Page images
PDF
EPUB

Then smiled each peaceful village-
No more given o'er to pillage-
Then flourished trade and tillage-
Every blessing we adore.

Be hallow'd and defended,
The sceptre that's extended,
The monarch that ascended
To gladden Albion's shore.

TO THE STREET

REMARKERS.

Ye street-remarking, boolhorn'd bitches!
Ye idle, lazy, menseless wretches!
I'd sooner meet a group o' witches
On Hallowe'en,

Than come within your cursed clutches,
Whaur ye convene.

Ye hae nae sense-ye've nane ava-
Low, byre-bred haverils, ane and a'!
Ye gape and glow'r wi' loud guffa,
At a' that passes,

And cock your crests, an' crousely craw,
Though nocht but asses.

Ye stan' upon the street and smoke,
An' laugh an' jeer at honest folk,
An' drive, an' ane anither knock,
Like mob a-skailin';

I'd sooner far hear puddocks croak,
Or grumphy yellin'!

Hae ye nae dub at your ain door?
Ye idle, blethering, senseless core !
That ye maun jibe, an' rowt, an' roar
Till your sides split,

Each telling loud his pig-sty splore
O' paltry wit.

I winna say your heads are boss ;

They're filled wi' something-gowd or dross ; Let him wha doubts it keek mair close;

An' see the byke!

Laying their lazy limbs across

The priest's glebe dyke.

Just note the marrow o' their mirth-
Ye'll swear that an Egyptian dearth
O' common sense out owre the earth
Its black wing stretches,

An' pray for strength, an' a horse-girth
To skelp the wretches!

L

I needna preach! sic doctrine's stale-
To you at least of no avail;

Ane better wad wi' brutes prevail-
Even Hielan' donkeys;

I tell you, ye but want the tail
To mak' you monkeys!

THE MAIDEN FAIR.

The moon hung o'er the gay greenwood,
The greenwood o'er the mossy stream,
That roll'd in rapture's wildest mood,
And flutter'd in the fairy beam.
Through light clouds flash'd the fitful gleam
O'er hill and dell,—all Nature lay
Wrapp'd in enchantment, like the dream
Of her that charm'd my homeward way!

Long had I mark'd thee, maiden fair!
And drunk of bliss from thy dark eye,
And still, to feed my fond despair,

Bless'd thy approach, and, passing by,
I turn'd me round to gaze and sigh,

In worship wild, and wish'd thee mine,
On that fair breast to live and die,

O'erpower'd with transport so divine!

Still sacred be that hour to love,
And dear the season of its birth,
And fair the glade, and green the grove,
Its bowers ne'er droop in wintry dearth

Of melody and woodland mirth !-
The hour, the spot, so dear to me!
That wean'd my soul from all on earth,
To be for ever bless'd in thee.

THE OLD BLIGHTED THORN.

All night by the pathway that crosses the moor,
I waited on Mary, I linger'd till morn,
Yet thought her not false-she had ever been true
To her tryst by the old blighted thorn.

I had heard of love lighting to darken the heart,
Fickle, fleeting as wind and the dews of the morn;
Such were not my fears, though I sigh'd all night long,
And wept 'neath the old blighted thorn.

The snows, that were deep had awaken'd my dread,
I mark'd her footprints far below by the burn;

I sped to the valley-I found her deep sunk,
On her way to the old blighted thorn!

I whisper'd, "My Mary !"-she spoke not: I caught
Her hand, press'd her pale cheek-'twas icy and cold;
Then sunk on her bosom-its throbbings were o'er-
Nor knew how I quitted my hold.

A

ROBERT MENNON,

WORTHY octogenarian poet, was born in Ayton, Berwickshire, in 1797. On asking Mr Mennon for a few particulars of his career, he modestly wrote as follows:-"Although my life has extended over eighty years, and there are many events which have transpired in that period that I can never forget, they would afford little interest to the outside public. I am the seventh son spoiled; for a sister came in between an elder brother and me." After receiving a "smatterin'" of reading, writing, and arithmetic, he left school, and went to work with his father, who was a "slater, plasterer, and glazier." After the death of his father, in 1824, he went to London in a Berwick smack-there being few steamers then, and railways were unknown. He settled in London for nearly twenty-six years— twenty-four of which he was with one employer. Here he learned a good deal of men and manners, and his calling afforded him many opportunities of seeing different parts of the country. He also courted a young English woman, and made her his wife. After an absence of twenty years he visited the home where he "first began life's weary race," and the following lines in the second part of a poem on "The Big Arm-Chair," were the outcome of the visit:

I lifted the latch, entered in, and looked round,
Made the inmates all wonder and stare;

Then round me they pressed, while the tears trickled down
As I sank in the Big Arm-Chair.

The old eight-day clock seemed to welcome me back;
Not a change in its face could I see;

The stool that I rode on had fallen to wreck ;

And the cat was a stranger to me.

My brothers and sisters, thank God, still survived,
But looked older and worse for the wear;

While their offspring to women and men had arrived,
Whom I left round the Big Arm-Chair.

Oh, who can describe the emotions I felt,
That tumult of painful delight,

When I joined the dear circle that gratefully knelt
Round the family altar that night.

For though lowly the cot, and its tenants obscure,
No home with that home can compare,
Where the inmates unite in devotion to pour
Out their heart round the Big Arm-Chair.

The stream ran as pure and the birds sang as gay;
All nature looked blooming and fair;

But they wanted the charm of youth's happy day
When I first knew the Big Arm-Chair.

I've oftentimes thought that the sensitive mind,
To be happy, should never leave home;
For a pleasure is lost that we never can find
When far amongst strangers we roam.

I stood by the spot where my parents were laid
Looked to heaven and hoped they were there;
I wished them not back, but I sighed, as I said
"Farewell to the Big Arm-Chair."

;

Mr Mennon established himself in business on his own account in Dunbar, East Lothian, and for nineteen years was very successful. On retiring from active life, he returned to spend the "winter of his days," "after an absence forty-five years," as he tells us, "to dear old Ayton, to the same old house in which I was born, and where I am now resting on my oars-taking it easy, and daily looking in upon my friends, or taking a stroll amongst the scenes of my childhood and youth. But Time is ever making changes. Death has made several calls since I came back, but the heaviest stroke of all was the death of my dear wife, upwards of four years ago, an event which, in anticipation, I thought I never could survive. We lived happily together for forty-eight years, and might truly be said to be 'one flesh.'"

His wants are kindly ministered to by a widowed niece, and, to use his own words again, "I live in the same room in which I first saw the light- my bedstead standing on the identical spot where I was born; and the same dear old sun is now peeping in at my window."

In 1869 Mr Mennon issued a large and very handsome volume entitled "Poems, Moral and Religious." He published much against his inclinations, and it was only after the earnest entreaties of friends well qualified to judge of the merits of his productions that he consented. He could not be accused of rushing rashly into print, and many of his poems had been written half-a-century before. He would not hear of publishing by subscription, which he looked upon as "asking the public to buy a pig in a poke.' I have always said if ever I publish, I will do it at my own expense, and let the work speak for itself, while I confess it is my highest ambition, and will be my greatest reward to see my book appreciated. I launch it then upon the sea of public opinion, and hope it will steer clear of the rocks of prejudice, and never be wrecked upon the quicksands of contempt; but afford amusement, and perhaps instruction, to those who may think it worth their trouble to read it, when I may be laid in the dust." The work was a success, and the poet has received many testimonies that his verses have afforded both amusement and consolation to Scotchmen at home and abroad.

Many of his poems are certainly unequal, but they generally indicate that the author has an eye to observe Nature in her, gentler moods, and that he is possessed of an amiable heart, and expansive sympathies. An almost feminine gentleness pervades his writings. He is unpretentious and homely, and yet his sentiments are based on keen observation and ripe judgment of the various phases of human life. He still contributes to the local and district press, and the first two poems we quote have been written

« PreviousContinue »