The Dramatic and Poetical Works of Joanna Baillie ::

Thou pleasant noble Bard, of fame far spread,
Now art thou gather'd to the mighty dead,
And the dark coffin and the girdling mould
All that of thee is perishable, hold.
Mourners and mutes and weeping friends are gone;
The pageant's closed, and thou art left alone;
The cover'd treasure of a sacred spot,
That in the course of time shall never be forgot.

Soon those who loved, admired, and honoured thee,
In death's still garner-house will gathered be;
And great their number is, who have with pride
Look'd in thy manly face, sat by thy side,
And heard thy social converse,—words of cheer,
And words of power to charm the listening ear!

793

At death's despotic summons will they come,
Each in his turn from many a different home:
From town and muirland, cot and mansion warm,
The regal palace, and the homely farm.
Soldier and lawyer, merchant, priest and peer,
The squire, the laird of forty pounds a-year,
The crowned monarch and the simple hind,
Did all in thee a meet companion find.

For thee the peasant's wife her elbow chair,
Smiling a weicome, kindly set, and there
With fair exchange of story, saw and jest,
Thou wast to her a free and pleasant guest;
While nature, undisguised, repaid thee well
For time so spent. She and her mate could tell
Unawed, to such a man, their inmost mind;
They claim'd thee as their own, their kin, their kind.
From nature's book thou couldst extract a store,
More precious than the scholar's classic lore.

And how felt he, whose early rhymes had been
To perilous inspection given, and seen
By one whose brows were graced from every land,
With chaplets twined by many a skilful hand?
How beat his heart, as with the morning ray,
To Abbotsford he took his anxious way,
Imagining what shortly he must see,
Him in whose presence he so soon will be?
And how felt he, thy study's threshold pass'd,
When on thy real face his eyes were cast?
Thine open brow with glow of fancy heated;
Thy purring cat upon the table seated;
Thy sleeping hound that hath his easy lair
Close on the precincts of his master's chair;
The honest welcome of that sudden smile,
And outstretch'd hand, misgiving thoughts beguile.
But when thy cheerful greeting met his ear,
“Fie on thee! foolish heart, a man like this to fear!”
Thou wast to him, when blush'd the eastern sky,
A sage of awful mien and lofty eye;
When noon-day heat called forth th' industrious bee,
Thou wast the monitor both kind and free;
But when the changeful day was at an end,
Thou wast his easy cheerful host,—his friend.

When all whose eyes have e'er beheld thy face,
Departed are to their long resting-place,
Thou wilt exist in all thy magic then,
The cherish'd, speaking friend of living men.
In torrid climes, in regions cold and bleak,
In every land and language wilt thou speak.
Within the sick man's curtain'd couch thou'lt dwell;
Within the languid prisoner's cheerless cell;
Within the seaman's cabin, where the sound
Of many leagues of water murmurs round.
The buoyant school-boy will forego his play,
In secret nook alone with thee to stray;
The sober sage wise tomes will cast aside,
An hour with thee—a pleasant hour to bide.

Men of all nations, of all creeds, all ranks,
Will owe to thee an endless meed of thanks,
Which more than in thy passing, checker'd day
Of mortal life, they will delight to pay.
For who shall virtuous sympathies resign,
Or feed foul fancies from a page of thine?
No, none! thy writings as thy life are pure,
And their fair fame and influence will endure.

Not so with those where perverse skill pourtrays
Distorted, blighting passions; and displays,
Wild, maniac, selfish fiends to be admired,
As heroes with sublimest ardour fired.
Such are, to what thy faithful pen hath traced,
With all the shades of varied nature graced,
Like grim cartoons, for Flemish looms prepared,
To Titian's or Murillo's forms compared;
Stately or mean, theirs still are forms of truth,
Charming unlearn'd and learned—age and youth:
Not ecstasies express'd in critic phrase,
But silent smiles of pleasure speak their praise.

When those, who now thy recent death deplore,
Lie in the dust, thought of and known no more,
As poet and romancer, thy great name
Will brightly shine with undiminish'd fame;
And future sons of fancy fondly strive
To their compatriots works like thine to give.
But of the many who on her wide sea
Shall boldly spread their sails to follow thee,
More as romancers on thy track will gain,
Than those who emulate the poet's strain.
A tale like Waverley we yet may con,
But shall we read a lay like Marmion?
And fearlessly I say it, though I know
The voice of public favour says not so:
For story-telling is an art, I ween,
Which hath of old most fascinating been,
And will be ever,—strong in ready power,
To combat languor and the present hour;
And o'er these common foes will oft prevail,
When Homer's theme and Milton's song would fail.
But strong in both, there is in sooth no need
Against thy left hand for thy right to plead:
Think as we list, one truth, alas! is plain,
We ne'er shall look upon thy like again.

Thy country, bounded by her subject sea,
Adds to her fame by giving birth to thee;
In distant lands yon fancied group behold,
Where busy traders meet in quest of gold;
Motley and keen, all gather'd round a youth,
Who simply stands unconscious of the truth,
Look at him wistfully, and hark, they speak—
The Turk and Jew, Armenian and Greek,
Their rapid lips the whisper'd words betraying—
“He's from the land of Walter Scott,” they're saying.
That Caledonian, too, with more good will
They greet as of thy closer kindred still:

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But who is he, who, standing by their side,
Raises his head with quickly-kindled pride,
As if he meant to look the others down?
Ay; he is from thine own romantic town.

Thou art in time's long course a land-mark high,
A beacon blazing to the nether sky,
To which, as far and wide it shoots its rays,
Landsmen and mariners, with wistful gaze,
From ship, and shore, and mountain turn their sight,
And hail the glorious signal of the night.

Oh Dryburgh! often trod by pilgrim feet
Shall be thy hallow'd turf; solemn and sweet,
Will be the gentle sorrow utter'd there,
The whisper'd blessing and the quiet prayer.
Flower, herb, or leaf by children yet unborn
Will often from thy verdant turf be torn,
And kept in dear memorial of the place
Where thou art laid with a departed race;
Where every thing around, tower, turret, tree,
River, and glen, and mountain, wood and lea,
And ancient ruin, by the moonlight made
More stately with alternate light and shade,
Thy once beloved Melrose,—all speak of thee,
With mingled voices through the gale of morn,
Of evening, noon, and night, most sadly borne,
A dirge-like wailing, a mysterious moan,
That sadly seems to utter “He is gone!”

To God's forgiving mercy and his love—
To fellowship with blessed souls above—
Bright hosts redeem'd by Him whose voice of hope
Revealed th' immortal spirit's boundless scope—
We leave thee, though within its narrow cell,
Thy honour'd dust must for a season dwell—
Our friend, our bard, our brother,—fare thee well!

Hampstead, November, 1832.

EPILOGUE

TO THE THEATRICAL REPRESENTATION AT STRAWBERRY HILL.

[_]

WRITTEN BY JOANNA BAILLIE, AND SPOKEN BY THE HON. ANNE S. DAMER, NOVEMBER, 1800.

While fogs along the Thames' damp margin creep,
And cold winds through his leafless willows sweep;
While fairy elves, whose summer sport had been
To foot it lightly on the moonlight green,
Now, hooded close, in many a cowering form,
Troop with the surly spirits of the storm;
While by the blazing fire, with saddled nose,
The sage turns o'er his leaves of tedious prose,
And o'er their new-dealt cards, with eager eye,
Good dowagers exult, or inly sigh,
And blooming maids from silken work-bags pour
(Like tangled sea-weed on the vexed shore)
Of patchwork, netting, fringe, a strange and motley store;
While all, attempting many a different mode,
Would from their shoulders hitch time's heavy load,
This is our choice, in comic sock bedight,
To wrestle with a long November night.—
“In comic sock!” methinks indignant cries
Some grave fastidious friend with angry eyes,
Scowling severe, “No more the phrase abuse;
So shod, indeed there had been some excuse;
But in these walls, a once well-known retreat,
Where taste and learning kept a favourite seat,
Where Gothic arches with a solemn shade
Should o'er the thoughtful mind their influence spread;
Where pictures, vases, busts, and precious things
Still speak of sages, poets, heroes, kings,
On which the stranger looks with pensive gaze,
And thinks upon the worth of other days:
Like foolish children, in their mimic play,
Confined at grandame's in a rainy day,
With paltry farce and all its bastard train,
Grotesque and broad, such precincts to profane!
It is a shame!—But no, I will not speak,
I feel the blood rise mantling to my cheek.”
Indeed, wise sir!—
But he who o'er our heads those arches bent,
And stored these relies dear to sentiment,
More mild than you with grave pedantic pride,
Would not have ranged him on your surly side.

But now to you, who on our frolic scene,
Have look'd well pleased, and gentle critics been;
Nor would our homely humour proudly spurn,
To you the good, the gay, the fair, I turn,
And thank you all. If here our feeble powers
Have lightly wing'd for you some wintry hours;
Should these remember'd scenes in fancy live,
And to some future minutes pleasure give,
To right good end we've worn our mumming guise,
And we're repaid and happy—ay, and wise.
Who says we are not, on his sombre birth
Gay fancy smiled not, nor heart-light'ning mirth:
Home let him hie to his unsocial rest,
And heavy sit the nightmare on his breast!

THE BANISHED MAN.

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF HIS COUNTRY, WHICH HE IS QUITTING FOR EVER.

Dear distant land, whose mountains blue
Still bound this wild and watery view,—
Dear distant land, where fate has thrown
All that my heart delights to own!

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Blest be yon gleam of partial light,
Which gives thee to my parting sight!

Those well-known cliffs, whose shadows throw
Soft coolness o'er the beach below,
Where I so oft, a happy child,
Picking or shell or weed, beguiled
Light reckless hours, that pass'd away,
Like night-sparks on the briny spray,—
Dear pleasant shore, thy sandy bed,
These feet unblest no more shall tread!

Still thy rich vales with autumn's store,
And cheerful hamlets mottled o'er;
Thy up-land peaks whose stately forms
Are mantled oft in gathering storms;
Thy blue streams widening on their way,
Thy broad lakes gleaming to the day;
Thy smoking towns, whose towers of war
And dusky spires are seen afar,
Thy children's boastful pride will raise,
And fix the admiring stranger's gaze,—
But now, for ever lost to me,
These eyes unblest no more shall see.

Thy wild pipe, touch'd with rustic hands,
Thy reapers' song from merry bands,
Thy boatman's call and dashing oar,
Thy falling torrent's deafening roar,
Thy busy city's humming sound,
With all its sweet bells chiming round,
Far, on a strange and cheerless shore,
These ears unblest shall hear no more.

Happy is he, beyond all gain,
Who holds in thee his free domain,
And roves with careless feet at will
O'er his paternal mead and hill,
And stores the fruit his harvests yield
From his own orchard and his field!
Happy is he who leads at dawn
His harness'd steers across thy lawn!
Yea, happy he, bent down with toil,
Whose glistening brow bedews thy soil!

How gently heaves the evening sea,
As all things homeward tend to thee!
Borne lightly on the gentle gale,
Now homeward points each little sail;
Far, screaming from their airy height,
The sea-fowl homeward take their flight;
The floating plank and spreading weed.
Upon the setting current speed;
The light cloud passes on the wind,
While I alone am left behind.

Ah, woe is me! where shall I stray,
And whither bend my reckless way?
A waste of world before me lies,
But in the thought my spirit dies.
There is no home nor joy for me,
My native land, removed from thee.
For me the sun of heaven doth shine
Upon no hills, no plains, but thine;
For me the voice of kindness sounds
Only within thy cheerful bounds.

Rise, surgy deep; ye wild winds, blow,
And whelm my bark these waves below!
Then bear me to my native land,
A breathless corse upon her strand:
Some hand, in pity of the dead,
Will lay her greensward on my head,
And there for ever let me rest,
As sleeps the froward child, still'd on his mother's breast!

TO A CHILD.

Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate, and merry eye,
And arm and shoulder round and sleek,
And soft and fair?—thou urchin sly!

What boots it who with sweet caresses
First call'd thee his,—or squire or hind?
Since thou in every wight that passes,
Dost now a friendly play-mate find.

Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning,
As fringed eye-lids rise and fall;
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,
Is infantine coquetry all.

But far a-field thou hast not flown;
With mocks and threats, half lisp'd, half spoken,
I feel thee pulling at my gown,
Of right good will thy simple token.

And thou must laugh and wrestle too,
A mimic warfare with me waging;
To make, as wily lovers do,
Thy after-kindness more engaging.

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself,
And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure:
I'd gladly part with worldly pelf
To taste again thy youthful pleasure.

But yet, for all thy merry look,
Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming,
When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,
The weary spell or horn-book thumbing.

796

Well; let it be!—through weal and wo,
Thou knowst not now thy future range;
Life is a motley, shifting show,
And thou a thing of hope and change!

SONG

[_]

(TO THE SCOTCH AIR OF “MY NANNY O.”)

Wi' lang-legg'd Tam the broose I tried,
Though best o' foot, what wan he O?
The first kiss of the blowzy bride,
But I the heart of Nanny O.

Like swallow wheeling round her tower,
Like rock-bird round her cranny O,
Sinsyne I hover near her bower,
And list and look for Nanny O.

I'm nearly wild, I'm nearly daft,
Wad fain be douce, but canna' O;
There's ne'er a laird of muir or craft,
Sae blithe as I wi' Nanny O.

She's sweet, she's young, she's fair, she's good,
The brightest maid of many O,
Though a' the world our love withstood,
I'd woo and win my Nanny O.

Her angry mither scaulds sae loud,
And darkly glooms her granny O;
But think they he can e'er be cow'd,
Wha loves and lives for Nanny O?

The spae-wife on my loof that blink't
Is but a leeing ranny O,
For weel kens she my fate is link't
In spite of a' to Nanny O.

LONDON.

It is a goodly sight through the clear air,
From Hampstead's heathy height to see at once
England's vast capital in fair expanse,
Towers, belfries, lengthen'd streets, and structures fair.
St. Paul's high dome amidst the vassal bands
Of neighb'ring spires, a regal chieftain stands,
And over fields of ridgy roofs appear,
With distance softly tinted, side by side,
In kindred grace, like twain of sisters dear,
The Towers of Westminster, her Abbey's pride;
While, far beyond, the hills of Surrey shine
Through thin soft haze, and show their wavy line.
View'd thus, a goodly sight! but when survey'd
Through denser air when moisten'd winds prevail,
In her grand panoply of smoke array'd,
While clouds aloft in heavy volumes sail,
She is sublime.—She seems a curtain'd gloom
Connecting heaven and earth,—a threat'ning sign of doom.
With more than natural height, rear'd in the sky
'Tis then St. Paul's arrests the wondering eye;
The lower parts in swathing mist conceal'd,
The higher through some half spent shower reveal'd,
So far from earth removed, that well, I trow,
Did not its form man's artful structure show,
It might some lofty alpine peak be deem'd,
The eagle's haunt, with cave and crevice seam'd.
Stretch'd wide on either hand, a rugged screen,
In lurid dimness, nearer streets are seen
Like shoreward billows of a troubled main,
Arrested in their rage. Through drizzly rain,
Cataracts of tawny sheen pour from the skies,
Of furnace smoke black curling columns rise,
And many tinted vapours, slowly pass
O'er the wide draping of that pictured mass.

So shows by day this grand imperial town,
And, when o'er all the night's black stole is thrown,
The distant traveller doth with wonder mark
Her luminous canopy athwart the dark,
Cast up, from myriads of lamps that shine
Along her streets in many a starry line:—
He wondering looks from his yet distant road,
And thinks the northern streamers are abroad.
“What hollow sound is that?” approaching near,
The roar of many wheels breaks on his ear.
It is the flood of human life in motion!
It is the voice of a tempestuous ocean!
With sad but pleasing awe his soul is fill'd,
Scarce heaves his breast, and all within is still'd,
As many thoughts and feelings cross his mind,—
Thoughts, mingled, melancholy, undefined,
Of restless, reckless man, and years gone by,
And Time fast wending to Eternity.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM SOTHEBY, ESQ.

Learning and fancy were combined
To stimulate his manly mind;
Open, generous, and acute,
Steady of purpose, in pursuit
Ardent and hopeful; all the while
In child-like ignorance of guile.
There are who say that envy lurks conceal'd
Where genius strives, by slightest traits reveal'd,
A truth, if truth it be, by him forgot,
He turn'd his eyes away and saw it not.

797

Success in others, frank and free,
He hail'd with words of friendly glee.
Praise given to them he could not feel
Did aught from his own portion steal;
And when offence, design'd and rude,
Did on his peaceful path obtrude,
He soon forgave the paltry pain,
Nor could resentment in his breast retain.
His was the charity of right goodwill,
That loves, confides, believes and thinks no ill.
He, by his Saviour's noble precepts led,
Still follow'd what was right with heart and head.
Religion did with lofty honour dwell
Within his bosom's sacred cell.

But said I learning did in him agree
With fancy, union rare! how could it be?
His eighteenth year beheld him fondly cheering
His warlike steed and on its back careering;
A gay dragoon with spur on heel,
And brandish'd blade of flashing steel;
With wealth at will, the world before him,
To go where whim or fashion bore him;
No friendly tutor by his side,
His academic course to guide;
No classic honours to invite,
No emulation to excite.
But, in default of these, his soul
With native fire supplied the whole;
And neither Hall nor College claim
Honour from him, whose honour'd name
Shall henceforth with the highest stand,
The most efficient scholars of our land.
To him what meed of thanks th' unlearned owe!
And e'en the learned, who best his merits know.
With Homer, Virgil, Wieland, all converse
Like true compatriots in his pliant verse.
Pliant, but elevated, graceful, bold,
And worthy of the Bards of old.

Nor will we thanklessly peruse
The beauties of his native muse,
Where lofty thoughts and feelings sweet,
And moral truths commingling meet,
Where fancy spreads her absent scene,
The flowery mead, the forest green;
The plains, the mountain peaks, the fanes sublime,
The ruins long revered of Italy's fair clime.
Yea, thanks be his, heart-given and kind,
For all his pen has left behind!

Though bitters in his cup were mix'd,
And in his heart sharp arrows fix'd,
The current of his life ran clear;
With virtuous love and duteous children blest,
He journey'd onward to the Christian's rest,
And happy was his long career.
Social and joyous to the end,
Around him gather'd many a friend,
Whose minds his dear remembrance hold,
Though seventy years and more
His head had silver'd o'er,
As one who ne'er was old.
Rejoicing in his well-earn'd fame,
They oft repeat his honour'd name,
And as their thoughts on all his virtues dwell,
With sorrow, cheer'd and sweet, bid him a last farewell.

VERSES TO OUR OWN FLOWERY KIRTLED SPRING.

Welcome, sweet time of buds and bloom, renewing
The earliest objects of delight, and wooing
The notice of the grateful heart! for then
Long hidden, beauteous friends are seen again;
From the cleft soil, like babes from cradle peeping,
At the glad light, where soundly they've been sleeping;
Like chickens in their downy coats, just freeing
From the chipp'd shell, their new-found active being;
Like spotted butterfly, its wings up-rearing,
Half from the bursting chrysalis appearing.
Sweet season, so bedight, so gay, so kind,
Right welcome to the sight and to the mind!

Now many a “thing that pretty is” delays
The wanderer's steps beneath the sun's soft rays;
Gay daffodils, bent o'er the watery gleam,
Doubling their flicker'd image in the stream;
The woody nook where bells of brighter blue
Have clothed the ground in heaven's ethereal hue;
The lane's high sloping bank, where pale primrose
With hundreds of its gentle kindred blows;
And speckled daisies that on uplands bare
Their round eyes opening, scatter gladness there.
Man looks on Nature with a grateful smile,
And thinks of Nature's bounteous Lord the while.

Now urchins range the brake in joyous bands,
With new-cull'd nosegays in their dimpled hands.
The cottage maid her household task-work cheats
In mead or glen to pick the choicest sweets,
With skilful care preserved for Sunday morn,
Her bosom's simple kerchief to adorn.
And e'en the beldame, as with sober tread,
She takes her sunning in the grassy mead,
Stoops down with eager look and finds, well pleased,
Such herbs, as in a chest or Bible squeezed,
In former days were deem'd, by folks of sense,
A fragrant wholesome virtue to dispense,
And oft on rafter'd roof, in bunches strung,
With other winter stores were duly hung.

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But not alone in simple scenes like these,
Thy beauteous offspring our soothed senses please;
I' the city's busy streets, by rich men's doors,
On whose white steps the flower-girl sets her stores,
In wicker basket group'd to lure the sight,
They stop and tempt full many a wistful wight.
Flowers though they be by artful culture bred,
Upon the suburb seedsman's crowded bed,
By fetid manure cherish'd, gorgeous, bright,
Like civic madams dress'd for festive night,
Anemonies of crimson, purple, yellow,
And tulips streak'd with colours rich and mellow,
Brown wallflowers and jonquils of golden glare,
In dapper posies tied like shop-man's ware,
Yet still they whisper something to the heart,
Which feelings kind and gentle thoughts impart.

Gay sight! that oft a touch of pleasure gives
E'en to the saddest, rudest soul that lives—
Gay sight! the passing carman grins thereat,
And sticks a purchased posie in his hat,
And cracks his whip and treads the rugged streets
With waggish air, and jokes with all he meets:
The sickly child from nursery window spies
The tempting show and for a nosegay cries,
Which placed in china mug, by linnet's cage,
Will for a time his listless mind engage:
The dame precise moves at the flower-girl's cry,
Laying her patch-work or her netting by,
And from the parlour window casts her eye,
Then sends across the way her tiny maid;
And presently on mantelpiece display'd,
Between fair ornaments of china ware,
Small busts and lacker'd parrots station'd there,
Tulips, anemonies, and wallflowers shine,
And strangely with their new compeers combine
Each visitor with wonder to excite,
Who looks and smiles and lauds the motley sight:
That even to the prison's wretched thrall,
Those simple gems of nature will recall.
What soothes the sadness of his dreary state,
Yon narrow windows, through whose iron grate
A squalid countenance is dimly traced,
Gazing on flowers in broken pitcher placed
Upon the sooty sill, and withering there,
Sad emblems of himself! most piteously declare.

Of what in gentle lady's curtain'd room,
On storied stands and gilded tripods bloom,
The richest, rarest flowers of every clime,
Whose learned names suit not my simple rhyme,
I speak not! lovely as they are, we find
They visit more the senses than the mind.
Their nurture comes not from the clouds of heaven,
But from a painted watering-pot is given;
And, in return for daily care, with faint
And sickly sweetness hall and chamber taint.
I will not speak of those; we feel and see
They have no kindred, our own Spring, with thee!

Welcome, sweet season! though with rapid pace
Thy course is run, and we can scarcely grace
Thy joyous coming with a grateful cheer,
Ere loose-leaved flowers and leaflets shrunk and sere,
And flaccid bending stems, sad bodings! tell
We soon must bid our fleeting friend farewell.

LINES TO A PARROT.

In these our days of sentiment
When youthful poets all lament
Some dear lost joy, some cruel maid;
Old friendship changed and faith betray'd;
The world's cold frown and every ill
That tender hearts with anguish fill;
Loathing this world and all its folly,
In lays most musical and melancholy,—
Touching a low and homely string,
May poet of a Parrot sing
With dignity uninjured? say!—
No; but a simple rhymester may.
Well then, I see thee calm and sage,
Perch'd on the summit of thy cage,
With broad, hook'd beak, and plumage green,
Changing to azure in the light,
Gay pinions tipp'd with scarlet bright
And, strong for mischief, use or play,
Thick talons, crisp'd with silver gray,—
A gallant bird, I ween!

What courtly dame, for ball-room drest—
What garter'd lord in silken vest—
On wedding morn what country bride
With groom bedizen'd by her side—
What youngsters in their fair-day gear,
Did ever half so fine appear?
Alas! at ball, or church, or fair,
Were ne'er assembled visions rare
Of moving creatures all so gay
As in thy native woods, where day
In blazing torrid brightness play'd
Through checker'd boughs, and gently made
A ceaseless morris-dance of sheen and shade!
In those blest woods, removed from man,
Thy early being first began,
'Mid gay compeers, who, blest as thou,
Hopp'd busily from bough to bough,
Robbing each loaded branch at pleasure
Of berries, buds, and kernel'd treasure.
Then rose aloft with outspread wing,
Then stoop'd on flexile twig to swing,
Then coursed and circled through the air,
Mate chasing mate, full many a pair.
It would have set one's heart a-dancing
To've seen their varied feathers glancing,

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And thought how many happy things
Creative Goodness into being brings.

But now how changed! it is thy doom
Within a wall'd and window'd room
To hold thy home, and (all forgot
The traces of thy former lot),
Clutching the wires with progress slow,
Still round and round thy cage to go;
Or cross the carpet:—alter'd case!
This now is all thy daily travel's space.

Yet here thou art a cherish'd droll,
Known by the name of Pretty Poll;
Oft fed by lady's gentle hand
With sops and sugar at command,
And sometimes too a nut or cherry,
Which in thy claws to beak and eye
Thou seemst to raise right daintily,
Turning it oft, as if thou still
Wert scanning it with cautious skill,
Provoking urchins near to laughter loud and merry.
See, gather'd round, a rosy band,
With eager upcast eyes they stand,
Marking thy motions and withal
Delighting on thy name to call;
And hear, like human speech, reply
Come from thy beak most curiously.
They shout, they mow, they grin, they giggle,
Clap hands, hoist arms, and shoulders wriggle;
O here, well may we say or sing,
That learning is a charming thing!
For thou, 'neath thy wire-woven dome,
A learned creature hast become;
And hast, by dint of oft repeating,
Got words by rote, the vulgar cheating,
Which, once in ten times well applied,
Are to the skies with praises cried.
So letter'd dunces oft impose
On simple fools their studied prose.
Ay; o'er thy round though unwigg'd head,
Full many a circling year has sped,
Since thou kept terms within thy college,
From many tutors, short and tall,
In braid or bonnet, cap or caul,
Imbibing wondrous stores of seeming knowledge.
And rarely Bachelor of Arts
Or Master (dare we say it?) imparts
To others such undoubted pleasure
From all his stores of classic treasure:
And ladies sage, whose learned saws
To cognoscenti friends give laws,
Rarely, I trow, can so excite
A listening circle with delight,
And rarely their acquirements shine
Through such a lengthen'd course as thine.

The grannams of this group so gay,
Who round thee now their homage pay,
Belike have in such youthful glee
With admiration gazed on thee;
And yet no wrinkled line betrays
The long course of thy lengthen'd days.
Thy bark of life has kept afloat
As on a shoreless sea, where not
Or change or progress may be traced;
Time hath with thee been leaden-paced.

But ah! proud beauty, on whose head
Some three-score years no blight have shed,
Untoward days will come at length,
When thou, of spirit reft and strength,
Wilt mope and pine, year after year,
Which all one moulting-time appear,
And this bright plumage, dull and rusty,
Will seem neglected, shrunk and dusty,
And scarce a feather's rugged stump
Be left to grace thy fretted rump.
Mew'd in a corner of thy home,
Having but little heart to roam,
Thou'lt wink and peer—a wayward elf,
And croon and clutter to thyself,
Screaming at visitors with spite,
And opening wide thy beak to bite.

Yet in old age still wilt thou find
Some constant friend thy wants to mind,
Whose voice thou'lt know, whose hand thou'lt seek,
Turning to it thy feather'd cheek;
Grateful to her, though cross and froward
To all beside, and it will go hard
But she will love thee, e'en when life's last goal
Thou'st reach'd, and call thee still her Pretty Poll.

Now from these lines, young friends, I know
A lesson might be drawn to show,
How, like our bird, on life's vain stage,
Pass human childhood, prime, and age:
But conn'd comparisons, I doubt,
Might put your patience to the rout,
And all my pains small thanks receive;
So this to wiser folks I leave.

LINES TO A TEAPOT.

On thy carved sides, where many a vivid dye
In easy progress leads the wandering eye,
A distant nation's manners we behold,
To the quick fancy whimsically told.

The small-eyed beauty and her Mandarin,
Who o'er the rail of garden arbour lean,

800

In listless ease; and rocks of arid brown,
On whose sharp crags, in gay profusion blown,
The ample loose-leaved rose appears to grace
The skilful culture of the wondrous place;
The little verdant plat, where with his mate
The golden pheasant holds his gorgeous state,
With gaily crested pate and twisted neck,
Turn'd jauntily his glossy wings to peck;
The smooth-streak'd water of a paly gray,
O'er which the checker'd bridge lends ready way,
While, by its margin moor'd, the little boat
Doth with its oars and netted awning float;
A scene present all soft delights to take in,
A paradise for grave Grandee of Pekin.
With straight small spout, that from thy body fair
Diverges with a smart vivacious air,
And round, arch'd handle with gold tracery bound,
And dome-shaped lid with bud or button crown'd,
Thou standst complete, fair subject of my rhymes,
A goodly vessel of the olden times!

But far less pleasure yields this fair display
Than that enjoy'd upon thy natal day,
When round the potter's wheel their chins upraising,
An urchin group in silent wonder gazing,
Stood and beheld, as, touch'd with magic skill,
The whirling clay was fashion'd to his will,—
Saw mazy motion stopp'd, and then the toy
Complete before their eyes, and grinn'd for joy;
Clapping their naked sides with blythe halloo,
And curtail'd words of praise, like ting, tung, too!
The brown-skinn'd artist, with his unclothed waist
And girded loins, who, slow and patient, traced,
Beneath his humble shed, this fair array
Of pictured forms upon thy surface gay,
I will not stop in fancy's sight to place,
But speed me on my way with quicken'd pace.
Pack'd in a chest with others of thy kind,
The sport of waves and every shifting wind,
The Ocean thou hast cross'd, and thou mayst claim
The passing of the Line to swell thy fame,
With as good observation of the thing
As some of those who in a hammock swing.

And now thou'rt seen in Britain's polish'd land,
Held up to public view in waving hand
Of boastful auctioneer, whilst dames of pride
In morning farthingals, scarce two yards wide,
With collar'd lap-dogs snarling in their arms,
Contend in rival keenness for thy charms.
And certes well they might, for there they found thee
With all thy train of vassal cups around thee,
A prize which thoughts by day, and dreams by night,
Could dwell on for a week with fresh delight.

Our pleased imagination now pourtrays
The glory of thy high official days,
When thou on board of rich japan wast set,
Round whose supporting table gaily met
At close of eve, the young, the learn'd, the fair,
And e'en philosophy and wit were there.
'Midst basons, cream-pots, cups and saucers small,
Thou stoodst the ruling chieftain of them all;
And e'en the kettle of Potosi's ore,
Whose ample cell supplied thy liquid store,
Beneath whose base the sapphire flame was burning,
Above whose lid the wreathy smoke was turning,
Though richly chased and burnish'd it might be,
Was yet, confess'd, subordinate to thee.
But O! when beauty's hand thy weight sustain'd,
The climax of thy glory was attain'd!
Back from her elevated elbow fell
Its three-tired ruffle, and display'd the swell
And gentle rounding of her lily arm,
The eyes of wistful sage or beau to charm—
A sight at other times but dimly seen
Through veiling folds of point or colberteen.
With pleasing toil, red glow'd her dimpled cheek,
Bright glanced her eyes beneath her forehead sleek,
And as she pour'd the beverage, through the room
Was spread its fleeting, delicate perfume.
Then did bright wit and cheerful fancy play
With all the passing topics of the day.
So delicate, so varied, and so free
Was the heart's pastime, then inspired by thee,
That goblet, bowl, or flask could boast no power
Of high excitement, in their reigning hour,
Compared to thine;—red wildfire of the fen,
To summer moonshine of some fairy glen.

But now the honours of thy course are past,
For what of earthly happiness may last!
Although in modern drawing-room, a board
May fragrant tea from menial hands afford,
Which, pour'd in dull obscurity hath been,
From pot of vulgar ware, in nook unseen,
And pass'd in hasty rounds our eyes before,
Thou in thy graceful state art seen no more.
And what the changeful fleeting crowd, who sip
The unhonour'd beverage with contemptuous lip,
Enjoy amidst the tangled, giddy maze,
Their languid eye—their listless air betrays.
What though at times we see a youthful fair
By white clothed board her watery drug prepare,
At further corner of a noisy room,
Where only casual stragglers deign to come,
Like tavern's busy bar-maid; still I say,
The honours of thy course are pass'd away.

Again hath auctioneer thy value praised,
Again have rival bidders on thee gazed,
But not the gay, the young, the fair, I trow!
No; sober connoisseurs, with wrinkled brow

801

And spectacles on nose, thy parts inspect,
And by grave rules approve thee or reject.
For all the bliss which china charms afford,
My lady now has ceded to her lord.
And wisely too does she forego the prize,
Since modern pin-money will scarce suffice
For all the trimmings, flounces, beads and lace,
The thousand needful things that needs must grace
Her daily changed attire.—And now on shelf
Of china closet placed, a cheerless elf,
Like moody statesman in his rural den,
From power dismiss'd—like prosperous citizen,
From shop or change set free—untoward bliss!
Thou rest'st in most ignoble uselessness.

THE MOODY SEER:

A BALLAD.

“The sun shines in a cloudless sky,
The lake is blue and still;
Up, Flora! on thine errand hie,
And climb the eyrie hill;

“And tell my ancient kinsman there
To leave his lonely tower,
And at our yearly feast to share
The merry social hour.”

“Oh mother! do not bid me go;
I scarce can draw my breath,
When I see his eyes move to and fro,
His lowering brows beneath;

“His moving lips, that give no sound,
My very spirits quell,
When he stares upon the harmless ground
As 'twere the mouth of hell.”

“Fy, foolish child!—on such a day
Aught ill thou needst not fear,
And thy cousin Malcolm will the way
With tale or ballad cheer.”

The maiden blush'd and turn'd her head,
And saw young Malcolm near,
And she thought no more of scath or dread,
Or the looks of the moody Seer.

And now, bound for the mountain hold,
The youthful pair are seen,
He like a stripling frank and bold,
She like a fairy queen.

With merry songs and merry talk
The long way cheated he,
And pluck'd her blue-bells from the stalk,
And blossoms from the tree.

Time (how they wist not) swiftly ran,
Till scarcely half a rood
From the opening gate of the gifted man,
With beating hearts they stood.

Then issued from that creaking gate
A figure bent and spare,
In checker'd garb of ancient state,
With grizzled, shaggy hair.

By motion, look, and mien, he seem'd
Of gentle pedigree,
Well struck with years, you might have deem'd,
But more with misery.

He raised his face to the youthful pair,
Gramercy! can it be?
There passeth a glance of pleasure there,
And a smile of courtesy.

“My cousin's daughter near my hold!
Some message kind, I trow.
But no, fair maid, I am too old
To mix in revels now.

“And who is this so gay and young?—
No, no! thou needst not tell;
His mother is from Garelace sprung,
His sire from bold Glenfell.

“His mother's smile is on his face,
His father's form I see,
Those well-knit limbs of active grace,
Those feet—it cannot be!

“Out, out! mine eyes see falsely! toss'd
And drifted by the wind,
Some beldame's kerchief hath been lost,
And round his brogues hath twined.”

Thus muttering low, with voice unsweet,
He turn'd his face aside,
And hastily snatch'd at Malcolm's feet,
But the close-clutch'd palm was void.

“Why gropest thou with thy trembling hand?
Thinkst thou my feet are bound?
Let loose thy house-guard, famous Brand,
And I'll out-run the hound.”

802

“Ah! swiftest race is soonest o'er,
Like stream of the mountain brook:
Go home, and con some sober lore,
Betake thee to bead and book.”

“Yes, I will pray to Mary mild,
And my first request shall be,
That from all fancies grim and wild,
Thou mayst deliver'd be.”

Then anger tinged the maid's round check—
“Come, Malcolm, come away!
When Hallow-e'en blows chill and bleak,
Macvorely will join our play.”

“When Hallow-e'en blows bleak and chill
An old man's seat prepare,
For if life and strength be in him still,
Macvorely will be there.”

The old man sigh'd, as down the hill
They took their homeward way,
And he heard afar so loud and shrill
Young Malcolm's joyous lay.

'Tis Hallow-e'en in Flora's home,
Bright shines the fir-wood flame;
From distant halls and holds are come
Maid, youngster, laird, and dame.

Their friets are tried true love to prove—
Friets taught by warlock lore,
And mingled lovers gladly move
Upon the crowded floor.

And flaming nuts are keenly watch'd
By many a youthful eye,
And coleworts, from the dark mould snatch'd,
Are borne triumphantly.

Then gay strathspeys are featly danced
To the pibroch's gallant sound,
While the sighted man like one intranced,
In the honour'd chair is found.

But who comes now so buoyantly,
In flaunting kirtle dress'd,
Who snaps her fingers, capers high,
And foots it with the best?

She leaps and crosses, wheels and turns,
Like mawkin on the lea,
Till every kindred bosom burns
Such joyous sight to see.

Her dark eyes gleam'd, and her ribands stream'd,
And bells and bracelets rung,
And the charm'd rout raised a joyous shout
As her arms aloft she flung.

Out spoke a bachelor, Glenore,
Of threescore years and ten,
And well respected heretofore
By prudent, wary men:

“O were I now as I have been
(Vain wish! alas how vain!)
I would plight my faith to that winsome queen,
And with my freedom twain.”

But nought cared she for laugh, or shout,
Or cheers from every tongue;
She circled in, and she circled out,
Through all the yielding throng,

Until before the honour'd chair
With sliding step she came,
And dropp'd a sober curtsey there
To the Seer of elrich fame.

But ah! how different is his face
From those so blithe and boon!
Tears down his cheeks the big tears chase,
Like thunder-drops in June.

“Nay, weep not, kind though hapless Seer;
Forgive my foolish glee,
That, flaunting thus in woman's gear,
Thought to deceive e'en thee.

“I've danced before thee, vain and proud,
In crimson kirtle drest.”
“Thou'st danced before me in a shroud,
Raised mid-way to thy breast.”

Dull grew the sound of the crowded hall,
Yet Malcolm danced again,
And did for rousing pibrochs call,
But pipers piped in vain.

Before the early cock had crow'd,
Withdrawn was every guest;
Ere on high Ben a sun-beam glow'd,
All were retired to rest.

A goodly ship at anchor rides,
With freight of British store,
And a little boat from her shadow glides,
Swift nearing to the shore.

And, on that shore, kind hearts and true,
Small groups of kinsfolk stand,
To bid a much-loved youth adieu,
Who quits his native land.

803

There Flora and her mother dear
Heave many a heavy sigh,
And by them is the moody Seer,
With red and lowering eye.

“Weep not, dear aunt!” says the parting wight,
“Weep not, my play-mate sweet!
Hope beckons me to fortune bright,
And we again shall meet.

“And, good Macvorely, send me hence
With thy blessing; on me pour
Some mutter'd spell of sure defence,
When wild waves round me roar.

“This band that round my neck is tied,
Is the gift of a maiden dear,
Fenced with thy potent spell beside,
What danger need I fear?”

“I see no band around thy neck,
But the white shroud gather'd high:
Yon breakers rage, and a stranded wreck
Doth on the dark rocks lie.

“A solemn requiem for the dead
Is the gift I will give to thee;
O that, to save thee, in thy stead,
The same were sung for me!”

Yet still the youth, with parting cheer,
Extends to all his hand;
Embraces those who are most dear,
And hastens from the land.

His form reflected on the wave,
As the lessening boat withdrew,
Of that joyous youth, so boon and brave,
Was their last heart-moving view.

In Flora's home the midnight blast
Rose with a wailing moan,
And all had to their chambers past,
And the maiden sat alone.

She thought of the seaman's perilous case
As the loud gust went and came,
And she gazed on the fire with a woeful face,
And watch'd the flickering flame.

The flickering flame burnt dull and blue,
And the icy chill of fear
Pass'd o'er her head; then well she knew
Some ghastly thing was near.

She turn'd her head the room to scan,
To wot if aught was there;
And she saw a figure wet and wan
Three paces from her chair.

Fix'd were the eyes of its pallid face,
Like those who walk in sleep,
And she started up and pray'd for grace
With a voice suppress'd and deep.

Then gazing on that face, at length,
She knew the features dear;
She spoke,—affection lent her strength,
“Malcolm, how cam'st thou here?”

“How spirits travel, dear, dear maid!
No living wight may know,
But far from hence my corse is laid,
The deep green waves below.”

“O Malcolm say, in this world of care
Is there aught I can do for thee?”
“When thou bendest thy knees in humble prayer,
My Flora, pray for me;

“And let my kinsfolk know the fate
Of one so young and vain.
And now farewell, till time's last date,
When we shall meet again.”

The figure faded from her sight,
And the angry tempest fell,
And she heard through the stilly air of night
A distant passing bell.

THE MERRY BACHELOR

[_]

(FOUNDED ON THE OLD SCOTCH SONG OF “WILLIE WAS A WANTON WAG.”)

Willie was a wanton wag,
The blithest lad that e'er I saw;
Of field and floor he was the brag,
And carried a' the gree awa'.

And was na' Willie stark and keen,
When he gaed to the wappen-schaw;
He won the prizes on the green,
And cheer'd the feasters in the ha'.

His head was wise, his heart was leal,
His truth was fair without a flaw;
And aye by every honest chiel
His word was holden as a law.

And was na' Willie still our pride
When, in his gallant gear array'd,
He wan the broose and kiss'd the bride,
While pipes the wedding welcome play'd.

804

And aye he led the foremost dance,
Wi' winsome maidens buskit braw,
And gave to each a merry glance
That stole, awhile, her heart awa'.

The bride forgot her simple groom,
And every lass her trysted Jo;
Yet nae man's brow on Will could gloom,
They liked his rousing blitheness so.

Our good Mess John laugh'd wi' the lave;
The dominie for a' his lere
Could scarcely like himsell behave,
While a' was glee and revel there.

A joyous sight was Willie's face,
Baith far and near in ilka spot;
In ha' received wi' kindly grace,
And welcomed to the lowly cot.

The carline left her housewife's wark,
The bairnies shouted Willie's name;
The colley too would fidge and bark
And wag his tail when Willie came.

But Willie now has cross'd the main,
And he has been sae lang awa'!
Oh! would he were return'd again
To drive the dowffness frae us a'!

TWO SONGS.

I.

Come rouse thee, lady fair,
The sun is shining brightly,
High through the cloadless air
The sea-bird roving lightly.

Come, from thy lattice look;
With many an oar in motion,
Boats have the creek forsook,
And course the azure ocean.

See on the dim waves borne,
White distant sails are gliding;
Good, on so fair a morn,
Is every heart abiding.

II. (FOR FISHERMEN.)

The waves are rippling on the sand,
The winds are still, the air is clear;
Then gather round, my merry band,
We'll hold on shore an hour of cheer!

The lord keeps vigil in his hall,
The dame in bower or turret high;
But meet the merriest mates of all
Beneath the summer's starlight sky!

SONG

[_]

WRITTEN FOR THE STRAWBERRY HILL FOUNDING PLAY, AND SUNG BY MRS. JORDAN

With the rough blast heaves the billow,
In the light air waves the willow,
Every thing of moving kind
Varies with the veering wind;
What have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous Constancy?

After fretted, pouting sorrow,
Sweet will be thy smile to-morrow
Changing still, each passing thing
Fairest is upon the wing:
What have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous Constancy?

Song of love and satire witty,
Sprightly glee and doleful ditty;
Every mood and every lay,
Welcome all, but do not stay;
For what have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous Constancy?

TO SOPHIA J.BAILLIE.

AN INFANT.

Sweet bud of promise, fresh and fair,
Just moving in the morning air.
The morn of life but just begun,
The sands of time just set to run!
Sweet babe with cheek of pinky hue,
With eyes of soft ethereal blue,
With raven hair like finest down
Of unfledged bird, and scantly shown
Beneath the cap of cumbrous lace,
That circles round thy placid face!
Ah, baby! little dost thou know
How many yearning bosoms glow,
How many lips in blessings move,
How many eyes beam looks of love
At sight of thee!

Some future day,
And grant it, Heaven! thou wilt repay

805

The early love of loving friends
With oft renew'd and dear amends.
Affection true, as with a spell,
Hath many ways her tale to tell:
And thou, with lightsome laughing eye,
Thy artless love wilt testify
By proffer'd kisses oft repeated,
And words at will, when thou art seated
On the paternal knee, in glory,
Rehearsing there thy mimic story—
By little errands, run so fleetly
For dear mamma; and when so featly
Thou dost for her the Dunsbourne heather,
The primrose and the daisy gather,
The daisy fresh with unbruised stem,
Like thee a “bright and bonny gem”—
All this, and more than I can say,
Will show thy love some future day;
Sweet bud of hope, beloved, carest,
Upon thy head heaven's blessing rest!

THE KITTEN.

Wanton droll, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When, drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting until his supper cool,
And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,
As bright the blazing fagot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight;
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,
Thus circled round with merry faces!

Backward coil'd and crouching low,
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread or straw that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then stealing onward, fiercely spring
Upon the tempting faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As still beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong veerst with rump in air
Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like madam in her tantrums high;
Though ne'er a madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.

Doth power in measured verses dwell,
All thy vagaries wild to tell?
Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound,
The giddy scamper round and round,
With leap and toss and high curvet,
And many a whirling somerset,
(Permitted by the modern muse
Expression technical to use)
These mock the deftest rhymester's skill,
But poor in art, though rich in will.

The featest tumbler, stage bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains
To do what costs thee little pains;
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requite him oft with plaudits loud.

But, stopp'd the while thy wanton play,
Applauses too thy pains repay:
For then, beneath some urchin's hand
With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand,
While many a stroke of kindness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly croons thy busy purr,
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose
Like prickles of an early rose,
While softly from thy whisker'd cheek
Thy half-closed eyes peer, mild and meek.

But not alone by cottage fire
Do rustics rude thy feats admire.
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,
Or with unfetter'd fancy fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing smiles with alter'd air
To see thee climb his elbow-chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe.
The widow'd dame or lonely maid,
Who, in the still but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a letter'd page,
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork or paper ball,
Nor childes thee on thy wicked watch,
The ends of ravell'd skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her better skill.

E'en he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the coil of former days,
And loathes the world and all its ways,

806

What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Hath roused him from his moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart of pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find,
That joins it still to living kind.

Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss!
The magic power to charm us thus?
Is it that in thy glaring eye
And rapid movements, we descry—
Whilst we at ease, secure from ill,
The chimney corner snugly fill—
A lion darting on his prey,
A tiger at his ruthless play?
Or is it that in thee we trace,
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emblem, view'd with kindred eye,
Of tricky, restless infancy?
Ah! many a lightly sportive child,
Who hath like thee our wits beguiled,
To dull and sober manhood grown,
With strange recoil our hearts disown.

And so, poor kit! must thou endure,
When thou becom'st a cat demure,
Full many a cuff and angry word,
Chased roughly from the tempting board.
But yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favour'd play-mate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove!
When time hath spoil'd thee of our love,
Still be thou deem'd by housewife fat
A comely, careful, mousing cat,
Whose dish is, for the public good,
Replenish'd oft with savoury food,
Nor, when thy span of life is past,
Be thou to pond or dung-hill cast,
But, gently borne on goodman's spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid;
And children show with glistening eyes
The place where poor old pussy lies.

SCHOOL RHYMES FOR NEGRO CHILDREN.

How happy are we in that hour we love,
When shadows grow longer and branches move;
Blithe urchins then we be!
From the school's low porch, with a joyous shout,
We rush and we run and we gambol about,
So careless, light, and free!

And the good child merrily plays his part,
For all is well in his guileless heart,
The glance of his eye is bright.
We hop and we leap and we toss the ball;
Some dance to their shadows upon the wall,
And spread out their hands with delight.

The parrot that sits on her bough a-swinging,
The bird and the butterfly, light air winging,
Are scarcely more happy, I trow.
Then hey for the meadow, the glade, and the grove,
For evening is coming and branches move,
We'll have merry pastime now!

RHYMES.

Busy work brings after ease;
Ease brings sport and sport brings rest;
For young and old, of all degrees,
The mingled lot is best.

And pain brings pity; then I hear
My mother's sweet and gentle voice,
She strokes my cheek, the touch is dear,
And makes my heart rejoice.

Then welcome work and pain and play;
When all is o'er, like bird in nest,
We soundly sleep;—well says our lay
The mingled lot is best.

RHYMES FOR CHANTING.

Butterfly, butterfly, speed through the air,
The ring-bird follows thee fast,
And the monkey looks up with a greedy stare;
Speed on till the peril be past!

O, wert thou but safe in my garden bower.
And wouldst thou no further stray.
Thou shouldst feed on the rose and the gilliflower,
And be my play-mate gay.

DEVOTIONAL SONG FOR A NEGRO CHILD.

When at rising morn we lave
Our dark limbs in the shiny wave,
When beneath the palm-tree shade
We rest awhile in freshness laid,
And, when our early task is done,
Whom should we love to think upon?

When we noonday slumber take,
In grassy glade or bowery brake,
Where humming birds come glancing by,
And stingless snakes untwisted lie,

807

And quietly sounds the beetle's drone,
Whom should we love to think upon?

When, all awake, we shout and sing,
And dance and gambol in a ring,
Or, healthful hunger to relieve,
Our stated wholesome meals receive,—
When this is past and day is done,
Whom should we love to think upon?

On God, the giver of all good,
Who gives us life, and rest, and food,
And cheerful pastime, late and early,
And parents kind who love us dearly;—
God hath our hearts with goodness won,
Him will we love to think upon!

SECOND DEVOTIONAL SONG.

Our heavenly Father sent His Son
From hateful sin to save us,
And precious blessings many a one,
Health, friends, and freedom gave us.

And all we see, each beauteous sight,
The woods, the fields, the ocean,
The sun by day, the moon by night,
Should fill us with devotion.

Then let our praises be express'd
In light and lively measure,
He loves the grateful homage best
That is bestow'd with pleasure!

THIRD DEVOTIONAL SONG.

Our Father and Almighty Lord,
By angels and by saints ador'd,
With starry brightness circled round,
Gleam beyond gleam, which hath no bound,
Though He is high and we are low,
Accepts the grateful thanks that flow
From infant lips, and to the skies,
Like morning's early vapour rise:—
The simplest child who lisps a prayer
His mercy and His love will share.

A NURSERY LESSON (DEVOTIONAL).

Say, little child, who gives to thee
Thy life and limbs, so light and free?
Thy moving eyes to look around,
Thy ears to catch the softest sound?
Thy food and clothing, friends and home?
'Tis God from whom those blessings come;
And what shouldst thou do? canst thou guess?
To prove to Him thy thankfulness
For life and friends, for clothes and food?—
“Be good.”

And tell me, little-one, I pray,
Who gives thee pleasure in thy play?
Who makes the happy girl and boy
To run, and leap, and shout for joy,
When looking on the clear blue sky;
The clouds that float, the birds that fly;
Trees, flowers, and every pretty thing?
'Tis God from whom those blessings spring;
And in return what shouldst thou do?
“Be good, and love Him too.”

SECOND NURSERY LESSON

(ADMONITORY).

Fat Tommy on the carpet lay,
And held with sprightly kit his play.
To her the twisted cord he flung,
At which with teeth and claws she sprung;
His worsted ball then past her roll'd,
Which soon within her clutching hold
She whirl'd, and check'd, and tugg'd, and tore,
Then sent it rolling as before.
Tommy—his blue eyes glancing bright,
View'd all these antics with delight;
Then fondly stroked her tabby fur,
And smiled to see her wink and purr;
And then her ears began to touch,
Which she endured, but liked not much;
Then did her hinder parts assail,
And pinch'd and pull'd her by the tail.
On this her sudden anger rose,
She turn'd and growl'd, and scratch'd his nose.
Then Tommy roar'd like any bull
And said—his eyes with tears brim full—
“Mamma, beat kit.”—“And why?” quoth she.
“Beat naughty kit for scratching me,
And teach her not to scratch again.”
“No child, such teaching were in vain.
She can feel pain, but lacks the wit
To learn a lesson; but we'll hit
Upon a plan more plain and easy.
Tommy has sense to learn, so, please ye,
Let him be taught this simple lore,
To pull his play-mate's tail no more.”

808

HYMN.

Father and Lord! Almighty and all-wise!
How ardently devout affections rise,
When rushing thoughts, unsought for, swift and free,
Crowd on th' expanded heart, and speak of Thee!
All mingling, soaring, brightening, how they shine
In truth's strong light, and say that we are Thine!

This world a temple is, where man descries
Signs visible, where'er he turns his eyes,
That Thou art good as wise and mighty; love
The active power that doth through all things move.
A vasty temple, paved with sea and land,
Adorn'd with forests, hills and mountains grand,
And coped aloft with beauty, ever changing
As white clouds o'er cerulean blue are ranging,
As rosy splendour glows, line after line,
At day's glad waking, or at day's decline;
As full or crescent moons shine softly bright
Through the air-floated awnings of the night;
As stars from deepen'd darkness, fiercely burning,
Keep round their northern guide for ever turning!

Such thoughts do visit us like friends indeed,
Who help and comfort in the hour of need;
And sacred lore repeat, e'en that bless'd line,
“living and dying, we are Thine.”

The dying soldier stretch'd on battle ground,
While swells amain the deep and ghastly wound,
Amidst his fallen comrades laid,
The maim'd, the dying, and the dead;
Thinks of his home, the distant and the dear,
Then in his heart repeats these words of cheer.
She, too, whose little flock of love are led
To stand once more around her dying bed,
Blesses them one by one, and when the last
Hath from her fondly lingering vision past,
Raises her eyes to worship and adore,
And feels the bitterness of death is o'er;
Casting behind her mortal love and fear,
She feels that she is Thine, and Thou art near.

The man who in this mingled world of woe,
Dire warfare holds with many a galling foe;
With poverty, disgrace, disease, and pain,
And bravely fronting all, can still maintain,
Like gallant liegeman, his appointed post,
Hath succour still at hand when wanted most.—
“Let all these foes to work my woe combine,
Living and dying, Father, I am Thine.”

But oh! to trace what forms of mortal ill
This thought hath conquer'd, baffles human skill.
Yes, we are Thine, Almighty Lord and Sire,
With souls endow'd to reason and aspire:
Reason, Thy gifted spark of heavenly flame,
The noblest inmate of the human frame;
By which, in all Thy works, Thyself we see,
And love, obey, adore, and worship Thee!

RECOLLECTIONS OF A DEAR AND STEADY FRIEND.

When life's long pilgrimage draws to a close,
A backward glance the weary traveller throws
On many a league traversed, and views the road,
Distant and near, in long perspective trod
By him and by companions on his way,
Who still hold onward, whether grave or gay,
Through gloom and gleam; a cheeker'd path, I ween,
Where forms within the memory's ken are seen,
Forms faint or vivid, varying oft, that seem
Like moving objects in a seried dream:
Till one right dearly on the mind impress'd
Bears for a time his thoughts from all the rest.
And, undisturb'd upon his peaceful station.
His busy mind enjoys its mournful occupation.

There she appears, as when in virgin grace
I first beheld her laughing, lovely face,
Intelligent withal, in which combined
Seem'd every hopeful quality of mind,
Solace, and cheer, and counsel, to impart,
All that should win and hold a manly, generous heart.

I see her mated with a moody lord,
Whose fame she prized, whose genius she adored.
There by his side she stands, pale, grave, and sad;
The brightness of her greeting smile is fled.
Like some fair flower ta'en from its genial mould
To deck a garden-border, loose and cold,
Its former kindred fences all destroy'd,
Shook by the breeze and by the rake annoy'd.
She seem'd, alas!—I look'd, and look'd again,
Tracing the sweet but alter'd face in vain.

I see her next in agony of soul:
Her surcharged feelings broke from all control.
The hand upon her forehead closely press'd,
The trembling frame and quivering lips express'd,
Though scarcely audible the feeble mutter,
Far more than full articulate sounds could utter.

I see her when by pure religion taught
Her heart is lighten'd of its heavy fraught.
Her canopy of murky clouds hath pass'd,
In air dissolved, and sunshine gleams at last.

809

Her heart, with Christian charity imbued,
Hath every hard vindictive thought subdued.
Oh, then how fair a sight it was to trace
That blessed state upon her placid face!
And yet, when weary of the gossip sound
From morning visitors convening round,
She would at times unusual silence hold,
Some, ah how erringly! believed her stiff and cold.

I see her from the world retired caressing
Her infant daughter, her assured blessing;
Teaching the comely creature, in despite
Of froward freaks, to feel and act aright;
Well suiting to the task her voice and look
With fondling playfulness or grave rebuke.
Now, with expression changed, but sweet, she cheers
Her widow'd father's weary weight of years.
How slily does her gentle hint recall
Some half forgotten tale of cot or hall,
To raise his hearty laugh, as by the fire
In easy chair he sits! old tales that never tire.

To early friends her love was firm and fast;
Beneath her roof they gather'd oft and cast
A faint reflected gleam of days gone by,
And kindly smiled on them her soft blue eye.
One dearly prized may special notice claim,
Mary Montgomery! nobly sounding name,
And worthy she to bear it. Oft would come
Their youthful kindred; to an easy home,
Where they might still their fairy gambols hold,
Nor in her presence fear to be too bold.
Though tired and languid, laid awhile to rest,
Around her still the active urchins press'd,
Would o'er the tumbled covering strive and wrestle,
And e'en at times behind her snugly nestle.
At hide and seek where did they lurk and crouch?
Ay, where forsooth but in my lady's couch!
Mock frowns from her but small impression made,
They gambol'd on, and would not be afraid.

Books were her solace, whether grave or gay,
But most she loved the poet's plaintive lay;
And e'en at times with knit considerate brow
Would with her pen a native talent show.
When fancy, link'd with feelings kind and dear,
Was found in lines that did not please the ear,
Oh then, with what a countenance she met
Her certain fate, by critics sore beset!
She met it all with simple kindly air,
The first to own and then the fault repair.

Mistress at length of wealth and large domain,
Behold her now a modest state maintain,
With generous heart and liberal hand bestowing,—
A spring of friendly kindness, ever flowing.
She did with such a gentle ease relieve,
From her it was a pleasure to receive.
With the consideration of a friend,
All was arranged to serve a useful end,
And no humiliation could ensue
To make the wounded heart her bounty rue.
Nay, rather its condition seem'd to rise,
Knit to her then as if by kindred ties.
For worth distress'd there was in sooth no need
In earnest pitcous words with her to plead,
Nor feel, because of some slight boons obtain'd,
But recently perhaps, shy and restrain'd:
Her cheerful eye gave answer short and plain,
“Think not of that, but come and come again.”

The humming of her school, its morning sound,
With all her youthful scholars gather'd round;
Their shout, when issuing forth at mid-day hour,
Each active lad exerting all his pow'r
To do the sturdy labour of a man,
As through the groups quick emulation ran,
Was music to her ear; warm thrill'd her blood;
She felt she was promoting public good.
And have I seen her proud or heard her boast?
Yes, once I did; when, counting use and cost,
She gravely added, that her boys thus train'd,
Employment afterwards more surely gain'd
From farmer, or from village artisan,
Who trusted each would prove a steady man.
In truth, her school had in its humble station
Acquired an honest fame and reputation.

I've seen, when in a daughter's happy lot
Her own was brighten'd, woes and cares forgot.
While with a roguish grandchild few could quell,
A sturdy imp that loved his grandame well,
She lowly sate upon the carpet playing,
The former frolics of her youth betraying,—
A pleasing sight, that led to deep reflection;
To pain and pleasure link'd in close connection.

And now within her chamber-walls confined
She sadly dwells and strives to be resign'd.
Her span of life, yet short, though rough the past,
May still through further years of languor last,
Or health to other years may yet be given
To do her Master's will—the will of heaven.
But should her lot be pain and sickness still,
She hath her task of duty to fulfill—
Her task of love, cheer'd by her noble trust,
The Christian's lofty faith, that from the dust
Lifts up the Christian's head, gleams in his eye,
Bracing his wasted strength to live or die.
Ay, 'tis a noble faith, not fenced and bound
By orthodoxy's narrow plot of ground.
The Bible, not the Church, directs her way,
Nor does she through entangled labyrinths stray.
Before her stands a prospect fair and wide,
To endless distance stretch'd on either side;
A gen'rous Saviour, beckoning us to come
Where mercy has prepared our peaceful home;
Where God, His God, supreme all powers above,
Receives us in the realms of sanctity and love.

810

If late or early from her house of clay,
The lease expired, her soul be turn'd away,
What boots it? ready for her Master's call,
Death's gloomy pass no longer can appal.
The covering o'er a pallid face is thrown,
The coffin closed, and all the rest unknown—
“No, not unknown,” a conscious spirit cries,
Stirring within us quickly; we shall rise
To nobler being waked; heaven's glorious show,
The varied wonders of the earth below,
And He who spake as never man did speak,
All tell of future happiness to break
On the departed just, whilst Nature's voice
Of many tones doth in that mighty sound rejoice.

But in what order we shall leave this scene,
Where all our joys, affections, cares have been,
Ah! who can say? the young and strong may stand
Close to the hidden confines of that land
From which no traveller returns again,
Whose sights and sounds in mystery remain:
But there full surely do the aged wait
An hourly summons to the unknown state.
Report perhaps of my decease may find
Her on a weary couch of pain reclined,
And some dear silent watcher then may see
Her soft eye glistening with a tear for me—
But cease we here—o'er fancy's sight is thrown
A closing veil—my vision'd thoughts are gone.

TWO BROTHERS.

Who presses on my knee this kindly pat,
And with a merry archness in my face
Looks up?—a youngling of my own leal race:
Com'st thou to woo my notice, little Matt?
I think thou dost, and thou shalt have it too,
For, whatsoe'er thou dost or dost not do,
Thou hast upon my heart a potent claim,—
Matthew Baillie is thy name;
And worn by thee, O never may
The light transmitted fade away!
The virtues of thy grandsire's manly breast,
May they within thy bosom ever rest!
Far be from thee, dear child, e'en in thy play,
A crooked cunning trick or selfish way,—
All greedy grasping, or of cake or toy!
Thou must be generous, kind, and true, my boy!
And if, in after days, thou needst must fight
With angry schoolmates, wrestle for the right.
Whate'er the poor or wealthy do, thou must
Frank and straightforward be, faithful and just.
No seeking favour with fair glozing words!
No dangling after little patron lords!
In thee, or man or boy, still let us see
Traces of him whose name now honours thee.
He pass'd through life with conscience for his guide,
Nor hesitated, wink'd, nor turn'd aside.
He lived in courts, all courtly failings near,
And knew not feigning, flattery, or fear.
Be thou a Matthew then from right unswerving.
And of thy name deserving.

Ah, little man! thy roguish eye
When those thou lov'st are standing by,
Thy scowling brow and stormy voice,
When thwarted of thy will or choice,
Show thou wilt have no easy play
Old aunty's precepts to obey.
Ay! and wee Willie too is near,
His gladsome, cooing voice, I hear;
And there he comes in all his charms,
Set perching in his nurse's arms.
In his sweet face beam smiles of love
That o'er cheeks, chin, and forehead move;
Fat dimpled arms, and shoulders bare,
The same emotion seem to share;
Yea, could we see thee all, we should discover
Thou art one living smile all over.
Thy small foot too, tinged like the rose,
With all its spread and stirring toes,
Its tiny heel and ankle stout,
From muslin coaties peeping out—
What part of thee can we behold
That is not worth a mine of gold?
Thy open mouth that offers kisses
So winningly, and seldom misses
A kind return, full twenty-fold,
From stern or gentle, young or old;
Come sweet temptation! near—more near,
And let me feel its pressure dear!
Thou little, loving, harmless baby,
Ah! what progressive changes may be;
When, with thy youth and manbood, future years
Have dealt, and on thy countenance appears
The mark'd expression of thy inward worth,
By joy, and grief, and love, and generous ire drawn forth!
Could we e'en now thy future fortunes know,
Thy character and thy endowments!—No;
Why look through onward time to see
What thou, dear baby, then mayst be?
I will not from the present part,
Loving so dearly what thou art.

Matthew and William, brothers twain,
God's blessing on your heads remain!
Soft pretty signs and tokens tell
That now ye love each other well,
And nature's self and parents kind
Will round your hearts this blessing bind.
In sacred words to each dear brother,
A grand-aunt's say concludes,—“love one another.”

811

LINES TO AGNES BAILLIE ON HER BIRTHDAY.

Dear Agnes, gleam'd with joy and dash'd with tears,
O'er us have glided almost sixty years
Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen,
By those whose eyes long closed in death have been,
Two tiny imps, who scarcely stoop'd to gather
The slender harebell, or the purple heather;
No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem,
That dew of morning studs with silvery gem.
Then every butterfly that cross'd our view
With joyful shout was greeted as it flew,
And moth and lady-bird and beetle bright
In sheeny gold were each a wondrous sight.
Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side,
Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde,
Minnows or spotted par with twinkling fin,
Swimming in mazy rings the pool within,
A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent,
Seen in the power of early wonderment.

A long perspective to my mind appears,
Looking behind me to that line of years,
And yet through every stage I still can trace
Thy vision'd form, from childhood's morning grace
To woman's early bloom, changing how soon!
To the expressive glow of woman's noon;
And now to what thou art, in comely age,
Active and ardent. Let what will engage
Thy present moment, whether hopeful seeds
In garden-plat thou sow, or noxious weeds
From the fair flower remove, or ancient lore
In chronicle or legend rare explore,
Or on the parlour hearth with kitten play,
Stroking its tabby sides, or take thy way
To gain with hasty steps some cottage door,
On helpful errand to the neighbouring poor,
Active and ardent, to my fancy's eye
Thou still art young in spite of time gone by.
Though oft of patience brief and temper keen,
Well may it please me, in life's latter scene,
To think what now thou art, and long to me hast been.

'Twas thou who woo'dst me first to look
Upon the page of printed book,
That thing by me abhorr'd, and with address
Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness,
When all too old become with bootless haste
In fitful sports the precious time to waste.
Thy love of tale and story was the stroke
At which my dormant fancy first awoke,
And ghosts and witches in my busy brain
Arose in sombre show, a motley train.
This new-found path attempting, proud was I,
Lurking approval on thy face to spy,
Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention,
“What! is this story all thine own invention?”

Then, as advancing through this mortal span,
Our intercourse with the mix'd world began,
Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesy
(A truth that from my youthful vanity
Lay not conceal'd) did for the sisters twain,
Where'er we went, the greater favour gain;
While, but for thee, vex'd with its tossing tide,
I from the busy world had shrunk aside.
And now in later years, with better grace
Thou helpst me still to hold a welcome place
With those, whom nearer neighbourhood has made
The friendly cheerers of our evening shade.

With thee my humours, whether grave or gay,
Or gracious or untoward, have their way.
Silent if dull—O precious privilege!
I sit by thee; or if, cull'd from the page
Of some huge, ponderous tome, which, but thyself,
None e'er had taken from its dusty shelf,
Thou read me curious passages to speed
The winter night, I take but little heed
And thankless say “I cannot listen now,”
'Tis no offence; albeit, much do I owe
To these, thy nightly offerings of affection,
Drawn from thy ready talent for selection;
For still it seem'd in thee a natural gift
The letter'd grain from letter'd chaff to sift.

By daily use and circumstance endear'd,
Things are of value now that once appear'd
Of no account, and without notice past,
Which o'er dull life a simple cheering cast;
To hear thy morning steps the stair descending,
Thy voice with other sounds domestic blending;
After each stated nightly absence, met
To see thee by the morning table set,
Pouring from smoky spout the amber stream
Which sends from saucer'd cup its fragrant steam;
To see thee cheerly on thethreshold stand,
On summer morn, with trowel in thy hand
For garden-work prepared; in winter's gloom
From thy cold noonday walk to see thee come,
In furry garment lapp'd, with spatter'd feet,
And by the fire resume thy wonted seat;
Ay, e'en o'er things like these, soothed age has thrown
A sober charm they did not always own:
As winter-hoarfrost makes minutest spray
Of bush or hedge-weed sparkle to the day,
In magnitude and beauty, which bereaved
Of such investment, eye had ne'er perceived.

The change of good and evil to abide,
As partners link'd, long have we side by side

812

Our earthly journey held, and who can say
How near the end of our united way?
By nature's course not distant; sad and 'reft
Will she remain,—the lonely pilgrim left.
If thou be taken first, who can to me
Like sister, friend, and home-companion be?
Or who, of wonted daily kindness shorn,
Shall feel such loss, or mourn as I shall mourn?
And if I should be fated first to leave
This earthly house, though gentle friends may grieve,
And he above them all, so truly proved
A friend and brother, long and justly loved,
There is no living wight, of woman born,
Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt mourn.

Thou ardent, liberal spirit! quickly feeling
The touch of sympathy and kindly dealing
With sorrow or distress, for ever sharing
The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow caring,—
Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal day,
An unadorn'd but not a careless lay.
Nor think this tribute to thy virtues paid
From tardy love proceeds, though long delay'd.
Words of affection, howsoe'er express'd,
The latest spoken still are deem'd the best:
Few are the measured rhymes I now may write;
These are, perhaps, the last I shall endite.

VERSES SENT TO MRS. BAILLIE ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1813.

A judgment clear, a pensive mind
With feelings tender and refined;
A generous heart in kindness glowing,
An open hand on all bestowing;
A temper sweet, and calm, and even
Through petty provocations given;
A soul benign, whose cheerful leisure
Considers still of others' pleasure,
Or, in its lonely, graver mood,
Considers still of others' good;
And join'd to these the vision'd eye,
And tuneful ear of poesy;
Blest wight, in whom those gifts combine,
Our dear Sophia, sister mine!
How comes it that, from year to year,
This day hath pass'd without its cheer,—
No token passing time to trace,
No rhymester's lay to do it grace?

Love was not wanting, but the muse,
Reserved, unpliant, and recluse,
Sat in her unreal kingdom, dreaming
Through baseless scenes of airy seeming,
And could not turn her 'wilder'd eye
On plain, unfancied verity.

Yet be it so! once in my life
I'll hold with her a generous strife;
With or without her aid, my lay
Shall hail with grateful lines this happy day:
The day when first thy infant heart
Did from inactive being start,
And in thy baby bosom beat,
Its doubtful, dangerous, fragile seat,—
A heavenly spark that downward came
To mount again a brighter flame.
Meantime, a warm and fostering blessing.
More precious felt in long possessing,
'Tis lent to those who daily prove
Its gentle offices of love.
Ah! for their sake, long be the date
Of this its more ignoble state!
I who, so near its influence set,
Owe it a long and pleasing debt,
In course of being launch'd before
From mortal nature's foggy shore,
Would fain behind me leave some token
Of friendly kindred love unbroken.
Which in some hour, retired and lone.
Thine eyes may sometimes look upon,
While in thy sadden'd tender breast,—
Ah, no! I may not think the rest,
Lest, both bereft of words and strain
My silent thoughts alone remain:
This token then do thou receive.
I will not tell thee to believe
How in my heart its spirit glows,
How soothly from my pen it flows.

Through years unmark'd by woe or pain,
Oft may this day return again,
Blessed by him whose rough career
Of toil and care thy love doth cheer,
Whose manly worth by heaven was fated
To be through life thus fitly mated;
Blessed by those thy youthful twain,
Who by thy side their place maintain,
Still nestling closer to thy bosom
As the fair flowers of reason blossom;
By all who thy dear kindred claim,
And love to see thy face, and love to hear thy name.

And so I end my simple writing.
The muse in fault, but love enditing
That which, but for this love alone,
I thought not ever to have done,—
A birth-day lay. Then sister mine,
Keep thou in kindness this propine,
And through life's yet untrodden scene
Still be to me what thou hast been!

813

VERSES WRITTEN IN FEBRUARY, 1827.

Like gleam of sunshine on the mountain's side,
Fair, bright, and beautiful, while all beside,
Slope, cliff, and pinnacle, in shadow lie
Beneath the awning of a wintry sky,
Through loop-hole in its cloudy texture beaming
A cataract of light so softly streaming,—
Shines one blest deed of ruth when war's grim form
O'er a scourged nation guides his passing storm.

Like verdant islet-spots, that softly peer
Through the dull mist, as morning breezes clear
The brooding vapour from the wide-stretch'd vale,
So in a land where Mammon's cares prevail,
Do frequent deeds of gentle charity
Refresh the moral gazer's mental eye.

Britain, thou art in arms and commerce graced
With many generous acts, that, fairly traced
On thy long annals, give a lustre far
Exceeding those of wealth or trophied war;
And may we not say truthfully of thee,
Thou art a land of mercy?—May it be!

What forms are those with lean gall'd sides? In vain
Their lax'd and ropy sinews sorely strain
Heap'd loads to draw, with lash and goad urged on.
They were in other days, but lately gone,
The useful servants, dearly prized, of those
Who to their failing age give no repose,—
Of thankless, heartless owners. Then full oft
Their arched graceful necks so sleek and soft
Beneath a master's stroking hand would rear
Right proudly, as they neigh'd his well-known voice to hear.
But now how changed!—And what marr'd things are these,
Starved, hooted, scarr'd, denied or food or ease;
Whose humbled looks their bitter thraldom show,
Familiar with the kick, the pinch, the blow?
Alas! in this sad fellowship are found
The playful kitten and the faithful hound,
The gallant cock that hailed the morning light,
All now hard-fated mates in woeful plight.

Ah no! a land of mercy is a name
Which thou in all thy glory mayst not claim!

But yet there dwell in thee the good, the bold,
Who in thy streets, courts, senates, bravely hold
Contention with thy wayward cruelty,
And shall subdue it ere this age glide by.
Meantime, as they their manly power exert,
“God speed you well!” bursts from each kindly heart.
And they will speed; for this foul blot of shame
Must be wash'd out from Britain's honour'd name,
And she among enlighten'd nations stand,
A brave, a merciful, and generous land.

THE TRAVELLER BY NIGHT IN NOVEMBER.

He, who with journey well begun,
Beneath the morning's cheerful sun
Stretches his view o'er hill and dale,
And distant city, (through its veil
Of smoke, dark spires and chimneys seen,)
O'er harvest-lands and meadows green,
What time the roused and busy, meeting
On king's high-way exchange their greeting,
Feels his cheer'd heart with pleasure beat,
As on his way he holds. And great
Delight hath he who travels late
When the fair moon doth hold her state
In the clear sky, while down and dale
Repose in light so pure and pale!
While lake and pool and stream are seen
Weaving their maze of silvery sheen,
And cot and mansion, rock and glade,
And tower and street in light and shade
Strongly contrasted are. I trow,
Better than noonday seems his show,
Soothing the pensive mind.

And yet,
When moon is dark and sun is set,
Not reft of pleasure is the wight,
Who, in snug chaise, at close of night,
Begins his journey in the dark,
With crack of whip and ban-dogs' bark,
And jarring wheels and children bawling,
And voice of surly ostler, calling
To post-boy, through the mingled din,
Some message to a neighbouring inn.
All sounds confusedly in his ear;
The lonely way's commencing cheer.

With dull November's starless sky
O'er head, his fancy soars not high.
The carriage lamps a white light throw
Along the road, and strangely show
Familiar things that cheat the eyes,
Like friends in motley masker's guise.
“What's that? or dame, or mantled maid,
Or herd-boy gather'd in his plaid,
Who leans against yon wall his back?”
“No 'tis in sooth a tiny stack
Of peat, or turf, or cloven wood—
For cottage fire the winter's food.”
“Ha! yonder shady nook discovers
A gentle pair of rustic lovers.”
“Out on't! a pair of harmless calves,
Through ragged bushes seen by halves.”

814

“What thing of strange, unshapely height,
Approaches slowly on the light,
That like a hunch-back'd giant seems,
And now is whitening in its beams?”
“'Tis but a hind, whose burly back
Is bearing home a well-fill'd sack.”
“What's that like spots of flecker'd snow
On the road's margin cluster'd so?”
“'Tis linen left to bleach by night.”—
“Gramercy on us! see I right?
Some witch is casting cantraps there,
The linen hovers in the air!”
“Pooh! soon or late all wonders cease
We have but scared a flock of geese.”

Thus oft through life we do misdeem
Of things that are not what they seem.
Ah! could we there with as slight scath
Divest us of our cheated faith!

And then, belike, when chiming bells
The near approach of waggon tells,
He wistful looks to see it come,
Its bulk emerging from the gloom,
With dun tarpauling o'er it thrown,
Like a huge Mammoth moving on.

But still more pleased, through murky air
He spies the distant bonfire's glare;
And, nearer to the spot advancing,
Black imps and goblins round it dancing;
And nearer still, distinctly traces
The featured disks of happy faces,
Grinning and roaring in their glory,
Like Bacchants wild of ancient story,
Making wild gestures to the flame
As it were play-mate in the game.
Full well, I trow, could modern stage
Such acting for the nonce engage,
A crowded audience, every night,
Would press to see the jovial sight;
And this, from cost and squeezing free,
November's nightly travellers see.

Through village, lane, or hamlet going,
The light from cottage window, showing
Its inmates at their evening fare,
By rousing fire, where earthenware
With pewter trenchers, on the shelf,
Give some display of worldly pelf,
Is transient vision to the eye
Of him our hasty passer by;
Yet much of pleasing import tells,
And cherish'd in his fancy dwells,
Where simple innocence and mirth
Encircle still the cottage hearth.
Across the road a fiery glare
Doth now the blacksmith's forge declare,
Where fnrnace-blast, and measured dim
Of heavy hammers, and within
The brawny mates their labour plying,
From heated bar the red sparks flying,
Some idle neighbours standing by
With open mouth and dazzled eye;
The rough and sooty walls with store
Of chains and horse shoes studded o'er,
And rusty blades and bars between,
All momently are heard and seen.

Nor does he often fail to meet,
In market town's dark, narrow street,
(E'en when the night with onward wings
The sober hour of bed-time brings,)
Amusement. From the alehouse door,
Having full bravely paid his score,
Issues the tipsy artizan,
With some sworn brother of the can,
While each to keep his footing tries,
And utters words solemn and wise.

The dame demure, from visit late,
Her lantern borne before in state
By sloven footboy, paces slow
With patten'd feet and hooded brow.

Where the seam'd window-board betrays
Interior light, right closely lays
The caves-dropper his curious ear,
Some neighbour's fire-side talk to hear;
While, from an upper casement bending,
A household maid, perhaps, is sending
From jug or pot, a sloppy shower
That makes him homeward fleetly scour.
From lower rooms few gleams are sent
Through shorten'd shutter-hole or rent;
But from the loftier chambers peer
(Where damsels doff their gentle gear
For rest preparing) tapers bright,
That give a momentary sight
Of some fair form with visage glowing,
With loosen'd braids and tresses flowing,
Which busied by the mirror stands
With bending head and upraised hands,
Whose moving shadow strangely falls
With size enlarged on roof and walls.
Ah! lovely are the things, I ween,
By speed's light passing glam'rie seen!
Fancy so touch'd will oft restore
Things once beheld and seen no more.

But now he spies the flaring door
Of bridled Swan or gilded Boar,
At which the bowing waiter stands
To know the alighting guest's commands.
A place of bustle, dirt and din,
Swearing without, scolding within;

815

Of narrow means and ample boast,
The traveller's stated halting post,
Where trunks are missing or deranged,
And parcels lost and horses changed.

Yet this short scene of noisy coil
But serves our traveller as a foil,
Enhancing what succeeds, and lending
A charm to pensive quiet, sending
To home and friends, left far behind,
The kindliest musings of his mind;
Or, should they stray to thoughts of pain,
A dimness o'er the haggard train
A mood and hour like this will throw,
As vex'd and burthen'd spirits know.
Night, loneliness, and motion are
Agents of power to distance care;
To distance, not discard; for then,
Withdrawn from busy haunts of men,
Necessity to act suspended,
The present, past, and future blended,
Like figures of a mazy dance,
Weave round the soul a dreamy trance,
Till jolting stone or turnpike gate
Arouse him from the soothing state.

And when the midnight hour is past,
If through the night his journey last,
When still and lonely is the road,
Nor living creature moves abroad,
Then most of all, like fabled wizard,
Night slily dons her cloak and vizard,
His eyes at every corner meeting
With some new sleight of dexterous cheating,
And cunningly his sight betrays
E'en with his own lamp's partial rays.

The road, that in fair, honest day,
Through pasture-land or corn-fields lay,
A broken hedge-row's ragged screen
Skirting its margin rank and green,
With boughs projecting, interlaced
With thorn and briar, distinctly traced
On the deep shadows at their back,
That deeper sink to pitchy black,
Appearing soothly to the eye
Like woven boughs of tapestrie,—
Seems now to wind through tangled wood,
Or forest wild, where Robin Hood
With all his outlaws stout and bold
In olden days his reign might hold.
Yea, roofless barn and ruin'd walls,
As passing light upon them falls,
When favour'd by surrounding gloom,
The castle's stately form assume.

The steaming vapour that proceeds
From moisten'd hide of weary steeds,
And high on either side will rise,
Like clouds storm-drifted, past him flies;
While mire cast up by their hoof'd feet
Adds curious magic to deceit,
Glancing presumptuously before him,
Like yellow diamonds of Cairngorum.

How many are the sultle ways
By which sly night the eye betrays,
When in her wild fantastic mood,
By lone and wakeful traveller woo'd!
Shall I proceed? O no! for now
Upon the black horizon's brow
Appears a line of tawny light;
Thy reign is ended, witching night!
And soon thy place a wizard elf,
(But only second to thyself
In glam'rie's art) will quietly take,
And spread o'er meadow, vale, and brake,
Her misty shroud of pearly white;
A modest though deceitful wight,
Who in a softer, gentler way
Will with the wakeful fancy play,
When woody knolls, their bases losing,
Are islands on a lake reposing,
And streeted town of high pretence,
As rolls away the vapour dense
With all its wavy, curling billows,
Is but a row of pollard willows.
O no! our traveller, still and lone,
A far, fatiguing way hath gone;
His eyes are dim, he stoops his crest,
And folds his arms and goes to rest.

LINES FOR A FRIEND'S ALBUM.

Lines, in addition to the treasure
Of poesy, cull'd for the pleasure
Of beau, and belle, and gentle dame,
When seated round the evening flame,
What time the social hour is waning,
And tardy coachman guests detaining,—
A courteous friend hath bid me write
Upon her Album's pages white.

But age the casy grace hath lost
That would become such pages most,
While of a quondam rhymester's skill,
Scarce aught is extant but the will;
And sober, stinted age must use
The school-girl's worn and stale excuse,
When, long her correspondent's debtor,
The apology becomes the letter.

Apologies for those who need'em!
An Album is a thing of freedom,
Receiving all with right good will
That fortune sends from many a quill,

816

And then displays like scaly store
Which fisher's net brings to the shore:
The herring sheath'd in silvery green,
The whiting in its pearly sheen,
The lithe and wavy eel that glides
Athwart the mackerel's tabbied sides;
John Dory with his dolphin head,
Where amber fins like horns are spread,
And flounder, sole, and thornback, all
In turn on some observer call,
To mark each varied form and tint;
And from this simile a hint
Of some encouragement I take,
And humbly this my offering make,
Which if received with favour, truly
Will show that I have reckon'd duly
On what might homelier things commend,—
On the good nature of a friend.

ADDRESS TO A STEAMVESSEL.

Freighted with passengers of every sort,
A motley throng, thou leav'st the busy port:
Thy long and ample deck,—where scatter'd lie
Baskets and cloaks and shawls of crimson dye;
Where dogs and children through the crowd are straying,
And on his bench apart the fiddler playing,
While matron dames to tressel'd seats repair,—
Seems, on the glassy waves, a floating fair.

Its dark form on the sky's pale azure cast,
Towers from this clustering group thy pillar'd mast;
The dense smoke, issuing from its narrow vent,
Is to the air in curly volumes sent,
Which coiling and uncoiling on the wind,
Trail, like a writhing serpent, far behind.
Beneath, as each merged wheel its motion plies,
On either side the white-churn'd waters rise,
And newly parted from the noisy fray,
Track with light ridgy foam thy recent way,
Then far diverged, in many a lustrous line
On the still-moving distant surface shine.

Thou holdst thy course in independent pride;
No leave ask'st thou of either wind or tide.
To whate'er point the breeze inconstant veer,
Still doth thy careless helmsman onward steer;
As if the stroke of some magician's wand
Had lent thee power the ocean to command.
What is this power which thus within thee lurk
And all unseen, like a mask'd giant works?
E'en that which gentle dames at morning tea,
From silver urn ascending, daily see
With tressy wreathings borne upon the air
Like loosen'd ringlets of a lady's hair;
Or rising from th' enamell'd cup beneath,
With the soft fragrance of an infant's breath:
That which within the peasant's humble cot
Comes from the uncover'd mouth of savoury pot,
As his kind mate prepares his noonday fare,
Which cur and cat and rosy urchins share;
That which, all silver'd by the moon's pale beam
Precedes the mighty Geyser's up-cast stream,
What time, with bellowing din, exploded forth,
It decks the midnight of the frozen north,
While travellers from their skin-spread couches rise
To gaze upon the sight with wondering eyes.

Thou hast to those “in populous city pent”
Glimpses of wild and beauteous nature lent,
A bright remembrance ne'er to be destroy'd,
That proves to them a treasure long enjoy'd,
And for this scope to beings erst confined,
I fain would hail thee with a grateful mind.
They who had nought of verdant freshness seen,
But suburb orchards choked with coleworts green,
Now, seated at their ease, may glide along.
Loch Lomond's fair and fairy isles among;
Where bushy promontories fondly peep
At their own beauty in the nether deep,
O'er drooping birch and rowan red that lave
Their fragrant branches in the glassy wave:
They who on higher objects scarce have counted
Than church-spire with its gilded vane surmounted,
May view within their near, distinctive ken
The rocky summits of the lofty Ben;
Or see his purple shoulders darkly lower
Through the dim drapery of a summer shower.
Where, spread in broad and fair expanse, the Clyde
Mingles his waters with the briny tide,
Along the lesser Cumbray's rocky shore,
With moss and crusted lichens flecker'd o'er,
He who but warfare held with thievish cat,
Or from his cupboard chaced a hungry rat,
The city cobbler,—scares the wild sea-mew
In its mid-flight with loud and shrill halloo;
Or valiantly with fearful threatening shakes
His lank and greasy head at Kittywakes.”
The eyes that have no fairer outline seen,
Than chimney'd walls with slated roofs between,
Which hard and harshly edge the smoky sky,
May Arran's softly-vision'd peaks descry,
Coping with graceful state her steepy sides
O'er which the cloud's broad shadow swiftly glides,
And interlacing slopes that gently merge
Into the pearly mist of ocean's verge.
Eyes which admired that work of sordid skill,
The storied structure of a cotton mill,
May wondering now behold the unnumber'd host
Of marshall'd pillars on fair Ireland's coast,
Phalanx on phalanx ranged with sidelong bend,
Or broken ranks that to the main descend,

817

Like Pharaoh's army on the Red Sea shore,
Which deep and deeper sank, to rise no more.

Yet ne'ertheless, whate'er we owe to thee,
Rover at will on river, lake, and sea,
As profit's bait or pleasure's lure engage,
Offspring of Watt, that philosophic sage,
Who in the heraldry of science ranks
With those to whom men owe high meed of thanks
For genius usefully employ'd, whose fame
Shall still be link'd with Davy's splendid name;
Dearer to fancy, to the eye more fair
Are the light skiffs, that to the breezy air
Unfurl their swelling sails of snowy hue
Upon the moving lap of ocean blue:
As the proud swan on summer lake displays,
With plumage brightening in the morning rays,
Her fair pavilion of erected wings,
They change, and veer, and turn like living things.

With ample store of shrouding, sails, and mast,
To brave with manly skill the winter blast
Of every clime,—in vessels rigg'd like these
Did great Columbus cross the western seas,
And to the stinted thoughts of man reveal'd
What yet the course of ages had conceal'd:
In such as these, on high adventure bent,
Round the vast world Magellan's comrades went.
To such as these are hardy seamen found
As with the ties of kindred feeling bound,
Boasting, while cans of cheering grog they sip,
The varied fortunes of “our gallant ship:”
The offspring these of bold sagacious man,
Ere yet the reign of letter'd lore began.

In very truth, compared to these, thou art
A daily labourer, a mechanic swart,
In working weeds array'd of homely gray,
Opposed to gentle nymph or lady gay,
To whose free robes the graceful right is given
To play and dally with the winds of heaven.
Beholding thee, the great of other days
And modern men with all their alter'd ways,
Across my mind with hasty transit gleam,
Like fleeting shadows of a feverish dream:
Fitful I gaze, with adverse humours teased,
Half sad, half proud, half angry, and half pleased.

SONG,

WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A',

[_]

(VERSION TAKEN FROM AN OLD SONG OF THAT NAME.)

The bride she is winsome and bonny,
Her hair it is snooded sae sleek,
And faithfu' and kind is her Johnny,
Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek.
New pearlins are cause of her sorrow,
New pearlins and plenishing too,
The bride that has a' to borrow,
Has e'en right mickle ado,
Woo'd and married and a'!
Woo'd and married and a'!
Is na' she very weel aff
To be woo'd and married at a'?

Her mither then hastily spak,
“The lassie is glaikit wi' pride;
In my pouch I had never a plack
On the day when I was a bride.
E'en tak' to your wheel, and be clever,
And draw out your thread in the sun;
The gear that is gifted, it never
Will last like the gear that is won.
Woo'd and married and a'!
Wi' havins and toucher sae sma'!
I think ye are very weel aff,
To be woo'd and married at a'!”

“Toot, toot!” quo' her grey-headed faither,
“She's less o' a bride than a bairn,
She's ta'en like a cout frae the heather,
Wi' sense and discretion to learn.
Half husband, I trow, and half daddy,
As humour inconstantly leans,
The chiel maun be patient and steady,
That yokes wi' a mate in her teens.
A kerchief sae douce and sae neat,
O'er her locks that the winds used to blaw!
I'm baith like to laugh and to greet,
When I think o'her married at a'!”

Then out spak' the wily bridegroom,
Weel waled were his wordies, I ween,
“I'm rich, though my coffer be toom,
Wi' the blinks o' your bonny blue een.
I'm prouder o' thee by my side,
Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few,
Than if Kate o' the Croft were my bride,
Wi' purfles and pearlins enow.
Dear and dearest of ony!
Ye're woo'd and buikit and a'!”
And do ye think scorn o' your Johnny,
And grieve to be married at a'?”

She turn'd, and she blush'd, and she smiled,
And she looket sae bashfully down;
The pride o' her heart was beguiled,
And she played wi' the sleeves o' her gown;
She twirled the tag o' her lace,
And she nippet her boddice sae blue,
Syne blinket sae sweet in his face,
And aff like a maukin she flew.
Woo'd and married and a'!
Wi' Johnny to roose her and a'!
She thinks hersel very weel aff,
To be woo'd and married at a'!

818

A SONG

[_]

(WRITTEN FOR MR. STRUTHER'S COLLECTION OF SONGS.)

It was on a morn, when we were thrang,
The kirn it croon'd, the cheese was making,
And bannocks on the girdle baking,
When ane at the door chapp't loud and lang.

Yet the auld gudewife and her mays sae tight,
Of a' this bauld din took sma' notice I ween;
For a chap at the door in braid day-light,
Is no like a chap that's heard at e'en.

But the docksy auld laird of the Warlock glen,
Wha waited without, half blate, half cheery,
And lang'd for a sight o' his winsome deary,
Raised up the latch, and cam' crousely ben.

His coat it was new, and his o'erlay was white,
His mittens and hose were cozie and bien;
But a wooer that comes in braid day-light,
Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

He greeted the carline and lasses sae braw,
And his bare lyart pow, sae smoothly he straikit,
And he looket about, like a body half glaikit,
On bonny sweet Nanny, the youngest of a'.

“Ha laird!” quo' the carline, “and look ye that way?
Fy, let na' sic fancies bewilder you clean:
An elderlin man, in the noon o' the day,
Should be wiser than youngsters that come at e'en.”

“Na, na,” quo' the pawky auld wife, “I trow,
You'll no' fash your head wi' a youthfu' gilly,
As wild and as skeigh as a muirland filly;
Black Madge is far better and fitter for you.”

He hem'd and he haw'd, and he drew in his mouth,
And he squeezed the blue bannet his twa hands between,
For a wooer that comes when the sun's i'the south,
Is mair landward than wooers that come at e'en.

“Black Madge is sae carefu”'—“What's that to me?”
“She's sober and eydent, has sense in her noddle:
She's douce and respeckit”—“I care na' a bodle:
Love winna be guided, and fancy's free.”

Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight,
And Nanny, loud laughing, ran out to the green;
For a wooer that comes when the sun shines bright
Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

Then away flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he,
“A' the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and Tweed, O!
Black or fair, young or auld, dame or damsel or widow,
May gang in their pride to the de'il for me!”

But the auld gudewife and her mays sae tight
Cared little for a' his stour banning, I ween;
For a wooer that comes in braid day-light,
Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

FY, LET US A' TO THE WEDDING.

[_]

(AN AULD SANG, NEW BUSKIT.)

Fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there;
For Jock's to be married to Maggy,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.

And there will be jibing and jeering,
And glancing of bouny dark een,
Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speering
O' questions baith pawky and keen.

And there will be Bessy the beauty,
Wha raises her cockup sae hie,
And giggles at preachings and duty,
Guid grant that she gang na' ajee!

And there will be auld Geordie Taunser,
Wha coft a young wife wi' his gowd;
She'll flaunt wi' a silk gown upon her,
But wow! he looks dowie and cow'd.

And brown Tibby Fouler the Heiress
Will perk at the tap o' the ha',
Encircled wi' suitors, wha's care is
To catch up her gloves when they fa',—

Repeat a' her jokes as they're cleckit,
And haver and glower in her face,
When tocherless mays are negleckit,—
A crying and scandalous case.

And Mysie, wha's clavering aunty
Wad match her wi' Laurie the Laird,
And learns the young fule to be vaunty,
But neither to spin nor to caird.

And Andrew, wha's Granny is yearning
To see him a clerical blade,
Was sent to the college for learning,
And cam' back a coof as he gaed.

819

And there will be auld Widow Martin,
That ca's hersel thritty and twa!
And thraw-gabbit Madge wha for certain
Was jilted by Hab o' the Shaw.

And Elspy the sewster sae genty,
A pattern of havens and sense,
Will straik on her mittens sae dainty,
And crack wi' Mess John i' the spence.

And Angus, the seer o' ferlies,
That sits on the stane at his door,
And tells about bogles, and mair lies
Than tongue ever utter'd before.

And there will be Bauldy the boaster,
Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue;
Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster,
Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young:

And Hugh the town-writer, I'm thinking,
That trades in his lawerly skill,
Will egg on the fighting and drinking
To bring after-grist to his mill:

And Maggy—na, na! we'll be civil,
And let the wee bridie a-be;
A vilipend tongue is the devil,
And ne'er was encouraged by me.

Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there,
Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding,
The fun and the feasting to share.

For they will get sheep's head, and haggis,
And browst o' the barley-mow;
E'en he that comes latest, and lag is,
May feast upon dainties enow:

Veal florentines in the o'en baken,
Weel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat
Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' taken
Het reeking frae spit and frae pat:

And glasses (I trow 'tis na' said ill),
To drink the young couple good luck,
Weel fill'd wi' a braw beechen ladle
Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck.

And then will come dancing and daffing,
And reelin and crossin o' hans,
Till even auld Lucky is laughing,
As back by the aumry she stans.

Sic bobbing and flinging and whirling,
While fiddlers are making their din;
And pipers are droning and skirling,
As loud as the roar o' the lin.

Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there,
For Jock's to be married to Maggy,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.

HOOLY AND FAIRLY.

[_]

(FOUNDED ON AN OLD SCOTCH SONG.)

Oh, neighbours! what had I a-do for to marry!
My wife she drinks posset and wine o' Canary,
And ca's me a niggardly, thraw-gabbit cairly,
O, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
O, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!

She sups wi' her kimmers on dainties enow,
Aye bowing and smirking and wiping her mou',
While I sit aside, and am helpit but sparely,
O, gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
O, gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!

To fairs and to bridals and preachings and a',
She gangs sae light headed and buskit sae braw,
In ribbons and mantuas that gar me gae barely!
O, gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
O, gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!

I' the kirk sic commotion last Sabbath she made,
Wi' babs o' red roses and breast-knots o'erlaid!
The Dominie stickit the psalm very nearly:
O, gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
O, gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!

She's warring and flyting frae morning till e'en,
And if ye gainsay her, her een glow'r sae keen,
Then tongue, nieve, and cudgel she'll lay on ye sairly:
O, gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
O, gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!

When tired wi' her cantrips, she lies in her bed,
The wark a' negleckit, the chaumer unred,
While a' our guid neighbours are stirring sae early:
O, gin my wife wad wurk timely and fairly!
Timely and fairly, timely and fairly,
O, gin my wife wad wurk timely and fairly!

A word o' guid counsel or grace she'll hear none;
She bandies the Elders, and mocks at Mess John,
While back in his teeth his own text she flings rarely:
O, gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
O, gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!

820

I wish I were single, I wish I were freed;
I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead,
Or she in the mouls, to dement me nae mair, lay!
What does it 'vail to cry hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
Wasting my breath to cry hooly and fairly!

THE LADY IN HER CAR.

(A NIGHT-SCENE BY THE SEA.)

There is darkness on a dangerous coast,
Where waves on waves are wildly toss'd.
High cliffs, and rifted rocks between;
The strife is terrific, and all unseen.
Ay, loud is the roar of winds and waves,
As strong contention wildly raves;
A fearful sound of a fearful commotion,—
The many angry voices of the ocean.

Along the shore from cottage homes
No sound of stirring inmate comes,
Though some on restless beds there be
Whose thoughts are with the wanderers of the sea.
Hark! from the mingled din an utter'd sound,
Distinct and awful, booming through the air,
A signal of distress; some ship aground,
With all her hardy crew to perish there!
Another booming sound! must they be lost,
Within man's hearing, on this ruthless coast?

No, from the lady's window lights appear;
There's stirring life within, and blessed help is near.
And sooth to say, in some few minutes more
The lady's car is at the door
Herself into the seat is lifted,
And to her hands the reins are shifted.

But who is she, whose deeds fulfill
The generous impulse of her will
So quickly?—One, with limbs nerve-bound,
Whose feet have never trod the ground;
Who loves, in tomes of Runick lore,
To scan the curious tales of yore,
Of gods and heroes, dimly wild;
And hath intently oft beguiled
Her passing hours with mystic rhymes,
Legends by bards rehearsed of other times:
Learned, and loving learning well;
For college hall or cloister'd cell
A student meet, yet all the while
As meet with repartee and smile,
'Mid easy converse, polish'd, blithe, and boon,
To join the circles of a gay saloon:
From childhood rear'd in wealth and ease,
The daily care herself to please,
For selfish nature here below
A dangerous state, I trow.

Such is the dame who, reins in hand,
Drives forth, and checks her courser on the strand,
Where torches blaze, and figures rude
Pictured on darkness, round her stood;
And she on th' instant in that trying hour
Becomes to them a spirit, and a pow'r
To rouse, and to command,—
Those hardy seamen she had taught
To guide the life-boat with its fraught
Of living souls, through surf and surge,
And brave the whirling eddy's scourge.
But now, all daunted, in amaze
They doggedly upon her gaze,
And sternly murmur short reply.—
“Will ye then all stand coldly by;
With faint hearts shrinking in dismay
Let the dark deep devour its prey,
Your friends, your brothers, gallant men,
Who ne'er must see their homes again?
But no—my words her words may not express:
Their generous import your own hearts will guess
And they their lady's voice obey,
Unto the boat-house wend their way,
Launch the light vessel from the shore
Amid the angry surges' roar;
Vaulting and sinking, as they go
The waves above, or waves below;
While their mix'd words of terror, or of cheer,
Sad friends upon the shore confus'dly hear.
It was an awful thing for them to wait
The issue of their comrades' doubtful fate.—

Minutes like hours have slowly past,
Each sadder, slower than the last,
While fancied voices oft betray
The wistful ear, and pass away.
At length in sooth a nearing sound, though faint,
Of oars and tongues from moderate distance sent!
It cannot be the mocking tempest's cry.
It comes again, must be reality;
The boat, the boat! its iron tackles ringing!
And from its sides man after man is springing,
Who strangely rock and stagger on the land,
As though they knew not how to stand.
It is our own: they've nobly braved,
And brought to shore their dearly saved.
Loud shouts of thankful joy and pride
From the beach inland echo far and wide.

The Lady's grateful heart basis high,
Whilst quick of thought, and quick of eye,
She gives directions on the spot;
And forthwith each in kindly cot,
With raiment, food, and bed supplied,
Cheered with soothing words beside,
Five hardy seamen lay them down to sleep,
Who else had seen no more the sun's glad ray,
Whose place of rest before the peep of day
Had been the yawning deep:

821

Men, brave and useful, stark and strong,
Who each to some loved home belong,
Where loving mates and kinsfolk dear
Think of their absent mariner with fear.

Still on the beach some thoughtful stragglers stay
To watch the earliest streak of coming day,
As there it dimly marks the distant main:
And the lady returns to her home again,
With the sound of blessings in her ear
From young and old her heart to cheer:
Sweet thoughts within her secret soul to cherish—
The blessings of those who were ready to perish;
And there lays her down on her peaceful pillow,
Bless'd by the Lord of the wind and the billow.

TO JAMES B. BAILLIE,

AN INFANT.

God's blessing rest upon thy harmless head,
My little James! Well mayst thou ever speed
On life's uncertain journey, firm and straight
Thy onward steps unto the opening gate,
At which the good and just shall enter in,
And there a higher, happier life begin!
Or rough or smooth the way that must be past,
What boots it, if thou gain thy home at last?
Yet, ne'ertheless I fain would hope that thou
Shalt with thy playmates three be happy now,
And throw a brightness round the native hearth,
To cheer their grateful hearts who gave thee birth.
Thy steps of eager speed at early day,
Thine eyes of glancing joy in buoyant play,
Thy words of sweet affection may delight
Their yearning fondness, and dear hopes excite:
Yea, Heaven perhaps thine aged Aunt may spare
Some years in these thy childhood's beams to share;
Thy fair beginning may her ending cheer,
But aught beyond will not to her appear,
And when to man's estate thou dost attain,
No trace of her will in thy mind remain.
Ay, so it needs must be, and be it so,
Though ne'er for thee will heart more warmly glow!

Thou wearst his name, who in his stinted span
Of human life, a generous useful man,
Did well the pastor's honour'd task perform.
The toilsome way, the winter's beating storm,
Ne'er kept him from the peasant's distant cot
Where want or suffering were the inmate's lot,
Who look'd for comfort in his friendly face,
As by the sick-bed's side he took his place.
A peace-maker in each divided home
To him all strife-perplexed folk would come.
In after years how earnestly he strove
In sacred lore his students to improve!
As they met round the academic chair
Each felt a zealous friend address'd him there.
He was thy grandsire's sire, who in his day,
That, many years gone by, hath pass'd away,
On human gratitude had many claims;—
Be thou as good a man, my little James!

THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.

A young gudewife is in my house,
And thrifty means to be,
But aye she's runnin' to the town,
Some ferlie there to see.
The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow,
I soothly think, ere it be spun, I'll wear a lyart pow.

And when she sets her to her wheel
To draw her threads wi' care,
In comes the chapman wi' his gear,
And she can spin nae mair.
The weary pund, & c.

And she, like ony merry may,
At fairs maun still be seen,
At kirkyard preachings near the tent,
At dances on the green.
The weary pund, & c.

Her dainty ear a fiddle charms,
A bagpipe's her delight,
But for the crooning o' her wheel
She disna care a mite.
The weary pund, & c.

You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs,
Made o' your linkum twine,
But, ah! I fear our bonny burn
Will ne'er lave web o' thine.
The weary pund, & c.

Nay, smile again, my winsome mate,
Sic jeering means nae ill,
Should I gae sarkless to my grave,
I'll lo'e and bless thee still.
The weary pund, & c.

TAM O' THE LIN.

Tam o' the Lin was fu' o' pride,
And his weapon he girt to his valorous side,
A scabbard o' leather wi' deil-haet within,—
“Attack me wha daur!” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

822

Tam o' the Lin he bought a mear,
She cost him five shilling, she was na' dear,
Her back stuck up and her sides fell in,—
“A fiery yaud,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin he courted a may,
She stared at him sourly and said him nay,
But he stroked down his jerkin and cock'd up his chin,—
“She aims at a laird then,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin he gaed to the fair,
Yet he look'd wi' disdain on the chapman's ware,
Then chuck'd out a saxpence, the saxpence was tin,—
“There's coin for the fiddlers,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin wad show his lare,
And he scann'd o'er the book wi' a wiselike stare,
He mutter'd confusedly but didna begin,—
“This is Dominie's business,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin had a cow wi' ae horn,
That liket to feed on his neighbour's corn,
The stanes he threw at her fell short o' her skin,—
“She's a lucky auld reiver,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin he married a wife,
And she was the torment, the plague o' his life;
She lays sae about her, and makes sic a din,—
“She frightens the bailie,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin grew dowie and douce,
And he sat on a stane at the end o' his house:
What ails thee, auld chield? he looks haggard and thin,—
“I'm no vera cheery,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin lay down to die,
And his friends whisper'd softly and woefully,
We'll buy you some masses to scour away sin,—
“And drink at my latewake,” quo' Tam o' the Lin.

NEW WORDS TO THE OLD SCOTCH AIR OF “THE WEE PICKLE TOW.”

A lively young lass had a wee pickle tow,
And she thought to try the spinning o't;
She sat by the fire and her rock took a low,
And that was an ill beginning o't.
Loud and shrill was the cry that she utter'd, I ween;
The sudden mischanter brought tears to her een;
Her face it was fair, but her temper was keen;
O dole for the ill beginning o't!

She stamp'd on the floor and her twa hands she wrung,
Her bonnie sweet mon' she crooket O!
And fell was the outbreak o' words fra her tongue;
Like one sair demented she looket O!
“Foul fa' the inventor o' rock and o' reel!
I hope, guid forgie me, he's now wi' the deil,
He brought us mair trouble than help, wot I weel,
O dole for the ill beginning o't!”

And now when they're spinning and kemping awa',
They'll talk o' my rock, and the burning o't,
While Tibbie, and Mysie, and Maggie, and a'
Into some silly joke will be turning it;
They'll say I was doited, they'll say I was fou',
They'll say I was dowie, and Robin untrue,
They'll say in the fire some luve-pouther I threw,
And that made the ill beginning o't!

O curst be the day and unchancy the hour,
When I sat me adown to the spinning o't!
Then some evil spirit or warlock had pow'r,
And made sic an ill beginning o't:
May Spunkie my feet to the boggie betray,
The lunzie folk steal my new kirtle away,
And Robin forsake me for douce Effie Gray,
The next time I try the spinning o't!

SONG,

CALLED “THE COUNTRY LADY'S REVEILLIE.”

From early fire wending
The smoke is ascending,
And with the clouds blending,
Awake, awake!
From green covert creeping
Wild creatures are peeping,
Fy! sloth of dull sleeping
Forsake, forsake!

The cocks are a-crowing,
The kine are a-lowing,
The milk-pail is flowing,
Awake, awake!
The dew-drops are gleaming,
And bright eyes are beaming,
The mist of pale dreaming
Forsake, forsake!

Now maidens are bracing,
And bodices lacing,
The slender form gracing,
Awake, awake!
On slipper'd toe stealing,
Thy fair face revealing,
The curtain's dark sheeling
Forsake, forsake!

823

VOLUNTEER'S SONG,

WRITTEN IN 1803.

Ye who Britain's soldiers be,—
Freemen, children of the free,
Who quickly come at danger's call,
From shop and palace, cot and hall,
And brace ye bravely up in warlike gear,
For all that ye hold dear;

Blest in your hands be sword and spear!
There is no banded Briton here
On whom some fond mate hath not smiled,
Or hung in love some lisping child,
Or aged parent, grasping his last stay,
With locks of honour'd gray.

Such men behold with steady pride,
The threaten'd tempest gathering wide,
And list with onward form inclined
To sound of foe-men on the wind,
And bravely act amid the battle's roar,
In seenes untried before.

Let veterans boast, as well they may,
Nerves steel'd in many a bloody day;
The generous heart, who takes his stand
Upon his free and native land,
Doth, with the first sound of the hostile drum,
A fearless man become.

Then come, ye hosts, that madly pour
From wave-toss'd floats upon our shore!
If fell or gentle, false or true,
Let those inquire, who wish to sue:
Nor fiend nor hero from a foreign strand,
Shall lord it in our land.

Come, then, ye hosts that madly pour
From wave-toss'd floats upon our shore!
An adverse wind or breezeless main
Lock'd in their ports our tars detain,
To waste their eager spirits, vainly keen,
Else here ye had not been.

Yet ne'ertheless, in strong array,
Prepare ye for a well-fought day.
Let banners wave and trumpets sound,
And closing cohorts darken round,
And the fierce onset raise its mingled roar,
New sound on England's shore!

Freemen, children of the free,
Are brave alike on land or sea;
And every rood of British ground,
On which a hostile spear is found,
Proves under their firm tread and vigorous stroke,
A deck of royal oak.

SONG,

WRITTEN FOR AN IRISH AIR.

The morning air plays on my face,
And through the grey mist peering
The soften'd sun I sweetly trace,
Wood, moor, and mountain cheering,
Larks aloft are singing,
Hares from covert springing,
And o'er the fen the wild-duck brood
Their early way are winging.

Bright every dewy hawthorn shines,
Sweet every herb is growing,
To him whose willing heart inclines
The way that he is going.
Clearly do I see now
What will shortly be now;
I'm patting at her door poor Tray,
Who fawns and welcomes me now.

How slowly moves the rising latch!
How quick my heart is beating!
That worldly dame is on the watch
To frown upon our meeting.
Fy! why should I mind her,
See who stands behind her,
Whose eye upon her traveller looks
The sweeter and the kinder.

O every bounding step I take,
Each hour the clock is telling,
Bears me o'er mountain, bourn, and brake,
Still nearer to her dwelling.
Day is shining brighter,
Limbs are moving lighter,
While every thought to Nora's love
But binds my love the tighter.

SONG,

FOR AN IRISH AIR.

Come, form we round a cheerful ring,
And broach the foaming ale,
And let the merry maiden sing,
The beldame tell her tale.

And let the sightless harper sit
The blazing fagot near;
And let the jester vent his wit,
The nurse her bantling cheer.

Who shakes the door with angry din,
And would admitted be?
No, Gossip Winter! snug within,
We have no room for thee.

824

Go scud it o'er Killarney's lake,
And shake the willows bare,
Where water-elves their pastime take,
Thou'lt find thy comrades there.

Will-o'-the-wisp skips in the dell,
The owl hoots on the tree,
They hold their nightly vigil well,
And so the while will we.

Then strike we up the rousing glee,
And pass the beaker round,
Till every head, right merrily,
Is moving to the sound!

A SCOTCH SONG.

The gowan glitters on the sward,
The lavrock's in the sky,
And collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.
Oh no! sad and slow
And lengthen'd on the ground,
The shadow of our trysting bush,
It wears so slowly round!

My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near,
But still the sound that I lo'e best,
Alack! I canna' hear.
Oh no! sad and slow,
The shadow lingers still,
And like a lanely ghaist I stand
And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi' clacking din,
And Lucky scolding frae her door,
To ca' the bairnies in.
Oh no! sad and slow,
These are na' sounds for me,
The shadow of our trysting bush,
It creeps sae drearily!

I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tam,
A snood of bonny blue,
And promised when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow.
Oh no! sad and slow,
The mark it winna' pass;
The shadow of that weary thorn,
Is tether'd on the grass.

O now I see her on the way,
She's past the witch's knowe,
She's climbing up the Browny's brae,
My heart is in a lowe!
Oh no! tis no' so,
'Tis glam'rie I have seen;
The shadow of that hawthorn bush,
Will move na' mair till e'en.

My book o' grace I'll try to read,
Though conn'd wi' little skill,
When collie barks I'll raise my head,
And find her on the hill;
Oh no! sad and slow,
The time will ne'er be gane,
The shadow of the trysting bush,
Is fix'd like ony stane.

SONG,

POVERTY PARTS GOOD COMPANY, (FOR AN OLD SCOTCH AIR.)

When my o'erlay was white as the foam o' the lin,
And siller was chinkin my pouches within,
When my lambkins were bleatin on meadow and brae,
As I went to my love in new cleeding sae gay,
Kind was she, and my friends were free,
But poverty parts good company.

How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight,
When piper play'd cheerly, and crusie burn'd bright,
And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear,
As she footed the floor in her holyday gear!
Woe is me; and can it then be,
That poverty parts sic company?

We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk,
We met i' the sunshine, we met i' the mirk;
And the sound o' her voice, and the blinks o' her een,
The cheering and life of my bosom hae been.
Leaves frae the tree, at Martinmass flee,
And poverty parts sweet company.

At bridal and infare, I braced me wi' pride,
The broose I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride;
And loud was the laughter good fellows among,
As I utter'd my banter or chorus'd my song;
Dowie and dree are jestin and glee,
When poverty spoils good company.

Wherever I gaed kindly lasses look'd sweet,
And mithers and aunties were unco discreet;
While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board;
But now they pass by me, and never a word!
Sae let it be, for the worldly and slee
Wi' poverty keep nae company.

825

But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart,
And the spae-wife has tauld me to keep up my heart,
For, wi' my last saxpence, her loof I hae crost,
And the bliss that is fated can never be lost.
Though cruelly we may ilka day see
How poverty parts dear company.

SONG,

(FOR A SCOTCH AIR).

O swiftly glides the bonny boat
Just parted from the shore,
And, to the fisher's chorus note,
Soft moves the dipping oar!
His toils are borne with lightsome cheer.
And ever may they speed,
Who feeble age, and helpmates dear,
And tender bairnies feed.

CHORUS.

We cast our lines in Largo Bay,
Our nets are floating wide,
Our bonny boat with yielding sway
Rocks lightly on the tide;
And happy prove our daily lot,
Upon the summer sea!
And blest on land our kindly cot,
Where all our treasures be!

The Mermaid on her rock may sing,
The Witch may weave her charm,
Nor Water-Sprite, nor elrich thing
The bonny boat can harm.
It safely bears its scaly store
Through many a stormy gale,
While joyful shouts rise from the shore,
Its homeward prow to hail.

CHORUS.

We cast our lines, & c.

A SAILOR'S SONG.

While clouds on high are riding,
The wintry moonshine hiding,
The raging blast abiding,
O'er mountain waves we go,
We go, we go, we go,
Bravely we go, we go.

With hind, the dry land reaping,—
With townsman, shelter keeping,—
With lord, on soft down sleeping,—
Change we our lot? O no!
O no! O no! O no!
Change we our lot? O no!

On stormy main careering,
Each sea-mate, sea-mate cheering,
With dauntless helmsman steering,
Our forthward course we hold,
We hold, we hold, we hold,
Our forthward course we hold, we hold.

Their sails with sunbeams whiten'd,
Themselves with glory brighten'd,
From care their bosoms lighten'd,
Who shall return?—the bold;
The bold, the bold, the bold;
Only the bold! the bold!

SONG,

(A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD SCOTCH SONG)

“Saw ye Johnny comin?” quo' she,
“Saw ye Johnny comin?
Wi' his blue bonnet on his head,
And his doggie runnin?
Yestreen about the gloamin time
I chanced to see him comin,
Whistling merrily the tune
That I am a' day hummin,” quo' she,
“I am a' day hummin.”

“Fee him, faither, fee him,” quo' she,
“Fee him, faither, fee him;
A' the wark about the house
Gaes wi' me when I see him:
A' the wark about the house,
I gang sae lightly through it;
And though ye pay some merks o' gear,
Hoot! ye winna rue it,” quo' she,
“No; ye winna rue it.”

“What wad I do wi' him, hizzy?
What wad I do wi' him?
He's ne'er a sark upon his back,
And I hae nane to gie him.”
“I hae twa sarks into my kist,
And ane o' them I'll gie him;
And for a merk o' mair fee,
O, dinna stand wi' him,” quo' she,
“Dinna stand wi' him.”

“Weel do I lo'e him,” quo' she,
“Weel do I lo'e him,
The brawest lads about the place
Are a' but haverels to him.
O fee him, faither; lang I trow

826

We've dull and dowie been;
He'll haud the plough, thrash i' the barn,
And crack wi' me at e'en,” quo' she,
“Crack wi' me at e'en.”

SIR MAURICE:

A BALLAD.

Sir Maurice was a wealthy lord,
He lived in the north countrie;
Well could he cope with foeman's sword,
Or the glance of a lady's eye.

Now all his armed vassals wait,
A staunch and burly band,
Before his stately Castle's gate,
Bound for the Holy Land.

Above the spearmen's lengthen'd file,
Are pictured ensigns flying;
Stroked by their keeper's hand the while,
Are harness'd chargers neighing.

And looks of woe, and looks of cheer,
And looks the two between,
On many a warlike face appear,
Where tears have lately been.

For all they love is left behind,
Hope beckons them before;
Their parting sails swell with the wind,
Blown from their native shore.

Then through the crowded portal pass'd
Six goodly knights and tall,
Sir Maurice himself, who came the last,
Was goodliest of them all.

And proudly roved his hasty eye
O'er all the warlike train;—
“Save ye! brave comrades!—prosperously,
Heaven send us cross the main!

“But see I right?—an armed band
From Moorham's lordless hall;
And he, who bears the high command,
Its ancient Seneschal!

“Return, your stately keep defend;
Defend your lady's bower,
Lest rude and lawless hands should rend
That lone and lovely flower.”

“God will defend our lady dear,
And we will cross the sea,
From slavery's chain, his lot severe,
Our noble lord to free.”

“Nay, nay! some wandering minstrel's tongue,
Hath framed a story vain;
Thy lord, his liege-men brave among,
Near Acre's wall was slain.”

“Nay, good my lord! for had his life
Been lost on battle-ground,
When ceased that fell and fatal strife,
His body had been found.”

“No faith to such delusion give;
His mortal term is past”—
“Not so, not so! he is alive,
And will be found at last!”

These latter words, right eagerly,
From a slender stripling broke,
Who stood the ancient warrior by,
And trembled as he spoke.

Sir Maurice started at the sound,
And all, from top to toe,
The stripling scann'd, who to the ground,
His blushing face bent low.

“Is this thy kinsman, Seneschal?
Thy own or thy sister's son?
A gentler page, in tent or hall,
Mine eyes ne'er look'd upon.

“To thine own home return, fair youth!
To thine own home return;
Give ear to likely, sober truth,
Nor prudent counsel spurn.

“War suits thee not if boy thou art;
And if a sweeter name
Befit thee, do not lightly part
With maiden's honour'd fame.”

He turn'd him from his liege-men all,
Who round their chieftain press'd;
His very shadow on the wall
His troubled mind express'd.

As sometimes slow and sometimes fast
He paced to and fro,
His plumy crest now upwards cast
In air, now drooping low.

Sometimes, like one in frantic mood,
Short words of sound he utter'd,
And sometimes, stopping short, he stood
As to himself he mutter'd:

“A daughter's love, a maiden's pride!
And may they not agree?
Could man desire a lovelier bride,
A truer friend than she?

827

“Down, cursed thought! a stripling's garb,
Betrays not wanton will;
Yet sharper than an arrow's barb,
That fear might wound me still.”

He mutter'd long, then to the gate
Return'd and look'd around,
But the Seneschal and his stripling mate
Were nowhere to be found.

With outward cheer and inward smart
In warlike, fair array,
Did Maurice with his bands depart,
And shoreward bent his way.

Their stately ship rode near to port,
The warriors to receive,
And there, with blessings kind but short,
Did friends of friends take leave.

And soon they saw the crowded strand
Wear dimly from their view,
And soon they saw the distant land,
A line of hazy blue.

The white-sail'd ship with favouring breeze,
In all her gallant pride,
Moved like the mistress of the seas,
That rippled far and wide.

Sometimes with steady course she went,
O'er wave and surge careering,
Sometimes with sidelong mast she bent,
Her wings the sea-foam sheering.

Sometimes with poles and rigging bare
She scudded before the blast,
But safely by the Syrian shore
Her anchor dropp'd at last.

What martial honours Maurice won,
Join'd with the brave and great,
From the fierce, faithless Saracen,
I may not here relate.

With boldest band on bridge or moat,
With champion on the plain,
I' the narrow bloody breach he fought,
Choked up with grisly slain.

Most valiant by the valiant deem'd,
Their praise his deeds proclaim'd,
And the eyes of his liege-men brightly beam'd,
When they heard their leader named.

But fate will quell the hero's strength,
And dim the loftiest brow,
And this our noble chief at length
Was in the dust laid low.

He lay the heaps of dead beneath,
As sank life's flickering flame,
And thought it was the trance of death,
That o'er his senses came.

And when again day's blessed light
Did on his vision fall,
There stood by his side—a wondrous sight—
The ancient Seneschal.

He strove, but could not utter word;
His misty senses fled;
Again he woke, and Moorham's lord
Was bending o'er his bed.

A third time sank he as if dead,
And then his eye-lids raising,
He saw a chief with turban'd head,
Intently on him gazing.

“The Prophet's zealous servant I;
His battles I've fought and won:
Christians I scorn, their creeds deny,
But honour Mary's Son.

“And I have wedded an English dame,
And set her parent free;
And none who bear an English name,
Shall e'er be thrall'd by me.

“For her dear sake I can endure
All wrong, all hatred smother;
Whate'er I feel, thou art secure,
As though thou wert my brother.”

“And thou hast wedded an English dame!”
Sir Maurice said no more,
For o'er his heart soft weakness came,
He sigh'd and wept full sore.

And many a dreary day and night,
With the Moslem Chief stay'd he,
But ne'er could catch, to bless his sight,
One glimpse of the fair lady.

Oft gazed he on her lattice high,
As he paced the court below,
And turn'd his listening ear to try,
If word or accent low

Might haply reach him there; and oft
Traversed the garden green,
And thought some footstep, small and soft,
Might on the turf be seen.

And oft to Moorham's lord he gave
His eager ear, who told
How he became a wretched slave,
Within that Syrian hold;

828

What time from liege-men parted far,
Upon the battle-field,
By stern and adverse fate of war,
He was compell'd to yield:

And how his daughter did by stealth,
So boldly cross the sea,
With secret store of gather'd wealth,
To set her father free:

And how into the foeman's hands
She and her people fell;
And how (herself in captive bands)
She sought him in his cell;

And but a captive boy appear'd,
Till grief her sex betray'd;
And the fierce Saracen, so fear'd,
Spoke kindly to the maid:

How for her plighted hand sued he,
And solemn promise gave,
Her noble father should be free,
With every Christian slave;

(For many there, in bondage kept,
Felt the base rule of vice,)
How long she ponder'd, sorely wept,
Then paid the fearful price.

A tale that made his bosom thrill,—
His faded eyes to weep;
He waking thought upon it still,
And saw it in his sleep.

But harness rings, and the trumpet's bray
Again to battle calls,
And Christian Powers in grand array,
Are near those Moslem walls.

Sir Maurice heard; untoward fate!
Sad to be thought upon!
But the castle's lord unlock'd its gate,
And bade his guest be gone.

“Fight thou for faith by thee adored,
By thee so well maintain'd;
But never may this trusty sword,
With blood of thine be stain'd!”

Sir Maurice took him by the hand,
“God bless thee too!”—he cried;
Then to the nearest Christian band,
With mingled feelings hied.

The battle join'd, with dauntless pride,
'Gainst foemen, foemen stood,
And soon the fatal field was dyed
With many a brave man's blood.

At length gave way the Moslem force;
Their valiant chief was slain;
Maurice protected his lifeless corse,
And bore it from the plain.

There's mourning in the Moslem halls,
A dull and dismal sound;
The lady left its 'leaguer'd walls,
And safe protection found.

When months were past, the widow'd dame
Look'd calm and cheerfully;
Then Maurice to her presence came,
And bent him on his knee.

What words of penitence or suit
He utter'd, pass we by;
The lady wept, awhile was mute,
Then gave this firm reply;

“That thou didst doubt my maiden pride,
(A thought that rose and vanish'd
So fleetingly) I will not chide;
'Tis from remembrance banish'd.

“But thy fair fame, earn'd by that sword,
Still spotless shall it be:
I was the bride of a Moslem lord,
And will never be bride to thee.”

So firm though gentle was her look,
Hope on the instant fled;
A solemn, dear farewell he took,
And from her presence sped.

And she a plighted nun became,
God serving day and night;
And he of blest Jerusalem,
A brave and zealous knight,

But that their lot was one of woe,
Wot ye, because of this
Their separate single state?—if so,
In sooth ye judge amiss.

She tends the helpless stranger's bed,
For alms her wealth is stored;
On her meek worth God's grace is shed,
Man's grateful blessings pour'd.

He still in warlike mail doth stalk,
In arms his prowess prove;
And oft of siege or battle talk,
And sometimes of his love.

His noble countenance the while,
Would youthful listeners please,
When with alter'd voice, and a sweet sad smile
He utter'd such words as these:

829

“She was the fairest of the fair,
The gentlest of the kind;
Search ye the wide world every where,
Her like ye shall not find.

“She was the fairest, is the best,
Too good for a monarch's bride;
I would not give her, in nun's coif drest,
For all her sex beside.”

TO MRS. SIDDONS.

Gifted of heaven! who hast, in days gone by,
Moved every heart, delighted every eye;
While age and youth, of high and low degree,
In sympathy were join'd, beholding thee,
As in the Drama's ever changing scene,
Thou heldst thy splendid state, our tragic queen!
No barriers there thy fair domains confined,
Thy sovereign sway was o'er the human mind;
And, in the triumph of that witching hour,
Thy lofty bearing well became thy power.

The impassion'd changes of thy beauteous face,
Thy stately form, and high imperial grace;
Thine arms impetuous toss'd, thy robe's wide flow,
And the dark tempest gather'd on thy brow;
What time thy flashing eye and lip of scorn
Down to the dust thy mimic foes have borne;
Remorseful musings, sunk to deep dejection,
The fix'd and yearning looks of strong affection;
The active turmoil a wrought bosom rending,
When pity, love, and honour, are contending:
They who beheld all this, right well, I ween,
A lovely, grand, and wondrous sight have seen.

Thy varied accents, rapid, fitful, slow,
Loud rage, and fear's snatch'd whisper, quick and low;
The burst of stifled love, the wail of grief,
And tones of high command, full, solemn, brief;
The change of voice, and emphasis that threw
Light on obscurity, and brought to view
Distinctions nice, when grave or comic mood,
Or mingled humours, terse and new, elude
Common perception, as earth's smallest things
To size and form, the vesting hoar-frost brings,
That seem'd as if some secret voice, to clear
The ravell'd meaning, whisper'd in thine ear,
And thou hadst e'en with him communion kept,
Who hath so long in Stratford's chancel slept;
Whose lines, where nature's brightest traces shine,
Alone were worthy deem'd of powers like thine;
They who have heard all this, have proved full well
Of soul-exciting sound, the mightiest spell.

But though time's lengthen'd shadows o'er thee glide,
And pomp of regal state is cast aside,
Think not the glory of thy course is spent,
There's moonlight radiance to thy evening lent,
That, to the mental world can never fade,
Till all who saw thee, in the grave are laid.
Thy graceful form still moves in nightly dreams,
And what thou wast, to the lull'd sleeper seems:
While feverish fancy oft doth fondly trace
Within her curtain'd couch thy wondrous face.
Yea; and to many a wight, bereft and lone,
In musing hours, though all to thee unknown,
Soothing his earthly course of good and ill,
With all thy potent charm, thou actest still.

And now in crowded room or rich saloon,
Thy stately presence recognized, how soon
On thee the glance of many an eye is cast,
In grateful memory of pleasures past!
Pleased to behold thee, with becoming grace,
Take, as befits thee well, an honour'd place
(Where blest by many a heart, long mayst thou stand!)
Among the virtuous matrons of our land.

A SONG,

WRITTEN FOR AN IRISH MELODY.

His boat comes on the sunny tide,
And briskly moves the flashing oar,
The boatmen carol by his side,
And blithely near the welcome shore.

How softly Shannon's currents flow,
His shadow in the stream I see;
The very waters seem to know,
Dear is the freight they bear to me.

His eager bound, his hasty tread,
His well-known voice I'll shortly hear;
And oh, those arms so kindly spread!
That greeting smile! that manly tear!

In other lands, when far away,
My love and hope were never twain;
I saw him thus, both night and day,
To Shannon's banks return'd again.

830

SONG,

FOR AN IRISH MELODY.

The harper who sat on his green mossy seat,
And harp'd to the youngsters so loud and so sweet,
The far distant hum of the children at play,
And the maiden's soft carol at close of the day,—

Ah! this was the music delighted my ear,
And to think of it now is so sad and so dear!
Ah! to listen again, by mine own cottage door,
To the sound of mine own native village once more!

I knew every dame in her holiday airs;
I knew every maiden that danced at our fairs;
I knew every farmer to market who came,
And the dog that ran after him call'd by its name.

And whom know I now in this far distant land,
But the stiff collar'd sergeant, and red-coated band?
No kinsman to comfort his own flesh and blood;
No merry-eyed damsel to do my heart good!

To mine eye or mine ear no gay cheering e'er comes,
But the flare of our colours, the tuck of our drums;
The fierce flashing steel of our long muster'd file,
And the sharp shrilly fifers a-playing the while.

At night, as I keep on the wearisome watch,
The sound of the west wind I greedily catch,
Then the shores of dear Ireland will rise to my sight,
And mine own native valley, that spot of delight!

Divided so far by a wide stormy main,
Shall I ever return to our valley again?
Ah! to listen at ease by mine own cottage door,
To the sound of mine own native village once more!

SONG.

Bird soaring high, cloud in the sky,
Where go ye? O where go ye?
Where the smoke from the gipsy's fire is veering,
And our gay little boat, o'er the blue frith steering,
Will soon bear me.

My thoughts before, on yonder shore,
Are free as wind, are free as wind,
While this body of mine on its palfry riding,
Right lazy of pace, or on smooth wave gliding,
Is far behind.

But see I not, yon distant spot?
O now I see, O now I see!
Where the mist up the distant hill is creeping,
And woods through the morning cloud are peeping,
There dwelleth she.

Doth gentle sleep her senses steep?
Or does she wake? or does she wake?
E'en now, perhaps, her dark hair raising,
At her casement she stands, o'er the waters she's gazing,
All for my sake.

Her face is gay as the joyous day,
And O how sweet! and O how sweet!
Her voice as she utters her modest greeting,
While my heart at the sound is so quickly beating,
Whene'er we meet!

When time runs on, and weeks are gone,
Then on that shore, then on that shore,
I'll meet her with all my gay bridesmen bounding,
In light-hearted glee to the minstrel's sounding,
And part no more.

SONG.

[_]

WRITTEN AT MR. THOMSON'S REQUEST, AS A KIND OF INTRODUCTION TO HIS IRISH MELODIES.

Sweet power of song! that canst impart
To lowland swain or mountaineer
A gladness thrilling through the heart,
A joy so tender and so dear!

Sweet power! that on a foreign strand
Canst the rough soldier's bosom move
With feelings of his native land,
As gentle as an infant's love!

Sweet power! that makest youthful heads,
With thistle, leek, or shamrock crown'd,
Nod proudly as the carol sheds
Its spirit through the social round!

Sweet power! that cheer'st the daily toil
Of cottage maid or beldame poor,
The ploughman on the furrow'd soil,
Or herd-boy on the lonely moor:

Or he by bards the shepherd hight,
Who mourns his maiden's broken tie,
Till the sweet plaint, in woe's despite,
Hath made a bliss of agony:

831

Sweet power of song! thanks flow to thee
From every kind and gentle breast!
Let Erin's—Cambria's minstrels be
With Burns's tuneful spirit blest!

THE BLACK COCK,

WRITTEN FOR A WELSH AIR, CALLED “THE NOTE OF THE BLACK COCK.”

Good morrow to thy sable beak,
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek,
Thy crimson moon and azure eye,
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy!
I see thee, slily cowering, through
That wiry web of silver dew,
That twinkles in the morning air,
Like casement of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile,
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still:
The rarest things to light of day
Look shortly forth, and shrink away.

One fleeting moment of delight,
I sunn'd me in her cheering sight;
And short, I ween, the term will be,
That I shall parley hold with thee.
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day;
The climbing herdboy chaunts his lay;
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring;
Thou art already on the wing!

SONG,

WRITTEN FOR A WELSH AIR, CALLED “THE PURSUIT OF LOVE.”

O, welcome, bat and owlet gray,
Thus winging low your airy way!
And welcome, moth and drowsy fly,
That to mine ear come humming by!
And welcome, shadows dim and deep,
And stars that through the pale sky peep!
O welcome all! to me ye say,
My woodland love is on her way.

Upon the soft wind floats her hair;
Her breath is in the dewy air;
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound
That steals along the stilly ground.
O dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou to this witching hour?
O noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou to the fall of night?

SONG,

WRITTEN FOR A WELSH AIR, CALLED “THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT.”

All white hang the bushes o'er Elaw's sweet stream,
And pale from the rock the long icicles gleam;
The first peep of morning just peers from the sky,
And here at thy door, gentle Mary, am I.

With the dawn of the year, and the dawn of the light,
The one who best loves thee stands first in thy sight,
Then welcome, dear maid! with my gift let me be—
A ribbon, a kiss, and a blessing for thee!

Last year, of earth's treasures I gave thee my part,
The new year before it, I gave thee my heart;
And now, gentle Mary, I greet thee again,
When only this band and a blessing remain.

Though Time should run on with his sack full of care,
And wrinkle thy cheek, dear, and whiten thy hair,
Yet still on this morn shall my offering be,
A ribbon, a kiss, and a blessing for thee.

SONG,

WRITTEN FOR A WELSH MELODY.

I've no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the lake,
Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake,
Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree,
Yet the Maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

Softly tapping at eve to her window I came,
And loud bay'd the watch-dog, loud scolded the dame;
For shame, silly Lightfoot! what is it to thee,
Though the Maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me?

The farmer rides proudly to market or fair,
The clerk at the alehouse still claims the great chair,
But, of all our proud fellows, the proudest I'll be,
While the Maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

For blythe as the urchin at holiday play,
And meek as a matron in mantle of gray,
And trim as a lady of gentle degree,
Is the Maid of Llanwellyn, who smiles upon me.

832

SONG.

What voice is this, thou evening gale!
That mingles with thy rising wail;
And, as it passes, sadly seems
The faint return of youthful dreams?

Though now its strain is wild and drear,
Blythe was it once as sky-lark's cheer—
Sweet as the night-bird's sweetest song,—
Dear as the lisp of infant's tongue.

It was the voice, at whose sweet flow
The heart did beat, and cheek did glow,
And lip did smile, and eye did weep,
And motion'd love the measure keep.

Oft be thy sound, soft gale of even,
Thus to my wistful fancy given;
And, as I list the swelling strain,
The dead shall seem to live again!

ON THE DEATH OF A VERY DEAR FRIEND.

A spirit hath pass'd from her breezy hill,
From the sound of her trees and her tinkling rill,
From her broomy nooks and her twisted bowers,
And the splendid show of her cherish'd flowers,
As the sun shone out on her garden gay,
And dew-drops sparkled on stem and spray;
From the peasant's cot, where the housewife neat
Prepared for her the oft-wiped seat;
From the farmer's hold, where the dame's glad eye
Enhanced the parlour courtesy;
From the place, above all, she loved the best,
That mansion fair, her home of rest,
Where inmates dear were ever found
And sisterly affection sweetly fenced her round.

This spirit, when clothed in mortal weeds,
Was full of Christian thoughts and deeds.
The simple sound of her well-known voice
Made lonely widow'd hearts rejoice;
And the sickly hind look'd from his bed
As he heard her steps on his threshold tread,
And, smiling momently, forgot
The pine and pain of his weary lot.

Beneath his mistress, frank and kind,
Her gardener work'd with willing mind,
As though the very flowers would bloom
To please her with their rich perfume.
And when at times with spud or rake
She did his lighter toil partake,
Some neighbour's child would slily peep
Through wicket-fence, and near her creep,
Encouraged by a nod or smile,
And by her side chat busily the while;
For with such urchin folk right dearly
She loved to hold a playful parley.

Nor did such toward spots alone declare
Her pleasing fancy and her skilful care;
The long-neglected quarry, grim and gray,
Where rubbish in uncouth confusion lay,—
Loose stones and sand with weeds and brush-wood rotten,
And everything or worthless or forgotten,—
Seem'd to obey her will, as though by duty
Constrain'd, and soon became a place of beauty.
Its fairy floor is mossy green,
And o'er its creviced walls, I ween,
The harebell, foxglove, fern, and heather,
Mingle most lovingly together;
While from the upper screen, as bent to see
What might be hid below, the rowan tree
And drooping birch seem to look curiously,
A friendly place where birds for shelter come,
And bees and flies and moths raise a soft summer hum,
Justina's Quarry! a name most dear
Will henceforth sweetly, sadly soothe the ear.

Happy, and making others so,
Her life's pure stream did gently flow.
Like a warm morning's kindly sheen,
Oft was the light of her presence seen
Reflected from the brow and eye
Of those whose hearts beat quick when she was nigh.
Her gentle voice and joyous smile
And sprightly converse could beguile
The winter's night of half its measure,
The rainy day of half its listless leisure.

The gifts of fortune were by her possess'd
As only held in trust; she felt that best
She served her bounteous Master when she gave
What He to her had given, His poor to save
From pain or penury, and could upbind
The suffering body or the wounded mind.
How generously her hand bestow'd!
How gratefully her bosom glow'd!
The God she loved did to her heart
His own beneficence impart,
And still she thought her gifts too small
To prove her gratitude to Him who gave her all.
To woe and suffering she clung,
And her protecting arms around the helpless flung.

But not in gentleness alone
The nature of her mind was known;
High intellect, acute and strong,
Did to this gifted friend belong,
In time of need a present aid
To comfort, counsel, or persuade,

833

To hold o'er other minds a sway,
Ruling their will when seeming to obey.

And thus in health and wealth her life she pass'd,
But death his stern commission gain'd at last,
Empower'd her yet fair earthly robe to rend,
And with frail timid nature to contend.
But He, the Saviour, whom she loved through life,
Had nobly braced her for the fearful strife,
And she with mind composed and steadfast eye
Could meet the grizzly foe right valiantly.
In every interval of pain
Her buoyant spirits rose again.
At open window she would sit,
And see the swallow past her flit,
And see the blue sky pure and fair,
And white clouds floating in the air,
And feel the kindly cooling breeze
That stirr'd among the waving trees;
Or call some youngling of her race
To look upon its lovely face;
Then on her sisters sweetly smile,
And for a time their woe beguile
With cheerful words of other years,
While they, belike, sat smiling through their tears.

But now, alas! the rathless foe
Must deal his final blow;
Her brief, but honour'd course is run,
Her Christian warfare done.
'Twas then her brightening eyes she raised,
And towards heaven intently gazed,
As if some beckoning vision there
Were hovering in the viewless air.
And then her eyelids slowly dropp'd,
Her features blanch'd, her pulses stopp'd,
And to the blessed realms of brighter day
The beautiful spirit hath pass'd away.

University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANEOUS POETRY

WRITTEN SINCE THE YEAR 1790.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

EPILOGUE

TO THE THEATRICAL REPRESENTATION AT STRAWBERRY HILL.

THE BANISHED MAN.

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF HIS COUNTRY, WHICH HE IS QUITTING FOR EVER.

TO A CHILD.

SONG

LONDON.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM SOTHEBY, ESQ.

VERSES TO OUR OWN FLOWERY KIRTLED SPRING.

LINES TO A PARROT.

LINES TO A TEAPOT.

THE MOODY SEER:

A BALLAD.

THE MERRY BACHELOR

TWO SONGS.

I.

II. (FOR FISHERMEN.)

SONG

TO SOPHIA J.BAILLIE.

AN INFANT.

THE KITTEN.

SCHOOL RHYMES FOR NEGRO CHILDREN.

RHYMES.

RHYMES FOR CHANTING.

DEVOTIONAL SONG FOR A NEGRO CHILD.

SECOND DEVOTIONAL SONG.

THIRD DEVOTIONAL SONG.

A NURSERY LESSON (DEVOTIONAL).

SECOND NURSERY LESSON

(ADMONITORY).

HYMN.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A DEAR AND STEADY FRIEND.

TWO BROTHERS.

LINES TO AGNES BAILLIE ON HER BIRTHDAY.

VERSES SENT TO MRS. BAILLIE ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1813.

VERSES WRITTEN IN FEBRUARY, 1827.

THE TRAVELLER BY NIGHT IN NOVEMBER.

LINES FOR A FRIEND'S ALBUM.

ADDRESS TO A STEAMVESSEL.

SONG,

WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A',

A SONG

FY, LET US A' TO THE WEDDING.

HOOLY AND FAIRLY.

THE LADY IN HER CAR.

(A NIGHT-SCENE BY THE SEA.)

TO JAMES B. BAILLIE,

AN INFANT.

THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.

TAM O' THE LIN.

NEW WORDS TO THE OLD SCOTCH AIR OF “THE WEE PICKLE TOW.”

SONG,

CALLED “THE COUNTRY LADY'S REVEILLIE.”

VOLUNTEER'S SONG,

WRITTEN IN 1803.

SONG,

WRITTEN FOR AN IRISH AIR.

SONG,

FOR AN IRISH AIR.

A SCOTCH SONG.

SONG,

POVERTY PARTS GOOD COMPANY, (FOR AN OLD SCOTCH AIR.)

SONG,

(FOR A SCOTCH AIR).

A SAILOR'S SONG.

SONG,

(A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD SCOTCH SONG)

SIR MAURICE:

A BALLAD.

TO MRS. SIDDONS.

A SONG,

WRITTEN FOR AN IRISH MELODY.

SONG,

FOR AN IRISH MELODY.

SONG.

SONG.