Page images
PDF
EPUB

He did not succeed in either character; and after publishing his poems he returned to the loom. In 1792 he issued anonymously his best poem, Watty and Meg, which was at first attributed to Burns. A foolish personal satire, and a not very wise admiration of the principles of equality disseminated at the time of the French Revolution, drove Wilson to America in the year 1794. There he was once more a weaver and a pedlar, and afterwards a schoolmaster. A love of ornithology gained upon him, and he wandered over America, collecting specimens of birds. In 1808 appeared his first volume of the American Ornithology, and he continued collecting and publishing, traversing swamps and forests in quest of rare birds, and undergoing the greatest privations and fatigues, till he had committed an eighth volume to the press. He sank under his severe labours on the 23d of August 1813, and was interred with public honours at Philadelphia. In the Ornithology of Wilson we see the fancy and descriptive powers of the poet. The following extract is part of his account of the bald eagle, and is extremely vivid and striking :

"The celebrated cataract of Niagara is a noted place of resort for the bald eagle, as well on account of the fish procured there, as for the numerous carcases of squirrels, deer, bears, and various other animals, that, in their attempts to cross the river above the falls, have been dragged into the current, and precipitated down that tremendous gulf, where, among the rocks that bound the rapids below, they furnish a rich repast for the vulture, the raven, and the bald eagle, the subject of the present account. He has been long known to naturalists, being common to both continents, and occasionally met with from a very high northern latitude to the borders of the torrid zone, but chiefly in the vicinity of the sea, and along the shores and cliffs of our lakes and large rivers. Formed by nature for braving the severest cold, feeding equally on the produce of the sea and of the land, possessing powers of flight capable of outstripping even the tempests them selves, unawed by anything but man, and, from the ethereal heights to which he soars, looking abroad at one glance on an immeasurable expanse of forests, fields, lakes, and ocean deep below him, he appears indifferent to the little localities of change of seasons, as in a few minutes he can pass from summer to winter, from the lower to the higher regions of the atmosphere, the abode of eternal cold, and from thence descend at will to the torrid or the arctic regions of the earth. He is, therefore, found at all seasons in the countries he inhabits; but prefers such places as have been mentioned above, from the great partiality he has for fish.

In procuring these, he displays, in a very singular manner, the genius and energy of his character, which is fierce, contemplative, daring, and tyrannical; attributes not exerted but on particular occasions, but when put forth, overpowering all opposition. Elevated on the high dead limb of some gigantic tree that commands a wide view of the neighbouring shore and ocean, he seems calmly to contemplate the motions of the various feathered tribes that pursue their busy avocations below; the snow-white gulls slowly winnowing the air; the busy tringæ coursing along the sands; trains of ducks streaming over the surface; silent and watchful cranes intent and wading; clamorous crows; and all the winged multitudes that subsist by the bounty of this vast liquid magazine of nature. High over all these hovers one whose action instantly arrests his whole attention. By his wide curvature

of wing, and sudden suspension in air, he knows him to be the fish-hawk, settling over some devoted victim of the deep. His eye kindles at the sight, and balancing himself with half-opened wings on the branch, he watches the result. Down, rapid as an arrow from heaven, descends the distant object of his attention, the roar of its wings reaching the ear as it disappears in the deep, making the surges foam around. At this moment the eager looks of the eagle are all ardour; and, levelling his neck for flight, he sees the fish-hawk once more emerge, struggling with his prey, and mounting in the air with screams of exultation. These are the signal for our hero, who, launching into the air, instantly gives chase, and soon gains on the fish-hawk; each exerts his utmost to mount above the other, displaying in these rencontres the most elegant and sublime aerial evolutions. The unencumbered eagle rapidly advances, and is just on the point of reaching his opponent, when, with a sudden scream, probably of despair and honest execration, the latter drops his fish the eagle, poising himself for a moment, as if to take a more certain aim, descends like a whirlwind, snatches it in his grasp ere it reaches the water, and bears his ill-gotten booty silently away to the woods.'

By way of preface, 'to invoke the clemency of the reader,' Wilson relates the following exquisite trait of simplicity and nature:

In one of my late visits to a friend in the country, I found their youngest son, a fine boy of eight or nine years of age, who usually resides in town for his education, just returning from a ramble through the neighbouring woods and fields, where he had collected a large and very handsome bunch of wild flowers, of a great many different colours; and, presenting them to his mother, said, “Look, my dear mamma, what beautiful flowers I have found growing on our place! Why, all the woods are full of them! red, orange, and blue, and 'most every colour. Oh! I can gather you a whole parcel of them, much handsomer than these, all growing in our own woods! Shall I, mamma? Shall I go and bring you more?" The good woman received the bunch of flowers with a smile of affectionate complacency; and, after admiring for some time the beautiful simplicity of nature, gave her willing consent, and the little fellow went off on the wings of ecstacy to execute his delightful commission.

The similarity of this little boy's enthusiasm to my own struck me, and the reader will need no explanations of mine to make the application. Should my country receive with the same gracious indulgence the specimens which I here humbly present her; should she express a desire for me to go and bring her more, the highest wishes of my ambition will be gratified; for, in the language of my little friend, our whole woods are full of them, and I can collect hundreds more, much handsomer than these.'

The ambition of the poet-naturalist was amply gratified.

[A Village Scold surprising her Husband in an Ale-house.]

I' the thrang o' stories tellin,
Shakin hands and jokin queer,
Swith a chap comes on the hallan-
'Mungo! is our Watty here?'
Maggy's weel-kent tongue and hurry
Darted through him like a knife:
Up the door flew-like a fury
In came Watty's scoldin wife.

'Nasty, gude-for-naething being!
O ye snuffy drucken sow!
Bringin wife and weans to ruin,
Drinkin here wi' sic a crew!
Rise! ye drucken beast o' Bethel !
Drink's your night and day's desire;
Rise, this precious hour! or faith I'll
Fling your whisky i' the fire!'
Watty heard her tongue unhallowed,
Paid his groat wi' little din,
Left the house, while Maggy fallowed,
Flyting a' the road behin'.

Folk frae every door came lampin,
Maggy curst them ane and a',
Clapped wi' her hands, and stampin,
Lost her bauchels! i' the snaw.

Hame, at length, she turned the gavel,
Wi' a face as white's a clout,
Ragin like a very devil,

Kickin stools and chairs about.
'Ye'll sit wi' your limmers round ye
Hang you, sir, I'll be your death!
Little hauds my hands, confound you
But I cleave you to the teeth!'
Watty, wha, 'midst this oration,

Eyed her whiles, but durst na speak, Sat, like patient Resignation,

Trembling by the ingle-cheek.
Sad his wee drap brose he sippet,
(Maggy's tongue gaed like a bell),
Quietly to his bed he slippet,
Sighin aften to himsel-

'Nane are free frae some vexation,
Ilk ane has his ills to dree;
But through a' the hale creation
Is nae mortal vexed like me.'

[A Pedlar's Story.]

I wha stand here, in this bare scowry coat,
Was ance a packman, worth mony a groat;
I've carried packs as big's your meikle table;
I've scarted pats, and sleepit in a stable:
Sax pounds I wadna for my pack ance taen,
And I could bauldly brag 'twas a' mine ain.

Ay! thae were days indeed, that gar'd me hope,
Aiblins, through time to warsle up a shop;
And as a wife aye in my noddle ran,

I kenned my Kate wad grapple at me than.
Oh, Kate was past compare! sic cheeks! sic een!
Sic smiling looks! were never, never seen.
Dear, dear I lo'ed her, and whene'er we met,
Pleaded to have the bridal day but set;
Stapped her pouches fu' o' preens and laces,
And thought mysel weel paid wi' twa three kisses:
Yet still she put it aff frae day to day,
And aften kindly in my lug would say,
Ae half-year langer's no nae unco stop,
We'll marry then, and syne set up a shop.'
Oh, sir, but lasses' words are saft and fair,
They soothe our griefs and banish ilka care:
Wha wadna toil to please the lass he loes?
A lover true minds this in all he does.
Finding her mind was thus sae firmly bent,
And that I couldna get her to relent,
There was nought left but quietly to resign,
To heeze my pack for ae lang hard campaign;
And as the Highlands was the place for meat,
I ventured there in spite o' wind and weet.
Cauld now the winter blew, and deep the snaw
For three hale days incessantly did fa';

1 Old shoes.

Far in a muir, amang the whirling drift,
Where nought was seen but mountains and the lift,
I lost my road and wandered mony a mile,
Maist dead wi' hunger, cauld, and fright, and toil.
Thus wandering, east or west, I kenned na where,
My mind o'ercome wi' gloom and black despair,
Wi' a fell ringe I plunged at ance, forsooth,
Down through a wreath o' snaw up to my mouth-
Clean owre my head my precious wallet flew,
But whar it gaed, Lord kens-I never knew!
What great misfortunes are poured down on some!
I thought my fearfu' hinder-end was come!
Wi' grief and sorrow was my saul owercast,
Ilk breath I drew was like to be my last;
For aye the mair I warsled roun' and roun',
I fand mysel aye stick the deeper down;
Till ance, at length, wi' a prodigious pull,
I drew my puir cauld carcass frae the hole.

Lang, lang I sought and graped for my pack,
Till night and hunger forced me to come back.
For three lang hours I wandered up and down,
Till chance at last conveyed me to a town;
There, wi' a trembling hand, I wrote my Kate
A sad account of a' my luckless fate,
But bade her aye be kind, and no despair,
Since life was left, I soon would gather mair,
Wi' whilk I hoped, within a towmont's date,
To be at hame, and share it a' wi' Kate.

Fool that I was! how little did I think
That love would soon be lost for faut o' clink!
The loss o' fair-won wealth, though hard to bear,
Afore this-ne'er had power to force a tear.
I trusted time would bring things round again,
And Kate, dear Kate! would then be a' mine ain:
Consoled my mind in hopes o' better luck-
But, oh! what sad reverse! how thunderstruck!
When ae black day brought word frae Rab my brither,
That-Kate was cried and married on anither!

Though a' my friends, and ilka comrade sweet, At ance had drapped cauld dead at my feet; Or though I'd heard the last day's dreadful ca', Nae deeper horror owre my heart could fa': I cursed mysel, I cursed my luckless fate, And grat-and sabbing cried, Oh Kate! oh Kate! Frae that day forth I never mair did weel, But drank, and ran headforemost to the deil! My siller vanished, far frae hame I pined, But Kate for ever ran across my mind; In her were a' my hopes-these hopes were vain, And now I'll never see her like again.

HECTOR MACNEILL.

HECTOR MACNEILL (1746-1818) was brought up to a mercantile life, but was unsuccessful in most of his business affairs. He cultivated in secret an attachment to the muses, which at length brought him fame, though not wealth. In 1789 he published a legendary poem, The Harp, and in 1795 his moral tale, Scotland's Skaith, or the History o' Will and Jean. The object of this production was to depict the evil effects of intemperance. A happy rural pair are reduced to ruin, descending by gradual steps till the husband is obliged to enlist as a soldier, and the wife to beg with her children through the country. The situation of the little ale-house where Will begins his unlucky potations is finely described. In a howm whose bonny burnie Whimpering rowed its crystal flood, Near the road where travellers turn aye, Neat and beild a cot-house stood: White the wa's wi' roof new theekit, Window broads just painted red; Lown 'mang trees and braes it reckit, Haflins seen and haflins hid.

Up the gavel-end thick spreading
Crap the clasping ivy green,
Back owre firs the high craigs cleadin,
Raised a' round a cosey screen.
Down below a flowery meadow

Joined the burnie's rambling line;
Here it was that Howe the widow

That same day set up her sign. Brattling down the brae, and near its Bottom, Will first marvelling sees 'Porter, Ale, and British Spirits,'

Painted bright between twa trees.

'Godsake, Tam! here's walth for drinking! Wha can this new-comer be?'

·

'Hout,' quo' Tam, there's drouth in thinkingLet's in, Will, and syne we'll see.'

[ocr errors]

The rustic friends have a jolly meeting, and do not separate till 'tween twa and three' next morning. A weekly club is set up at Maggy Howe's, a newspaper is procured, and poor Will, the hero of the tale, becomes a pot-house politician, and soon goes to ruin. His wife also takes to drinking.

Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace!
Wha in neebouring town or farm?
Beauty's bloom shone in his fair face,
Deadly strength was in his arm.

Whan he first saw Jeanie Miller,
Wha wi' Jeanie could compare?

Thousands had mair braws and siller,
But war ony half sae fair?

See them now!-how changed wi' drinking!
A' their youthfu' beauty gane!

Davered, doited, daized, and blinking-
Worn to perfect skin and bane!
In the cauld month o' November
(Claise and cash and credit out),
Cowering o'er a dying ember,

Wi' ilk face as white's a clout!
Bond and bill and debts a' stoppit,
Ilka sheaf selt on the bent;
Cattle, beds, and blankets roupit
Now to pay the laird his rent.
No anither night to lodge here-
No a friend their cause to plead !
He's ta'en on to be a sodger,

She wi' weans to beg her bread!

The little domestic drama is happily wound up: Jeanie obtains a cottage and protection from the Duchess of Buccleuch; and Will, after losing a leg in battle, returns, placed on Chelsea's bounty,' and finds his wife and family.

Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin',
Sometimes helpit, Will gat forth;
On a cart, or in a wagon,
Hirpling aye towards the north.
Tired ae e'ening, stepping hooly,
Pondering on his thraward fate,
In the bonny month o' July,

Willie, heedless, tint his gate.
Saft the southland breeze was blawing,
Sweetly sughed the green aik wood;
Loud the din o' streams fast fa'ing,

Strack the ear wi' thundering thud:
Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleating;
Linties chirped on ilka tree;
Frae the west the sun, near setting,
Flamed on Roslin's towers sae hie.

HECTOR MACNEILL

Roslin's towers and braes sae bonny!

Craigs and water, woods and glen ! Roslin's banks unpeered by ony,

Save the Muses' Hawthornden! Ilka sound and charm delighting, Will (though hardly fit to gang) Wandered on through scenes inviting, Listening to the mavis' sang.

Faint at length, the day fast closing,
On a fragrant strawberry steep,
Esk's sweet dream to rest composing,
Wearied nature drapt asleep.

'Soldier, rise!-the dews o' e'ening
Gathering, fa' wi' deadly skaith!-
Wounded soldier! if complaining,
Sleep na here, and catch your death.'

*

*

Silent stept he on, poor fallow!

Listening to his guide before,
O'er green knowe and flowery hallow,
Till they reached the cot-house door.
Laigh it was, yet sweet and humble;
Decked wi' honeysuckle round;
Clear below Esk's waters rumble,
Deep glens murmuring back the sound.
Melville's towers sae white and stately,
Dim by gloaming glint to view;

Through Lasswade's dark woods keek sweetly
Skies sae red and lift sae blue.

Entering now, in transport mingle
Mother fond and happy wean,
Smiling round a canty ingle
Bleezing on a clean hearthstane.
'Soldier welcome! come, be cheerie-
Here ye'se rest and tak' your bed-
Faint, waes me! ye seem, and weary,
Pale's your cheek sae lately red!"

'Changed I am,' sighed Willie till her;
'Changed, nae doubt, as changed can be ;
Yet, alas! does Jeanie Miller

Nought o' Willie Gairlace see?'
Hae ye marked the dews o' morning
Glittering in the sunny ray,

Quickly fa', when, without warning,
Rough blasts came and shook the spray!

Hae ye seen the bird fast fleeing,

Drap when pierced by death mair fleet?
Then see Jean wi' colour deeing,
Senseless drap at Willie's feet.

After three lang years' affliction

(A' their waes now hushed to rest), Jean ance mair, in fond affection, Clasps her Willie to her breast.

The simple truth and pathos of descriptions like these appealed to the heart, and soon rendered Macneill's poem universally popular in Scotland. Its moral tendency was also a strong recommendation, and the same causes still operate in procuring readers for the tale, especially in that class best fitted to appreciate its rural beauties and homely pictures, and to receive benefit from the lessons it inculcates. Macneill wrote several Scottish lyrics, but he wanted the true genius for song-writing-the pathos, artlessness, and simple gaiety which should accompany the flow of the music. He published a descriptive poem, entitled The Links of Forth, or a Parting Peep at the Carse of Stirling; and some prose tales, in which he laments the effect of modern

change and improvement. The latter years of the poet were spent in comparative comfort at Edinburgh, where he enjoyed the refined and literary society of the Scottish capital till an advanced age.

Mary of Castle-Cary.

Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing,
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea-
Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming,
Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw-tree;
Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white,
Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e;
Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses,
Where could my wee thing wander frae me?

I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing,
Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea;
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloaming,
Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree:
Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white,
Dark was the blue of her soft rolling e'e;
Red were her ripe lips and sweeter than roses-
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.

It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing,
It was nae my true love ye met by the tree:
Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature,
She never loved ony till ance she loed me.
Her name it is Mary, she's frae Castle-Cary,
Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee:
Fair as your face is, wert fifty times fairer,
Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee.

It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary,
It was then your true love I met by the tree;
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.
Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew,
Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e:
Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your
scorning,

Defend ye, fause traitor, fu' loudly ye lie.

Away wi' beguiling, cried the youth smiling-
Off went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee,
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing,
Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e.
Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing,

Is it my true love here that I see?

O Jamie, forgie me, your heart's constant to me,
I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee.

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

ROBERT TANNAHILL, a lyrical poet of a superior order, whose songs rival all but the best of Burns's in popularity, was born in Paisley on the 3d of June 1774. His education was limited, but he was a diligent reader and student. He was early sent to the loom, weaving being the staple trade of Paisley, and continued to follow his occupation in his native town until his twenty-sixth year, when, with one of his younger brothers, he removed to Lancashire. There he continued two years, when the declining state of his father's health induced him to return. He arrived in time to receive the dying blessing of his parent, and a short time afterwards we find him writing to a friend- My brother Hugh and I are all that now remain at home, with our old mother, bending under age and frailty; and but seven years back, nine of us used to sit at dinner together.' Hugh married, and the poet was left alone with his widowed mother. On this occasion he adopted a resolution which he has expressed in the following lines:

The Filial Vow.

Why heaves my mother oft the deep-drawn sigh
Why starts the big tear glistening in her eye!
Why oft retire to hide her bursting grief!
Why seeks she not, nor seems to wish relief?
'Tis for my father, mouldering with the dead,
My brother, in bold manhood, lowly laid,
And for the pains which age is doomed to bear,
She heaves the deep-drawn sigh, and drops the secret

tear.

Yes, partly these her gloomy thoughts employ,
But mostly this o'erclouds her every joy;
She grieves to think she may be burdensome,
Now feeble, old, and tottering to the tomb.

O hear me, Heaven! and record my vow;
Its non-performance let thy wrath pursue!
I swear, of what thy providence may give,
My mother shall her due maintenance have.
'Twas hers to guide me through life's early day,
To point out virtue's paths, and lead the way:
Now, while her powers in frigid languor sleep,
"Tis mine to hand her down life's rugged steep;
With all her little weaknesses to bear,
Attentive, kind, to soothe her every care.
"Tis nature bids, and truest pleasure flows
From lessening an aged parent's woes.

The filial piety of Tannahill is strikingly apparent from this effusion, but the inferiority of the lines to any of his Scottish songs shows how little at home he was in English. His mother outlived him thirteen

Robert Tannahill.

years. Though Tannahill had occasionally composed verses from a very early age, it was not till after this time that he attained to anything beyond mediocrity. Becoming acquainted with Mr R A. Smith, a musical composer, the poet applied himself sedulously to lyrical composition, aided by the encouragement and the musical taste of his friend. Smith set some of his songs to original and appro priate airs, and in 1807 the poet ventured on the publication of a volume of poems and songs, of which the first impression, consisting of 900 copies, were sold in a few weeks. It is related that in a solitary walk on one occasion, his musings were interrupted

[ocr errors][merged small]
[graphic]

by the voice of a country girl in an adjoining field
singing by herself a song of his own-
We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burnside;
and he used to say he was more pleased at this evi-
dence of his popularity, than at any tribute which
had ever been paid him. He afterwards contributed
some songs to Mr George Thomson's Select Melo-
dies, and exerted himself to procure Irish airs, of
which he was very fond. Whilst delighting all
classes of his countrymen with his native songs, the
poet fell into a state of morbid despondency, aggra-
vated by bodily weakness, and a tendency to con-
sumption. He had prepared a new edition of his
poems for the press, and sent the manuscript to Mr
Constable the publisher; but it was returned by that
gentleman, in consequence of his having more new
works on hand than he could undertake that season.

So merrily we'll sing,
As the storm rattles o'er us,
Till the dear shieling ring

Wi' the light lilting chorus.
Now the summer 's in prime

Wi' the flowers richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme

A' the moorlands perfuming;
To our dear native scenes

Let us journey together,
Where glad innocence reigns
'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

The Braes o' Gleniffer.

Keen blaws the win' o'er the braes o' Gleniffer,
The auld castle turrets are covered with snaw;
How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover
Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw!
The wild flowers o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie,
The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree;
But far to the camp they hae marched my dear Johnie,
And now it is winter wi' nature and me.

They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee;

And

chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnie ;

'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.

This disappointment preyed on the spirits of the sensitive poet, and his melancholy became deep and habitual. He burned all his manuscripts, and sank into a state of mental derangement. Returning from a visit to Glasgow on the 17th of May 1810, the unhappy poet retired to rest; but suspicion having been excited, in about an hour afterwards it Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheerie, was discovered that he had stolen out unperceived. Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw; Search was made in every direction, and by the Now naething is heard but the wind whistling drearie, dawn of the morning, the coat of the poet was disAnd naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. covered lying at the side of the tunnel of a neigh-The trees are a bare, and the birds mute and dowie; bouring brook, pointing out but too surely where his body was to be found.'* Tannahill was a modest and temperate man, devoted to his kindred and friends, and of unblemished purity and correctness of conduct. His lamentable death arose from no want or irregularity, but was solely caused by that morbid disease of the mind which at length over-Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mounthrew his reason. The poems of this ill-starred son of genius are greatly inferior to his songs. They have all a commonplace artificial character. His lyrics, on the other hand, are rich and original both in description and sentiment. His diction is copious and luxuriant, particularly in describing natural objects and the peculiar features of the Scottish landscape. His simplicity is natural and unaffected; and though he appears to have possessed a deeper sympathy with nature than with the workings of human feeling, or even the passion of love, he is often tender and pathetic. His Gloomy winter's now awa' is a beautiful concentration of tenderness and melody.

[ocr errors]

The Braes o' Balquhither.

Let us go, lassie, go,

To the braes o' Balquhither,
Where the blae-berries grow

'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;
Where the deer and the roe,

Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bower

By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flowers of the mountain;
I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glens sae drearie,
And return wi' the spoils

To the bower o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the linn

On the night breeze is swelling,

* Memoir prefixed to Tannahill's Works. Glasgow: 1833.

tain,

And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky brae, While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain,

That murmured sae sweet to my laddie and me.
It's no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin',
It's no the cauld blast brings the tear i' my e'e;
For O! gin I saw but my bonnie Scots callan,
The dark days o' winter were summer to me.

The Flower o' Dumblane.

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin,
To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom!
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain:
And far be the villain, divested of feeling,
Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dum-
blane.

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening;
Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen:
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie!
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain;

I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dum-
blane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

« PreviousContinue »