life for me If wanting thee, sweet Maggie Martin. THE DAY AN' A' WHA HONOR IT. (The following lyric, as well as the song immediately succeed- ing it, appeared originally among the " bard's " quota of rhyme, contributed over a series of years to the St. Andrew's Night festivities customary with the Kingstonian Scots.) What though we Scotsmen may agree To differ somewhat now and then, — Each in his own opinion free Unflinching as a Grampian Ben, — - MacColVs Poems. 323 No Kirks or Creeds divide us here ; — Alike Conservative and Grit As one rejoice to toast and cheer " The Day an' a' wha honor it." " The Day an' a' wha honor it " — What magic in that simple phrase ! It fires my blood to fever heat, It minds me of far broomy braes : Fair Scotia's Forths and Clydes and Speys Seen gliding at my very feet : A patriot-ring exultant has " The Day an' a' wha honour it." It wafts me back to days long gone When grasp'd the Bruce his Cairick spear, And deeds eclipsing Marathon Made him to fame and freedom dear ; I see the flash of broadswords bare. And Scotland's foes in full retreat ; — Hurrah then for our slogan rare, " The day an' a' w^ha honour it ! " St. Patiick — terror of the snakes — Old Erin's sons may well hold dear ; They got him from the land of Cakes, And thus we too his name revere : St. George loved less the Cross than Spear, — Why sainted, puzzles quite my wit : Here's to St. Andrew's memory rare, The Day an' a' wha honour it ! " 324 MacColVs Poemf^. Let nif^gard bodies miss our joy^ — Too meanly counting on the cost, — The patriot flame to fan, say I, Is never love or labour lost. Then of our Day let's make the most Time never travels half so fleet As when together Scotsmen toast "The Day an' a' wha honour it ! " THE LAND EVER DEAREST TO ME. Am.—"JVot the Simn on the Lake." I SING of that land ever dearest to me, The noblest in story— the fairest to see, — A land where fans Freedom her holiest fires ; O, who would not love thee, dear land of my sires ! Chorus — Then hey for that country that never was slow To strike for the right a good death- dealing blow ! When " Scotland " the toast is, and quaichs in full flow, AVho would not squab as with a hearty hurro ? From Rome's baffled legions to Edward's proud host No foe, save to rue it, e'er warr'd on her coast ; And only to rue it shall foe ever dare On her rights to encroach, or her welfare to mar. Tl.ien hey, kc. MacColVs Poems. 325 What patriot, striking forfreedcin and right, Canmatch with such heroes as EUerslie's Knight, The Randolph, the Douglas, the Bruce and the Gmeme ? The bare thought of their deeds sets my blood in aflame I Then hey, &c. Who knows not how stoutly, when Truth did require. Her Camerons and Knoxes faced faggot and fire — ■ Bequeathing to us the rich freedom of Mind, Spite the prelate, the priest, and the devil combined ! Then hey, &c. Just think of her minstrels — a o-lorious throno-f What strains so sublime as in Selma were sung ? Who lists not enraptured to Coila's sweet lyre, Whose lays will enchant till this earth shall expire I Then hey, &c. Alas for the foeman who hastes not to yield When " shoulder to shoulder" the Clans take the field ! When duty demands them their might to display. The Titans might envy their deeds in the fray. Then hey, Szc. O Albyn ! my country so brave and so blest, 'Tis on thy dear bosom I'd take my last rest ; Oh, living or dying, give, give me to dwell 'Mid the music or streams, in some green Highland dell ' Then hey, ^c. 326 MacColVs Poems. AVICH'S FAIRY BOWER. The following song was suggested by an old favourite fairy " luinneag," the chorus of which runs thus : — " Am bun a chruidh cha chaidil mi, Am bun a chruidh cha bhi mi ; Am bun a chruidh cha chaidil mi, 'S mo leabaidh anns an t-sithean." The Ivhineag in question had its origin in a superstition not yet entirely dead in the Scottish Highlands, where for a pretty, mortal maiden to be wooed by a " leantian-sith " — a coVirtship often ending by her being charmed away into some nearby abode of the " good people," never again to revisit her own home — was, up to the beginning of the present century, quite a popular belief among " the sea divided Gael " of both Ireland and Scotland. In vain to me shews Beltane fair Its wealth of song and flower, — The elves have wiled my Annie dear To Avich's fairy bower. Chorus — Ochoin a righ for Annie O, Sweet Annie of Glengower ! Woe's me to think of Annie O Within yon fairy bower. They met her in the gloaming grey Near Dovan's warlock tower, Syne witched her with their music gay To yonder fairy bower. Ochoin a riffh, kc. MucCoUs Poems. 327 Where oft together herding kye I in my plaid did row her, Alone I now may sing or sigh , Sad thinking on yon bower. Ochoin a righ, kc. To tempt her stay, the fay folk may A queenly state allow her, And yet, withal, her heart be wae ;— The sorrow take yon bower ! Ochoin a righ, &c. With endless youth and beauty both, 'Tis said they can endow her ; Small joy to me, who thinks she'd be More happy in Glengower. Ochoin a righ, &c. that old Merlin's magic key At my good service now were ! Then would this night her latest be In Avich's fairy bower. Ochoin a rio-h, &c. THE LAND OF THE GREEN MAPLE LEAF. Of all the ftiir lands you can name, boys, There's one we may well rank the chief ; 'Tis that we our ow^n proudly claim, bo^s — The Land of the Green Maple Leaf ! 328 MacColVs Poems. A pati-iot land well may be, boys, Thailand of briorht annals, though brief": Whoever would feel truly free, boys, Should live 'neath the Green Maple Leaf. To praises of moorlands and mountains They well may grow readily deaf, Who dwell by the lakes and the fountains Fair-fringed by the Green Maple Leaf, It is there that the woodman's axe biingeth The lords of the forest to grief, Till up to a paradise springeth His home by the Green Maple Leaf. He here who a bachelor liveth May well be set down for a " cuif," Well shunned by each darling who giveth Love's kiss 'neath theGreen Maple Leaf. The heart that is proof to such graces As theirs, must be hard as a reef; — Let's hope that such desperate cases Are rare 'neath the Green Maple Leaf. In Lords and their lackeys dependant 'Tis well that our list is but brief ; The homage on tinsel attendant They'd miss 'neath the Green Maple Leaf. Where Autumn the toils of the plough man Rewards with a fifty-fold sheaf, The true lords of the soil are our yeomen Who guard well the Green Maple Leaf. MacCoWs Poems. 329 Sam Slick more than once, in full feather, To grab it tried hard — :he foul thief 1 For his pains we well riddled his leather, And our own kept the Green Maple Leaf ; And our own — ouis alone — it shall be, boys, Despite all who'd work it mischief, 'Till first in the van of the free, boys, Shall flaunt our beloved Maple Leaf, CHIEFTAIN MACLEAN. Air—" Come o'er the Sti'eam, Charlie,'^ When Noah turn'd seaman, most people agree, man, MacLean of that day had " a boat o' his ain ; " A clansman less famous, though ev'ry inch game, is Our own gallant Chieftain— the other Maclean * Chorus — Up, bonnet and feather ! Up thistle and heather ! St. Andrew's good advent is on us again ; What Scotsman, revering in its mem'ries endearing. Would not make a night o't with Chieftain Maclean ! The "Chieftain" here referred to— Professor Donald MacLean, of Ann Arbor College, Michigan, is of the Lochbuy branch of the Clan MacLean. He was at the time these verses were penned, President of the St. Andrew's Society, and as such, presided at the Festival for which they were composed. 3-JO MacColVs Foems. Away with your grumblers whom nothing but tumblers Of punch and a haggis can tempt to fall in ! The fair happy faces that here fill their places More proud of by far must be Chieftain Maclean. Up, bonnet and feather ! cS:c. Old Scotland's proud story, so pregnant of glory. The ballads that cheered her in days that have been, Her songs so heart-touching, all hearers bewitching, O, who would not feast on with Chieftain Maclean ! Up, bonnet and feather 1 kc. From Ossian and Selraa to Lucknow and Alma, "What triumphs are linked to the war-pipes proud strain ! That wretch who would hear ii, its music to sneer at, Had best shun the sight of our Chieftain Maclean. Up, bonnet and feather : kc. Let pinks of perfection, themselves vainly vexing, A good Scottish reel call a pastime profane ; The worst I wish for them would be " Tullochgorurn ' To dance till they sweated with Chieftain Maclean. Up, bonnet and feather ! kc. O, Scotland, dear Scotland ! alas that there's not land Enough in thy bounds all thy sons to contain I Else not this far west one, but thy ow^ dear breast on, Our joys would be perfect with Chieftain Maclean. Up, bonnet and feather, kc. MacColVs Poems. 331 ETHEL. Air- " The Lass o' Gowrie." 'Tis said that angels in disguise Are sometimes found beneath the sicies, And, looking into thy dear eyes, I cannot doubt it, Ethel. The one thing sure is, that thy face So full is of angelic grace That all I once could love give place To thee, delightful Ethel. That swain thrice happy must be owned Who with thy virgin love is crowned ; If / that chosen one were found. How would I bless thee, Ethel ! Though living in a desert waste, I'd feel as if in Eden placed, Could I but there to my fond breast Enfold thee, lovely Ethel. May thine, dear girl, thy whole life through, Be earth's best gifts, and with them too The loving care that seems thy due From all good angels, Ethel. Soon must I cease thy face to see, Vain-thinking of what cannot be, Yet ever shall fond thoughts of thee Dwell with me, darling Ethel ! 332 MacGoll's Poems. MINE OWN DEAR ROMANTIC COUNTRIE ! Though its climate be cold, and its sands hide no gold, Yet the land of the heather for me ! Since, despite its bleak air, Freedom's footsteps are there ; Her loved home, bonnie Scotland, is thee ! Chorus — Then ho ! for the Old land ! that stern, sturdy bold land. Whose sons 'tis our glory to be ! 0, who would not love thee, and proudly sing of thee. Mine own dear, romantic countrie I Not without tug and toil, Albyn dear, on thy soil Our bold sires planted Liberty's tree ; And we swear that no foe shall e'er touch stem or bough While we have hands to defend it and thee. Then ho ! for the Old Land ! &c. From the homes of their birth, to the ends of the earth. Let thy sons wander ever so free. As to magnet the steel, so, in woe or in weal. Turn their hearts ever fondly to thee. Then ! ho for the Old Land ! &c. Land of heroes high-famed — land by foe never tamed. Sorely tried though thou sometimes might be. Bards are aye most inspired — hearts heroic best fired When they think, bonnie Scotland, of thee. Then ho ! for the Old land ! &c, MucColVs Poems. 333 EXTRACTS FROM A SERIES OF CARRIER BOYS' NEW YEARS' DAY ADDRESSES. In some Canadian cities it is customary for most newspapers of any standing, to have, each in its New-Year's-Day issue, a " Carrier Boy's Address " — a medley of rhymes, sometimes original and sometimes not — but all less or more characteristic of the season. Copies of these, ornamentally done up, are, on that day, handed by the Carrier Boys to all city subscribers accustomed to have their papers brought to their homes by these little lads — a Christmas box reminder that seldom misses its object. The author, as the writer of not a few of these ephemera, made them often the transcript of thoughts, which he hopes his readers may rot deem unworthy of re- production. He would not have his labours to oblige his editorial friends, and '• the boys " thus employed by them, be " Like the snowflake on the river, A moment seen, then lost forever." Hence the following extracts : — FROM ADDRESS FOR 1800. Yes I — an eventful year has been the past : — The soil of Italy, long overcast With clouds portentous, saw at last descend The storm, and lo, the Frank and Hun contend, — The Hun to hold Italia as his prey, The Frank to give it freedom — Well-a-day ! The genuine friends of freedom, looking on, Oft at the devil wish'd both Frank and Hun. 334 MacColl's Poems. Victor Immanual — Garibaldi, hail 1 / Long may your courage o'er their craft prevail ; The Wallace and the Bruce of modern times — Fain would I link your actions with my rhymes; But space forbids, — so let the curtain drop ; The end not yet is ; — let us wait and hope. The scene is changed — on Britain's honoured shore Let us alight : Why I what means all this splore ? The British blood is up, that's very plain ; His " uncle's nephew," with presumption vain, Meant some dark midnight o'er the waves to creep, And stab to death Britannia in her sleep ! To plain John Bull the thought seem'd rather odd To have for king Gaul's mushroom demigod, And thus he arms him, ready for the strife Which yet may cost the Corsican his life. Need I relale how on far India's strand Treason lies throttled, — thanks to that brave band Led by far-famed Sir Colin, sword in hand 1 Need I describe how China — treacherous still — For that heroic blood she late did spill, Is just about to " catch it " with a will ! Since nothing else to common sense may win her, What better can befall that hoary sinner ? Ever haughty as vain, Lo ! impotent Spain, Who, like her own Quixote, seems touch'd in the brain. MacColVs Poems. 335 With Nap bottleholder, She threatens the Moor; 'Twere well some one told her To make herself sure Nap makes her no fool his own ends to pursue, Leaving her, all too late, his false friendship to rue. The times are out of joint — that's very clear ; — Wherever look we, be it far or near, On every hand are signs of coming strife, — War with the Wrong — yes, war unto the knife ! Corruption feels as if she soon must close In mortal struggle with her mortal foes ; The Bondsman's master fears the hour at hand Will prove his yoke accursed a rope of sand ; Truth walks abroad, denouncing all abuses. Yet, without doubt, the best of all the news is That Rome's late dread Priest- King immaculate. Is King no more, and only ghostly -great. The times are out of joint in every way ; — • Taxes are heavy, rents are hard to pay ; And yet our markets, in a rich supply. Furnish what, somehow, we contrive to buy. What " loves of bonnets " still the ladies wear — Small and still smaller getting, till 3'ou'd swear, To look at them, the bonnet was — nowhere, — While, contrast strange, extending still is seen That outrage on their fair forms. Crinoline ! But let that pass, — are not our boardwalks wide ? Is not fair woman, still creation's pride ? And may not Newsbovs take the other side ! 33G MacCoWs Poems. FROM ADDRESS FOR 1863. Old Sixty-two, now folded in thy shroud, Thine was to leave us much of which we're proud ; And yet what saddening memories ! — Albert gone- Albert the Good, whom millions mourn as one ! Thine was to bring us o'er th' Atlantic's roar The wail of want from England's distant shore ; Fit punishment for industry misled ; — Her rural hamlets changed to factories dread — Cotton and Cash accounting earth's sole good — She took to spinning, and she now lacks food ! Thine was to mark a King who owes a crown And Kingdom to his victim, striking down Great Garibaldi, — prisoned, yet withal The foremost man on this terrestrial ball I A sight still sadder, Sixty-two, was thine, — Lo, in the name of Liberty divine. Millions in arms for freedom shouting high — A freedom which to others the}^ deny ! O had the Southern but a better cause, Well might his daring win the world's applause : Would that, while here we at his blindness rail. We could forget our own sight once as frail : Heaven haste tlie issue — let the Right prevail 1 See where, in contrast bright to scenes like these, Beauty brings Albert Edward to his knees, MucCoWh Poems. 337 And Denmark's daughter, good as she is fair. Is woed and won : — May heaven bless the pair ! Lo Russia's serfs, long centuries enthralled, Up from the dust to freedom's banquet called ! A monarch speaks, and the ignoble yoke Of ages is, as if by magic, broke. What were thy triumphs, Macedonia's lord, Matched with such deed? Nor thine nor CVesar's sword E'er won a claim to greatness such as he Attains by this magnanimous decree Which will throughout all time keep green his memor}'. FROM ADDRESS FOR 18GG. While others hail (he heir who mounts his throne, I'd speak a kind word for the year just gone, — A year to traitors fatal everj^where : — Let Davis speak ; glance o'er the Atlantic, where Foul Fenian plots are crushed as soon as born, And Ireland saved from anarchy and scorn ; — A year which, spite of all who would defend it. Saw Slavery in Columbia ever ended. And freedom won for millions thralled. Ah woe ! That with it came that hell-directed blow Which laid the honoured head of Lincoln low ! 33S MacGoWs Poems. Good-by, old year ! Though born' mid storm and strife, Thy end was peace — a peace with plenty rife. What better for us Canucks could'st thou do Than leave us health and wealth, the land all through,- Barns filled to bursting — farmers very fain Once in their lives frem grumbling to refrain, — Merchants all thriving — workshops everywhere Of the " good times " obtaining a full share, — Crinolines narrowing, till a street blockade. One need not fear, when passing Meg or Maud — A twelve-feet sidewalk being all the space A girl needs now to move in all her grace ; While, better still, the darlings, in despair Of making conquests on thy strength, horse-hair, Discard the waterfall — resolved hereafter To save themselves much scoffing^ and horse-lauo-hter. So far so well. Now for a tribute due The Carrier Boys — a very humble theme It may be thought, and yet, you must allow. Enough attention kind this day to claim : THE CARRIER BOY. Of all the rat-tats folk are happy to hear — A knock ever welcome through all the long year — I trow there is none that occasions such joy As that of the newspaper Carrier Boy, MacGoWs Poems. 839 The knock of her lover expected may be To Maud, fondly waiting, sweet music — yet she Takes very good care not so swiftly to fly To the door as when knocks there the Carrier Boy. Well may he oft laugh at the jealous ado Begot of his presence — each one trying to Be first at the paper to cast a glad eye — All blessing, meanwhile, the smart Carrier Boy. 0, who would not gladly, this first of the year, Do all they can well do his young heart to cheer ? No one can well value his merits too high, Or welcome too kindly the Carrier Boy. Methinks I hear thousands glad shouting, Amen I That's right ! You shall see him right shortly, and then You shall all have a chance, while you praise him sky- high. To put gold in the fist of the Carrier Boy ! FROM ADDRESS FOR 1867. Scene — A snug Editorial Sanctum — Black Jack sitting in an easy -chair, with meriting viaterials at hand. Time : J^^eiu Yea7''s Eve, approaching midnight (1866-67.) Here sit I racking my poor brain, yet not One bright idea can I get to jot ; 840 MacCoU's Foems. My powers poetic, like all else around, In Winter's ic}^ manacles, seem bound ; This will not do — a glass of good hot Morton May thaw my frozen fancy — Here's to fortune ! Bless me ! that bumper worketh like a charm ; The past returns — I see a motley swarm Of common cutthroats land upon our soil, Hoping to make this country fair their spoil. I see our 3'eomen rising in their might And send the howling miscreants quick to flight. Knaves more akin to Mercury than Mars, Wondrously valiant over whiskey jars. The worst Canadians fear from such blacklegs Are hen-roosts harried and a dearth of eggs. A vision brighter far now greets my view : A noble fleet their way o'er ocean plough ; For far Columbia westward straight they sweep, Giving in keeping to the stormy deep That cord by which two worlds in one are bound, And Science wins a triumph most profound ; Well may she pride herself that thus they're brought To greet each other with the speed of thought ! The scene is changed. Lo ! to my joyful sight The ship Confederation, taunt and tight. Looms through the fog that late her path obscured ; — Her(iuick arrival is a fact assured : MacColts Poems. .*UI Let us but have her safely once in port, Of Fenians and their friends we can make spoi-t. What though cute Jonathan looks rather glum To think of missing a long-envied plum, Let him take heart — we have no wish to vex him, And promise in due season to " annex " him ! So far so well ; yet ere I say good-bv, Here goes a song — more truth than poetry : THE CARRIERS OF "THE WHIG." Of all who e'er my door come near, Commend me most the boy Who bringeth there that broad sheet rare We all so much enjoy. The city ill could spare the zeal Of that bright, hopeful sprig ; They're all the same — all genuine game, The Carriers of the Wliig. To zero though the glass may go, What's that to boys like them ! No more they care than if they were 'Neath Summer's noonday beam. Knee-deep in snow right oft, I trow, Just think how many a league For us at night their way well fight The Carriers of the Whhj ! 342 MacColVs Poems. Methinks 1 see the general glee That greets my favourite chap ; 'Tis grand to mark how, light or dark, Comes true to time his rap. That boy so bright is worth his weight In gold — that's speaking big — And yet 'tis true, — they're all true blue. Those Carriers of the Whig. Then let us all their New Year's call Give welcome warm unto. And with a will their pockets fill, A thing right well their due ; Nor yet forget the friendly treat. And eke their health to swig With hip, hurrah ! hurrah 1 hurrah ! " The Carriers of the Whig 1 " FROM ADDRESS FOR 1869. Again comes round to you the happy day I so much dread: — My tributary lay May fail to please: — If so, I cannot help it : Rhymes you must have, and while my best I skelp on You must not yawn, should they seem somewhat tam Tis oft the same with bards of deathless ftmie. O for a Breeze or S— — n's ready style 1 Then might this screed be measured by the mile ; MacColVs Poems. 343 Then might I proudly on my forehead label " A rhyme for sixpence, — length, Atlantic cable But being not thus gifted, well I wot You nyist forgive me if my muse should not Shew better paces than the old jog-trot. Men worthy freedom never long remain Contentto live in fetters : Look at Spain — Spain from a sleep inglorious roused at last To more than realize her once great past, — Spain sworn to root up the old Upas tree Of priestly rule! — Success to her and thee, Immortal Prim I without whose noble pluck She might lie groaning ages yet in muck. Let's hope that with her Jezebel exiled, That land with queans like her shall be no more defiled. Now turn we north to where the Sphynx of France With Prussia's Bismarck longs to break a lance. And nightly finds how, spite the softest down, " Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." Well may the knave be troubled with the thought That far too dearly Ms with blood was bought, — A heartless deed, that haply France, anon. May bid him with his own best blood atone ! But hush, my muse, — he's Britain's ally tried, Nor found much wanting : Let the fellow slide ! Lo, on the Adriatic, Greek and Turk, Their sabres wheting, threaten bloody work ! 344 MacGcWs Poems. Shall Moslem hordes ne'er from their grasp release The land of Homer and of Pericles ? Shall o'er the Cross again the Crescent wave, And Freedom find in Greece once more a grave ? Forbid it Heaven ! — to Grecia's hands restore The sword that won Thermoj)ylie of yore, And let the Moslem know, to his dismay, How sharp it strikes — how vainly would he stay The hour foretold that shall his sceptre see Forever broken. Quickly let it be ! Joy to thee, Erin ! daughter of the sea, Thy night departs — a weary night for thee ! O'er thy green hills a day-dawn glad I mark, — Thy day long promised ! Soon may Erin hark, Where late foul night-birds screeched, the music ol th lark ! Would that her son, whose loss we all deplore, Had lived to see the land he loved once more Rejoicing in the reign of Peace and Right ! How would his spirit gladden at the sight ! But he is not. — misery to think His star so bright should all so sudden sink ! Woe to the hand accursed which sped the ball That left him lifeless ! Long yon Senate Hall Shall miss the voice that charmed all list'ners ther With wisdom, wit and eloquence so rare : Well may his country's caoine bitter be — She lost her noblest son when fell beloved McGee MacCoWs Poems. 345 God speed thee, Gladstone ! Be thy hands made strong To fearless face the champions of the wrong, And discomfit them, wheresoever found, Or be it Erin's soil or English ground. Yes— English ground, where pampered Power and Pride God's heritage to all, uncurbed, divide Among themselves — forgetful of those words. " The Earth and all its fulness is the Lord's." Nor less the wrong where the rich sons of Trade Grudge those who make them so, their crust of bread : What need they care, where life is cheap as dirt. How many sing the sad " Song of the Shirt ?" 'Tis thus the " merrie England" of the past Is made a lazar- house. Let's hope at last T\\e,hoiir amdman arrived who shall restore '^^ Her right to be as merry as of yore. 'Let well alone," shouts supple D'Israeli, Let Right and Reason triumph, answer we, indignant at the brazen pow'r of nerve vVhich sees a blessing in the leave to — starve ! \nd would for that pet idol, " Church and State," 'erpetuate a much-wronged nation's hate. Jladstone, to work ! all good men long to see ^hat Siam-twin-connexion cut by thee, — 'hat monstrous birth unhallowed and impure — "he wonder is it should so long endure. strike then ! — the State the blow can well survive, 'he Church be to her duty more alive, kml thou be owned on History's future page ''he wisest, noblest statesman of thy age. 346 MacGolVs Poems. FROM ADDRESS FOU 1872. From courts and camps returning, let us see What next to touch on. Ah, the girls ! — to me Creatures whose ways surpass my utmost skill To fathom, — no man ever did or will. Just only think of Maud's poor tortured waist Into the measure of a span compressed, Yet seeming graceful in her own vain view, As if a form that looks nigh cut in two Could e'er be such ! Poor Maud, I pity thee. And wish thee quick of thy delusion free, Cjuld Jane make up her mind, through my persuading, To trust her native grace— not paint and padding, — Discard all flirting, learn to cook a dinner. It might be that, spite many flaws still in her, Some worthy wooer yet might try to win her. What ails Louise ? Gramercy ! now forfend, Her back is broken ! — Tush ! the " Grecian Bend " Is all the matter with the lass, who tries To shew herself more than her Maker wise, And so to mend the outline He designed, She heapeth on yon agony behind ! The Grecian Bend ! Think of the Graces Three And lovely Venus in such toggery ! The sight, once seen, might well for ever after Keep the Olympian gods in rjars of laughter ! MacColVs Poems. 347 One picture more, — 'tis Katy's silly head In fashion's very newest freak arrayed ; Soinething that goeth by the name of " bonnet ' Yet more like to a Robin's nest upon it ! — The hat that might have added to her grace, Unto the horrid " Chignon " giving place, T'.iat ugly heap made mostly up of tow, Enough to caulk the Rideau's biggest scow \ Let Kate be warned in time, else, I'm afraid She'll live a laughing-stock, and die a maid. Poor slaves of fashion ! let them have their day Have we not padded Cupid's bad as they ! Man -milliners who glory in such airs As make one feel like kicking them in pah's ! FROM ADDRESS FOR 1S7S. Cast we a glance where Russian legions are 'Gainst Moslem hosts barbaric waging war. And Osman, wdth a pluck that wins applause E'en from his foes, his sword undaunted draws. Till, ovei-powered, he yields in such a way As makes us almost grieve his star's deca}'. What next ? That is the question of the hour : Shall to the Cross at length the Crescent cower ? 348 MacColVs Poems. And Russia be the arm of Heaven strong To chase the Moslem back to whence he sprung, — The power beneath whose star of brightening sheen May happen that in Patmos long foreseen — A dried Euphrates o'er which Israel may Turn Zion-ward once more her joyful way i But, leaving wiser heads to solve my quest, Let's turn to France, where patriot and piiest Seem fierce-contending who that land shall rule, And would-be-wise MacMahon acts the fool. 'Tis no slight joy for Freedom's friends to know His plans all baffled, and his pride laid low. While France to her Gambetta proudly brings A loving homage seldom earned by kings. What of Britannia ? Has she really sold Her proud place 'mong earth's powers through greed of gold ? I fear it much — and yet there is some hope While she has men like Bright 'gainst knaves to cope ; And thou, too, Gladstone, bravely girding on Thine armour where fresh laurels may be won ; A war 'gainst Wrong long sheltered 'neath the shield Of" vested rights," thour't just the man to wield. Let lordlings, on "class privileges" who stand, Beware the thunderbolts in thy right hand, And cease of their just rights to baulk or foil Their betters far — " the pedigree of toil." MacCoWs Poems. 349 Proudly would I my song link to thy fame, Thou noblest yet of an illustrious name, Stanley ! who to the sea from its far source The mighty Congo did so bravely course ; A grand achievement, seeming, all alone, Enough t' immortalize the year just gone. Glad would I be to sing of Dufferin bright. That graceful Ariel, full of life and light, Who late, on slopes Pacific far away Like to some grand Aurora in full play, Aired his rare eloquence in such a mood As charmed the very " stoic of the wood," And leaving those who there would discord brew Ashamed their tactics further to pursue. But time forbids that on such topics tempting I here .'hould dwell, the Whig alone exempting — Our own brave Whig ! who, witty, as he's wise. Ne'er fails " to shoot at folly as it flies." Armed with the Truth — that true Ithuriel spear — ■ He crov/ds within the space of one brief year Such triumphs as may make us fondly deem His well-eai-ned fame, like to some noble stream Ever increasing in its seaward flow, Shall year by year, from great to greater grow. oO MacCoU's Foenn FROM ADDRESS FOR 1882. Hark ! 'tis the tolling of the midnight bell : Old year of scenes eventful, fare thee well ! Despite some ugly wrinkles on thy face, To us, Canadians, great has been thy grace : — Barns full to overtlowing — that's a fact, — Hums in abundance by great Tilly tracked, " Tall chimneys " gladdening the Mail's horizon, The Globe vain-asking for a sight of one, — Blake to applauding thousands by the sea Airing his eloquence triumphantly, — Lome, in the land where bisons breed and browse, With crowds of red men holding grand pow-wows. Wild 'mong the lost tribes finding himself lost, Yet bound to play the fool at any cost, — Vennor triumphant in his prophecies, — Comets in couples racing through our skies, — Sea serpents of our own, and no mistake, Found quite convenient down in Rideau lake, — Breeze and the bard of famed Niagara river Food for our laughter quite as much as ever, — Grip's humour too, as you right well may ween. The ne plus ultra it has always been. These, and much more than I have time to tell, Are of thy laurels,— some of doubtful smell, It may be, — still, famed EiGHTr-oxE, farewell. MacColVs Poems. 351 Alas ! that on tliy skirts, Old Year, renowned, The blood of martyred Garfield should be found ! Alas, too, that crazed Russia's noblest Czar Should, dying as he did, thy record mar ! To right the wrongs endured by any nation Fiends only could suggest assassination. The world is moving ! See in Cuba's isle The bondsman casting off his fetters vile; See, in the East — a sign of glorious hope — The symboUed Euphrates quick drying up, — ■ Greece bravely striving to prove hers once more The patriot spirit of her sons of yore ; Tn France, Ganibetta — Castelar, in Spain Fast circumscribing bigotry's dcmair, — Italy, too, with no unworthy pride. Mediaeval fetters throwing quite aside Where'er we turn our gaze, the whole eaith through, Dagons long worshipped, prostrate meet our view. When such Truth's triumphs now, how grand tho sight When the poorpigan feels its fuller mij^'ifc, And ftll the earth is filled with Gospel light ! Cast we a glance now on that honoured Isle Whose flag waves proudly o'er our own fair soi 1, And lo, great Gladstone leading still the van Of patriots toiling for the rights of man ! Disraelian tactics scornful set aside — The law of righteousness alone his guide, — That spirit full of Demosthenic fire, That wond'rous worker whom no task can tire. ' MacColl's Poems. That scholar great as any on earth's ball, That statesman in whose presence kings look small, That Christian God-fearing above all, — Small wonder is it that he stands confessed Of all Britannia's sons the noblest, best ! If all his toils for Erin's good had been His only claim to honour, well I ween It were enough to make his much-loved name Be handed down to everlasting fame. Here we might aptly throw a brief glance critical At our own somewhat muddy state political, — Viewing, much grieved, the mischief and the muss Created by our " beasts at Ephesus," — The loaves and fishes of official life Too oft the only cause of all their strife, — But let them at each other tear away, Kilkenny-cat-like, in the doubtful fray ; To most of us, who are the " Outs "' or " Ins " Is a concern not worth a row of pins. Believing it a truth as any sure. That "few of all the ills that men endure Are those which laws or kincjs can cause or cure." EXTRACTS FROM NOTES OF A "Eonx through the |lorth of ^Scotlani), IN 1888-39. Oct. 23. — At Inverness. — Spent the evening with ]\Tr. Mac- Innes, n self taught artist of great merit. His only daughter is a pretty little girl. Addressed a complimentary verse to her picture — one painted by her father, and in which she is represented in the attitude of caiessingr a favourite dog. Maclnnes is an enthusiast in his art, and one of the moat intelligent men I ever met with. Oct. 24. — Visited tlie Moor of Culloden, on my way to Nairn. Grieved to tind the graves in which rests the dust of so many he- roic spirits, most shamefully desecrated by burrowing tourists. It seemed as if a herd of swine had been lately diggin? there. The unhallowed spirit of a despicable industry is soon likely to brins: \inder the dominion of the plough the whole field — graves and all ! Already has the villainous share found its way to within a few yards of that part of the field where the bonneted heroes made their last dread onset. Oct. 25. — Manse of Croy. My reverend host, a warm-hearted, hospitable soul ; his wife a very superior woman, and an enthusiast in Celtic literature. Oct. 26. — Visited Kilravock Castle, and also that of Calder, in company with Miss Campbell, their daughter. Calder Burn, ex- quisitely romantic. According to a tradition very prevalent in the North, Calder Castle is the scene of King Duncan's death. The room where he slept, and where Macbeth slew him, is yet shown to visitors ; so is also a curiously concealed small chamber in which the unfortunate Lord Lovat secreted himself for six weeks, during the reign of terror succeeding the battle of CoUoden. Some of the rooms are hung with tapestry, in which several scriptural characters are curiously and strikingly grouped. Oct. 28. — At Nairn. Had an interview with Mrs. Grant, of Duthil, a most intelligent, venerable lady — the author of a work on education and also several poetical "flights" in the Ossianic style. Oct. 30.— Met the Nairnshire poet, William Gordon — the most laughable, self important, egotistical specimen of the doggerel tribe that ever lived. 8o4 Tour Through the North of Scotland. November 4. — Attended a little evening party at the house of the Misses Carmichael — three delightful maiden ladies from Strath- spey, and inhabiting a large old house, in which, fi'om its being the best in Nairn at the time, Prince Charles slept on the secjnd, and Cumberland on the very night preceding the battle of Culloden. In a fit of Jacobite enthusiasm I proposed, and was cordially wel- comed, to sleep in the identical room where Charlie stretched his own royal limbs. True it is that its having also been for a night the lair of the bloodhound that pursued him, deprives it of much of its sacredness, yet what Highlander would not feel a melancholy pride in sleeping where I slept ! Nov. (■). — Met Mr. Priest, gardener st Kinsterrie, the author of several clever poems and songs in the Scottish dialect. Nov. 8.- Left Nairn for Forres. Village of Auldearn on the way, in the vicinity of which the celebrated Bkir Avlt-Eirinn of our Celtic bards was fought— Montrose and Allister M'Colla, with 1.500 men gaining a complete victory over the Covenanting clans, 3000 strong. Of the latter, about one half the number was slaughtered, while Montrose is said to have lost only twenty men ! In the vil- la.:e churchyard are the tombs of many of the principal men who fell on that day. Over one pious tenant of the tomb is erected a dial with a suitable inscription — perhaps the very one that sug- gested Hugh IMiller's beautiful address ''To a Dial in a Church- yard." Tlipre it indeed stands, " in mockery o'er the dead ! the stone that measui-es time." Three miles further east is the " Har- Moor," where the " Weird Sisters " met Macbeth. Here stands, preserved by the good taste of liord Murray as a mark and memo- rial of the scene, a clump of fir trees, the sole remnant left now of a once extensive fir wood lately given to the axe. The road to Forres passes within a gunshot distance of the very spot where that celebrated meeting is said to have taken- place. In selling the wood in question. Lord Murray forgot to make an exceptiim as to these trees, and I have been told that it was not till he had paid him three times their value that the scoundrel of a purchaser would con- sent to spare them. Visited, a little further on, Brodie House, a very interesting mansion. Beautiful su?< Renewals and recharges may t»e made 4 days prior to due d«te DUE AS STAMPED BELOW RETD FEE 5 1984 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELE FORM NO. DD6, 60m, 1/83 BERKELEY, CA 94720 - — I