Page images
PDF
EPUB

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale,

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.”

Is there a human form that bears a heart,-
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth47,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?
Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild!
But now the supper crowns their simple board!
The halesome parritch9, chief o' Scotia's food:
The soupe50 their only hawkies1 does afford,
That 'yont52 the hallan snugly chows her cud:
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,

To

53

grace the lad, her weel-hained55 kebbuck 56 fell57 An' aft he's pressed, an' aft he ca's it good;

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,

How 'twas a towmond 58 auld59, sino lint was i' the bell1.

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They round the ingle form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace,
The big Ha'-Bible, ances his father's pride:
His bonnet reverently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets65 wearin' thin an' bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;

And "Let us worship God," he says, wi' solemn air.
They chaunt their artless notes in simple guise,
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise,

[blocks in formation]

Or plaintive Martyrs', worthy of the name,
Or noble Elgin 7, beets the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:

Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.
The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bardes did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire;

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head;
How his first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land;
How he9, who lone in Patmos70 banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,

And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.

Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
There ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise.

In such society, yet still more dear,

While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's every grace, except the heart!
The Power incensed, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole1;

67 Dundee, Martyrs, Elgin, the names of Scottish psalm-tunes.

68 royal bard, David

69 he, Saint John.

70 Patmos, an island in the Archipelago, where Saint John is supposed to have written his Revelation.

71 sacerdotal stole, priestly vestment.

But haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear well-pleased, the language of the soul; And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their several way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest; The parent pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He who stills the raven's clamorous nest And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of God;" And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind: What is a lordling's pomp? A cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blessed with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And, oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,

And stand, a wall of fire, around their much-loved isle.

O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide

That streamed through Wallace's73 undaunted heart;
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
Oh! never, never, Scotia's realm desert:
But still the patriot and the patriot bard

In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

72 certes, certainly.

78 Wallace, Sir William Wallace, the celebrated Scottish patriot.

LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.
THE wind blew hollow frae the hills,

By fits the sun's departing beam
Looked on the fading yellow woods,

That waved o'er Lugar's winding stream;
Beneath a craigy74 steep, a bard,

Laden with years and meikle75 pain
In loud lament bewailed his lord,

Whom death had all untimely taʼen.

He leaned him to an ancient aik76,

Whose trunk was mouldering down with years;
His locks were bleached white wi' time,
His hoary cheeks were wet wi' tears!
And as he touched his trembling harp,
And as he tuned his doleful sang,
The winds lamenting through their caves,
To echo bore the notes alang:
"Ye scattered birds, that faintly sing,
The relics of the vernal quire!
Ye woods, that shed on a' the winds
The honours of the aged year!
A few short months, and, glad and gay,
Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e;
But nocht77, in all revolving time,
Can gladness bring again to me.

"I am a bending aged tree,

That long has stood the wind and rain;

But now has come a cruel blast,

And my last hald of earth is gane,

Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring,
Nae summer sun exalt my bloom;
But I maun78 lie before the storm,
And ithers79 plant them in my room.
“I've seen sae mony changefu' years,
On earth I am a stranger grown;
I wander in the ways of men,
Alike unknowing and unknown;
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved,

I bear alane my lade80 o' care,
For silent, low, on beds of dust,

Lie a' that would my sorrows share.

74 craigy, craggy, precipitous.

75 meikle, much.

76 aik, oak.

77 nocht, nothing.

78

maun, must.

79 ithers, others.

80 lade, load.

"And last (the sum of a' my griefs!)
My noble master lies in clay;
The flower amang our barons bold,
His country's pride, his country's stay:
weary being now I pine,

In

For a the life of life is dead,
And hope has left my aged ken31,
On forward wing for ever fled.

"Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!
The voice of woe and wild despair!
Awake, resound thy latest lay,

Then sleep in silence evermair!
And thou, my last, best, only freend,
That fillest an untimely tomb,

Accept this tribute from the bard

Thou brought from Fortune's mirkest82 gloom.

"In poverty's low barren vale,

Thick mists obscure involve me round:

Though oft I turned the wistful eye,
Nae ray of fame was to be found.
Thou found'st me like the morning sun,
That melts the fogs in limpid air,
The friendless bard and rustic song
Became alike thy fostering care.

"Oh! why has worth so short a date,
While villains ripen gray with time!
Must thou, the noble, generous, great,
Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime!
Why did I live to see that day?
A day to me so full of woe!
Oh! had I met the mortal shaft,
Which laid my benefactor low!

"The bridegroom may forget the bride,
Was made his wedded wife yestreen:
The monarch may forget the crown.
That on his head an hour has been:
The mother may forget the child,

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee,
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,
And a' that thou hast done for me!"

81 ken, sight.

82 mirkest, darkest.

83 yestreen, yesterday evening.

« PreviousContinue »