 | Poems and Essays of a Miscellaneous Character on Subjects of General Interest |  |
9
POEMS
Miscellaneous Pieces.
LINES
[_]
Suggested by seeing the Train containing the Queen and Suite pass through Coatbridge, on the Caledonian Railway, on her way to the North, May 1, 1862.
Is that which speeds thee to the wilds afar.
A stricken deer thou fliest, Oh mourning Queen,
To seek thy wonted haunts and weep unseen!
Weep, gracious Lady! tears are blessed things;
Woe to the stricken heart from whence up-springs
No gushing sorrows! Ah! the burning pain
Of grief is softened by that tender rain.
The hills of mist, the forests dense and lone,
The mountain torrents plunging, thundering on,
Wild glens, dark cories, lakes of silver sheen,
Say to thy lonely heart, “Here he hath been!”
But ah! the loving life of that sad heart
But half survives, since he, its dearer part,
Was reft by early death from thy lone side,
And left thee sadly stemming life's dark tide.
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That thou no more may'st read the tender lines
Of love and truth writ on that pallid face,
Where anguish'd suffering strove with patient grace;
For ere he went, was wreathed a golden chain—
The precious links are nine—still to retain
Close to thy heart the children of his love,
So dear on earth, and waited for above;
And these dear pledges thou, in faith and prayer,
Wilt watch, teach, guide, and lead to meet him there.
Oh! may the dews of Heaven, descending, shed
A balm celestial on thy sacred head—
More sacred in the majesty of woe
Than aught thy crown and sceptre can bestow!
Though deep and true the sympathy we feel,
Thine is a wound that only God can heal.
Sharp was the stroke, and heavy was the rod,
But He who chastened is thy Father—God.
Kneel for His blessing—lean upon His breast
Thy weary head, and sob thyself to rest.
Forgive me, Lady; I would not intrude—
I would not dare to stir with finger rude
Thy depth of woe. God save thee and defend;
To thee and thine be Husband, Father, Friend.
11
CENTENARY POEM,
Recited at Burns' Centenary Festival, held at Mauchlin, January 25, 1859.
Oh Bard beloved! as pilgrims to thy shrine,
With song and gift we come, our vows to pay;
The growing fame of hundred years is thine,
And lands and nations hail thy natal day.
With song and gift we come, our vows to pay;
The growing fame of hundred years is thine,
And lands and nations hail thy natal day.
We bring thee hearts that while life's pulses beat
Shall throb with love and pride, regret and shame;
Love of thy worth, pride in thy genius great,
Regret that Death, not Life, gave world-wide fame.
Shall throb with love and pride, regret and shame;
Love of thy worth, pride in thy genius great,
Regret that Death, not Life, gave world-wide fame.
And shame that Scotia, dazzled by the blaze
Lit by her peasant Bard's poetic fire,
Should, while she sunned her in the living rays,
On Want's chill bosom see her Bard expire.
Lit by her peasant Bard's poetic fire,
Should, while she sunned her in the living rays,
On Want's chill bosom see her Bard expire.
Oh shade revered! the altar of thy fame
This day we wreathe with fair immortal flowers
Culled from each spot that's hallowed by thy name—
By Doon, by Nith, by fair Montgomery's towers.
This day we wreathe with fair immortal flowers
Culled from each spot that's hallowed by thy name—
By Doon, by Nith, by fair Montgomery's towers.
From “Bonny Doon bring rose and woodbine twine,”
From “Winding Ayr the birch and hawthorn hoar,”
The flowers he pressed when Mary lay reclined
Within his arms that clasped her nevermore.
From “Winding Ayr the birch and hawthorn hoar,”
The flowers he pressed when Mary lay reclined
Within his arms that clasped her nevermore.
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“The mountain daisy, bring the red red rose,”
From haunted Alloway the ivy green,
The “yellow broom” where stealing burnie flows,
And “Coila's gift, the holly” sharp and sheen.
From haunted Alloway the ivy green,
The “yellow broom” where stealing burnie flows,
And “Coila's gift, the holly” sharp and sheen.
And bring the “rough burr thistle, spreading wide,”
The poet's hand aye “spared the symbol dear,”
“The big ha' Bible ance his faither's pride;”
Lives there a Scot but bids it welcome here?
The poet's hand aye “spared the symbol dear,”
“The big ha' Bible ance his faither's pride;”
Lives there a Scot but bids it welcome here?
Oh! we have heard the Bruce at Bannockburn,
When pealed his battle hymn along the line,
Felt with the Bard that “Man was made to mourn,”
And thrilled with memories of “Auld langsyne.”
When pealed his battle hymn along the line,
Felt with the Bard that “Man was made to mourn,”
And thrilled with memories of “Auld langsyne.”
Great poet painter, these twin loves of thine,
Fair Nature, and fair Woman, Nature's flower,
Each in her beauty, in thy soul's deep shrine
Were worshipped, painted, with a master's power.
Fair Nature, and fair Woman, Nature's flower,
Each in her beauty, in thy soul's deep shrine
Were worshipped, painted, with a master's power.
Fair was the pictured scene, sweet Ballochmyle,
He drew within thy dewy glades at e'en,
And fair the beauteous portrait drawn the while,
He sung in glowing strains his “Bonny Jean.”
He drew within thy dewy glades at e'en,
And fair the beauteous portrait drawn the while,
He sung in glowing strains his “Bonny Jean.”
Fair as thine own fair form, sad captive queen,
The scenes portrayed in weeping Memory's eye,
Thy Scotia robed in Nature's mantle green,
Bestrewn with flowery gems of richest dye.
The scenes portrayed in weeping Memory's eye,
Thy Scotia robed in Nature's mantle green,
Bestrewn with flowery gems of richest dye.
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The lily bank, the daisy-sheeted lea,
The blossomed thorn, the primrose by the brae,
No fairer sketch of Nature we may see,
No sorrows sung in more pathetic lay.
The blossomed thorn, the primrose by the brae,
No fairer sketch of Nature we may see,
No sorrows sung in more pathetic lay.
Burns—Nature's noblest, brightest, dearest son—
Large, loving heart, and independent mind
Were his—not to be bought, or warped, but won
To love and sympathy for all mankind.
Large, loving heart, and independent mind
Were his—not to be bought, or warped, but won
To love and sympathy for all mankind.
Bright on the altar of his manly heart
The holy flame of patriot ardour glowed;
Love's fragrant incense, Truth undimmed by Art,
And wit and humour flashing as they flowed.
The holy flame of patriot ardour glowed;
Love's fragrant incense, Truth undimmed by Art,
And wit and humour flashing as they flowed.
“A man's a man” whatever may befal
Of honest poverty or lowly name—
Birth, rank, and wealth, the poet lacked them all,
But worth and genius gave him love and fame.
Of honest poverty or lowly name—
Birth, rank, and wealth, the poet lacked them all,
But worth and genius gave him love and fame.
And now, though “mouldering in the silent dust,”
The heart that dearly loved fair Scotia lies,
“Still in her bosom's core” he lives, and must
To Fame's bright zenith nearer, higher rise.
The heart that dearly loved fair Scotia lies,
“Still in her bosom's core” he lives, and must
To Fame's bright zenith nearer, higher rise.
14
OCTOBER, 1861.
Not changeful April, with her suns and showers,
Pregnant with buds, whose birth the genial hours
Of teeming May will give to life and light
Rich in young beauty, odorous and bright.
Pregnant with buds, whose birth the genial hours
Of teeming May will give to life and light
Rich in young beauty, odorous and bright.
Not rose-crowned June, in trailing robes of bloom,
Her flowery censers breathing rich perfume,
Her glorious sunshine, and her bluest skies,
Her wealth of dancing leaves where zephyr sighs.
Her flowery censers breathing rich perfume,
Her glorious sunshine, and her bluest skies,
Her wealth of dancing leaves where zephyr sighs.
Nor fervid July, in her full-blown charms,
Shedding the odorous hay with sun-browned arms,
Nor glowing August, with her robe unbound,
With ripening grain, and juicy fruitage crowned.
Shedding the odorous hay with sun-browned arms,
Nor glowing August, with her robe unbound,
With ripening grain, and juicy fruitage crowned.
Nor thee, September, though thine orchards glow
With fruits, ripe, rich, and ruddy—laying low
The yellow grain with gleaming sickles keen,
With jest and laugh, and harvest song between.
With fruits, ripe, rich, and ruddy—laying low
The yellow grain with gleaming sickles keen,
With jest and laugh, and harvest song between.
I sing October, month of all the year,
To poet's soul and calm deep feeling dear;
Her chastened sunshine, and her dreamy skies
With tender magic charm my heart and eyes.
To poet's soul and calm deep feeling dear;
Her chastened sunshine, and her dreamy skies
With tender magic charm my heart and eyes.
15
In silvery haze the purple hills are swathed,
In dripping dews the faded herbage bathed—
Red Robin trills his winter-warning ditty;
His big bright eye invoking crumbs and pity.
In dripping dews the faded herbage bathed—
Red Robin trills his winter-warning ditty;
His big bright eye invoking crumbs and pity.
From fading woodlands, ever pattering down,
Come many tinted leaves—red, yellow, brown;
The rustling carpet with slow lingering feet
I thoughtful tread, inhaling odours sweet.
Come many tinted leaves—red, yellow, brown;
The rustling carpet with slow lingering feet
I thoughtful tread, inhaling odours sweet.
The very soul of quietude is breathing
O'er field and lake, with sweetest peace enwreathing
My tranquil soul, from fonts of blissful feeling
Sweet silent tears adown my cheeks are stealing.
O'er field and lake, with sweetest peace enwreathing
My tranquil soul, from fonts of blissful feeling
Sweet silent tears adown my cheeks are stealing.
Spirit of meekness brooding in the air,
On thy soft pinions waft my lowly prayer,
That I may meet, calm, meek, resigned, and sober,
My life's decline—my solemn—last October.
On thy soft pinions waft my lowly prayer,
That I may meet, calm, meek, resigned, and sober,
My life's decline—my solemn—last October.
16
SUMMER VOICES.
Beneath the shining trembling leaves that drape the bowers of June,I sit and list with raptured ear to sweetly-varied tune
Of Nature's thousand melodies—above, below, around—
Sweet sights, sweet scents, but sweeter far the mingling charms of sound.
The silvery lapse of tinkling streams; the river's rushing voice;
The lucent waves that lap the shore in murmuring tones rejoice;
The fitful cadence of the breeze that skims with silken wings
O'er bending waves of odorous hay, and through the woodland sings;
The tell-tale voice beloved of Spring; the wail of forest dove;
The thousand swelling warbling throats that sing of bliss and love;
The voice of woods, in soft commune with twilight's dewy airs,
Where parent thrush on darkling bough beguiles his brooding cares;
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But, hark! that sweetly-thrilling strain breathed from the plaintive flute;
No eye but thine, soft star of love, the rapt musician sees
Slow wandering by the lonely lake beneath the sleeping trees.
Now, Scotia! pour thy native airs so wildly, simply sweet,
For this the hour and this the scene when rustic maidens meet
By cottage door—by village spring, o'erhung with wilding rose.
Hark from their lips the Doric lay in gushing music flows.
Sweet Summer sounds, I love ye all; but, dearest—holiest—best—
The song of praise from cottage hearth that hails the Sabbath rest;
The birds—the streams—the breeze—the song to earthly sounds are given,
This mounts the wings of Summer morn, and singing, flies to heaven!
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THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND.
Queen of hundred ocean Isles,
Rich in scenic grandeurs;
Land of forest, hill, and glen,
Where the tourist wanders.
Land of torrent, lake, and stream,
Wild sea-cliff and corry;
Land of mist and legend old,
Music, song, and story.
Rich in scenic grandeurs;
Land of forest, hill, and glen,
Where the tourist wanders.
Land of torrent, lake, and stream,
Wild sea-cliff and corry;
Land of mist and legend old,
Music, song, and story.
Land that erst by thousands poured,
From hovel, hut, and shieling,
Loyal men, and brimmed their hearts
With high, heroic feeling.
Where, Oh where thy thousands now?
Echo, wildly wailing,
Gives mournful answer, Where, Oh where!
Are our life's springs failing?
From hovel, hut, and shieling,
Loyal men, and brimmed their hearts
With high, heroic feeling.
Where, Oh where thy thousands now?
Echo, wildly wailing,
Gives mournful answer, Where, Oh where!
Are our life's springs failing?
No; the red deer yet are rife
In dingle, copse, and forest,
But the human form hath fail'd
“When our needs are sorest.”
Titled Nimrod's keepers, rude,
With their canine allies,
Hold usurp'd dominion now
O'er thy hills and valleys.
In dingle, copse, and forest,
But the human form hath fail'd
“When our needs are sorest.”
Titled Nimrod's keepers, rude,
With their canine allies,
Hold usurp'd dominion now
O'er thy hills and valleys.
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Grouse and heath-fowl o'er thy moors
See by thousands winging;
Thousand sportsmen trace their flight—
Thousand shots are ringing.
But the hunted Celt hath fled
Heath and burning hovel,
For lands where man meets equal man,
Not as serf to grovel.
See by thousands winging;
Thousand sportsmen trace their flight—
Thousand shots are ringing.
But the hunted Celt hath fled
Heath and burning hovel,
For lands where man meets equal man,
Not as serf to grovel.
High Dunrobin's stately dame,
While thy train was sweeping
Through Victoria's royal halls,
Heard'st thou not the weeping
Of thy vassals in the wild—
The young, the old, the hoary,
The babe, the mother, stalwart forms
In manhood's pride and glory?
While thy train was sweeping
Through Victoria's royal halls,
Heard'st thou not the weeping
Of thy vassals in the wild—
The young, the old, the hoary,
The babe, the mother, stalwart forms
In manhood's pride and glory?
Famine, and the ruthless arm
Of legal power, impelling,
Drove them forth, while o'er their homes
Red waves of flame were swelling,
And mournful from the parting shore,
A voice comes sounding ever,
We leave thee to return no more,
Ah! never—never—never.
Of legal power, impelling,
Drove them forth, while o'er their homes
Red waves of flame were swelling,
And mournful from the parting shore,
A voice comes sounding ever,
We leave thee to return no more,
Ah! never—never—never.
20
CALEDONIA.
Fair Caledonia! honoured name!
The Muse shall boast thy worth and fame;
The circling seas that dash and boil
Around thy shores with loud turmoil;
The beauteous vales where winds the Clyde,
Where Tweeda rolls her lucent tide;
The Tay—the Forth—majestic stream—
So oft the Scottish Muse's theme;
Thy woods, thy lakes, thy purple hills,
The soul with fire poetic fills.
The Muse shall boast thy worth and fame;
The circling seas that dash and boil
Around thy shores with loud turmoil;
The beauteous vales where winds the Clyde,
Where Tweeda rolls her lucent tide;
The Tay—the Forth—majestic stream—
So oft the Scottish Muse's theme;
Thy woods, thy lakes, thy purple hills,
The soul with fire poetic fills.
Amidst thy mountains, wild and cold,
Thy hardy sons in days of old
Did boldly stem the impetuous tide
Of Roman power, and forced their pride
That aimed at universal sway
To turn its course another way!
And when proud Anglia strove in vain
Around thy neck to wreathe the chain,
Thy patriot sons—a filial band—
As oft rescued their motherland,
And say, dread spirit of the plain,
Where Gaul's usurping pride was slain—
Where Europe's allied hosts were spread—
Where even the great Napoleon fled—
Didst thou not mark, midst that fell strife,
That thirst of glory, scorn of life,
That martial flame, which kindling high,
Illumed the Scottish warrior's eye,
When thundering o'er the field of death
They won the victor's proudest wreath?
Thy hardy sons in days of old
Did boldly stem the impetuous tide
Of Roman power, and forced their pride
That aimed at universal sway
To turn its course another way!
And when proud Anglia strove in vain
Around thy neck to wreathe the chain,
Thy patriot sons—a filial band—
As oft rescued their motherland,
And say, dread spirit of the plain,
Where Gaul's usurping pride was slain—
Where Europe's allied hosts were spread—
Where even the great Napoleon fled—
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That thirst of glory, scorn of life,
That martial flame, which kindling high,
Illumed the Scottish warrior's eye,
When thundering o'er the field of death
They won the victor's proudest wreath?
And truest—bravest—boldest still—
Brave dwellers of the heath and hill—
The first to scale red Alma's steep
With bayonet's point and sabre's sweep;
And foremost in the deadly fray,
On Balaklava's bloody day
Ye rode to death, and fearless braved
The storm of fire that flamed and raved
In pealing thunders on your track.
Ye went—alas! how came ye back?
Brave dwellers of the heath and hill—
The first to scale red Alma's steep
With bayonet's point and sabre's sweep;
And foremost in the deadly fray,
On Balaklava's bloody day
Ye rode to death, and fearless braved
The storm of fire that flamed and raved
In pealing thunders on your track.
Ye went—alas! how came ye back?
Oh, Caledonia! not alone
For valour famed; from her bright throne
Fair Science smiles, and proudly owns
Thy great, thy good, illustrious sons;
Thy trading cities teem with wealth—
Thy sturdy sons are gay with health;
For honest pride and moral worth—
The honour of their native North!
For valour famed; from her bright throne
Fair Science smiles, and proudly owns
Thy great, thy good, illustrious sons;
Thy trading cities teem with wealth—
Thy sturdy sons are gay with health;
For honest pride and moral worth—
The honour of their native North!
Still may thy warriors overcome,
Thy virtuous maids in beauty bloom;
May learning, genius, virtue, smile,
And freedom bless and crown our isle!
Thy virtuous maids in beauty bloom;
May learning, genius, virtue, smile,
And freedom bless and crown our isle!
22
THE CHILD OF FRANCE.
On the Birth of the Prince Imperial of France.
Exhausted, faint, and pale,
A fair young mother lies—
She hears her babe's first wail,
And lifts her languid eyes;
For he, the Imperial Sire,
Her couch of suffering tends—
In his dark eyes the fire
Of pride and triumph blends.
A fair young mother lies—
She hears her babe's first wail,
And lifts her languid eyes;
For he, the Imperial Sire,
Her couch of suffering tends—
In his dark eyes the fire
Of pride and triumph blends.
And while his arms retain
The new-born child of France,
Ambition's phantom train
Through brain and bosom dance!
A shadowy line of kings
In long prospective rise,
On rush of eagle wings,
They cross his dreaming eyes.
The new-born child of France,
Ambition's phantom train
Through brain and bosom dance!
A shadowy line of kings
In long prospective rise,
On rush of eagle wings,
They cross his dreaming eyes.
A hundred cannons boom—
Loud vivas rend the air—
Ten thousand lights illume
The city of the heir.
The noble, brave, and fair,
The palace portals throng—
All earth deems rich and rare,
The admiring gaze prolong.
Loud vivas rend the air—
Ten thousand lights illume
The city of the heir.
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The palace portals throng—
All earth deems rich and rare,
The admiring gaze prolong.
The regal splendours round
The wond'rous cot that holds
The worshipp'd heir, late found
His robes, embroider'd, folds
The ermine gems and lace
That drape the tiny form.
Shall o'er that placid face
Sweep Revolution's storm?
The wond'rous cot that holds
The worshipp'd heir, late found
His robes, embroider'd, folds
The ermine gems and lace
That drape the tiny form.
Shall o'er that placid face
Sweep Revolution's storm?
Shall madden'd thousands swell,
And rush like waves on shore,
Assail with blow and yell?
All this hath been before.
Pale Reichstadt, where art thou?
Bordeaux and Orleans, where?
Dead! exiles—wanderers now—
And this is France's heir.
And rush like waves on shore,
Assail with blow and yell?
All this hath been before.
Pale Reichstadt, where art thou?
Bordeaux and Orleans, where?
Dead! exiles—wanderers now—
And this is France's heir.
The Sire hath rear'd a throne—
Perchance a funeral pyre.
Beneath chained thunders groan,
And glows volcanic fire;
An earthquake shock may rend
The hollow-heaving earth,
And from the gulf ascend
A newer, sterner birth!
Perchance a funeral pyre.
Beneath chained thunders groan,
And glows volcanic fire;
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The hollow-heaving earth,
And from the gulf ascend
A newer, sterner birth!
The Titans of the press—
The powers of speech and mind—
Each in his dark recess,
Like Samson, shorn and blind—
May rise in strength and light,
And, chainless, walk abroad;
Their motto—Human right,
Our country, and our God!
The powers of speech and mind—
Each in his dark recess,
Like Samson, shorn and blind—
May rise in strength and light,
And, chainless, walk abroad;
Their motto—Human right,
Our country, and our God!
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LINES WRITTEN ON THE BIRTH OF THE YEAR 1853.
Hail! infant year, fresh from the womb of Time,
Cradled in clouds, what shapes and shades sublime
Attend thy birth, and hover round thy head,
Bright glowing hopes, dark signs of doubt and dread,
So from her sea-girt ark flies Freedom's dove,
Herald of Life, of Liberty, and Love.
She beats with flagging wing the murky air,
Above an ocean chaos of despair—
She may not fold her wing, nor rest her foot,
No voice may hail her—all is deathly mute;
Broad Europe's shores are beaconless and dark;
Fly to thy sheltering home—thine island ark.
When waters are assuaged, and earth again
Bares her cleans'd bosom, then shall not in vain
Her soaring wings sweep through refulgent skies
Where late the sun of Knowledge might not rise,
And Superstition's pall, for ages hung
Betwixt his God and man, and impious flung
O'er mind and conscience, fettered, dark, defiled,
Shall fall; the Word, the Truth of God, exiled
From hearths and homes, shall circulate unconfined,
Bright as the sun, and free as mountain wind.
Cradled in clouds, what shapes and shades sublime
Attend thy birth, and hover round thy head,
Bright glowing hopes, dark signs of doubt and dread,
So from her sea-girt ark flies Freedom's dove,
Herald of Life, of Liberty, and Love.
She beats with flagging wing the murky air,
Above an ocean chaos of despair—
She may not fold her wing, nor rest her foot,
No voice may hail her—all is deathly mute;
Broad Europe's shores are beaconless and dark;
Fly to thy sheltering home—thine island ark.
When waters are assuaged, and earth again
Bares her cleans'd bosom, then shall not in vain
Her soaring wings sweep through refulgent skies
Where late the sun of Knowledge might not rise,
And Superstition's pall, for ages hung
Betwixt his God and man, and impious flung
O'er mind and conscience, fettered, dark, defiled,
Shall fall; the Word, the Truth of God, exiled
From hearths and homes, shall circulate unconfined,
Bright as the sun, and free as mountain wind.
26
Ye sable millions, thralls of wrong and woe,
Who wear the chain, and crouch beneath the blow,
Your tears and blood, your stripes and toils, your shame
Have found an ear in heaven—on earth a name.
“The weeping blood in woman's heart” hath gushed
In words of power, to million eyes hath rushed
The burning tear; alike from princely hall
And humble homestead sounds the thrilling call
Of Freedom for the slave. Thirst we for gold,
Its pleasures, and its powers? Earth shall unfold,
Nay, hath unfolded treasures such as seem
The wild revealings of an Eastern dream,
And struggling, toiling thousands, densely pent
In cities, towns, and hamlets, labour-spent,
Find in another sphere a golden soil,
Nor need to “beg a brother's leave to toil.”
Who wear the chain, and crouch beneath the blow,
Your tears and blood, your stripes and toils, your shame
Have found an ear in heaven—on earth a name.
“The weeping blood in woman's heart” hath gushed
In words of power, to million eyes hath rushed
The burning tear; alike from princely hall
And humble homestead sounds the thrilling call
Of Freedom for the slave. Thirst we for gold,
Its pleasures, and its powers? Earth shall unfold,
Nay, hath unfolded treasures such as seem
The wild revealings of an Eastern dream,
And struggling, toiling thousands, densely pent
In cities, towns, and hamlets, labour-spent,
Find in another sphere a golden soil,
Nor need to “beg a brother's leave to toil.”
“He is the freeman whom the Truth makes free;
All else are slaves;” and riches, all that be
Drawn from the earth, from enterprize, or Art,
Are powerless to suffice man's craving heart,
Till sated with earth's joys, or pall'd with vice,
He, “Heaven-directed,” seeks the pearl of price;
He finds, and binds the jewel on his heart—
The gift, the grace of God, the better part.
Hear my best wish for you, each lov'd compeer,
This gift be yours, to crown the new-born year.
All else are slaves;” and riches, all that be
Drawn from the earth, from enterprize, or Art,
Are powerless to suffice man's craving heart,
Till sated with earth's joys, or pall'd with vice,
He, “Heaven-directed,” seeks the pearl of price;
He finds, and binds the jewel on his heart—
The gift, the grace of God, the better part.
Hear my best wish for you, each lov'd compeer,
This gift be yours, to crown the new-born year.
27
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE WAR IN THE CRIMEA, 1854.
Flapping fierce her gory pinions,
Whetting sharp her crimson beak,
Vulture War her barbarous minions,
Calls her ghastly prey to seek.
Whetting sharp her crimson beak,
Vulture War her barbarous minions,
Calls her ghastly prey to seek.
Now her hideous form comes swooping
From the thundering ramparts' height,
O'er the carnaged valley stooping,
Gorged with slaughter—horrid sight!
From the thundering ramparts' height,
O'er the carnaged valley stooping,
Gorged with slaughter—horrid sight!
Shot and shell, the dark air rending—
Sulphurous flash, and bayonet's gleam—
Shouts and shrieks, and groans wild blending,
With her loud discordant scream.
Sulphurous flash, and bayonet's gleam—
Shouts and shrieks, and groans wild blending,
With her loud discordant scream.
High the purple tide is swelling,
O'er the dark ensanguined plain,
From a thousand bosoms welling,
Mangled limbs and shattered brain!
O'er the dark ensanguined plain,
From a thousand bosoms welling,
Mangled limbs and shattered brain!
Oh! for angel eye and station,
Far above the battle-cloud,
Whence I'd view the dread migration
Of the unbodied spirit crowd!
Far above the battle-cloud,
Whence I'd view the dread migration
Of the unbodied spirit crowd!
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Through eternity's dark portals
To the abodes of weal or woe,
Swiftly rush the new immortals—
Lord, how long shall it be so?
To the abodes of weal or woe,
Swiftly rush the new immortals—
Lord, how long shall it be so?
Summerland—Oh! beauteous region,
Rich in foliage, flowers, and fruit,
Shall the foe, whose name is Legion,
Keep and tread thee under foot?
Rich in foliage, flowers, and fruit,
Shall the foe, whose name is Legion,
Keep and tread thee under foot?
Round thy leaguered port and city
Volleying thunders ceaseless roar,
Earth affords not aid or pity—
They shall fall to rise no more!
Volleying thunders ceaseless roar,
Earth affords not aid or pity—
They shall fall to rise no more!
29
RHYMES FOR THE TIMES.
I.
I've juist been thinkin', neebour Johnie,
Gif that the warl had mendit ony—
Since, for the wurkin' man's disasters,
We've got sae mony sa's an' plaisters.
I've leukit laigh—I've leukit heigh—
The gude time comin's unco driegh;
There's routh o' teachers, schules, an' beuks,
Chapels an' kirks in a' the neuks,
Academies an' institutions,
Wi' scientific contributions,
On whilk ye may pit a' reliance,
An' muckle tauk on social science,
Mechanics, engineerin', minin',
The gate o' cleanin' an' refinin'
Oor hooses, streets, oor coorts an' closes,
An' a' that hurts oor health an' noses;
'Bout chemistry, steam, gas, an' win',
The vera lichtnin's luggit in,
An' music, paintin', architecture,
A' weel rede up in mony a lecture.
30
We meet tae cow that horrid drink,
We meet tae read, recite, an' sing,
An' mony a queer conceitie thing.
Noo, wurkin' men yersel's respec',
Nor leeve in ignorance an' neglec';
Ye've means, but want the wull tae use them,
Ye whiles neglec', an' whiles abuse them;
Ye hae nae time for e'en'in' classes;
Ye've time tae drink, an' see the lasses—
Staun at hoose-en, or change-hoose door,
An' smoke, an' swear, an' raise a splore,
An' play at cards, or fecht wi' dougs,
An' whiles tae clout ilk ither's lugs;
O wad ye no be muckle better,
Tae read a beuk, or write a letter?
Had ye the wull, wi' beuk an' pen,
Ye'd fin' the way tae mak' ye men.
An' mithers, dae ye ken the poo'rs,
The strength for gude or ill, that's yours,
An' that the gabbin', todlin' things,
That's hingin' be yer apron strings,
Wull be a millstane roun' yer neck
Tae droon yer sauls, if ye neglec'
Tae win their hearts, an' train their min',
In a' that's virtuous, gude, an' kin'?
Yer lassocks, that ye tak' sic pride in,
Hae muckle need o' carefu' guidin';
31
They gang ower muckle oot at e'en;
An' fallows are grown sae misleart,
The glaikit things micht weel be feart,
For aften dule an' burnin' shame
Comes poisonin' mony a puir man's hame,
An' gars ye greet, an' rage, an' flyte,
An' the puir faither maist gang gyte;
An' puir aul' Scotlan' hings her heid
An' bids ye leuk tae this wi' speed;
Her bonnie lassocks, bune a' ithers,
She bids you guard—O mithers! mithers!
32
THE POWER AND BEAUTY OF SCOTTISH SONG.
Wake every chord, strike every string,
Diffuse harmonious raptures round;
Ye foreign songsters warbling breathe
The sweetest strains of vocal sound.
Diffuse harmonious raptures round;
Ye foreign songsters warbling breathe
The sweetest strains of vocal sound.
Then, Scotia, pour thy native lays,
All tender, simple, wildly sweet,
Thy martial, mournful, lively airs,
Where Beauty, Power, and Pathos meet.
All tender, simple, wildly sweet,
Thy martial, mournful, lively airs,
Where Beauty, Power, and Pathos meet.
More rich, more sweet, more thrilling far
Than German or Italian song;
Wake, Scotia, wake thy mountain lyre,
And roll the inspiring tide along.
Than German or Italian song;
Wake, Scotia, wake thy mountain lyre,
And roll the inspiring tide along.
Oh! roll the glorious tide of song,
Soft gushing o'er the melting heart,
Till patriot Ardour, Mirth, and Love,
Their warmest, brightest powers impart.
Soft gushing o'er the melting heart,
Till patriot Ardour, Mirth, and Love,
Their warmest, brightest powers impart.
When heart-warm tears eclipse thine eyes,
When struggling raptures thrill thy breast,
Be Scotia's peerless powers of song,
In all their native charms, confessed.
When struggling raptures thrill thy breast,
Be Scotia's peerless powers of song,
In all their native charms, confessed.
33
NIGHT SCENE AT THE FALL OF SEBASTOPOL.
The toils, the flames, the thunders of the siege
Are quench'd and hush'd. Night shrouds in funeral pall
The fallen fortress, and her shattered mounds—
Each rent and ruined fort, and crumbling wall.
Are quench'd and hush'd. Night shrouds in funeral pall
The fallen fortress, and her shattered mounds—
Each rent and ruined fort, and crumbling wall.
Like leaves in Autumn, drenched in pools of blood,
Lie dead and dying; groans of anguish blend
With smothered shrieks and moans; death-laden sighs
Of long-drawn agony to Heaven ascend.
Lie dead and dying; groans of anguish blend
With smothered shrieks and moans; death-laden sighs
Of long-drawn agony to Heaven ascend.
By the doomed city's suicidal fires
I see their ghastly features upward turned—
See fixed and lustreless the glazing eye,
That late with all the warrior's ardour burned.
I see their ghastly features upward turned—
See fixed and lustreless the glazing eye,
That late with all the warrior's ardour burned.
Not with my ears—I listen with my heart,
And hear ten thousand wailing voices rise,
And shrieks and sobs, and bursts of wildest woe,
From hearts bereft and lorn, assail the skies.
And hear ten thousand wailing voices rise,
And shrieks and sobs, and bursts of wildest woe,
From hearts bereft and lorn, assail the skies.
For them the festal cannon boom in vain,
And joy-bells ring their peal from sea to sea,
And mimic rockets blaze through midnight skies,
And banners flaunt from hall, and tower, and tree.
And joy-bells ring their peal from sea to sea,
And mimic rockets blaze through midnight skies,
And banners flaunt from hall, and tower, and tree.
34
Be hushed, sad weepers, for your loved ones fell,
As warriors still should fall, in Freedom's cause;
For her they stormed the fort, and scaled the breach,
Victorious died, and earned a world's applause.
As warriors still should fall, in Freedom's cause;
For her they stormed the fort, and scaled the breach,
Victorious died, and earned a world's applause.
The Rubicon is passed. Pause not, go on
To conquest fresh, and newer fields of fame:
Ye brave Allies, may no dark influence mar
The united glories of your arms and name!
To conquest fresh, and newer fields of fame:
Ye brave Allies, may no dark influence mar
The united glories of your arms and name!
And yon gigantic idol of the North,
Whose mighty limbs of mingled iron and clay
Are trembling—tottering, soon will prostrate fall,
A crumbling mass of ruin and decay.
Whose mighty limbs of mingled iron and clay
Are trembling—tottering, soon will prostrate fall,
A crumbling mass of ruin and decay.
35
ON THE RUSSIAN WAR IN THE CRIMEA, 1854–5.
“There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we will.”—
Shakspere.
Rough hew them as we will.”—
Shakspere.
Behold with awe, and high adoring wonder,
The living car of Heaven, on wheels of thunder,
Flame and reverberate through the Eastern skies,
Weak-sighted mortals, veil your dazzled eyes!
Seek not to scan—attempt not to foreshow,
By fancies vain, Heaven's vast designs below.
The living wheels, instinct with spirit eyes,
Roll onwards to their goal, let this suffice
The curious mind and still the anxious soul.
We see a part, but not the mighty whole.
The mad ambition, and the wrath of man,
Controlled, subjected to the sovereign plan
Of an omniscient Providence, shall work
Its ends by grasping Russ, and feeble Turk,
By siege and storm, by battle height and plain,
By lakes of blood and festering hills of slain,
By allied nations rousing Europe broad—
These are His tools, the mighty worker—God.
And thou, my country, what hast thou attained?
Some dear-bought triumphs. Ah! how soiled and stained,
36
Where want and sickness, nakedness and toil,
Mowed down whole legions of thy warrior braves,
Their promised glories—nameless Crimean graves!
Yet still with jealous love I'd guard thy name,
And from the sunbright glories of thy fame
Chase every shade, and wipe off every stain,
The prestige of thy worth and power maintain.
For not alone in battle's fateful hour
Are seen and felt the triumphs of thy power;
On higher, holier fields immortal Fame
Hath crowned thy efforts, and embalmed thy name.
Thy missioned hosts, full oft in bloodless fight
The powers of darkness, with the arms of light,
Have vanquished and dispersed. Triumphant songs,
In every language, from ten thousand tongues,
Rise from the North, the South, the mighty West,
The fulgent East—they rise and call Thee blest.
The herald thou o'er all the world abroad,
To sound the advent of the Word of God.
For this no banner flings its blazon round,
No battle-charger, foaming, paws the ground,
No shout, nor shock of war, no groans, nor cries,
No garments rolled in blood speak to the skies,
No courtly laureate strikes the jewelled lyre,
And thrills the golden chords with tuneful fire.
Yet Heaven proclaims, and earth repeats the strain,
Britannia wars to loose, not bind the chain.
37
RHYMES FOR THE TIMES.
II.
Ae day short syne, whan gaun afiel,
A douce aul' farrant eldrin chiel
Cam' yont the burn tae hae a crack,
For John an' me hae lang been pack.
Quo he, Thir's unco times we leeve in,
There's muckle dune, ance past believin'.
Hae ye no heard in Glasco College
They've plantit a new tree o' knowledge?
The frute's fu' bonny tae the e'e,
An' woman's no forbid tae pree:
Sae she may cum without presumption,
An' pu' an' eat an' gather gumption.
An' sic lang-wint, lang-nebbit cracks,
'Bout social rights, an' wrangs, an' facts,
Frae chiels wi' tongues sae glib an' snell,
They tingilit thro' ye like a bell.
There's mony a phase o' speech an' thocht,
Leuks gran', but whan it's tae be wrocht,
An' practice, 'stead o' speech begins,
There's stumilin'-blocks tae break oor shins,
Ower whilk we'll stacher, stoit, an' tumile,
Syne juist sit doon an' glunch an' grumil.
Speech is a tree that bears nae frute,
Till delvit and dungit aboot the rute.
The yird weel loosit an' labourit, syne
Leuk for a crap, baith big and fine.
Whan words an' wark mak' firm alliance,
Then social duty's social science.
A douce aul' farrant eldrin chiel
Cam' yont the burn tae hae a crack,
For John an' me hae lang been pack.
Quo he, Thir's unco times we leeve in,
There's muckle dune, ance past believin'.
Hae ye no heard in Glasco College
They've plantit a new tree o' knowledge?
The frute's fu' bonny tae the e'e,
An' woman's no forbid tae pree:
Sae she may cum without presumption,
An' pu' an' eat an' gather gumption.
An' sic lang-wint, lang-nebbit cracks,
'Bout social rights, an' wrangs, an' facts,
Frae chiels wi' tongues sae glib an' snell,
They tingilit thro' ye like a bell.
There's mony a phase o' speech an' thocht,
Leuks gran', but whan it's tae be wrocht,
An' practice, 'stead o' speech begins,
There's stumilin'-blocks tae break oor shins,
Ower whilk we'll stacher, stoit, an' tumile,
Syne juist sit doon an' glunch an' grumil.
38
Till delvit and dungit aboot the rute.
The yird weel loosit an' labourit, syne
Leuk for a crap, baith big and fine.
Whan words an' wark mak' firm alliance,
Then social duty's social science.
An' noo, that we hae dune wi' speakin',
Fie let us tae the wark be streekin'.
Aff wi' yer coat, up wi' yer sleeves,
Set doon yer feet, an' ply yer neives.
On, on, nae stanin' still, nor jaukin',
Oor wark's ahin, hae dune wi' taukin';
For that's ane o' the richts o' woman,
I houp her gude time's nearer comin'—
Hech, there's a warl o' wark afore hir,
An' Heaven an' yirth are leukin' o'er hir.
Noo, John, quo I, haud aff oor taes,
A woman best kens woman's ways:
There's ae thing she can hardly name,
A thing o' filth, an' sin, an' shame;
Tae chack that ugsume kin' o' sinnin',
She maun begin at the beginnin'.
Nae lassie ere was born on yirth,
But Nature gied hir, at hir birth,
A shrinkin', shame-faced, modest pride,
Hir baith as bairn an' maid tae guide.
O mithers, guard this precious sense—
This bashfu' modesty and mense,
Sae sweet, but O ower scarce tae see.
Yer warnin' words, an' watchfu' e'e,
Sood never lea' them lang their lanes,
Wi' ill brocht up, ill deedie weans.
An' cleed their limbs wi' decent claes,
A gey bit nearer tae the taes,
An' aye the guileless bonny burds,
Keep frae a' shamefu' sichts an' words.
Ay, mithers, ye hae muckle mair
Tae gie yer bairns than schulin' lear;
At schule ye like tae see them braw,
Wi' peenie white as drifted snaw,
An' hoopit coatie, short an' wide,
An' curls that hing on ilka side
O' rosy cheeks an' lauchin' e'en,
An' a' aboot them snod an' clean.
This ye may dae, but let the min'
An' wee bit hertie, saft an' kin',
The mither's anxious luve an' care,
An' eident teachin' foremaist share,
An' let yer cares aye deeper grup,
Whan they tae maidhood are grown up,
An' tho' the wark war ne'er sae thrang,
Ken wha they're wi', an' whaur they gang;
Be tae yer duty leal an' true,
An' sood ye fail, na blame tae you.
Fie let us tae the wark be streekin'.
Aff wi' yer coat, up wi' yer sleeves,
Set doon yer feet, an' ply yer neives.
On, on, nae stanin' still, nor jaukin',
Oor wark's ahin, hae dune wi' taukin';
For that's ane o' the richts o' woman,
I houp her gude time's nearer comin'—
Hech, there's a warl o' wark afore hir,
An' Heaven an' yirth are leukin' o'er hir.
Noo, John, quo I, haud aff oor taes,
A woman best kens woman's ways:
There's ae thing she can hardly name,
A thing o' filth, an' sin, an' shame;
Tae chack that ugsume kin' o' sinnin',
She maun begin at the beginnin'.
Nae lassie ere was born on yirth,
But Nature gied hir, at hir birth,
A shrinkin', shame-faced, modest pride,
Hir baith as bairn an' maid tae guide.
O mithers, guard this precious sense—
This bashfu' modesty and mense,
39
Yer warnin' words, an' watchfu' e'e,
Sood never lea' them lang their lanes,
Wi' ill brocht up, ill deedie weans.
An' cleed their limbs wi' decent claes,
A gey bit nearer tae the taes,
An' aye the guileless bonny burds,
Keep frae a' shamefu' sichts an' words.
Ay, mithers, ye hae muckle mair
Tae gie yer bairns than schulin' lear;
At schule ye like tae see them braw,
Wi' peenie white as drifted snaw,
An' hoopit coatie, short an' wide,
An' curls that hing on ilka side
O' rosy cheeks an' lauchin' e'en,
An' a' aboot them snod an' clean.
This ye may dae, but let the min'
An' wee bit hertie, saft an' kin',
The mither's anxious luve an' care,
An' eident teachin' foremaist share,
An' let yer cares aye deeper grup,
Whan they tae maidhood are grown up,
An' tho' the wark war ne'er sae thrang,
Ken wha they're wi', an' whaur they gang;
Be tae yer duty leal an' true,
An' sood ye fail, na blame tae you.
There's been an unco tauk an' fyke
'Boot weemen's wark, an' things sic like.
The shooster lasses, save the mark,
They say sood hae the shopmen's wark,
An' sort the teeps, an' wield the pen,
An' blackneb on the wurkin' men.
An' sood they get the pay an' place
Men used tae hae, they'll hae the grace,
By their glib mouth-piece Bessy Park,
Tae tell the chiels whaur they'll get wark;
They canna dig, tae beg think shame,
They'll list, or seek a foreign hame.
Noo, lasses, I wad hae ye ken,
Tae herry oot the nice young men
Is no' the gate to win their favour.
By thrifty, modest, quiet behaviour,
A wheen o' ye micht aiblains share
A' that they wurk for evermair.
An' are we cum tae sic a pass,
That wark, an' meat, for mony a lass,
Can no' be had in oor bit islan',
But by her health or morals spoilin'?
Then let ilk toon oot thro' the nation
Subscribe for female emigration,
Tae tak' them far frae wants an' harms,
Tae lan's whaur woman's presence charms
An' blesses men, whase lanely lives
An' lanely hames hae need o' wives.
'Boot weemen's wark, an' things sic like.
40
They say sood hae the shopmen's wark,
An' sort the teeps, an' wield the pen,
An' blackneb on the wurkin' men.
An' sood they get the pay an' place
Men used tae hae, they'll hae the grace,
By their glib mouth-piece Bessy Park,
Tae tell the chiels whaur they'll get wark;
They canna dig, tae beg think shame,
They'll list, or seek a foreign hame.
Noo, lasses, I wad hae ye ken,
Tae herry oot the nice young men
Is no' the gate to win their favour.
By thrifty, modest, quiet behaviour,
A wheen o' ye micht aiblains share
A' that they wurk for evermair.
An' are we cum tae sic a pass,
That wark, an' meat, for mony a lass,
Can no' be had in oor bit islan',
But by her health or morals spoilin'?
Then let ilk toon oot thro' the nation
Subscribe for female emigration,
Tae tak' them far frae wants an' harms,
Tae lan's whaur woman's presence charms
An' blesses men, whase lanely lives
An' lanely hames hae need o' wives.
Ae word tae speechifyin' weemen,
That's no aye sleepin' whan they're dreamin',
Aye takin' up puir woman's quarrels,
Let your first care be woman's morals;
For social ills, an' deeds impure,
Prevention easier is than cure.
Help mithers wi' their maiden charge,
Help lassies coosten oot at large
Upon a warl' baith caul an' stern,
Wi' muckle baith tae thole and learn.
An' since ye've time an' win' tae spare,
Them baith on sister woman ware,
Tae touch her heart, an' teach her saul,
This mission's yours—obey the call.
That's no aye sleepin' whan they're dreamin',
41
Let your first care be woman's morals;
For social ills, an' deeds impure,
Prevention easier is than cure.
Help mithers wi' their maiden charge,
Help lassies coosten oot at large
Upon a warl' baith caul an' stern,
Wi' muckle baith tae thole and learn.
An' since ye've time an' win' tae spare,
Them baith on sister woman ware,
Tae touch her heart, an' teach her saul,
This mission's yours—obey the call.
42
LINES ON THE TRIAL OF MADELINE SMITH FOR THE MURDER OF L'ANGELIER.
Shade of the hapless stranger, lost L'Angelier,
Whose life's young light was quenched in guilt and shame,
Say haunts thou still the lane, the fatal gate,
Where to thy arms the fair, false syren came?
Whose life's young light was quenched in guilt and shame,
Say haunts thou still the lane, the fatal gate,
Where to thy arms the fair, false syren came?
We seek not now thy “merits to disclose,
Nor draw thy frailties from their dread abode;”
We would not sit in judgment on the man
Whose soul hath stood before the bar of God.
Nor draw thy frailties from their dread abode;”
We would not sit in judgment on the man
Whose soul hath stood before the bar of God.
Not proven was thy thrice-repeated deed—
Thou of the stony heart and dauntless eye:
Smile not, in Heaven's high court thou yet shalt hear
The unerring, proven verdict of the sky.
Thou of the stony heart and dauntless eye:
Smile not, in Heaven's high court thou yet shalt hear
The unerring, proven verdict of the sky.
A lovely isle lies cradled in the deep,
Its flowery glades embowered in fruitful trees,
A weeping mother wanders on the beach
And pours her sorrows on the seaward breeze.
Its flowery glades embowered in fruitful trees,
A weeping mother wanders on the beach
And pours her sorrows on the seaward breeze.
Ah! to her widowed heart, her only son,
She last had clasped upon that island shore;
He came, he saw, he loved, he sinned, he died—
We wait till heaven and time shall tell us more.
She last had clasped upon that island shore;
He came, he saw, he loved, he sinned, he died—
We wait till heaven and time shall tell us more.
43
VERSES ON THE CALDER IN ITS COURSE BY ST. ENOCH'S, ROSEHALL, &c.
Lone Calder! sweet Calder! beloved of my youth,
When Nature I worshipped with fervour and truth;
Sweet memories float like a beautiful dream
O'er thy musical woodlands and murmuring stream.
When Nature I worshipped with fervour and truth;
Sweet memories float like a beautiful dream
O'er thy musical woodlands and murmuring stream.
'Tis fifty long years sincé, and now as I range
Thy flower-spangled margin, alas, for the change!
My youthful companions, ah! where have ye fled?
Sweet, sad voices whisper, They sleep with the dead.
Thy flower-spangled margin, alas, for the change!
My youthful companions, ah! where have ye fled?
Sweet, sad voices whisper, They sleep with the dead.
Bright, golden-haired Bella, dear, delicate Anne,
And warm-hearted Jessie, how swiftly ye ran
Down the dell of the hyacinth your cousin to meet,
And guide through the Calder her small, shrinking feet!
And warm-hearted Jessie, how swiftly ye ran
Down the dell of the hyacinth your cousin to meet,
And guide through the Calder her small, shrinking feet!
Then o'er thy green holms we went bounding along,
And woke up the echoes with laughter and song;
With freedom and sunshine, with birds, and with flowers,
And young hearts all joyous, how swift sped the hours!
And woke up the echoes with laughter and song;
With freedom and sunshine, with birds, and with flowers,
And young hearts all joyous, how swift sped the hours!
Dear Jessie, thou only, of all the blithe train,
Art left—shall I ever behold thee again?
Thy pale, gentle mother went early to rest,
And her dear ones soon followed to sleep on her breast.
Art left—shall I ever behold thee again?
Thy pale, gentle mother went early to rest,
And her dear ones soon followed to sleep on her breast.
44
Sweet sylvan, St Enoch's fond mem'ry recalls
Sweet voices, fair faces, that dwelt in thy halls—
'Tis long since they left, and the stranger possessed
The home of their fathers—the dearest, the best.
Sweet voices, fair faces, that dwelt in thy halls—
'Tis long since they left, and the stranger possessed
The home of their fathers—the dearest, the best.
From thy desolate chambers, Oh lonely Rosehall!
The dwellers have vanished—“the steed from the stall;”
The hearts that have loved thee and owned thee are dust,
And thy chill halls are tarnished with mildew and rust.
The dwellers have vanished—“the steed from the stall;”
The hearts that have loved thee and owned thee are dust,
And thy chill halls are tarnished with mildew and rust.
Though garlands of poesy entwine not thy brow,
Nor bard in soft numbers thy charms will avow;
Yet, Calder, a muse that is nameless will bring
A song that is nameless thy beauties to sing.
Nor bard in soft numbers thy charms will avow;
Yet, Calder, a muse that is nameless will bring
A song that is nameless thy beauties to sing.
45
OOR LOCATION.
A hunner funnels bleezin', reekin',
Cóal an' ironstane charrin', smeekin';
Navvies, miners, keepers, fillers,
Puddlers, rollers, iron millers;
Reestit, reekit, raggit laddies,
Firemen, enginemen, an' paddies;
Boatmen, banksmen, rough and rattlin',
'Bout the wecht wi' colliers battlin',
Sweatin', swearin', fechtin' drinkin',
Change-house bells an' gill-stoups clinkin';
Police—ready men and willin'—
Aye at han' whan stoups are fillin',
Clerks, an' counter-loupers plenty,
Wi' trim moustache and whiskers dainty—
Chaps that winna staun at trifles,
Min' ye they can han'le rifles.
'Bout the wives in oor location,
An' the lassies' botheration,
Some are decent, some are dandies,
An' a gey wheen drucken randies,
Aye tae neebors' hooses sailin',
Greetin' bairns ahint them trailin',
Gaun for nouther bread nor butter,
Just tae drink an' rin the cutter.
Oh, the dreadfu' curse o' drinkin'!
Men are ill, but tae my thinkin',
Lukin' through the drucken fock,
There's a Jenny for ilk Jock.
Oh the dool an' desolation,
An' the havoc in the nation,
Wrocht by dirty, drucken wives!
Oh hoo mony bairnies' lives
Lost ilk year through their neglec';
Like a millstane roun' the neck
O' the strugglin', toilin' masses
Hing drucken wives an' wanton lassies.
Tae see sae mony unwed mithers
Is sure a shame that taps a' ithers.
Cóal an' ironstane charrin', smeekin';
Navvies, miners, keepers, fillers,
Puddlers, rollers, iron millers;
Reestit, reekit, raggit laddies,
Firemen, enginemen, an' paddies;
Boatmen, banksmen, rough and rattlin',
'Bout the wecht wi' colliers battlin',
Sweatin', swearin', fechtin' drinkin',
Change-house bells an' gill-stoups clinkin';
Police—ready men and willin'—
Aye at han' whan stoups are fillin',
Clerks, an' counter-loupers plenty,
Wi' trim moustache and whiskers dainty—
Chaps that winna staun at trifles,
Min' ye they can han'le rifles.
'Bout the wives in oor location,
An' the lassies' botheration,
Some are decent, some are dandies,
An' a gey wheen drucken randies,
Aye tae neebors' hooses sailin',
Greetin' bairns ahint them trailin',
Gaun for nouther bread nor butter,
Just tae drink an' rin the cutter.
Oh, the dreadfu' curse o' drinkin'!
Men are ill, but tae my thinkin',
46
There's a Jenny for ilk Jock.
Oh the dool an' desolation,
An' the havoc in the nation,
Wrocht by dirty, drucken wives!
Oh hoo mony bairnies' lives
Lost ilk year through their neglec';
Like a millstane roun' the neck
O' the strugglin', toilin' masses
Hing drucken wives an' wanton lassies.
Tae see sae mony unwed mithers
Is sure a shame that taps a' ithers.
An' noo I'm fairly set a-gaun,
On baith the whisky-shop and pawn;
I'll speak my min'—and whatfor no?
Frae whence cums misery, want, an' wo,
The ruin, crime, disgrace, an' shame,
That quenches a' the lichts o' hame?
Ye needna speer, the feck ot's drawn
Out o' the change-hoose an' the pawn.
On baith the whisky-shop and pawn;
I'll speak my min'—and whatfor no?
Frae whence cums misery, want, an' wo,
The ruin, crime, disgrace, an' shame,
That quenches a' the lichts o' hame?
Ye needna speer, the feck ot's drawn
Out o' the change-hoose an' the pawn.
Sin and death, as poets tell,
On ilk side the doors o' hell
Wait tae haurl mortals in;
Death gets a' that's catcht by sin:
There are doors whaur death an' sin
Draw their tens o' thoosan's in;
Thick and thrang we see them gaun,
First the dram-shop, then the pawn;
Owre a' kin's o' ruination,
Drink's the king in oor location.
On ilk side the doors o' hell
Wait tae haurl mortals in;
Death gets a' that's catcht by sin:
There are doors whaur death an' sin
Draw their tens o' thoosan's in;
Thick and thrang we see them gaun,
First the dram-shop, then the pawn;
Owre a' kin's o' ruination,
Drink's the king in oor location.
47
THE CIVIL WAR IN AMERICA.
Ah, bannered stars and stripes! your glory
Hath paled, the blazoned folds all gory
With kindred blood hang sadly drooping;
The eagle and the vulture swooping
Scream o'er the Run, that field inglorious
Whence legs, not arms, returned victorious,
Whipped back like beaten fillibusters
To fresh discipline, drills, and musters.
Hath paled, the blazoned folds all gory
With kindred blood hang sadly drooping;
The eagle and the vulture swooping
Scream o'er the Run, that field inglorious
Whence legs, not arms, returned victorious,
Whipped back like beaten fillibusters
To fresh discipline, drills, and musters.
Ah, Uncle Sam! think what you're doing;
Your case is hopeless on reviewing.
You want the Anglo-Saxon pluck,
Your forte is just to run a muck
With pistol ball or bowie knife,
And use your heels to save your life.
And then your Budgets' awful figures,
An income tax with all its rigours
To pay the piper, you must bear it,
But that you will, or can, I fear it;
And if from this unhallowed strife
You part not but with parting life,
You must attain the dire conclusion
Through seas of blood, debt, and confusion.
You guess the Britishers are laughing
At your disasters—that your chaffing
Has raised the British lion's dander.
That noble beast disdains to pander
To your o'erweening pride and bluster;
He calmly eyes your martial muster,
And watchful, couching on his rock,
Fearless abides the coming shock.
Sammy, your case is very shocking,
Too serious to admit of joking—
By joint consent, or arbitration,
Get an immediate separation—
And statesmen choose of mark and mettle
Your plaguey boundary lines to settle.
Your horrid war is ought but civil,
And soon will breed all sorts of evil
To name and credit, trade and dollar,
To whites and blacks, in chain and collar.
Adieu! be civil to your mammy—
Britain, you know, good Master Sammy.
Your case is hopeless on reviewing.
You want the Anglo-Saxon pluck,
Your forte is just to run a muck
With pistol ball or bowie knife,
And use your heels to save your life.
And then your Budgets' awful figures,
An income tax with all its rigours
To pay the piper, you must bear it,
But that you will, or can, I fear it;
And if from this unhallowed strife
You part not but with parting life,
You must attain the dire conclusion
Through seas of blood, debt, and confusion.
You guess the Britishers are laughing
At your disasters—that your chaffing
48
That noble beast disdains to pander
To your o'erweening pride and bluster;
He calmly eyes your martial muster,
And watchful, couching on his rock,
Fearless abides the coming shock.
Sammy, your case is very shocking,
Too serious to admit of joking—
By joint consent, or arbitration,
Get an immediate separation—
And statesmen choose of mark and mettle
Your plaguey boundary lines to settle.
Your horrid war is ought but civil,
And soon will breed all sorts of evil
To name and credit, trade and dollar,
To whites and blacks, in chain and collar.
Adieu! be civil to your mammy—
Britain, you know, good Master Sammy.
49
EPITHALAMIUM
ON THE MARRIAGE OF GEORGE BAIRD OF STRICHEN AND CECILIA HATTON.
Fill high the cup, but not with wine—
The cup of joy; bring flowers and twine
A wreath to crown the gentle Bride,
Who, flushed with love and tender pride,
Leans on her Bridegroom's arm.
The cup of joy; bring flowers and twine
A wreath to crown the gentle Bride,
Who, flushed with love and tender pride,
Leans on her Bridegroom's arm.
For he hath given, with fervid breath,
To her his vows of love and faith;
And she hath pledged him true and dear.
A thousand welcomes wait them here—
True hearts, and wishes warm.
To her his vows of love and faith;
And she hath pledged him true and dear.
A thousand welcomes wait them here—
True hearts, and wishes warm.
Ring out the joy-bells far and wide,
Bid festal guns salute the Bride,
Fling out the streamers far and free,
Fair Stranger, hail!—all joy to thee
Within thy northern home.
Bid festal guns salute the Bride,
Fling out the streamers far and free,
Fair Stranger, hail!—all joy to thee
Within thy northern home.
Ah, gentle Lady! do not deem
That smoke, and flame, and hissing steam,
And clang of iron, and rushing wheel,
Are all we see, and hear, and feel.
Not so—not so. We come
That smoke, and flame, and hissing steam,
And clang of iron, and rushing wheel,
Are all we see, and hear, and feel.
Not so—not so. We come
50
To where the sacred fane uprears
Its stately tower—and where appears
The structure fair where learning sheds
Her beams on thousand youthful heads,
To bless and to adorn.
Its stately tower—and where appears
The structure fair where learning sheds
Her beams on thousand youthful heads,
To bless and to adorn.
See, through these ample halls below,
Full tides of youth and childhood flow;
There Music swells, and Temperance reigns,
And Peace her sacred rule maintains,
Of law and order born.
Full tides of youth and childhood flow;
There Music swells, and Temperance reigns,
And Peace her sacred rule maintains,
Of law and order born.
The cup brims high—but not with wine;
'Tis with a nectar more divine—
The dew of love, the balm of life,
The wedded bliss of man and wife.
Fill high! The draught is rich and rare.
Drink deep.
Heaven bless the happy pair!
'Tis with a nectar more divine—
The dew of love, the balm of life,
The wedded bliss of man and wife.
Fill high! The draught is rich and rare.
Drink deep.
Heaven bless the happy pair!
51
SOME INCIDENTS IN THE LATTER DAYS OF JOHN WHITELAW
[_]
Some time of Stand, in the parish of New Monkland, who, being in arms at the Battle of Bothwell Bridge, was afterwards under hiding for four years, when he was taken, and suffered death in front of the old jail of Edinburgh in November, 1683. Written by one of his descendants.
The bridge was won, the foe had crossed
The Clyde; the Covenanted host
Had lost the day, and vanquished fled.
Mixed with the rout a horseman sped—
For life he rode—and glancing back,
Saw the dragoons were on his track;
With thundering hoof and foaming flank,
The steed swept on till Clyde's green bank
He gained, there for a moment stood,
Then plunged into the rolling flood.
A swimmer strong, he safely bore
His rider to the northern shore.
Refreshed and cool the stalwart steed,
As if he knew his master's need,
Sprang down the bank, dashed o'er the plain,
His northward course pursued amain.
The rider never drew his hand
Till at the lonely farm of “Stand.”
On Monkland moor his weary horse
He reined, and stayed his faltering course.
But, ah! the terror and alarm
That reigned within that lonely farm,
The fatal news he need not tell,
Alas! they guessed it all too well.
He clasped his pale and fainting wife,
Whose bosom held a twofold life,
He soothed his children, set to watch
His eldest girl, that he might snatch
A hasty meal and brief repose,
Then he must hide him from his foes.
Through four dark years of fear and peril
Young Margaret, that heroic girl,
Watched o'er his life, purveyed his food,
Until he sealed the truth with blood.
There came a day when weak, forlorn,
The mother lay, her babe new born
Within her arms, a fearful sound
Of trampling hoofs the dwelling round
Smote on her ear. With clanking tread
Two fierce dragoons approached her bed.
They asked her where her husband hid.
She bravely answered, “God forbid
That I should heaven and him betray.”
They swore they'd kill her where she lay.
They thrust their swords into the bed,
And dragged the pillows from her head.
Then from the fire a peat they snatch,
And laid it smouldering on the thatch.
Then rode away with fell desire
To see the lonely house on fire.
It burned not, and that babe and mother
Lived long to bless and love each other.
The Clyde; the Covenanted host
Had lost the day, and vanquished fled.
Mixed with the rout a horseman sped—
For life he rode—and glancing back,
Saw the dragoons were on his track;
With thundering hoof and foaming flank,
The steed swept on till Clyde's green bank
He gained, there for a moment stood,
Then plunged into the rolling flood.
A swimmer strong, he safely bore
His rider to the northern shore.
Refreshed and cool the stalwart steed,
As if he knew his master's need,
Sprang down the bank, dashed o'er the plain,
His northward course pursued amain.
The rider never drew his hand
Till at the lonely farm of “Stand.”
On Monkland moor his weary horse
He reined, and stayed his faltering course.
52
That reigned within that lonely farm,
The fatal news he need not tell,
Alas! they guessed it all too well.
He clasped his pale and fainting wife,
Whose bosom held a twofold life,
He soothed his children, set to watch
His eldest girl, that he might snatch
A hasty meal and brief repose,
Then he must hide him from his foes.
Through four dark years of fear and peril
Young Margaret, that heroic girl,
Watched o'er his life, purveyed his food,
Until he sealed the truth with blood.
There came a day when weak, forlorn,
The mother lay, her babe new born
Within her arms, a fearful sound
Of trampling hoofs the dwelling round
Smote on her ear. With clanking tread
Two fierce dragoons approached her bed.
They asked her where her husband hid.
She bravely answered, “God forbid
That I should heaven and him betray.”
They swore they'd kill her where she lay.
They thrust their swords into the bed,
And dragged the pillows from her head.
Then from the fire a peat they snatch,
And laid it smouldering on the thatch.
Then rode away with fell desire
53
It burned not, and that babe and mother
Lived long to bless and love each other.
They took and tried him; calm he stood
Before the men who sought his blood.
“He was at Bothwell with a sword,
He owned not James his loyal lord,
Of Sharp's late murder he declined
To say what thoughts were in his mind.”
This he confessed, and suffered death
With martyr zeal and steadfast faith.
Once lonely “Stand,” the martyr's prayer
At morn and e'en rose on the air
To heaven; the music of the psalm
Rose sweet amid the holy calm
Of Scotland's Sabbath—sweetly still
The lonely farm, the moor, the hill,
Save moorfowls' call and anthem loud
Of warbling lark on summer cloud.
Alas! the change, sight, sound, and speech,
Another sadder moral teach!
Before the men who sought his blood.
“He was at Bothwell with a sword,
He owned not James his loyal lord,
Of Sharp's late murder he declined
To say what thoughts were in his mind.”
This he confessed, and suffered death
With martyr zeal and steadfast faith.
Once lonely “Stand,” the martyr's prayer
At morn and e'en rose on the air
To heaven; the music of the psalm
Rose sweet amid the holy calm
Of Scotland's Sabbath—sweetly still
The lonely farm, the moor, the hill,
Save moorfowls' call and anthem loud
Of warbling lark on summer cloud.
Alas! the change, sight, sound, and speech,
Another sadder moral teach!
54
MOTHER AND CHILD.
“Away from the dwellings of care-worn men
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen—
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth,
Their light stems thrill to the wild wood strain,
And youth is abroad in my green domain.”
—Hemans.
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen—
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth,
Their light stems thrill to the wild wood strain,
And youth is abroad in my green domain.”
—Hemans.
O come, little Mary, the woods are in tune
With the birds and the breezes of bright sunny June,
For the brook in the woodland to-day we are bound,
With green leaves above us and blossoms around.
With the birds and the breezes of bright sunny June,
For the brook in the woodland to-day we are bound,
With green leaves above us and blossoms around.
To chase the swift minnow, and plash in the stream,
Pick sorrel and flowers on its margin that gleam,
And weave with green rushes a coronet fair
To crown thy white brow and thy long, shining hair.
Pick sorrel and flowers on its margin that gleam,
And weave with green rushes a coronet fair
To crown thy white brow and thy long, shining hair.
Now warble thy wood-notes, sweet bird of my heart,
All Nature rejoices, and thou must take part
In her hymn'd adorations, and raise thy soft eyes
To thy Father who dwells in yon blue shining skies.
All Nature rejoices, and thou must take part
In her hymn'd adorations, and raise thy soft eyes
To thy Father who dwells in yon blue shining skies.
How lovely the mingling of leaflet and flower!
How sweet the wild music in woodland and bower!
More lovely the gaze of thy worshipping eyes,
And sweeter to heaven shall thine anthem arise.
How sweet the wild music in woodland and bower!
More lovely the gaze of thy worshipping eyes,
And sweeter to heaven shall thine anthem arise.
55
On this soft, mossy bank, where a queen might recline,
Where wild rose and hawthorn their branches entwine,
Come seat thee, and listen the song of the thrush
While the breeze rocks his young in their green cradle bush.
Where wild rose and hawthorn their branches entwine,
Come seat thee, and listen the song of the thrush
While the breeze rocks his young in their green cradle bush.
Be grateful, dear Mary, what blessings are thine!—
Kind parents on earth, and a Father divine,
The beauties of Nature, the riches of grace,
The kingdom of heaven, and the light of His face.
Kind parents on earth, and a Father divine,
The beauties of Nature, the riches of grace,
The kingdom of heaven, and the light of His face.
56
SONG—THE COUTHIE AULD MAN.
Wi' a blush, an' a glint o' true luve frae her e'e,
Her bonnie white haunie, sae saft an' sae wee,
A' trem'lin' she laid in my braid, waukit loof:
I'm yours, John, for ever—tak that for the proof.
Her bonnie white haunie, sae saft an' sae wee,
A' trem'lin' she laid in my braid, waukit loof:
I'm yours, John, for ever—tak that for the proof.
My heart it gaed duntin'; Oh funeuch and fain
Was I whan I ca'd the dear lassock my ain;
An' the saft haun I chirted, and pree'd the wee mou'
Sae rosy an' rich wi' luve's sweet honey-dew.
Was I whan I ca'd the dear lassock my ain;
An' the saft haun I chirted, and pree'd the wee mou'
Sae rosy an' rich wi' luve's sweet honey-dew.
The auld wife consented, the auld man an a',
Tae gie me their dochter, an' blest was my fa';
Tho' my luve an' their blessin' was a' the bride's gear,
We've throught weel an' thriven this mony a year.
Tae gie me their dochter, an' blest was my fa';
Tho' my luve an' their blessin' was a' the bride's gear,
We've throught weel an' thriven this mony a year.
We ha'e a bit mailin wi' whilk we can fen,
We've sax bonnie bairns grown to women an' men,—
My lassocks are winsome, an' warkrife, an' douce,
An' my callans, gude sain them, are stoops o' the hoose.
We've sax bonnie bairns grown to women an' men,—
My lassocks are winsome, an' warkrife, an' douce,
An' my callans, gude sain them, are stoops o' the hoose.
An' noo the white haunie is runkled and lean,
An' dim is the licht in the luve glintin' een,
An' the rich rosy lips noo are wallow't and wan,
But they're aye just as sweet to the couthie auld man.
An' dim is the licht in the luve glintin' een,
An' the rich rosy lips noo are wallow't and wan,
But they're aye just as sweet to the couthie auld man.
57
REMONSTRANCE.
“One murder makes a villain, millions a hero; and number sanctifies
the crime.”—Young.
With mournful eyes, and folded hands,
And listening ear, Britannia stands—
No counsel gives, makes no demands—
'Twere vain, for transatlantic lands
Scorn Europe's intervention.
She gazes o'er the western deep—
She can but pray, she can but weep;
There War's red eye doth never sleep—
His bloodiest revels Death doth keep—
Men shrink their deeds to mention.
And listening ear, Britannia stands—
No counsel gives, makes no demands—
'Twere vain, for transatlantic lands
Scorn Europe's intervention.
She gazes o'er the western deep—
She can but pray, she can but weep;
There War's red eye doth never sleep—
His bloodiest revels Death doth keep—
Men shrink their deeds to mention.
Oh glorious land! to thee are given
The richest gifts of bounteous heaven;
But thou, by lust of empire driven,
Hast blindly, madly, vainly striven,
'Gainst Southern secession.
You may not, will not, cannot gain
Your object; not as one, but twain,
The North and South must now remain—
Let weeping Peace not sue in vain
For entrance and possession.
The richest gifts of bounteous heaven;
But thou, by lust of empire driven,
Hast blindly, madly, vainly striven,
'Gainst Southern secession.
You may not, will not, cannot gain
Your object; not as one, but twain,
The North and South must now remain—
Let weeping Peace not sue in vain
For entrance and possession.
58
Ye live, and fight, and fall beneath
A lurid cloud of blood and death;
The atmosphere that feeds your breath
Smells rank; your victories claim a wreath
Of cypress, not of laurel.
Awake! no more of conquest dream;
The State boat's on Niagara's stream—
She nears the rapids—it would seem
That she must perish while you dream
Of triumph in the quarrel.
A lurid cloud of blood and death;
The atmosphere that feeds your breath
Smells rank; your victories claim a wreath
Of cypress, not of laurel.
Awake! no more of conquest dream;
The State boat's on Niagara's stream—
She nears the rapids—it would seem
That she must perish while you dream
Of triumph in the quarrel.
Let mercy, prudence, common sense,
Ply oar and helm, and shape from thence
Her course—their presence will dispense
A healthy, healing influence,
Your deadly wounds to close.
What profit should ye gain a world
And lose a soul? Your flag unfurled
Ten thousand souls to darkness hurled,
And yet you have not gained a world,
But thousand thousand woes.
Ply oar and helm, and shape from thence
Her course—their presence will dispense
A healthy, healing influence,
Your deadly wounds to close.
What profit should ye gain a world
And lose a soul? Your flag unfurled
Ten thousand souls to darkness hurled,
And yet you have not gained a world,
But thousand thousand woes.
59
OLD MEMORIES.
Bright flashes of sunshine—sweet snatches of song—
Warm gushings of kindness, come thrilling along
The chords of old memories, melting the tone,
And sweet the weird voices of years that are gone.
Warm gushings of kindness, come thrilling along
The chords of old memories, melting the tone,
And sweet the weird voices of years that are gone.
I hear the brisk hum of the dear spinning wheel;
Again, the kind hand of Old Granny I feel,
As she strokes down my hair, singing soft, as I stood
By her side, the “Blaeberries” or “Babes of the Wood.”
Again, the kind hand of Old Granny I feel,
As she strokes down my hair, singing soft, as I stood
By her side, the “Blaeberries” or “Babes of the Wood.”
I see my dear village—it basks in the sun;
And the barefooted children, that tumble and run
On the pathway—the rattle of looms, and the song
Of the weaver, that sounded the summer day long.
And the barefooted children, that tumble and run
On the pathway—the rattle of looms, and the song
Of the weaver, that sounded the summer day long.
Again, a gay party of youngsters I meet,
Dressed out in their best, two and two on the street;
'Tis a large penny wedding—the fiddler before
Plays gaily 'midst firing and merry uproar.
Dressed out in their best, two and two on the street;
'Tis a large penny wedding—the fiddler before
Plays gaily 'midst firing and merry uproar.
On the Sovereign's birth-day every cot was a bower;
The birch wore its greenest—the broom was in flower;
Each window was dressed with its neighbour to match,
And the wealth of the woodlands hung low from the thatch.
The birch wore its greenest—the broom was in flower;
Each window was dressed with its neighbour to match,
And the wealth of the woodlands hung low from the thatch.
60
Then Wilkes,
shoulder high, through the village was borne
By the boys, with sound of the whistle and horn—
With a tin pail for drum; on the old beechen tree
They hanged, and then burned, the old scarecrow with glee.
By the boys, with sound of the whistle and horn—
With a tin pail for drum; on the old beechen tree
They hanged, and then burned, the old scarecrow with glee.
Again my flower treasures I see in their prime:
Nancy-pretty, sweet Willy, white lilies and thyme,
Appleringy and spearmint—the old folk's delight—
With bachelor's buttons both yellow and white.
Nancy-pretty, sweet Willy, white lilies and thyme,
Appleringy and spearmint—the old folk's delight—
With bachelor's buttons both yellow and white.
The old churchyard often I wander around—
Oft passing to stoop o'er a lone grassy mound;
The dear ones who left me are waiting below,
Nor long will I tarry—'tis time I should go.
Oft passing to stoop o'er a lone grassy mound;
The dear ones who left me are waiting below,
Nor long will I tarry—'tis time I should go.
No gay garden roses plant ye on my grave—
A briar from the banks of sweet Calder I crave,
With its flush of wild roses to curtain my bed,
Where the robin a requiem will sing o'er my head.
A briar from the banks of sweet Calder I crave,
With its flush of wild roses to curtain my bed,
Where the robin a requiem will sing o'er my head.
61
SPRING SCENE IN THE COUNTRY.
Singing, skipping, shaking backCurls of gold, or brown, or black,
From soft cheeks and laughing eyes—
Careless, gay as butterflies—
Comes a fair and girlish band
Bearing flowers in lap and hand;
Golden coltsfoot, primrose pale,
Hyacinths from woody vale;
Yellow willow buds, that smell
Of the wild bee's honeyed cell;
Daisies, dandelion's strung,
Round each neck and bosom hung.
Sweet and swift run childhood's hours,
Spent with streams, and trees, and flowers;
One leads on a prattling brother,
Baby sister bears another,
Oft resigned to willing arms—
Girls still doat on infant charms;
How they hug and kiss her, crowing
Babe, with health and beauty glowing.
Your sweet voices, dear wee lassies,
O'er my heart like music passes;
62
On your homeward path advancing.
Ah, your homes! your state is lowly,
But your mission, high and holy
Shall be in the future, when,
Mothers ye of future men,
Wield a power within the nation,
In the work of education,
Which priests and sages, Peers and Commons,
Cannot wield—that power is woman's.
'Tis not meetings, speeches, grants,
Laying bare the crimes and wants
Of your juvenile offenders—
But the fact experience tenders,
That the power above all others
Youth to train is this, good mothers!
63
AULD SCOTLAN'
AT THE LAYING OF THE FOUNDATION STONE OF THE WALLACE MONUMENT AT STIRLING, 1861.
Auld Scotlan's hert an' baith her lugs war dirlin',
Whan thun'erin' waves o' soun' gade rowin', swirlin'
Aroun' the Abbey Craig o' auld grey Stirling,
Frae hunner music ban's and bag-pipes skirlin'.
Whan thun'erin' waves o' soun' gade rowin', swirlin'
Aroun' the Abbey Craig o' auld grey Stirling,
Frae hunner music ban's and bag-pipes skirlin'.
Oh! blithe was she tae see her buirdly callans
In tens o' thousands pourin' frae their dwallin's,
Baith Dukes and Lords, an' mony trades an' callin's—
Oh! prood was she, an' big her fu' hert swallin's.
In tens o' thousands pourin' frae their dwallin's,
Baith Dukes and Lords, an' mony trades an' callin's—
Oh! prood was she, an' big her fu' hert swallin's.
Wi' cheers the verra lift amaist was riven,
Frae mornin's drumlie broo the clouds war driven;
The sun cam' lauchin' oot—sair had he striven
Tae see us frae the twal-oors hight o' heaven.
Frae mornin's drumlie broo the clouds war driven;
The sun cam' lauchin' oot—sair had he striven
Tae see us frae the twal-oors hight o' heaven.
An' sic a sicht his e'e o' fire ne'er saw,
Cam' Kirk, cam' State, cam' “Army, Physic, Law;”
Leddies an' lassies, bonny burdies a',
An mony gawsy wives, baith braid an' braw.
Cam' Kirk, cam' State, cam' “Army, Physic, Law;”
Leddies an' lassies, bonny burdies a',
An mony gawsy wives, baith braid an' braw.
64
The lowe o' freedom burns sae het an' clear
In Scotlan's hert this mony hunner year,
That, spite o' traitor Scot or Southern jeer,
Tae Wallace name this tower o' strength she'll rear.
In Scotlan's hert this mony hunner year,
That, spite o' traitor Scot or Southern jeer,
Tae Wallace name this tower o' strength she'll rear.
An' by his treacherous doom, whilk aye she'll murne,
An' by the Bruce, an' by red Bannockburn—
Tae your immortal memories she will turn
For ever—Wallace, Bruce, an' Bannockburn.
An' by the Bruce, an' by red Bannockburn—
Tae your immortal memories she will turn
For ever—Wallace, Bruce, an' Bannockburn.
65
IMPENDING WAR BETWEEN AUSTRIA AND SARDINIA.
Hark! the impatient dogs of war,Growling, baying from afar,
The royal ban-dogs, bound and strain
To slip the leash or snap the chain.
The scent lies strong, and staunch and fleet,
With instinct true, the bloody feet
Of murderous War they seek to trace,
Till Europe's broad and tranquil face,
With wounds and blood, and burning tears,
Mangled, deformed, and soiled, appears.
The Austrian bloodhound whets his fangs,
His war steeds neigh, his armour clangs;
His marching myriads shake the ground,
And doubt and terror hover round.
His savage muzzle yet is wet
With Magyar blood. When I forget
Thee, gallant Hungary, may my name
Become a mark for hate and shame.
The Imperial hound, he first gave tongue
When Cherbourg's forts with viva's rung—
When yelled the pack, when colonels stood
And licked their chops at thoughts of blood.
66
Your thirst for blood? Away, away;
Balls, hunts, reviews, are harmless things
Compared with war—the game of kings.
Victor, God grant thou prove thy name!
Alas, good dog! on thee the blame
They cast of all these warlike coils;
For thou wouldst rend the despot's toils
That hold the Lombard's writhing form,
But Hapsburg's demon rides the storm.
Alone, thou wield'st nor spell nor charm
Of power to break his red right arm.
Britannia, on her island rock,
Stands armed and watching for the shock.
If shock must come, heaven scatter far
The thunder-cloud, the storm of war!
67
ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE BARQUE “FAME”
FROM GLASGOW TO AUSTRALIA WITH EMIGRANTS, 1854.
Go, barque of promise, prove thy name,
Not on the deck, where dead and dying
Have steeped in blood the wreath of fame,
To her loud trump with groans replying.
Not on the deck, where dead and dying
Have steeped in blood the wreath of fame,
To her loud trump with groans replying.
Not where the huge war steamer plys,
Through hostile seas resistless sweeping,
Led in her wake her battle prize,
To port her course triumphant keeping.
Through hostile seas resistless sweeping,
Led in her wake her battle prize,
To port her course triumphant keeping.
Not such the freight, not such the fame,
Old Scotia o'er the world of waters
Sends with her virtues and her name—
She sends her own true sons and daughters.
Old Scotia o'er the world of waters
Sends with her virtues and her name—
She sends her own true sons and daughters.
She sends, Australia, to thy plains,
White with the woolly millions feeding—
Brave hearts, strong arms to probe thy veins,
With treasure gold so freely bleeding.
White with the woolly millions feeding—
Brave hearts, strong arms to probe thy veins,
With treasure gold so freely bleeding.
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Her Christian faith, her moral worth,
Her honest pride, her patriot feelings
She gives, and sends her children forth,
With trust in God and Time's revealings.
Her honest pride, her patriot feelings
She gives, and sends her children forth,
With trust in God and Time's revealings.
God speed thee, “Fame!” may each loved name
Of absent friends sweet memories nourish;
Our prayers are yours, with tears we claim
This last fond wish—“Let Glasgow Flourish.”
Of absent friends sweet memories nourish;
Our prayers are yours, with tears we claim
This last fond wish—“Let Glasgow Flourish.”
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ADVICE TAE BRITHER JONATHAN
AT THE BEGINNING OF THE CEEVIL WAR IN AMERICA.
Frien' Jonathan, tak' gude advice, an' fast as eer ye dow,
Fling doon the lunt o' ceevil war, pit oot the eerie lowe
That scowthers, wi' its hatefu' heat, your vera hert an' saul;
Ye've gather't sticks tae beat the bleeze, sae water't till its caul'.
Fling doon the lunt o' ceevil war, pit oot the eerie lowe
That scowthers, wi' its hatefu' heat, your vera hert an' saul;
Ye've gather't sticks tae beat the bleeze, sae water't till its caul'.
There's muckle cry an' little woo in a' your fechtin' wark;
Ye dinna like a crackit croon, nor yet a bloody sark;
Tae tyne your trade, tae tyne your gear, an' spill your bluid forby,
Ye canna thole, sae jist gae hame an' fling the rifle by.
Ye dinna like a crackit croon, nor yet a bloody sark;
Tae tyne your trade, tae tyne your gear, an' spill your bluid forby,
Ye canna thole, sae jist gae hame an' fling the rifle by.
I guess the new Palmetto flag, an' eke the Stripes an' Stars,
On Crimean or Italian plains, or rebel Indian wars,
Wad waver't in your 'prentice haun, ye blusterin' haveral chiel;
If ye maun fecht, just fecht at hame, ye maunna gang a-fiel'.
On Crimean or Italian plains, or rebel Indian wars,
Wad waver't in your 'prentice haun, ye blusterin' haveral chiel;
If ye maun fecht, just fecht at hame, ye maunna gang a-fiel'.
Wow, man, your in an awfu' mess; what outget sall ye hae?
The hill Difficulty's afore, an' ye maun speel the brae;
Ye'll naither pay, nor fecht, nor 'gree, but wow your gude o' bragging—
Far better cut the finger aff than aye tae hae it wagging.
The hill Difficulty's afore, an' ye maun speel the brae;
Ye'll naither pay, nor fecht, nor 'gree, but wow your gude o' bragging—
Far better cut the finger aff than aye tae hae it wagging.
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'Twixt North and South, that ill-matcht pair, there's nocht but aggravation,
Sae, e'er ye ding a' things tae rack, gar mak a separation;
The South they'll keep the negro slave—they like the chain and collar—
The North tae trade, an' rug, an' reive, an' pouch the michty dollar.
Sae, e'er ye ding a' things tae rack, gar mak a separation;
The South they'll keep the negro slave—they like the chain and collar—
The North tae trade, an' rug, an' reive, an' pouch the michty dollar.
71
CONTRASTED SCENES FROM REAL LIFE.
SCENE I.—MARRIAGE OF SIR R. PEEL WITH LADY E. HAY.
See yonder gorgeous fane, its doors expand,Throng'd with the rank, wealth, beauty of the land;
And high-born bridesmaids, with a beauteous bride,
Are there, the titled bridegroom by her side.
And diamonds flash, and white plumes wave between,
And lustrous silks, and robes of satin sheen,
And snowy clouds of richest, rarest lace
Float round rare forms of loveliness and grace.
Earl and countess, lord and lady fair,
Wait at the altar the hymeneal pair.
The vows are spoken, and a husband's kiss
Has sealed the pledge of wedded love and bliss—
And kisses, blessings, smiles on every side,
Are showered upon the fair and noble bride.
She, blushing, tearful as a dewy rose,
Leans on the arm belov'd as forth she goes
To mount her gilded chariot, swift away
For home, and love whirls on the cortege gay.
Ah, happy bride! though now to thee is given
Earth's best and brightest; at the throne of heaven
The meanest female of the human race
Shall occupy with thee an equal place.
72
SCENE II.—THE INCIDENT IS TAKEN FROM “HOUSEHOLD WORDS.”
'Tis night in London—dimly gleam the lampsThrough murky fogs and chilly, drizzling damps;
Tenacious mud o'erspreads the slimy street,
And clogs the walker's slow exploring feet.
But 'tis not time, nor place, nor scene, nor hour,
Can damp the soul that owns sweet Pity's power,
Nor bid from scenes of want and woe depart,
Nor freeze the founts of love that warm the heart.
Go on, large-hearted Son of Genius, go!
Look till thy heart is pained, thine eyes o'erflow.
Oh! 'tis a sight to sicken and appal,
Crouched on the miry stones, against the wall
Of yon dark pile, five huddled masses lean,
But sight, nor sound, nor form of life is seen.
Lift up the shrouding rags—a female face
Is seen; there human feeling leaves no trace;
A dreary blank is o'er the features spread—
The very sense of want and pain is dead;
Excess of misery all her powers hath numbed,
And 'neath the crushing load she hath succumbed;
And who, and what art thou? and who are those
That round thee crouch in torpor—not repose?
With feeble voice she spoke, and eyes half-closed:
I know them not, save that we were exposed
Three wintry nights—back from the workhouse driven—
Like things accursed of men, and lost to heaven!
73
Like broken images—their heads reclined
Each on the other? Sisters young, they say,
To Destitution's darkest ills a prey.
And who the next? She from the country came,
And found no choice of life but want or shame.
Dickens, thy graphic pencil paints with power
The crimes, the follies, and the woes that lower
And taint our moral atmosphere; still lend
Thy potent aid—be still the outcast's friend!
74
THE MOTHER AT HOME.
A voice deep and solemn is sounding abroad;
Oh mothers of Britain! each humble abode
Should echo the burden with which it is fraught—
Our children, they must be instructed and taught.
Oh mothers of Britain! each humble abode
Should echo the burden with which it is fraught—
Our children, they must be instructed and taught.
Oh mothers of Scotland! I call you by name,
I bid you arise and rescue your fair fame;
Let your eyes trickle down like a fountain of tears,
For young ones neglected through crime-shrouded years.
I bid you arise and rescue your fair fame;
Let your eyes trickle down like a fountain of tears,
For young ones neglected through crime-shrouded years.
Oh poor peasant mother—Oh working man's wife!
Your child's food and clothing, his health and his life
Should be toiled for, and cared for, as only a part
Of your duty; Oh culture his mind and his heart!
Your child's food and clothing, his health and his life
Should be toiled for, and cared for, as only a part
Of your duty; Oh culture his mind and his heart!
Your cares are full many, your leisure is small,
But the souls of your babes are more precious than all;
While you toil with your hands you should watch, teach, and pray,
For where there's a will there is ever a way!
But the souls of your babes are more precious than all;
While you toil with your hands you should watch, teach, and pray,
For where there's a will there is ever a way!
Oh mothers! your prayers, instructions, and rules,
With the voice of the teacher, and lore of the schools,
Should ever be joined, and when faithfully given,
You may hope, you may trust, in the blessing of Heaven.
With the voice of the teacher, and lore of the schools,
Should ever be joined, and when faithfully given,
You may hope, you may trust, in the blessing of Heaven.
The statesman, the patriot, the Christian, have found—
Though grants, schools, and teachers increase and abound—
For juvenile ignorance and vice there must come,
Best help, truest cure, from the Mother at Home.
Though grants, schools, and teachers increase and abound—
For juvenile ignorance and vice there must come,
Best help, truest cure, from the Mother at Home.
75
SWEET MAY MORN.
'Tis sweet May morn; wake, drowsy girls!
Come ere the sun has stolen the pearls—
The dewy pearls—that glisten sheen
On May's soft lap, and mantle green.
Come bare-foot, come, each little lass
With crystal dew 'mong flowery grass
Bathe hands and feet, till all aglow,
And gaily o'er your shoulders throw
The shining drops, with dew-filled palm,
Lave cheek and brow, 'tis Beauty's balm.
Come ere the sun has stolen the pearls—
The dewy pearls—that glisten sheen
On May's soft lap, and mantle green.
Come bare-foot, come, each little lass
With crystal dew 'mong flowery grass
Bathe hands and feet, till all aglow,
And gaily o'er your shoulders throw
The shining drops, with dew-filled palm,
Lave cheek and brow, 'tis Beauty's balm.
Hail, sweet May morn! from tree and bush
The piping blackbird, singing thrush,
The lark, whose joyous carol loud
Rings from the dewy vernal cloud;
The cooing dove, the cawing rook,
The skimmers of the lake and brook,
Spring's sweetest voice—her own cuckoo—
A tuneful homage, loving true,
Are tendering at thy flowery throne,
In many a sweetly varied tone.
The piping blackbird, singing thrush,
The lark, whose joyous carol loud
Rings from the dewy vernal cloud;
The cooing dove, the cawing rook,
The skimmers of the lake and brook,
Spring's sweetest voice—her own cuckoo—
A tuneful homage, loving true,
Are tendering at thy flowery throne,
In many a sweetly varied tone.
See, girls! the day advances, come
Light tripping o'er the daisies home,
Already is the cottage board
With creamy bowls of May-milk stored;
Rich foaming jugs—but not of ale—
Warm, fragrant, from the milk-maid's pail,
From hand to hand are circling round,
With health, and sweets delicious crowned;
Sweet simple joys, sweet balmy draught,
With health, and peace, and temperance fraught.
Light tripping o'er the daisies home,
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With creamy bowls of May-milk stored;
Rich foaming jugs—but not of ale—
Warm, fragrant, from the milk-maid's pail,
From hand to hand are circling round,
With health, and sweets delicious crowned;
Sweet simple joys, sweet balmy draught,
With health, and peace, and temperance fraught.
Dear little maids! your self-styled bard
Would deem it dear and rich reward,
If, when in blushing maidhood's hour,
And armed with love and beauty's power,
That love, that power, you'd bring to bear
On each fond youth who loves you dear;
And when he breathes the fond desire
To call you his, you would require
The temperance pledge, with that of love—
His love, his truth, and worth to prove,
And gain, for all you have resigned,
A happy home—a husband kind!
Would deem it dear and rich reward,
If, when in blushing maidhood's hour,
And armed with love and beauty's power,
That love, that power, you'd bring to bear
On each fond youth who loves you dear;
And when he breathes the fond desire
To call you his, you would require
The temperance pledge, with that of love—
His love, his truth, and worth to prove,
And gain, for all you have resigned,
A happy home—a husband kind!
77
ON THE PROPOSED PRESENTATION OF GUNS BY THE PEOPLE OF BRITAIN TO THE KING OF SARDINIA, IN AID OF ITALIAN LIBERTY.
No gold,—no jewels bright,
We offer at the shrine
Where Italy adores the light
Of liberty divine.
A sterner gift we bring—
Ye frowning tubes of death,
Your bolts of vengeance wing,
Till tyrants quail beneath.
We offer at the shrine
Where Italy adores the light
Of liberty divine.
A sterner gift we bring—
Ye frowning tubes of death,
Your bolts of vengeance wing,
Till tyrants quail beneath.
From fort—from “deadly breach”
Pour from your sulph'rous throats,
As far as sound can reach,
In loud prophetic notes,
A voice whose thunder tones
Shall Europe's despots wake,
And on their crumbling thrones
In craven terror shake.
Pour from your sulph'rous throats,
As far as sound can reach,
In loud prophetic notes,
A voice whose thunder tones
Shall Europe's despots wake,
And on their crumbling thrones
In craven terror shake.
Victor Emmanuel!—name
Of augury divine—
Thee victor we proclaim!
For Freedom's cause is thine.
“Emmanuel—God with us”—
Of old, was Piedmont's cry—
Emmanuel ever thus
Be God to aid thee nigh!
Of augury divine—
Thee victor we proclaim!
For Freedom's cause is thine.
“Emmanuel—God with us”—
Of old, was Piedmont's cry—
Emmanuel ever thus
Be God to aid thee nigh!
78
TO THE NORTH AMERICANS.
“O foolish people, and unwise,”
Who stop your ears and shut your eyes,
Though common-sense and flagrant facts
Proclaim the madness of your acts!
A guessing, calculating nation,
Yet, to European observation,
To be outwitted and defeated,
You never guessed or calculated.
We guess the cost you should have counted
Before the war-horse you had mounted,
On which you cut such sorry capers.
You want our Campbells, Havelocks, Napiers,
Our Gladstone, Palmerston, and Russell,
And so you've got into a bustle
Of debt and danger, blood and battery,
And no mendacious boast or flattery
Can chase the clouds so darkly looming,
Or still the wailing echoes booming
Above, around the deathly track
To Richmond, and the red path back.
Look back—the trench, the swamp, the wood,
With dead and dying bodies strewed;
And nightly on thy banks, St James,
Were hundreds piled to feed the flames;
Then battle, panic, rout, and flight,
And all is terror and affright.
Who stop your ears and shut your eyes,
Though common-sense and flagrant facts
Proclaim the madness of your acts!
A guessing, calculating nation,
Yet, to European observation,
To be outwitted and defeated,
You never guessed or calculated.
We guess the cost you should have counted
Before the war-horse you had mounted,
On which you cut such sorry capers.
You want our Campbells, Havelocks, Napiers,
Our Gladstone, Palmerston, and Russell,
And so you've got into a bustle
Of debt and danger, blood and battery,
And no mendacious boast or flattery
Can chase the clouds so darkly looming,
Or still the wailing echoes booming
Above, around the deathly track
To Richmond, and the red path back.
Look back—the trench, the swamp, the wood,
With dead and dying bodies strewed;
79
Were hundreds piled to feed the flames;
Then battle, panic, rout, and flight,
And all is terror and affright.
Ye know not all; ye soon shall know,
When dark reaction's tidal flow
Shall chill your hearts, and whelm your pride
And lust of empire in the tide.
Oh Union dames! let common-sense,
If not affection, influence
Your thoughts and words before high Heaven—
Such right to woman is not given,
To urge her husband, son, or lover,
All human ties to trample over
The cause. To keep the Union whole,
Alas! full many a parted soul
In battle, sinful, unforgiven,
Flies to its last account to heaven.
When dark reaction's tidal flow
Shall chill your hearts, and whelm your pride
And lust of empire in the tide.
Oh Union dames! let common-sense,
If not affection, influence
Your thoughts and words before high Heaven—
Such right to woman is not given,
To urge her husband, son, or lover,
All human ties to trample over
The cause. To keep the Union whole,
Alas! full many a parted soul
In battle, sinful, unforgiven,
Flies to its last account to heaven.
Then let religion, reason, love,
Your holiest, dearest, feelings move.
Your love, your eloquence, your tears,
All that on man's best feelings bears,
Employ, nor let your efforts cease
Till your fair land has rest and peace.
Your holiest, dearest, feelings move.
Your love, your eloquence, your tears,
All that on man's best feelings bears,
Employ, nor let your efforts cease
Till your fair land has rest and peace.
80
CRINOLINE.
Auld Scotlan' gangs yirmin an' chanerin' alane;
She wunners whaur a' her trig lassocks ha'e gane;
She's trampit the kintra, an' socht thro' the toons,
An' fan' the fule hizzies—blawn oot like balloons!
She wunners whaur a' her trig lassocks ha'e gane;
She's trampit the kintra, an' socht thro' the toons,
An' fan' the fule hizzies—blawn oot like balloons!
Can they be my lassocks—ance cozie an' cosh,
Weel shapit, weel happit—sae stumpy an' tosh?
Twa coats an' a toush, or a goon, ye may ween,
Were boukie aneuch, wi' what nature had gi'en.
Weel shapit, weel happit—sae stumpy an' tosh?
Twa coats an' a toush, or a goon, ye may ween,
Were boukie aneuch, wi' what nature had gi'en.
They're aye i' my e'e, an' they're aye i' my gate—
At the kirk I am chirtit maist oot o' my seat;
Whan caul', tae the ingle I needna gae ben,
If Kate an' her crinoline's on the fire-en'.
At the kirk I am chirtit maist oot o' my seat;
Whan caul', tae the ingle I needna gae ben,
If Kate an' her crinoline's on the fire-en'.
Whan a lad wi' a lassie forgethers yenoo,
It's no her bricht een, or her rosie wee mou',
Her snod cockernony, waist jimpy an' fine,
That first tak's his e'e—it's the big crinoline!
It's no her bricht een, or her rosie wee mou',
Her snod cockernony, waist jimpy an' fine,
That first tak's his e'e—it's the big crinoline!
Tae sae that he likes it would jist be a lee—
But ye ken that the big thing attracts aye the wee—
An' the lass that cares nocht 'bout her heart an' her heid,
Tak's care that her crinoline's weel spread abreed.
But ye ken that the big thing attracts aye the wee—
An' the lass that cares nocht 'bout her heart an' her heid,
Tak's care that her crinoline's weel spread abreed.
81
An' say, if dame Nature wad gi'e at her birth,
Tae ilka wee lassie that's born on the yirth,
A bouk o' her ain, that grew bigger ilk year,
Ye'd no be sae prood o' the giftie I fear.
Tae ilka wee lassie that's born on the yirth,
A bouk o' her ain, that grew bigger ilk year,
Ye'd no be sae prood o' the giftie I fear.
When a widow was burnt i' the Indian suttees,
Tae honour the dead, and the fause gods tae please,
The puir heathen body I'm pincht tae accuse,
Whan I read o' they crinoline deaths i' the news.
Tae honour the dead, and the fause gods tae please,
The puir heathen body I'm pincht tae accuse,
Whan I read o' they crinoline deaths i' the news.
Sae aff wi' the whalebone, the cane, an' the steel!
I likna the crinoline, trouth an' atweel;
It's fule-like an' fashous, it's cheatrie an' boss—
I wad jist ha'e yere cleedin' bien, genty, an' doss.
I likna the crinoline, trouth an' atweel;
It's fule-like an' fashous, it's cheatrie an' boss—
I wad jist ha'e yere cleedin' bien, genty, an' doss.
82
WOMAN.
There is an element of power
That suits the needs of every hour—
All wants to which our state gives birth—
The life, the mind, the home, the hearth.
That suits the needs of every hour—
All wants to which our state gives birth—
The life, the mind, the home, the hearth.
'Tis Woman, From the mother's breast
The babe draws life and strength and rest;
She soothes its pains, its wants supplies,
With yearning love in heart and eyes.
The babe draws life and strength and rest;
She soothes its pains, its wants supplies,
With yearning love in heart and eyes.
A prudent, gentle, loving wife,
The boon most precious to the life
Of him to whom her all is given,
Save love of God, and hope of heaven.
The boon most precious to the life
Of him to whom her all is given,
Save love of God, and hope of heaven.
And who shall teach the infant mind
The way of truth and peace to find?
Who teach in wisdom's paths to tread,
But she who gives his daily bread?
The way of truth and peace to find?
Who teach in wisdom's paths to tread,
But she who gives his daily bread?
A guiding star, to shed and shine
Soft radiance on the household shrine,
And from her sphere—a span of earth—
Pour light and love on home and hearth.
Soft radiance on the household shrine,
And from her sphere—a span of earth—
Pour light and love on home and hearth.
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And such should Woman ever prove—
The pole-star of domestic love,
To which the youthful circle tend,
As mother, guardian, teacher, friend.
The pole-star of domestic love,
To which the youthful circle tend,
As mother, guardian, teacher, friend.
There is an element of ill—
Of power to soil, deface, and kill
The buds, the flowers, the fruits of life—
The careless mother, worthless wife.
Of power to soil, deface, and kill
The buds, the flowers, the fruits of life—
The careless mother, worthless wife.
O careless mother, why neglect
The early buds of vice to check
In your untutored boys and girls,
Ere cast on life—its sins and perils?
The early buds of vice to check
In your untutored boys and girls,
Ere cast on life—its sins and perils?
Your children's blood you would not shed;
Yet, cruel mother, on your head
The blood of souls uncared-for lies—
That blood to heaven for ever cries.
Yet, cruel mother, on your head
The blood of souls uncared-for lies—
That blood to heaven for ever cries.
Oh, woe for him who finds on earth
No spot so dreary as the hearth
Where sits the partner of his life,
A shrewish, wasteful, worthless wife!
No spot so dreary as the hearth
Where sits the partner of his life,
A shrewish, wasteful, worthless wife!
O Woman, much to thee is given—
Thy mission comes direct from heaven;
The priceless gems of human life—
A careful mother, virtuous wife.
Thy mission comes direct from heaven;
The priceless gems of human life—
A careful mother, virtuous wife.
84
DIRGE FOR JESSIE MACPHERSON.
Sad Winter weeps, his tears bedew thy grave,
That grave on which no kindred sorrows flow;
The wailing winds around it moan and rave,
Oh! lonely grave, where mourners never go!
That grave on which no kindred sorrows flow;
The wailing winds around it moan and rave,
Oh! lonely grave, where mourners never go!
Thy mangled form, wrapped in its bloody shroud,
Forgotten lies; few hearts, few eyes, will melt
For thee, poor victim. The press-ridden crowd
Have for thy cruel fate small pity felt.
Forgotten lies; few hearts, few eyes, will melt
For thee, poor victim. The press-ridden crowd
Have for thy cruel fate small pity felt.
O night of horror, when the murder fiend
Hacked out thy life, and revelled in thy gore;
With felon hand thy wardrobe's treasures gleaned,
And left her bloody footprints on the floor!
Hacked out thy life, and revelled in thy gore;
With felon hand thy wardrobe's treasures gleaned,
And left her bloody footprints on the floor!
Yet heaven and earth were stirred, regions beneath
Were moved t' avert the proven murderer's doom;
Sensation journals, libellous in their wrath
'Gainst law and justice, foam, and rave, and fume.
Were moved t' avert the proven murderer's doom;
Sensation journals, libellous in their wrath
'Gainst law and justice, foam, and rave, and fume.
The eye of Heaven beheld the fearful deed,
The ear of Heaven received the victim's cry;
'Tis Heaven's command, let earth give rev'rent heed,
The murder prove, and let the murderer die.
The ear of Heaven received the victim's cry;
'Tis Heaven's command, let earth give rev'rent heed,
The murder prove, and let the murderer die.
85
Nay, though another should have shared the guilt
Of this most foul and most ferocious deed,
Yet she is guilty of the blood thus spilt—
Justice accepts no offering in her stead.
Of this most foul and most ferocious deed,
Yet she is guilty of the blood thus spilt—
Justice accepts no offering in her stead.
Rest, murdered Jessie, on thy lowly grave
Shall ne'er be writ the branded felon's doom;
Rest thou in peace, though madmen storm and rave,
Thou hear'st them not—peace shades thy lonely tomb.
Shall ne'er be writ the branded felon's doom;
Rest thou in peace, though madmen storm and rave,
Thou hear'st them not—peace shades thy lonely tomb.
86
LINES ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ON RECEIVING FROM HIM A VOLUME OF “THE PARNASSUS JOURNAL.”
Owre a Parnassus I hae wannert,Wi' beuk in han' I slowly daunert,
An aft baith hert an' een gade dancin'
Abune some bricht rock-crystal glancin'
Amang the stanes or in the soil,
That weel repaid me for my toil.
Tae tell the truth, I didna ettle
Tae fin' sae muckle bardic metal,
Or pouch sae mony bonny gems
Amang the heather cowes an' stems
That cleed oor Scotch Parnassian mountain,
Adoon whilk rins Castalia's fountain.
It's ca'd, ye ken, the Muses' Spring,
Whaur drouthy poets drink and sing,
Ere fame or fortune's haun' ye claucht,
Ye first maun tak' a waly-waucht
O' this same sang-inspirin' water—
An' syne ye'll ryhme, an' sing, an' clatter.
A waly-waucht gat Ayrshire Rab—
It cleart his thrapple, cool't his gab,
An syne sae loud an' sweet he sang,
That a' the warl' wi' echoes rang,
87
He wan the tap o' mount Parnassus;
An' there he sits, an' wha wull steer him?
Nae ither singer e'er cam' near him—
Frae 'neath the yirth, or on't abune,
Nane e'er could lilt tae Rabbie's tune.
For me I ne'er cou'd fill my caup
Oot o' the spring—a wee bit drap
Was a' that e'er gade owre my weasan—
E'en noo my gab begins to geysan,
An' sae I fin' it maist expedient
That I should say yer maist obedient.
88
NOVEMBER FINDINGS—1862.
Thou frigid tyrant, dark and stern November!
We shrink before thee, and shall long remember
Thy levin fires, untimely thunder volleys,
That in dread tones rebuked our crimes and follies.
We shrink before thee, and shall long remember
Thy levin fires, untimely thunder volleys,
That in dread tones rebuked our crimes and follies.
Thy scowling eyes through veiling cloud are glaring
On the pale face of Nature rudely baring,
Her shivering form her leafy garments strewing
O'er field and wood-discoloured heaps of ruin.
On the pale face of Nature rudely baring,
Her shivering form her leafy garments strewing
O'er field and wood-discoloured heaps of ruin.
Earth's blasted treasures shrunken, blackened lie
On many a field beneath thy cruel eye;
Red grave-yards swell o'er many little heaps—
Her buried treasures the pale mother weeps.
On many a field beneath thy cruel eye;
Red grave-yards swell o'er many little heaps—
Her buried treasures the pale mother weeps.
The factory wheels—too oft the wheels of life—
Stand still; and pining wants and woes are rife;
On the cold hearth, and by the naked bed,
Gaunt misery cowering sits—half-warmed, half-fed.
Stand still; and pining wants and woes are rife;
On the cold hearth, and by the naked bed,
Gaunt misery cowering sits—half-warmed, half-fed.
Friend Jonathan is just as fierce and spiteful—
The braggadocio would be quite delightful—
But loss of blood, and jaundiced bile, poor fellow,
Have made him giddy, and all objects yellow.
The braggadocio would be quite delightful—
But loss of blood, and jaundiced bile, poor fellow,
Have made him giddy, and all objects yellow.
89
Thou drear November! in thy reign we saw
A press-blown clamour overcrow the law—
A secret conclave trample Justice down,
Beneath the shelter of Victoria's crown.
A press-blown clamour overcrow the law—
A secret conclave trample Justice down,
Beneath the shelter of Victoria's crown.
But now let rigours of the season move
To generous sympathy and deeds of love:
So that the poor have cause long to remember
With gratitude even thee, dark stern November.
To generous sympathy and deeds of love:
So that the poor have cause long to remember
With gratitude even thee, dark stern November.
90
OCTOBER THOUGHTS—1862.
A solemn, tender melancholy—A soft emotion, sweet and holy;
A sense of stillness and repose,
O'er my worn heart and spirit flows.
I feel the breathing calm that lies
On earth, and sea, and sleeping skies,
Upon the yellow voiceless woods,
Where fading Nature mournful broods;
The stubble-field, brown, silent, bare—
Not even a gleaner wandering there.
I seem by the death-couch to stand
Of some grey Father of the land,
Whose fading hue, and failing breath,
And voiceless lips, give sign of death.
And hark! 'mid twilight shadows dim,
The robin chaunts his funeral hymn.
Now, o'er the landscape slowly sailing—
Robes of mist around her trailing—
Comes the Night, bright, mild, and gracious;
Through the blue ethereal spacious,
Walks the full-orbed moon in splendour—
Chaste, serene, and meekly tender.
91
On western fields of cruel slaughter;
Fall thy beams, with weeping grace,
On many a pale and gory face,
In purple pools of blood reflected—
Whence peace and mercy fly rejected?
Dost thou, beauteous orb benign,
On the patriot captive shine,
And on that more than regal head
Thy gentle, soothing, influence shed?
And while on prison-couch he lies,
Tracing thy course through midnight skies,
Oh! whisper in his wakeful ear
With spirit voice soft words of cheer—
And say that Liberty divine,
Shall call him yet to guard her shrine.
92
THE HARTLEY COLLIERY CATASTROPHE.
Dark gulf of death! black cavern of despair!From your foul depths, to breathe the upper air,
No victim comes—one common living grave
Encloses all—no human aid can save!
Not one—not one—to tell the fearful tale
How hope expired, and life began to fail;
How poisonous gases drank the fainting breath—
The scene around one sweltering mass of death—
And was there nought but darkness, death, despair,
In that low dungeon? Hark! the voice of prayer,
The solemn agony of wrestling faith,
Passing to life through the dark gates of death,
And forms celestial, 'mid the gloom profound,
Bright messengers of heaven are hovering round,
To waft the ransomed spirits as they rise,
On their swift pinions to the upper skies.
Broad Britain's heart is moved, its troubled deeps
Are full of grief and horror while she weeps
Her perished ones—those pale and ghastly sleepers—
She spurns the plea—are we our brother's keepers?
“Thy brother's blood cries to me from the ground:”
An awful truth—stern, solemn, and profound,
93
By obvious means, could—should—have been prevented.
Could tender sympathy and generous deeds
Bind up each stricken heart that inly bleeds
In widowed bosoms—still the orphans' cries—
These generous pity prompt, and kind supplies?
Ah! these are wounds which only God can heal;
The strength He gives shall never faint nor fail;
Your orphans' wrongs and yours He will redress—
The widows' Judge is He in holiness.
94
REMINISCENCES OF THE “HIE TOON” OF HAMILTON SIXTY YEARS AGO.
Fair Hamiltonia! when a happy child
I roamed thy charming precincts free and wild.
Led by a father's hand, beyond thy bounds
I strayed delighted through the beauteous grounds
That skirt the Ducal pile, to where thy tide,
Brown Avon, mingles with the silver Clyde.
There I had been content each day to roam,
Till twilight turned my wandering footsteps home.
Home of my youth, thy place, thy name is gone!
Nought meets the eye but lofty walls of stone;
Within no children gambol on the street,
No hum of voices—tread of busy feet;
The sounds of hammer, axe, and rattling loom,
Are heard no more (no Plebeian feet presume
To tread where pampered steeds are duly stalled),
Nor memories of homes and hearths recalled.
Yet there a scene was writ on memory's page,
That record neither time, nor change, nor age
Effaces:—In a small and lonesome room,
Where death and sickness shed a solemn gloom,
An aged man lay on the bed of death—
Labouring and fitful came his struggling breath—
His sunken eyes were dim in death's eclipse:
No hand to raise his head, or wet his lips;
For in that room, upon a bed of pain,
A daughter lay—no being but the twain
Was there—she in her weakness vainly strove
To rise, and tend the father of her love:
At last, on hands and knees, her painful way
She crept to where the dying Christian lay—
“My father, death is near! your hour is come!”
“I know it, daughter—I am going home!
My path is light—no darkness clouds my way:
Farewell!” he ceased, and calmly slept away,
And she, the daughter, trod for many years
The vale of life—to her a vale of tears—
The vale of death in faith and hope she passed;
Her faith grew bright, still brighter to the last.
Farewell, my mother! thou art gone to rest,
Where sleep in peace the oppressor and oppressed.
I roamed thy charming precincts free and wild.
Led by a father's hand, beyond thy bounds
I strayed delighted through the beauteous grounds
That skirt the Ducal pile, to where thy tide,
Brown Avon, mingles with the silver Clyde.
There I had been content each day to roam,
Till twilight turned my wandering footsteps home.
Home of my youth, thy place, thy name is gone!
Nought meets the eye but lofty walls of stone;
Within no children gambol on the street,
No hum of voices—tread of busy feet;
The sounds of hammer, axe, and rattling loom,
Are heard no more (no Plebeian feet presume
To tread where pampered steeds are duly stalled),
Nor memories of homes and hearths recalled.
Yet there a scene was writ on memory's page,
That record neither time, nor change, nor age
Effaces:—In a small and lonesome room,
Where death and sickness shed a solemn gloom,
95
Labouring and fitful came his struggling breath—
His sunken eyes were dim in death's eclipse:
No hand to raise his head, or wet his lips;
For in that room, upon a bed of pain,
A daughter lay—no being but the twain
Was there—she in her weakness vainly strove
To rise, and tend the father of her love:
At last, on hands and knees, her painful way
She crept to where the dying Christian lay—
“My father, death is near! your hour is come!”
“I know it, daughter—I am going home!
My path is light—no darkness clouds my way:
Farewell!” he ceased, and calmly slept away,
And she, the daughter, trod for many years
The vale of life—to her a vale of tears—
The vale of death in faith and hope she passed;
Her faith grew bright, still brighter to the last.
Farewell, my mother! thou art gone to rest,
Where sleep in peace the oppressor and oppressed.
96
A Scene witnessed by the Writer in 1799, during the Last Illness of DOUGLAS, EIGHTH DUKE OF HAMILTON.
Ah! there are times, and there are places;
And there are scenes, and there are faces
That Memory ever more embraces,
And on her tablets deeply traces.
And there are scenes, and there are faces
That Memory ever more embraces,
And on her tablets deeply traces.
'Twas summer-tide—the rose was blushing,
The songs of birds and streams were gushing,
Young zeyphr's wing the leaves was brushing,
That slept beneath its slumb'rous hushing.
The songs of birds and streams were gushing,
Young zeyphr's wing the leaves was brushing,
That slept beneath its slumb'rous hushing.
Came through the “toon” a pageant fair,
Tall flowers, wreathed figures, quaint and rare,
Rich music thrilling through the air,
And streaming banners—all were there.
Tall flowers, wreathed figures, quaint and rare,
Rich music thrilling through the air,
And streaming banners—all were there.
I saw the broad-leaved gates expand,
With circling sweep—that goodly band,
Before the gorgeous portals stand
Of that fair palace, huge and grand.
With circling sweep—that goodly band,
Before the gorgeous portals stand
Of that fair palace, huge and grand.
97
Why all this proud and bright display
Of music, flowers, and banners gay?
We honour thus his natal day,
Whose life now passes fast away.
Of music, flowers, and banners gay?
We honour thus his natal day,
Whose life now passes fast away.
Lo! at the open sash appears
A form bowed down—but not with years—
Hushed be the music, stilled the cheers,
So deathly pale his Grace appears.
A form bowed down—but not with years—
Hushed be the music, stilled the cheers,
So deathly pale his Grace appears.
His feeble steps, on either side,
A lady and physician guide;
He bows;—faint gleams of wonted pride,
Like shadows o'er his features glide.
A lady and physician guide;
He bows;—faint gleams of wonted pride,
Like shadows o'er his features glide.
I gazed into his open tomb—
A low-browed vault of charnel gloom—
Where his ancestors' dust had room—
No high mausolic sculptured tomb.
A low-browed vault of charnel gloom—
Where his ancestors' dust had room—
No high mausolic sculptured tomb.
98
REMINISCENCES OF THE “AULD HIE TOON OF HAMILTON,” SIXTY YEARS AGO.
A weary traveller on life's thorny way,
'Mid deepening shades of fast declining day,
I backward gaze—my dim eyes moist with tears—
Through the long vista of departed years:
Then Memory unlocks her treasured store,
And forms and faces seen on earth no more,
In fancy's eye from court and dusky closs
Flit o'er the street, and vanish at the cross.
Old King's-Head Closs, tradition hath report,
That in a house, within thine ancient court,
Was Cromwell, while in Scotland, entertained
What time he in the ancient burgh remained.
'Mid deepening shades of fast declining day,
I backward gaze—my dim eyes moist with tears—
Through the long vista of departed years:
Then Memory unlocks her treasured store,
And forms and faces seen on earth no more,
In fancy's eye from court and dusky closs
Flit o'er the street, and vanish at the cross.
Old King's-Head Closs, tradition hath report,
That in a house, within thine ancient court,
Was Cromwell, while in Scotland, entertained
What time he in the ancient burgh remained.
Oh, I remember, when a little maid,
Outside the “toon” all joyously I strayed,
Culling the dandelion's golden flowers—
First wayside offerings of young April hours.
Through a tall hedge I gazed with mute surprise,
For a fair vision flashed upon mine eyes:
Her robe was white, with train that swept the ground,
Her ivory arms were bare, and smooth, and round,
Her powdered ringlets lay like wreathen snow
Above her cheek of faintest carmine glow,
Long golden pendants trembled in her ears;
And yet her blue eyes brimmed with bitter tears—
'Twas Eddelwood's fair heiress —she who leapt
Her chamber window while her maidens slept;
And he who caught her in his eager arms,
Loved the sweet girl but for her golden charms.
Dark disappointment was her bitter lot—
She gave—she sought a heart—but found it not.
Outside the “toon” all joyously I strayed,
Culling the dandelion's golden flowers—
First wayside offerings of young April hours.
Through a tall hedge I gazed with mute surprise,
For a fair vision flashed upon mine eyes:
Her robe was white, with train that swept the ground,
Her ivory arms were bare, and smooth, and round,
Her powdered ringlets lay like wreathen snow
Above her cheek of faintest carmine glow,
99
And yet her blue eyes brimmed with bitter tears—
'Twas Eddelwood's fair heiress —she who leapt
Her chamber window while her maidens slept;
And he who caught her in his eager arms,
Loved the sweet girl but for her golden charms.
Dark disappointment was her bitter lot—
She gave—she sought a heart—but found it not.
Phantoms of “Eld,” they crowd my inward sight,
I see them in the new-born century's light—
Old Robin —who had served in Britain's wars
In seventy-six, against the Stripes and Stars—
And sailor Will —a grim sea-wolf—who spun
Long yarns of victories by great Nelson won;
His tales of blood and battle, tempest wild,
Enthralled my ear—a curious earnest child.
And you, ye brothers three of Crispin's line,
Who kept your state, in days of “auld langsyne,”
In corner shop of “Hie Toon's” ancient Cross,
Long Hamiltonia felt and mourned your loss.
Now crowding phantoms fly—I break the spell—
Again with life and living men to dwell.
I see them in the new-born century's light—
Old Robin —who had served in Britain's wars
In seventy-six, against the Stripes and Stars—
And sailor Will —a grim sea-wolf—who spun
Long yarns of victories by great Nelson won;
His tales of blood and battle, tempest wild,
Enthralled my ear—a curious earnest child.
And you, ye brothers three of Crispin's line,
Who kept your state, in days of “auld langsyne,”
In corner shop of “Hie Toon's” ancient Cross,
Long Hamiltonia felt and mourned your loss.
Now crowding phantoms fly—I break the spell—
Again with life and living men to dwell.
100
GARIBALDI.
Go spread thy strong pinions, and rear thy proud crest,
Cleave the red clouds of morn with unwavering breast;
Bold eagle! full soon on thy unshrinking eyes,
Shall the young sun of Freedom in splendour arise!
Cleave the red clouds of morn with unwavering breast;
Bold eagle! full soon on thy unshrinking eyes,
Shall the young sun of Freedom in splendour arise!
The vultures of Tyranny shrink from thy glance,
And Liberty smiles as she sees thee advance;
She hails her brave Nizard, the true bird of Jove,
With the bolts of the Thunderer he swoops from above!
And Liberty smiles as she sees thee advance;
She hails her brave Nizard, the true bird of Jove,
With the bolts of the Thunderer he swoops from above!
Ye demons of torture, ye fiends of the cells,
Where death-breathing vapours and dark horror dwells,
Avaunt! lo, your dungeons are shattered and riven,
And their secrets are bared to the pure light of Heaven.
Where death-breathing vapours and dark horror dwells,
Avaunt! lo, your dungeons are shattered and riven,
And their secrets are bared to the pure light of Heaven.
The brilliants are dimmed that encircle the crown
Of earth's proudest Despot, thou chief of renown,
By the bright gleaming lightnings that flash from the brand
Thou wield'st in the van of thy conquering band.
Of earth's proudest Despot, thou chief of renown,
By the bright gleaming lightnings that flash from the brand
Thou wield'st in the van of thy conquering band.
101
BRITISH VOLUNTEERS.
At the call of the bugle, and the roll of the drum,
With the bold front of heroes, our trained Rifles come,
All marshalled and marching to strains that inspire,
And fan in each bosom the true martial fire.
With the bold front of heroes, our trained Rifles come,
All marshalled and marching to strains that inspire,
And fan in each bosom the true martial fire.
Defenders of Britain—her chosen, her own,
Of danger she spake, and to arms you have flown;
And bright eyes are beaming, and proud hearts beat high,
For the brave Volunteers marching gallantly by.
Of danger she spake, and to arms you have flown;
And bright eyes are beaming, and proud hearts beat high,
For the brave Volunteers marching gallantly by.
Your movement is crowned with a glorious success,
Our good Queen approves, and your country will bless
Her brave sons and true in the Volunteer ranks;
She gives you the boon of a proud mother's thanks.
Our good Queen approves, and your country will bless
Her brave sons and true in the Volunteer ranks;
She gives you the boon of a proud mother's thanks.
Let fort after fort darkly frown on the steep—
Let steel-plated Warriors keep guard on the deep;
Let Armstrong's dread thunders incessantly roar,
And his dark tubes of death vomit flame on our shore.
Let steel-plated Warriors keep guard on the deep;
Let Armstrong's dread thunders incessantly roar,
And his dark tubes of death vomit flame on our shore.
Oh, stronger than all, for defence of her coast,
Her Volunteer patriots—her glory and boast;
No foot of invader her soil shall profane,
True hearts and true rifles she trusts not in vain.
Her Volunteer patriots—her glory and boast;
No foot of invader her soil shall profane,
True hearts and true rifles she trusts not in vain.
102
THE FIRST AND SECOND ADVENTS OF GARIBALDI—1851–2.
Ye blest celestial twain,
From your bright spheres descending,
He called ye not in vain,
His soul's devotion tending.
To liberty and truth,
With burning adoration,
In manhood as in youth
He made full dedication
Of soul, of heart, and arm;
Low at your twin shrines kneeling,
Her strongest, holiest charm
Each gave—his mission sealing.
From your bright spheres descending,
He called ye not in vain,
His soul's devotion tending.
To liberty and truth,
With burning adoration,
In manhood as in youth
He made full dedication
Of soul, of heart, and arm;
Low at your twin shrines kneeling,
Her strongest, holiest charm
Each gave—his mission sealing.
No pomp, no pride of war,
No herald-blazoned banner,
No trumpet from afar
Proclaimed his march—in manner
A simple, earnest man,
His deeds in toil and danger,
Admiring nations scan;
To them earth holds no stranger;
We count his trophies o'er,
High chieftain—lion-hearted,
His name shall never more
From glory's scroll be parted.
No herald-blazoned banner,
No trumpet from afar
Proclaimed his march—in manner
A simple, earnest man,
His deeds in toil and danger,
Admiring nations scan;
To them earth holds no stranger;
103
High chieftain—lion-hearted,
His name shall never more
From glory's scroll be parted.
Not less—we love him more
Since, from his rocky dwelling,
By lone Caprera's shore,
He came, with heart high swelling,
To find how changed the scene.
The glorious twain ascending
To their bright spheres again,
Their gaze still downward bending,
With love and sorrow fraught,
Italia's Liberator
In toils of statecraft caught,
By Gallia's dark Dictator.
Since, from his rocky dwelling,
By lone Caprera's shore,
He came, with heart high swelling,
To find how changed the scene.
The glorious twain ascending
To their bright spheres again,
Their gaze still downward bending,
With love and sorrow fraught,
Italia's Liberator
In toils of statecraft caught,
By Gallia's dark Dictator.
One thing thou lackest—say
Why wears thy noble spirit
The bonds of Rome, whilst aye
Thou seek'st to disinherit
The Pontiff of his lands?
Oh! rend her chains asunder,
And cast away her bands.
Harmless the Papal thunder,
Thy sovereign found it so,
Not excommunication
His kingdom could o'erthrow,
Or check its liberation.
Why wears thy noble spirit
The bonds of Rome, whilst aye
Thou seek'st to disinherit
The Pontiff of his lands?
Oh! rend her chains asunder,
And cast away her bands.
Harmless the Papal thunder,
104
Not excommunication
His kingdom could o'erthrow,
Or check its liberation.
The freedom of the mind,
The truth of God free spoken,
With a free press combined.
Then—not till then, is broken
The Papacy's strong power,
That holds Italia under.
Oh God! to see the hour
She tears her bonds asunder,
And springs to light and life,
United, free, victorious,
The conqueror in the strife,
Her patriot-hero glorious!
The truth of God free spoken,
With a free press combined.
Then—not till then, is broken
The Papacy's strong power,
That holds Italia under.
Oh God! to see the hour
She tears her bonds asunder,
And springs to light and life,
United, free, victorious,
The conqueror in the strife,
Her patriot-hero glorious!
105
GARIBALDI A CAPTIVE.
Ye minist'ring spirits of grace,
That wait on the good and the true,
To comfort, support, and solace—
Earth fails us—we call upon you;
Bright “tears, such as angels may weep,”
As ye gaze on the captive, bestow,
And lull his worn senses to sleep,
With airs that from Paradise flow.
That wait on the good and the true,
To comfort, support, and solace—
Earth fails us—we call upon you;
Bright “tears, such as angels may weep,”
As ye gaze on the captive, bestow,
And lull his worn senses to sleep,
With airs that from Paradise flow.
Oh! soul of high honour—Oh! heart
Strong, chivalrous, truthful, and warm,
Diffusing o'er every part
Of his being and presence a charm!
At the altar of Freedom he stood,
And vowed his fair country to save
From tyranny, priestcraft, and blood,
Or sleep on the bed of the brave.
Strong, chivalrous, truthful, and warm,
Diffusing o'er every part
Of his being and presence a charm!
At the altar of Freedom he stood,
And vowed his fair country to save
From tyranny, priestcraft, and blood,
Or sleep on the bed of the brave.
His deeds they are known to the world,
And history will blazon his fame;
On Liberty's standard unfurled
Italia has written his name.
Oh! dark be the eye that took aim,
And powerless the arm that could wound
The patriot;—for ever may shame
The recreant's movements surround.
And history will blazon his fame;
On Liberty's standard unfurled
Italia has written his name.
106
And powerless the arm that could wound
The patriot;—for ever may shame
The recreant's movements surround.
Thee captive, as rebel, they hold,
And why?—'tis thy Sovereign can tell:
Like Esau, his birthright he sold,
And the buyer still wants him to sell.
O come! when escaped from the thrall,
For thou from thy country must part—
We wait thee, we welcome, we call—
We offer thee home and the heart.
And why?—'tis thy Sovereign can tell:
Like Esau, his birthright he sold,
And the buyer still wants him to sell.
O come! when escaped from the thrall,
For thou from thy country must part—
We wait thee, we welcome, we call—
We offer thee home and the heart.
Then come with the child of thy heart—
Menotti, the brave, the beloved;
Such a sire from a son must not part,
Who with blood his devotion has proved.
As martyrs, your wounds we embalm,
And pray that from pitying Heaven,
A soothing, a heart-healing balm,
To your suffering spirits be given.
Menotti, the brave, the beloved;
Such a sire from a son must not part,
Who with blood his devotion has proved.
As martyrs, your wounds we embalm,
And pray that from pitying Heaven,
A soothing, a heart-healing balm,
To your suffering spirits be given.
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CALDER—A MEMORY.
Sweet Calder! on thy flowery marge
When life was young I roamed at large,
With heart that owned no care, no charge,
Save for my tiny flower-fraught barge
Launch'd on the dancing stream.
When life was young I roamed at large,
With heart that owned no care, no charge,
Save for my tiny flower-fraught barge
Launch'd on the dancing stream.
On thy green banks I loved to lie
When high the sun and blue the sky—
Thy silver waters gushing by—
Watching the trout and minnow fry
O'er pearly pebbles gleam.
When high the sun and blue the sky—
Thy silver waters gushing by—
Watching the trout and minnow fry
O'er pearly pebbles gleam.
By fair Rosehall, through greenwood glades,
Thou glid'st through rose and hawthorn shades,
By hyacinth banks, where Monkland's maids
Unbind their dark or golden braids
And lave their snowy feet.
Thou glid'st through rose and hawthorn shades,
By hyacinth banks, where Monkland's maids
Unbind their dark or golden braids
And lave their snowy feet.
Oh! many a lone and lovely scene,
By Enoch's Hall and holms so green,
Within thy winding course is seen,
Where, rippling 'neath thy woodland screen,
Thy murmuring voice I greet.
By Enoch's Hall and holms so green,
Within thy winding course is seen,
Where, rippling 'neath thy woodland screen,
Thy murmuring voice I greet.
108
Here would I dwell in rustic cot,
Where primrose tuft and cowslip knot,
Fox-glove, and sweet forget-me-not,
So richly gem the sylvan spot,
And sweetest fragrance shed.
Where primrose tuft and cowslip knot,
Fox-glove, and sweet forget-me-not,
So richly gem the sylvan spot,
And sweetest fragrance shed.
Again beneath thy bordering trees
I walk, and breathe the scented breeze,
'Mid song of birds and hum of bees,
And still the scene each sense can please,
Though youth and joy have fled.
I walk, and breathe the scented breeze,
'Mid song of birds and hum of bees,
And still the scene each sense can please,
Though youth and joy have fled.
109
MAY.
Blooming, brooding, balmy May,
Tell me what to sing or say
To thy praise. I muse in vain—
Sonnet, song, and rhyming strain
Babble still of meadows green,
Sprent with dewy diamonds' sheen;
Woods bedight in fresh array
Of dancing leaves and flowery spray;
Warbling birds and humming bees;
Murmuring streams and whispering breeze;
Cuckoo calling to his love;
Wailing voice of forest dove;
Lambs at play on field and lawn;
Gorgeous sunset, glorious dawn;
Loving youths and lovely maids
Wandering in the woodland glades;
Children crowned with wilding flowers
Roam through scented hawthorn bowers;
Apple blossoms rich, that speak
Of rival tints on beauty's cheek;
Singing gaily o'er the dale,
Milkmaid trips with frothing pail,
Promise fair of curds and cream
For sweet May morn, the townsman's dream.
Tell me what to sing or say
To thy praise. I muse in vain—
Sonnet, song, and rhyming strain
Babble still of meadows green,
Sprent with dewy diamonds' sheen;
Woods bedight in fresh array
Of dancing leaves and flowery spray;
Warbling birds and humming bees;
Murmuring streams and whispering breeze;
Cuckoo calling to his love;
Wailing voice of forest dove;
Lambs at play on field and lawn;
Gorgeous sunset, glorious dawn;
Loving youths and lovely maids
Wandering in the woodland glades;
Children crowned with wilding flowers
Roam through scented hawthorn bowers;
Apple blossoms rich, that speak
Of rival tints on beauty's cheek;
Singing gaily o'er the dale,
Milkmaid trips with frothing pail,
Promise fair of curds and cream
For sweet May morn, the townsman's dream.
110
Now, what more to sing or say
Know I not, thou charming May,
To thy praise—ideas fail—
Songs of May are trite and stale,
Charming neither heart nor ear,
Mount we to a higher sphere.
Know I not, thou charming May,
To thy praise—ideas fail—
Songs of May are trite and stale,
Charming neither heart nor ear,
Mount we to a higher sphere.
Source of all that's fair and good—
Ah! so little understood—
Oft “with brute, unconscious gaze,”
Man thy fairest works surveys,
Wanders through the summer bowers—
Hears the music, culls the flowers—
Basks in sunshine warm and bright—
Charms his ear and feasts his sight
With each sweet and beauteous thing—
Shall he then refuse to bring
Tribute to the Name above,
The God of nature, light, and love?
Ah! so little understood—
Oft “with brute, unconscious gaze,”
Man thy fairest works surveys,
Wanders through the summer bowers—
Hears the music, culls the flowers—
Basks in sunshine warm and bright—
Charms his ear and feasts his sight
With each sweet and beauteous thing—
Shall he then refuse to bring
Tribute to the Name above,
The God of nature, light, and love?
111
COUSIN BELL.
AN INCIDENT IN REAL LIFE.
A dark fir-wud hings ower the burn,
That wannerin' jinks roun' monny a turn,
Far doon oot through the lanely dell,
By whilk ance leev't my Cousin Bell.
That wannerin' jinks roun' monny a turn,
Far doon oot through the lanely dell,
By whilk ance leev't my Cousin Bell.
A strappin', gracefu', blithesome queen,
Wi' coal-black hair an' glancin' een;
Nae muirlan' lass mair trig an' snell—
An' jist nineteen was Cousin Bell.
Wi' coal-black hair an' glancin' een;
Nae muirlan' lass mair trig an' snell—
An' jist nineteen was Cousin Bell.
Her faither rentit a bit mailin',
It wadna pay—his health was failin';
He had nae dochter but hersel',
But brithers seven had Cousin Bell.
It wadna pay—his health was failin';
He had nae dochter but hersel',
But brithers seven had Cousin Bell.
“Callants,” quo' he, “nae mair we'll toil
For nocht; we'll seek anither soil;
Yon joiner lad, ye've a' heard tell,
Will wed an' keep at hame oor Bell.”
For nocht; we'll seek anither soil;
Yon joiner lad, ye've a' heard tell,
Will wed an' keep at hame oor Bell.”
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For Canada they made them boune—
A house was ta'en in the neist toon,
Whar wi' her young guidman to dwell,
Weel ettle't she—oor Cousin Bell.
A house was ta'en in the neist toon,
Whar wi' her young guidman to dwell,
Weel ettle't she—oor Cousin Bell.
Ae Sabbath sittin in the kirk,
Her heart grew caul', her een grew mirk;
Ye couldna guess what there befell
Tae blast the luve, the life o' Bell.
Her heart grew caul', her een grew mirk;
Ye couldna guess what there befell
Tae blast the luve, the life o' Bell.
Purpose o' marriage was proclaimed
'Tween her betroth'd an' ane they named—
Intae her faither's arms she fell,
“Oh, tak' me wi' ye!” murmur'd Bell.
'Tween her betroth'd an' ane they named—
Intae her faither's arms she fell,
“Oh, tak' me wi' ye!” murmur'd Bell.
On board they laid her in her berth,
For she was dune wi' a' on yirth;
They thocht the waves wad ring her knell,
An' hide the pale, sweet face o' Bell.
For she was dune wi' a' on yirth;
They thocht the waves wad ring her knell,
An' hide the pale, sweet face o' Bell.
Her weary head she seldom shiftit;
Her mournfu' een she seldom liftit—
Oh! wae betide the traitor fell
That brak the heart o' Cousin Bell.
Her mournfu' een she seldom liftit—
Oh! wae betide the traitor fell
That brak the heart o' Cousin Bell.
She kiss't them a'—her mither's cheek
She langest presst—but didna speak;
But time an' change can ne'er expel
Their love an' grief for Sister Bell.
She langest presst—but didna speak;
But time an' change can ne'er expel
Their love an' grief for Sister Bell.
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She leev't tae see the promist lan'—
The icy waves that lash the stran'
Of great St Lawrence rung her knell—
Rest, rest in peace, dear Cousin Bell.
The icy waves that lash the stran'
Of great St Lawrence rung her knell—
Rest, rest in peace, dear Cousin Bell.
On far Iowa's prairie lan',
Four yet survive o' that fair ban';
An' aften mournfu' memories swell
The brithers' hearts for Sister Bell!
Four yet survive o' that fair ban';
An' aften mournfu' memories swell
The brithers' hearts for Sister Bell!
114
CIVIL WAR IN AMERICA—EXPOSTULATION.
No darker record on the roll of time
Was e'er inscribed to country, age, or clime,
By the red hand of war—so barbarous, frantic;
The war you wage—mad cousins transatlantic.
Was e'er inscribed to country, age, or clime,
By the red hand of war—so barbarous, frantic;
The war you wage—mad cousins transatlantic.
Your glorious land of men and gold you drain—
And seas of blood and festering hills of slain.
Bankrupt and beggar'd: in your every state
These are your gains, you'll sum them up too late.
And seas of blood and festering hills of slain.
Bankrupt and beggar'd: in your every state
These are your gains, you'll sum them up too late.
Sons of the Union—ah! a mighty change
Your words and deeds have wrought—beyond the range
Of British sympathy your cause you place;
We almost blush to own your kindred race.
Your words and deeds have wrought—beyond the range
Of British sympathy your cause you place;
We almost blush to own your kindred race.
Your freedom's dead. Her last expiring groan
Comes o'er the waters wild; a shudd'ring moan
Wails through your forests, echoes round your hills,
We hear, and Britain's heart with horror thrills.
Comes o'er the waters wild; a shudd'ring moan
Wails through your forests, echoes round your hills,
We hear, and Britain's heart with horror thrills.
Yes, freedom of the press! the tongue, the mind,
Henceforth ye must be deaf, and dumb, and blind:
Lincoln and Seward wills it. Kiss your chains,
And sing of conquest in triumphant strains.
Henceforth ye must be deaf, and dumb, and blind:
Lincoln and Seward wills it. Kiss your chains,
And sing of conquest in triumphant strains.
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And “Stowe,” thou gifted daughter of the North,
Friend of the Southern slave, we call thee forth:
Let truth and candour guide thy graphic pen;
Denounce white slavery in the Northern men.
Friend of the Southern slave, we call thee forth:
Let truth and candour guide thy graphic pen;
Denounce white slavery in the Northern men.
Columbian dames! do ye sustain your part?
The weeping, blushing blood of woman's heart,
Say—does it pulse your veins and dye with shame
Your blushing cheeks at Butler's branded name?
The weeping, blushing blood of woman's heart,
Say—does it pulse your veins and dye with shame
Your blushing cheeks at Butler's branded name?
Of braggart speech that spurns at check or rule,
Like “idiot's tale of sound and fury full;”
You feed on lies that fail you at your need,
Nor heaven nor earth will bid your cause God-speed.
Like “idiot's tale of sound and fury full;”
You feed on lies that fail you at your need,
Nor heaven nor earth will bid your cause God-speed.
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WELCOME TO OCTOBER.
Welcome, October! let my simple song
Soft echoing, steal thy yellow groves along,
Where Nature, conscious of her faded charms,
Dejected, sinks into thy languid arms,
And mournful throws her tarnish'd robes aside—
The faded relics of her summer pride.
Yet thou hast charms for me; even beauteous Spring,
Crown'd with dew'd flowerets, left untouch'd the string
That vibrates softly solemn through my soul,
Whose every feeling owns thy calm control.
The Summer brook, alive with minnowy fry,
And children's plashing feet, with floral dye
Of white, pink, purple, blue—all beauteous marg'd,
Now brown and chill, the deepening current charg'd
With whirling eddying leaves, flows swifter on,
And mourns her naked banks with hoarser tone.
Soft echoing, steal thy yellow groves along,
Where Nature, conscious of her faded charms,
Dejected, sinks into thy languid arms,
And mournful throws her tarnish'd robes aside—
The faded relics of her summer pride.
Yet thou hast charms for me; even beauteous Spring,
Crown'd with dew'd flowerets, left untouch'd the string
That vibrates softly solemn through my soul,
Whose every feeling owns thy calm control.
The Summer brook, alive with minnowy fry,
And children's plashing feet, with floral dye
Of white, pink, purple, blue—all beauteous marg'd,
Now brown and chill, the deepening current charg'd
With whirling eddying leaves, flows swifter on,
And mourns her naked banks with hoarser tone.
And ye, whose waning years tell life is brief,
When “fallen into the sere and yellow leaf,”
Whose life's spring-flowers are wither'd all and dead,
Strewn on the winds, or crush'd beneath the tread
Of careless feet, yet trampled, yield a balm
Sweet to the soul, may ye, serenely calm,
Smile o'er earth's fallen hopes, and raise your eyes
To the mild glories of the loving skies.
When “fallen into the sere and yellow leaf,”
Whose life's spring-flowers are wither'd all and dead,
Strewn on the winds, or crush'd beneath the tread
Of careless feet, yet trampled, yield a balm
Sweet to the soul, may ye, serenely calm,
Smile o'er earth's fallen hopes, and raise your eyes
To the mild glories of the loving skies.
117
THE SEVEN STARS:
A CONSTELLATION OF SCOTTISH POETS.
BEATTIE.
Sweet minstrel! from thy hermit's cell
Rich strains of sacred truth are flowing,
The haughty sceptic's pride to quell;
Thy harp is tuned to numbers glowing.
Rich strains of sacred truth are flowing,
The haughty sceptic's pride to quell;
Thy harp is tuned to numbers glowing.
BLAIR.
Bard of the grave; o'er death's domain
Thy awful muse for ever hovers,
Chaunting in sad and solemn strain
Each ghastly scene she there discovers.
Thy awful muse for ever hovers,
Chaunting in sad and solemn strain
Each ghastly scene she there discovers.
CAMPBELL.
Poet of hope, of love, and woe,
Of thought refined, and tender feeling,
Thy notes of love—sad, sweet, and low,
Swell high when Poland's wrongs revealing.
Of thought refined, and tender feeling,
Thy notes of love—sad, sweet, and low,
Swell high when Poland's wrongs revealing.
CUNNINGHAME.
O weird and wild in legend old,
In dark tradition! dim and hoary—
Thy witching muse doth revel hold
In magic, song, and haunted story.
In dark tradition! dim and hoary—
Thy witching muse doth revel hold
In magic, song, and haunted story.
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BURNS.
True child of nature, heir of fame,
On thy true heart the muse's altar
Burned high—the poet's, patriot's flame,
A fire unknown to fail or falter.
On thy true heart the muse's altar
Burned high—the poet's, patriot's flame,
A fire unknown to fail or falter.
HOGG.
On Ettrick's banks, her Doric lays
The shepherd's Muse sat sweetly singing,
Till Scotia's raptured meed of praise
O'er all her hills and glens was ringing.
The shepherd's Muse sat sweetly singing,
Till Scotia's raptured meed of praise
O'er all her hills and glens was ringing.
SCOTT.
He sung of feudal halls and towers,
Of knights and chiefs, in olden story;
Of beauteous dames in tapestried bowers;
High chivalry and deeds of glory.
Of knights and chiefs, in olden story;
Of beauteous dames in tapestried bowers;
High chivalry and deeds of glory.
The heaven of song is studded o'er
With puny twinklers, faintly gleaming;
But these shall shine for evermore,
Bright in their native radiance beaming.
With puny twinklers, faintly gleaming;
But these shall shine for evermore,
Bright in their native radiance beaming.
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TO TEACHERS OF THE YOUNG.
Husbandman, for work prepare
Tender plants of promise fair;
Rise! around thee everywhere
Life's young spring-time claims thy care,
Willing heart, and hand.
Tender plants of promise fair;
Rise! around thee everywhere
Life's young spring-time claims thy care,
Willing heart, and hand.
Dig, manure, and prune, and train—
Suns, and dew, and vernal rain,
Seek from Heaven, nor seek in vain—
Flowers and fruits reward thy pain—
Fair the smiling land.
Suns, and dew, and vernal rain,
Seek from Heaven, nor seek in vain—
Flowers and fruits reward thy pain—
Fair the smiling land.
Break thou up the fallow ground,
With the will the way is found;
Faint not!—thorns and weeds abound—
Seeds of knowledge scatter round—
God shall give increase.
With the will the way is found;
Faint not!—thorns and weeds abound—
Seeds of knowledge scatter round—
God shall give increase.
Father! God! we ask for bread,
Stones thou wilt not give instead—
Down thy promised Spirit shed—
Toil is vain, and hope is dead,
Till Thou quicken these.
Stones thou wilt not give instead—
Down thy promised Spirit shed—
Toil is vain, and hope is dead,
Till Thou quicken these.
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We have seen—we daily see,
Plant of hope, some fair young tree,
In the soft winds waving free,
Green and full of sap is he—
Rich the promised bloom.
Plant of hope, some fair young tree,
In the soft winds waving free,
Green and full of sap is he—
Rich the promised bloom.
Look again! A hot simoom,
Scorches tree, and branch, and bloom—
Write in blood the drunkard's doom,
Quenched in misery, guilt, and gloom,
Finds an early tomb.
Scorches tree, and branch, and bloom—
Write in blood the drunkard's doom,
Quenched in misery, guilt, and gloom,
Finds an early tomb.
121
ON THE MEETING OF THE SOCIAL SCIENCE ASSOCIATION
IN GLASGOW, SEPTEMBER, 1860.
Queen of the West! we hail thee from afar!
The brilliance of each “bright particular star,”
That gilds thy halls with intellectual light,
A radiance sheds around thee, solemn, bright.
The learn'd, the wise, thy classic portals throng:
Momentous themes dwell on each gifted tongue.
The great, the good, their powers of heart and mind
Bring, to improve, to raise, to bless mankind.
Ay, we have seen, with moistened eye the while,
By men of rank, with warm heart, beaming smile,
The hand of fellowship and friendship given
To labour's sons. We thank thee, God of heaven,
Who hold'st the hearts of all men in thy hand,
And turnest them as Thou wilt. The holy band
Of Brotherhood more closely we will bind,
And, hand in hand, explore the world of mind.
Nor this alone; with powers united strive,
From charnel-houses of the dead alive,
To draw the sunken, vile, corrupted mass,
To teach, raise, save the underlying class.
The brilliance of each “bright particular star,”
That gilds thy halls with intellectual light,
A radiance sheds around thee, solemn, bright.
The learn'd, the wise, thy classic portals throng:
Momentous themes dwell on each gifted tongue.
The great, the good, their powers of heart and mind
Bring, to improve, to raise, to bless mankind.
Ay, we have seen, with moistened eye the while,
By men of rank, with warm heart, beaming smile,
The hand of fellowship and friendship given
To labour's sons. We thank thee, God of heaven,
Who hold'st the hearts of all men in thy hand,
And turnest them as Thou wilt. The holy band
Of Brotherhood more closely we will bind,
And, hand in hand, explore the world of mind.
Nor this alone; with powers united strive,
From charnel-houses of the dead alive,
To draw the sunken, vile, corrupted mass,
To teach, raise, save the underlying class.
Where art thou, woman? art thou at thy post?
We cannot want thy aid to save the lost,
The youthful dwellers of thy home and hearth,
To lead to heaven, and train for life on earth.
We cannot want thy aid to save the lost,
The youthful dwellers of thy home and hearth,
To lead to heaven, and train for life on earth.
122
A REAL INCIDENT OF THE PERSECUTING TIMES IN SCOTLAND.
THE SCENE—A LONELY LOW THATCHED COTTAGE NEAR AIRDRIE BURN, NEW MONKLAND.
She lay within that lonely cot,And seemed by all, save God, forgot,
And one who, when the shadows fell,
With stealthy step came up the dell
To minister, to soothe, and tend
Her dying hours. She was the friend—
Still dearest, nearest to her side—
As child, as maid, as blooming bride.
Their matron cares they shared together,
Together sat upon the heather,
To hear the words of truth and life,
Each a beloved and loving wife.
When Scotland's Covenanted men,
On moor, and hill, in cave, and glen,
For Christ and conscience stood to arms;
When mansions, cottages, and farms
Were scenes of terror, spoil, and wrong,
And not a dog dared move his tongue,
She entered, saw through gathering tears
The fast fulfilling of her fears;
123
That could not quench the light of grace.
“Welcome,” she said, with failing breath,
“My friend in life, my friend in death.
My hands are chill, my eyes are dim,
Take thou my last farewell to him
Who now has long in hiding been,
And dares not near his home be seen.
Tell him on earth we never more
Shall meet; yet he to Canaan's shore,
To which I haste, shall shortly come
And dwell with me in ‘heaven our home.’
Say that I pray with parting breath
That he be faithful to the death,
When God to him a crown of life
Will give: so prays his dying wife.
And now, though all of earth recedes
From mind and eye, to help the needs
Of him I leave in want behind,
Say that beneath the hearth he'll find
A treasure small when he shall come
By stealth to his deserted home.”
She ceased. Her friend stooped o'er the bed,
Her lips were cold, her spirit fled.
She sought no help, she made no moan,
She laid her out, and watched alone
Till daybreak, then she closed the door
And sped her o'er the lonely moor
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His hiding-place, the husband stood.
She told his loss. He bowed his head,
“The will of God be done,” he said.
“His mercy called my dear one home
To shelter her from woes to come.”
She told him he must not come near
To 'tend the funeral—there was fear;
For spies were placed, and watch was set,
Assured the rebel they would get.
“Beside the bier, if God me spare,”
He solemn said, “I will be there.
Yes; I will see my dearest, best,
Laid in the sheltering grave to rest.
Be calm, my friend, fear not the foe,
My presence there they shall not know.”
By night he watchfully approached
The churchyard path, and lowly crouched
Behind the hedge amongst the heather,
Saw friends and foes pass on together
Beside the bier. The burial rite
Was o'er, he watched the live-long night
Beside the grave—ere break of day
He rose, and Scotland left for aye.
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TO MRS J. CLELAND,
ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED SON AND ONLY CHILD.
My olive plant, so green and fair;My budding hope, my dearest care;
My only one! He only knew
Who gave—and, ah! how soon withdrew
The precious gift—how dear I loved
My plant on earth; and though removed
To higher climes and brighter skies,
With mournful tread and weeping eyes
I wander round his early tomb—
But light from heaven dispels the gloom!
An angel voice falls on my ear,
“Whom seek'st thou, weeping mother, here?
He is not here: thy son hath risen—
'Tis but his shattered, mortal prison
Lies there. Oh! would'st thou ever dwell
With him thou loved on earth so well?
Then Jesus seek, the Saviour know;
He'll pardon, peace, and heaven bestow,
Where thy loved plant shall bloom for ever,
And thou wilt join him ne'er to sever.”
126
ON SEEING A THOUSAND SABBATH SCHOOL CHILDREN
WALK IN PROCESSION TO VISIT THE GARDEN AND PLEASURE GROUNDS OF DRUMPELLER HOUSE.
What went ye out to see?
A Queen gone joyous forth
Awhile to wander free
On mountains of the north,
While loyal thousands press and strain
Around her car, a glimpse to gain?
A Queen gone joyous forth
Awhile to wander free
On mountains of the north,
While loyal thousands press and strain
Around her car, a glimpse to gain?
One greater far than she
This day has gone abroad
With thousand children; see
Them marshalled on the road—
To such was Jesus' blessing given;
Of such the kingdom is of heaven.
This day has gone abroad
With thousand children; see
Them marshalled on the road—
To such was Jesus' blessing given;
Of such the kingdom is of heaven.
What went ye out to see?
A huge transparent dome,
Where marvels all that be
Found short but glorious home?
These childish forms hold gems more bright
Than jewell'd Spain or Mount of Light.
A huge transparent dome,
Where marvels all that be
Found short but glorious home?
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Than jewell'd Spain or Mount of Light.
When Summer crown'd the hours,
Proud City of the West,
In rarest fruits and flowers
Thy princely squares were dressed—
But from these human plants shall rise
Flowers that shall bloom in Paradise.
Proud City of the West,
In rarest fruits and flowers
Thy princely squares were dressed—
But from these human plants shall rise
Flowers that shall bloom in Paradise.
What went ye out to see?
A corpse not laid to rest
(As all earth's sons should be)
In her maternal breast,
But cered in darkly symboll'd tomb
Drawn from old Egypt's mythic gloom?
A corpse not laid to rest
(As all earth's sons should be)
In her maternal breast,
But cered in darkly symboll'd tomb
Drawn from old Egypt's mythic gloom?
No heathen symbol here
We seek in vain to prove;
Your symbol, children dear,
Be still the Lamb, the Dove.
Oh, may the Lamb your sins atone,
The Holy Dove seal you His own!
We seek in vain to prove;
Your symbol, children dear,
Be still the Lamb, the Dove.
Oh, may the Lamb your sins atone,
The Holy Dove seal you His own!
What went ye out to see?
A Christian teacher band,
Whose labours—loving, free—
Our grateful thanks demand;
And ye, God's shepherds, set to feed
His lambs, may ye be blest indeed!
A Christian teacher band,
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Our grateful thanks demand;
And ye, God's shepherds, set to feed
His lambs, may ye be blest indeed!
And, Lady, young and fair,
To whom is given the grace
To make the young thy care,
And aged want solace—
May'st thou life's choicest blessings prove,
And reap thy full reward above!
To whom is given the grace
To make the young thy care,
And aged want solace—
May'st thou life's choicest blessings prove,
And reap thy full reward above!
129
LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS BUCHANAN OF DRUMPELLER,
ON HER KIND RECEPTION OF A LARGE PARTY OF SABBATH SCHOOL CHILDREN.
Oh! gentle Lady, with the bounteous handAnd feeling heart, receive this youthful band
With all thy wonted goodness; dear they'll prize
The loving language of thy smiling eyes.
The heart of children feels, ah, none so well!
The charm of kindness, and the gracious spell
Of sympathy with all their little wants,
Young hopes and joys with which each bosom pants;
And whilst thou walked along the lengthened line
Of childish forms, the spirit sure was thine—
While sweet emotions thrilled thy gentle breast—
Of Him who called unto His side and blest
Young children, saying, “Unto such was given
Place in the kingdom of His Father's heaven.”
Forgive me, Lady! for my heart beat high,
Tears sweet, yet solemn, dimmed my gazing eye,
As poured the living stream along the way.
Oh, loving Saviour! bless these, too, I pray;
And bless the Lady by whose pious care
The young in Education's blessings share;
For this, shall many rise and call thee blest
Long after thou art laid in hallowed rest.
130
ADDRESS TO MR JOHN FAIRLIE.
[_]
Recited at a Jubilee Supper given on the completion of his Fiftieth Year as Parish Schoolmaster in the Parish of Fenwick, Ayrshire.
The pealing clangours of the trump of war;
The horizon political flames forth
Her angry lightnings from the lurid North;
Old ocean groans, and earth resounds beneath
The warriors' tread—the freighted stores of death;
While weeping Peace, her features marr'd and blench'd,
Her olive trampled, and her white robe drenched
With blood and tears, insulted, baffled, yields
To demon War—red king of bloody fields.
From scenes, from sounds like these, I turn with joy,
My friend, to hail thee, blest in thine employ;
Approved thy labours—through thy long career,
With jubilee honours crowned thy fiftieth year
Of faithful teaching, zealous, patient care
To rear the tender thought to stature fair;
Strong manhood, joyful youth, fair children claim
A grateful interest in thy honoured name.
Thy children, where are they?—they come! they come!
To light with filial love their childhood's home,
And with their gracious presence shed o'er all
The scene a charm, and gild the festive hall
131
To thee, thou honour'd sire, sweet welcome prove.
Though not with toast, and speech in phrases meet,
This night, my friend, may I thy presence greet,
Nor join to celebrate with pupils, friends,
This happy day—not mine their wish transcends
The grateful meed of well-earned praise to pour,
With honours due, in this auspicious hour.
Friend of thy country's fathers' church, and mine,
Firm in her sacred cause, through storm and shine,
Guard well her rights; invoke the God of might,
Though enemies roar, let God defend the right:
He'll purge and purify His church, and there
He'll make us joyful in His house of prayer.
My friend, farewell! calm be the hour, and bright,
When on thy spirit's eye the shores of light,
Dress'd in celestial radiance, gently swell,
In hope to meet thee there. Again, farewell!
132
LINES ADDRESSED TO M. FAIRLIE, Esq., VIEWFIELD HOUSE,
ON RECEIVING HIS PHOTOGRAPHIC PORTRAIT.
My valued friend, long tried and true,Thanks warm, sincere, I render you,
And haste to say with high regard
I viewed your photographic card.
Your form and features pleased to scan,
God's noblest work, an honest man.
To calls of business prompt and ready,
In principle and practice steady;
Of honour bright, unstained, unsullied,
Calm, civil, yet must not be bullied;
No pleasure-seeker, given to roam,
And why? you answer, “Home, sweet home.”
A gentle, graceful, loving wife,
A babe the angel of my life,
And duteous children growing up
To prop my life and wreathe my cup
With flowers and fruits of filial love.
May peace on earth, a home above,
Be theirs—the mimic form to trace
No more, but seeing face to face
All these to whom such bliss is given:
They take no photographs in heaven.
133
LINES INSCRIBED TO MRS M. FAIRLIE OF VIEWFIELD HOUSE.
When hands are united, and hearts are entwined,
And the bond of affection endorsed by the mind;
When the heart's warm devotion our reason approves,
And respect ever dwells with the graces and loves;
And the bond of affection endorsed by the mind;
When the heart's warm devotion our reason approves,
And respect ever dwells with the graces and loves;
Then home is a temple where peace is enshrined,
And the hearth is her altar, where nothing unkind
Is offered. The priestess is mother and wife:
Her offerings the fruits of her love and her life.
And the hearth is her altar, where nothing unkind
Is offered. The priestess is mother and wife:
Her offerings the fruits of her love and her life.
Such a home I have seen; it is thine. May it prove
For ever the temple of virtue and love!
May the flame on the altar, unwavering and clear,
The hearth cheer and brighten through many a year!
For ever the temple of virtue and love!
May the flame on the altar, unwavering and clear,
The hearth cheer and brighten through many a year!
134
ADDRESS TO THE REV. DR. GARDNER OF BOTHWELL,
ON COMPLETING THE FIFTIETH YEAR OF HIS MINISTRY.
Pastor revered, beloved! the Muse would fainJoin on fair “Bothwell banks” the jubilant strain
Raised by thy grateful people; fifty years
Look down upon thy labours sown in tears—
The precious seed beneath thy watchful care
Hath sprung, bloom'd, ripen'd into harvests fair.
Returning with thy sheaves, rejoicing, thou
Uplift'st to heaven thy venerable brow;
For there thy treasure, there thy heart, and there
Thy treasures reap'd on earth are garner'd, where
They wait to join thee, ripe and full of days,
In heaven's eternal jubilee of praise.
A stranger I, forgive this simple lay,
I wish'd to greet thee—wish'd to hail the day,
O aged shepherd, when thy flock approve,
With honours meet and tokens of their love,
Thy ministrations. May the call come late
For thee, a chosen guest, to take thy seat
At marriage-supper of the Lamb, and swell
The choir of heaven with harp and song! Farewell!
135
LINES ADDRESSED TO THE REV. DR. JOHN MUIR, OF ST. JAMES' PARISH, GLASGOW
[_]
On the occasion of the Jubilee held to celebrate the completion of the Fiftieth Year of his Ministry.
With fears and hopes, with prayerful cries and tears,
With watchful care and ever-active zeal,
With loving skill that wounded but to heal,
Thou led'st the flock committed to thy care
By waters still, and pastures green and fair;
Kept watch and ward, when danger was abroad,
Upon thy towers. Church of the living God!
Pillar and ground of truth! what time the cry,
“Raze, raze her quite,” went forth; when floods rose high;
When schism foaming forth reproach, and hate
Beat on her walls and thundered at the gate—
Thou, with thy brother veterans, stemmed the tide,
For God, in midst of her, was on our side.
Even now, when thousand voices join to sing
The hymn of jubilee, a jarring string
Mars the grand symphony—a hostile tone
Of vengeful meaning, to our ears has gone.
136
Though waters roar we will not be afraid.
We greet thee well, we hail thee on thy road,
Advanced far heaven-ward; Oh! may Israel's God
Remember and accept thine offerings still;
Grant thy heart's wish, thy counsels all fulfil!
Still may He hear thee from His holy heaven,
With saving strength by His own right hand given.
Our fathers' temple, guard! her thou hast set
Above thy chiefest joy; thine eyes shall yet,
Ere God shall call thee to Himself from hence,
On all her glory see a sure defence—
So prays a friend; forgive, and grant the claim;
Our God, our faith, our hope, our church, the same!
137
LINES ADDRESSED TO Rev. D---G---, B.A.
My friend, late found, yet not the less approved,Thy zealous labours in the work beloved
Of earnest teaching—'midst thy toils and pains
A power Divine inspires thee and sustains.
With thy credentials from the court of Heaven,
As Christ's ambassador, to thee was given,
The untrammel'd mind that will not stoop or palter
Within the sacred precincts of the altar;
Or heap with sordid flatteries the shrine
Of Mammon at the cost of truth Divine;
Reproving and exhorting with authority,
Though still preferment leaves thee a minority.
In logical deductions apt and clear;
On chosen themes illustrative and near;
Powerful in argument, sound in the faith;
Thy motto, guide, and rule, thus Scripture saith,
“Who winneth souls is wise.” To this blest end
May all thy wishes and thy labours tend;
And when thy hearers ask for living bread,
Thou wilt not, dost not, give them stones instead.
For this for thee thy friend shall ever pray,
Respectfully and truly thine for aye.
138
LINES ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. JAMES
Zion's King hath called thee—go!
'Tis His sovereign pleasure,
Honour on thee to bestow,
And charge of gospel treasure.
He who winneth souls is wise;
High thy glorious calling!
Leading pilgrims to the skies—
Fear nor toil appalling.
'Tis His sovereign pleasure,
Honour on thee to bestow,
And charge of gospel treasure.
He who winneth souls is wise;
High thy glorious calling!
Leading pilgrims to the skies—
Fear nor toil appalling.
Leave thy home by Clyde's fair strand,
O'er the Atlantic billow
Seek in far Canadian land
Stranger's home and pillow.
Spread the knowledge of the cross,
Tell redemption's story;
Counting all things else but loss
For the crown of glory.
O'er the Atlantic billow
Seek in far Canadian land
Stranger's home and pillow.
Spread the knowledge of the cross,
Tell redemption's story;
Counting all things else but loss
For the crown of glory.
Deem not thou canst leave behind
Drink—that dragon cruel;
Thou the burning fiend wilt find
'Midst abundant fuel.
Then, as now, the demon face—
Thine is strength and daring;
Give the monster ceaseless chase,
Strike with hand unsparing.
Drink—that dragon cruel;
Thou the burning fiend wilt find
'Midst abundant fuel.
139
Thine is strength and daring;
Give the monster ceaseless chase,
Strike with hand unsparing.
Dear the fruitful vine that clings
To thy faithful bosom;
Dear the olive plants she brings
Round thy board to blossom;
Dear the sacred filial tie,
Love and duty blending;
Dear the clasp, the tear, the sigh—
Warm farewells attending.
To thy faithful bosom;
Dear the olive plants she brings
Round thy board to blossom;
Dear the sacred filial tie,
Love and duty blending;
Dear the clasp, the tear, the sigh—
Warm farewells attending.
But a dearer, holier love,
Ever heavenward turning,
Makes thy heart's strong pulses move,
Sets thy spirit burning.
“Love of Christ, and love of souls,”
Be thy motto ever;
Then between, though ocean rolls,
Homes, not hearts, we sever!
Ever heavenward turning,
Makes thy heart's strong pulses move,
Sets thy spirit burning.
“Love of Christ, and love of souls,”
Be thy motto ever;
Then between, though ocean rolls,
Homes, not hearts, we sever!
140
VERSES WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF THE MARRIAGE OF ALBERT EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES, AND ALEXANDRA, PRINCESS OF DENMARK.
I would sing a song of gladness,
Nuptial bliss and holy love;
But the trembling chords of sadness
Thrill my bosom as they move.
Nuptial bliss and holy love;
But the trembling chords of sadness
Thrill my bosom as they move.
Beauty, royalty, and splendour,
Pomp in all its phases seen,
We admire; but turn with tender,
Deeper, feeling to our Queen.
Pomp in all its phases seen,
We admire; but turn with tender,
Deeper, feeling to our Queen.
Royal Bride—young, loving, beauteous,
Princely Bridegroom, take her hand;
Kneel as children dear and duteous
To the Lady of the land.
Princely Bridegroom, take her hand;
Kneel as children dear and duteous
To the Lady of the land.
So before her mother knelt she,
With her Albert by her side,
She has felt all thoughts that melt thee—
England's, Albert's happy Bride.
With her Albert by her side,
She has felt all thoughts that melt thee—
England's, Albert's happy Bride.
141
Mingled tears of love and pleasure,
Grief and joy, her cheek bedew;
She has lost her life's best treasure,
May it be restored in you!
Grief and joy, her cheek bedew;
She has lost her life's best treasure,
May it be restored in you!
Blessed change! no more bombarding
Of old Denmark's forts and towers;
Love and peace her Princess guarding,
Waft her to this land of ours.
Of old Denmark's forts and towers;
Love and peace her Princess guarding,
Waft her to this land of ours.
Happy pair! high crowned with blessing,
Be it bliss without alloy!
Good Victoria's love possessing,
While the nation sings for joy.
Be it bliss without alloy!
Good Victoria's love possessing,
While the nation sings for joy.
Prince, thy father, good and gracious,
Bright example left behind
Holds thy empire—nought so precious—
Bind it on thy heart and mind.
Bright example left behind
Holds thy empire—nought so precious—
Bind it on thy heart and mind.
Princess, in thy queenly mother,
Find the pattern of thy life.
Loved and loving, bless each other,
Britain's daughter, Albert's wife.
Find the pattern of thy life.
Loved and loving, bless each other,
Britain's daughter, Albert's wife.
142
CRAIGNETHAN CASTLE.
A MEMORY.
The cloud of years is upward rolledFrom memory's page, and I behold,
Craignethan gray, thy ivied walls,
Thy dusky vaults and roofless halls,
The low-browed arch where clotted slime
Of blood red hue, the spawn of time,
The opening clogs, and no one knows
To what it leads, or where it goes,—
The window highand hard to win
I see, where Cudie, peeping in,
Saw Jenny, wild with terror's throes,
Dash in his face the scalding brose.
'Twas on an eve in lovely May,
The radiant ruler of the day
Went calmly down the western skies
That flamed with gold and purple dyes;
I slowly climbed the ruined stair
And gained the summit,—scene so fair,
143
My 'raptured eye—I see it yet.
Sick with perfume I bowed my head,
The castle's hoary front was spread
With sheets of blossomed wall-flower, swung
Like censors, whence dame Nature flung
Her sweetest incense on the breeze
That wooed with scented breath the trees.
I gazed far down the craggy steep
Where Nethan's winding waters sweep
So far below, her murmurs seem
The spirit voices in a dream.
The crumbling roof was greenly crowned
With brier and hazel twining round;
I broke a tasseled hazel spray
To wear as trophy of the day.
No drawbridge o'er the moat is seen,
Now dry and lined with verdure green,
Where apple blossoms, snowy pear,
Their petals shed; with lance and spear
Mailed warriors rode, with helmets doffed,
To Beauty's smiles and glances soft.
'Tis said, when hapless Mary fled
From Leven's halls, her royal head
She laid within the tapestried bower
Of Fairly Fair; that fairest flower,
144
To Nethan's keep. Ah! long and sore
She mourned the bloody, vengeful day
That saw her sire her husband slay;
And she in prayer and tears to dwell
For aye in lonely convent cell.
Now slowly falls the misty cloud
O'er Memory's page, as in a shroud
Old memories lie till word or strain
Awakes them, and they live again.
145
Sacred Poetry
ICHABOD.
A panting messenger of woe and dread,His garments torn, and dust upon his head,
His wounded feet with blood and travel stained,
From Israel's camp hath Shiloh's city gained.
With throbbing, bursting heart, and blood-shot eye;
With reeling step, and clench'd hands tossed on high;
With sobbing, gasping breath, he told his tale—
When loud to heaven arose the shrieking wail
Of thousand voices; anguish, and despair,
And sense of God-bereavement mingled there!
An aged priest sits watching by the road,
His sad heart trembling for the ark of God—
He starts! he calls!—for on his listening ear
Rise sounds and cries of more than mortal fear;
His eyes are dim, and on his reverend head
Well nigh a century's hoary snows are shed.
He comes in haste, that messenger of fear—
“My awful tidings, priest and father, hear!
146
“What is there done, my son? speak quickly, say?”
He trembling said, with voice of faltering dread.
“Before the foe hath Israel's armies fled—
Great was the slaughter there. How shall I tell
Thee, weeping sire, thy priestly children fell?
By heathen hands they died, and woe! Oh woe!
The ark of God is taken.” Fatal blow!
It smote upon his heart; he backward fell.
'Twas not the death of sons he loved too well,
Nor kindred's blood, nor Israel's thousands slain:
“The ark of God is taken,” scorched his brain—
That flash electric. Thus the judge and priest
Of Israel died, nor yet the tidings ceased
Their work of doom. Thou daughter, mother, wife,
Who in thy bosom bore a two-fold life,
In nature's hour of anguish most extreme,
Thou bow'dst thy fainting head; such tidings seem
Too monstrous for belief. The failing tide
Of life is fast receding; to her side
The weeping females press, and “Fear not thou;
A son is born.” The shadow on her brow,
The seal of death grew darker, answer none,
Nor token of regard she gave. Her son,
In dying accents, she Ichabod named.
This tribute Israel's parted glories claimed.
Even in that hour, bereft of mortal stay,
Her husband, father, given to death a prey,
147
A woe to which even God denied relief,
Hath cleft her heart, and this the cureless woe,
“The ark of God is taken.” Let me go
To God himself; I would not longer stay;
I'll seek him in the heaven of heavens. Away
Her soaring spirit mounts the heavenward road;
She lost the ark, but found the living God.
148
THE DEATH OF STEPHEN.
O power invincible of faith and love,
Like angel rising to his home above,
Thy heaven-lit features beam, calm, earnest grace,
Firm truth, and holy zeal illume thy face!
'Neath your stern gaze he quails not, men of doom;
From Israel's history back he rolls the gloom
Of ages, draws in characters of flame
Her lineage, bondage, liberty, and shame.
Methinks I see thee with thine eyes upturned—
Those eyes where all the saint and martyr burned—
To Him most high, whose temple is all space,
Nor human minds can bound His dwelling-place—
To Him who fills by right th' eternal throne,
And for His footstool claims the earth alone—
Creator, God, by whose all-forming hand
All things were made in ocean, air, and land.
Like angel rising to his home above,
Thy heaven-lit features beam, calm, earnest grace,
Firm truth, and holy zeal illume thy face!
'Neath your stern gaze he quails not, men of doom;
From Israel's history back he rolls the gloom
Of ages, draws in characters of flame
Her lineage, bondage, liberty, and shame.
Methinks I see thee with thine eyes upturned—
Those eyes where all the saint and martyr burned—
To Him most high, whose temple is all space,
Nor human minds can bound His dwelling-place—
To Him who fills by right th' eternal throne,
And for His footstool claims the earth alone—
Creator, God, by whose all-forming hand
All things were made in ocean, air, and land.
Thus Stephen spake:—
“O ye uncircumcised in ears and heart!
Who tread your fathers' footsteps, act their part;
A stiff, unbending, blind, rebellious race,
Who grieve the Spirit, and resist His grace!
Which of the prophets have ye not withstood?
Have ye not prison'd, tortur'd, shed their blood,
Who showed the coming of that holiest One—
Messiah, Jesus, God's eternal Son?
Of whom betrayers, murderers ye have been!
Oh, bloody race of hands and hearts unclean!
From God Himself the law to you was given
By hands of angels, ministers from heaven—
How have ye kept it? Page inspired proclaim
True record of your folly, guilt, and shame!”
“O ye uncircumcised in ears and heart!
Who tread your fathers' footsteps, act their part;
A stiff, unbending, blind, rebellious race,
Who grieve the Spirit, and resist His grace!
149
Have ye not prison'd, tortur'd, shed their blood,
Who showed the coming of that holiest One—
Messiah, Jesus, God's eternal Son?
Of whom betrayers, murderers ye have been!
Oh, bloody race of hands and hearts unclean!
From God Himself the law to you was given
By hands of angels, ministers from heaven—
How have ye kept it? Page inspired proclaim
True record of your folly, guilt, and shame!”
As lion crouching in the traveller's path
Lashes his tawny sides in savage wrath—
Watches with glaring eyes his victim near,
Then springs with foaming jaws his prey to tear—
They gnash their teeth; they rush upon him, wild
With vengeful hate—he, heavenward gazing, smiled.
Full of the Holy Ghost, to him 'twas given
To see unfold the pearly gates of heaven—
Behold the glory of the highest One,
And see on His right hand th' incarnate Son!
With furious cries they stop their ears; they run
With one accord upon him. Now begun
The work of death; for, lo! they drag, they cast
Him forth the city gates; and thick and fast
They ply the murderous missiles. Bruised to death,
But calling still on God with fainting breath—
“Receive my spirit, Jesus, Lord,” he sighed;
Then kneeling down, aloud to God he cried—
“Lord, lay not to their charge this sin; forgive,
Even for His sake who died that they might live.”
O words! O scene! might “make ev'n angels weep!”
He said, then calm in Jesus fell asleep.
Lashes his tawny sides in savage wrath—
Watches with glaring eyes his victim near,
Then springs with foaming jaws his prey to tear—
They gnash their teeth; they rush upon him, wild
With vengeful hate—he, heavenward gazing, smiled.
Full of the Holy Ghost, to him 'twas given
To see unfold the pearly gates of heaven—
Behold the glory of the highest One,
And see on His right hand th' incarnate Son!
With furious cries they stop their ears; they run
With one accord upon him. Now begun
The work of death; for, lo! they drag, they cast
Him forth the city gates; and thick and fast
They ply the murderous missiles. Bruised to death,
But calling still on God with fainting breath—
“Receive my spirit, Jesus, Lord,” he sighed;
Then kneeling down, aloud to God he cried—
150
Even for His sake who died that they might live.”
O words! O scene! might “make ev'n angels weep!”
He said, then calm in Jesus fell asleep.
But who is he around whose feet are piled
The murderers' garments? he hath not defiled
His hands with martyr's blood; yet mark his eye,
Where flash the fires of genius, even his high
And intellectual brow, on which enshrined
Sit learning, eloquence, and powerful mind,
Give token all this murderous deed received
His full consent. He hath not yet believed,
Jesus of Nazareth, in thy name; but mad
With persecuting zeal, he seeks to add
A thousand martyrs, breathing slaughter still;
Makes havoc of the Church; the prisons fill;
The Christians scatter, who, dispersed abroad,
Proclaim in every place the Word of God.
The murderers' garments? he hath not defiled
His hands with martyr's blood; yet mark his eye,
Where flash the fires of genius, even his high
And intellectual brow, on which enshrined
Sit learning, eloquence, and powerful mind,
Give token all this murderous deed received
His full consent. He hath not yet believed,
Jesus of Nazareth, in thy name; but mad
With persecuting zeal, he seeks to add
A thousand martyrs, breathing slaughter still;
Makes havoc of the Church; the prisons fill;
The Christians scatter, who, dispersed abroad,
Proclaim in every place the Word of God.
But soon, O Saul! from yon refulgent skies
A blinding glory shall eclipse thine eyes,
And bathe in living light thy new-born soul;
And thou shalt run the race and gain the goal
Of Christian martyr, preaching first the faith
Which once thou persecutedst to the death.
Thy name, thy nature, and thy mission changed,
Thus, martyr'd Stephen, thus wert thou avenged.
A blinding glory shall eclipse thine eyes,
And bathe in living light thy new-born soul;
And thou shalt run the race and gain the goal
Of Christian martyr, preaching first the faith
Which once thou persecutedst to the death.
Thy name, thy nature, and thy mission changed,
Thus, martyr'd Stephen, thus wert thou avenged.
151
LINES ON'THE DEATH OF MY MOTHER.
My Mother! O my Mother! when thy spirit heavenward fled,
And thy aged form, in death's embrace, lay on thy lonely bed;
No hand to raise thy head and wipe the death-drops from thy brow,
Or o'er thee breathe a weeping prayer—alone with Death wert thou.
And thy aged form, in death's embrace, lay on thy lonely bed;
No hand to raise thy head and wipe the death-drops from thy brow,
Or o'er thee breathe a weeping prayer—alone with Death wert thou.
Yet not alone! for in thy ear, and on thy glazing eye,
Were angel whispers breathed, and dawned the Sun of Glory's sky;
And when thy daughter stood and gazed upon thy tranquil face,
It seemed to her thy features wore a calm celestial grace.
Were angel whispers breathed, and dawned the Sun of Glory's sky;
And when thy daughter stood and gazed upon thy tranquil face,
It seemed to her thy features wore a calm celestial grace.
Thy ardent prayers, thy tender cares, thy deep and patient love,
How dearly prized—how sorely missed since thou wert called above!
For I, a mother, bend beneath a mother's heavy cares,
And still I ask of Heaven to reap the fruit of Mother's prayers.
How dearly prized—how sorely missed since thou wert called above!
For I, a mother, bend beneath a mother's heavy cares,
And still I ask of Heaven to reap the fruit of Mother's prayers.
When trials crowd, and sorrows press, and fears my bosom chill,
My Mother, then I seem to hear thy loving accents still;
And still it seems as if to thee my sorrows I must tell—
Oh joy, we soon shall meet! till then, my Mother, fare thee well!
My Mother, then I seem to hear thy loving accents still;
And still it seems as if to thee my sorrows I must tell—
Oh joy, we soon shall meet! till then, my Mother, fare thee well!
152
“GOD IS DEPARTED FROM ME, AND ANSWERETH ME NO MORE.”
A King has sought at midnight hour
The sorceress in her cell,
And bids invoke the Prophet's shade,
His coming doom to tell.
He bows before the spectral form,
He speaks in anguish sore—
“God is departed from me,
And answereth me no more.”
The sorceress in her cell,
And bids invoke the Prophet's shade,
His coming doom to tell.
He bows before the spectral form,
He speaks in anguish sore—
“God is departed from me,
And answereth me no more.”
Dark words—how pregnant with despair!
How fraught with hopeless woe!
Stern spake the spirit-seer—“What hope
When God He is thy foe?
And wherefore seek to know thy doom,
For this thou knew'st before?
“ ‘God is departed from thee,
And answereth thee no more!’
How fraught with hopeless woe!
Stern spake the spirit-seer—“What hope
When God He is thy foe?
And wherefore seek to know thy doom,
For this thou knew'st before?
“ ‘God is departed from thee,
And answereth thee no more!’
“The word which God hath spoke by me
He hath confirmed and done—
He rends the kingdom from thy hand;
His own anointed one,
Even David, he shall fill thy throne;
Thy reign, thy life is o'er—
‘God is departed from thee,
And answereth thee no more!’
He hath confirmed and done—
He rends the kingdom from thy hand;
His own anointed one,
Even David, he shall fill thy throne;
Thy reign, thy life is o'er—
‘God is departed from thee,
And answereth thee no more!’
153
“Since thou obey'dst not God, nor didst
His high behest fulfil,
He gives thy host, thy sons, thy life,
Up to the enemies' will.
Thy soul, ere midnight glooms again,
Shall wing th' eternal shore.
‘God is departed from thee,
And answereth thee no more.’”
His high behest fulfil,
He gives thy host, thy sons, thy life,
Up to the enemies' will.
Thy soul, ere midnight glooms again,
Shall wing th' eternal shore.
‘God is departed from thee,
And answereth thee no more.’”
He faints, he falls, on earth he lies,
That stately, peerless form,
Which oft had tower'd in Israel's van
And ruled in battles' storm.
Oh kingly oak! the thunder fires
Have scathed thine inmost core.
“God is departed from thee,
And answereth thee no more.”
That stately, peerless form,
Which oft had tower'd in Israel's van
And ruled in battles' storm.
Oh kingly oak! the thunder fires
Have scathed thine inmost core.
“God is departed from thee,
And answereth thee no more.”
Who runs may read this awful truth,
In lines of lightning traced,
The spoken, written Word of God,
Though trampled, scorn'd, defaced
By men of sin and pride, the earth
Shall burn, the heavens decay,
Ere Word of God, to man reveal'd,
Shall fail or pass away.
In lines of lightning traced,
The spoken, written Word of God,
Though trampled, scorn'd, defaced
By men of sin and pride, the earth
Shall burn, the heavens decay,
Ere Word of God, to man reveal'd,
Shall fail or pass away.
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A FAITHFUL MOTHER'S LOVE.
Dear child! a faithful mother's love
For thee will toil, and watch, and pray;
An angel hovering still above
Thy couch by night, thy steps by day.
For thee will toil, and watch, and pray;
An angel hovering still above
Thy couch by night, thy steps by day.
Oh think how oft thy lips have pressed
Her breast! how oft thine arms have clung
Around her neck, while to her heart
She clasped thee close, and sweetly sung!
Her breast! how oft thine arms have clung
Around her neck, while to her heart
She clasped thee close, and sweetly sung!
When fever's burning flush suffused
Thy cheek, and heaved thy panting chest,
Thou rest or refuge all refused
Save mother's arms and mother's breast.
Thy cheek, and heaved thy panting chest,
Thou rest or refuge all refused
Save mother's arms and mother's breast.
And she would sit with tangled hair,
With haggard cheek and heavy eyes,
Tend all thy wants with loving care,
And soothe thy pains and hush thy cries.
With haggard cheek and heavy eyes,
Tend all thy wants with loving care,
And soothe thy pains and hush thy cries.
And she would whisper in thy ear,
And press upon thy infant mind
The name, the love of Jesus dear,
And God, thy Father good and kind.
And press upon thy infant mind
The name, the love of Jesus dear,
And God, thy Father good and kind.
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The pouting lip, the pert reply,
The sullen brow, the stubborn will,
Will dim with tears thy mother's eye,
And her fond heart with anguish fill.
The sullen brow, the stubborn will,
Will dim with tears thy mother's eye,
And her fond heart with anguish fill.
The smiling lip, the ready yes,
The sunny brow of cheerful love;
What balm for mother's heart like this?
What dearer blessing can she prove?
The sunny brow of cheerful love;
What balm for mother's heart like this?
What dearer blessing can she prove?
Is she a widow? doubly dear
Be she to thee; when griefs assail,
Kiss thou away each mournful tear
That wanders down her cheek so pale.
Be she to thee; when griefs assail,
Kiss thou away each mournful tear
That wanders down her cheek so pale.
A faithful God, the first, the best—
The next a faithful mother's love;
Thou shalt, dear child, of these possessed,
Be safe on earth, and blest above.
The next a faithful mother's love;
Thou shalt, dear child, of these possessed,
Be safe on earth, and blest above.
156
Temperance Pieces.
NIGHT PHASES OF DRUNKENNESS.
PHASE I.
The midnight hour hath chimed,
The night is wild and cold;
I see a trembling hand
Yon cottage door unfold.
A pale and furrowed face
Peers forth into the storm;
And o'er the threshold leans
A bent and tottering form.
The night is wild and cold;
I see a trembling hand
Yon cottage door unfold.
A pale and furrowed face
Peers forth into the storm;
And o'er the threshold leans
A bent and tottering form.
Her white hair, damp with tears,
Clings to her wasted cheek;
With failing eyes she scans
The street, her son to seek.
His staggering form she sees,
His reeling steps she hears—
Break, widowed heart! How vain
Thy pleading words and tears!
Clings to her wasted cheek;
With failing eyes she scans
The street, her son to seek.
His staggering form she sees,
His reeling steps she hears—
Break, widowed heart! How vain
Thy pleading words and tears!
157
PHASE II.
A dark, dismantled room—
A wailing infant's cry—
A little weeping maid
Sings mournful lullaby—
Two baby brothers, pale
With hunger, cold, and fear,
Lie at her feet; while she
Keeps sobbing, “Mother, dear!
A wailing infant's cry—
A little weeping maid
Sings mournful lullaby—
Two baby brothers, pale
With hunger, cold, and fear,
Lie at her feet; while she
Keeps sobbing, “Mother, dear!
“Oh! shall I never see
Thy sweet and mournful face?
Oh! take thy baby home
Unto the blessed place.
No milk, no food have I,
For her and brothers dear;
Father beats us when we cry,
And leaves us nightly here.”
Thy sweet and mournful face?
Oh! take thy baby home
Unto the blessed place.
No milk, no food have I,
For her and brothers dear;
Father beats us when we cry,
And leaves us nightly here.”
PHASE III.
A workman sought his home,
When evening bells had rung—
Dark thoughts o'er brow and heart
Their sullen shadows flung.
A little ragged boy,
With hunger in his eyes,
Cries, “Mother lies in bed
And minds not baby's cries.”
When evening bells had rung—
Dark thoughts o'er brow and heart
Their sullen shadows flung.
A little ragged boy,
With hunger in his eyes,
Cries, “Mother lies in bed
And minds not baby's cries.”
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No light, nor food, nor fire
Is in the wretched room—
To where the inebriate lies
He rushes in the gloom.
He beats the senseless form—
He drags her from the bed
Where, crushed and livid, lies
Her smother'd infant—dead!
Is in the wretched room—
To where the inebriate lies
He rushes in the gloom.
He beats the senseless form—
He drags her from the bed
Where, crushed and livid, lies
Her smother'd infant—dead!
PHASE IV.
A slender, pallid boy,
With hectic on his cheek,
Moved by his mother's tears,
His father goes to seek.
The midnight moon looks down
Upon the wintry street,
And sees the shrinking youth
His ruffian parent meet.
With hectic on his cheek,
Moved by his mother's tears,
His father goes to seek.
The midnight moon looks down
Upon the wintry street,
And sees the shrinking youth
His ruffian parent meet.
With drunken fury blazed
His eyes—with curse and blow
He dashed the feeble boy
Upon the stones below.
His bleeding form they raised—
Sustained his dying head—
But ere the mother's arms
Had clasped him, life was fled!
His eyes—with curse and blow
He dashed the feeble boy
Upon the stones below.
His bleeding form they raised—
Sustained his dying head—
But ere the mother's arms
Had clasped him, life was fled!
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THE THREE GOLDEN BALLS.
Deadlier balls than North or SouthThrow from cannon's blazing mouth,
Everywhere appal my sight—
Three in number—golden, bright.
“All that glitters is not gold.”
“Ah! I could a tale unfold”
Of misery, waste, and want, and sin;
We pass the balls and enter in.
The counter-board seems to my eyes
An altar reared for sacrifice.
My heart would fail, my tongue would falter,
To tell how on this horrid altar
Are offered all that life requires
To feed the ever-burning fires
Of drink, which would, for want of fuel,
At times burn out, did not the cruel
And greedy priest, who serves the altar,
The offerings clutch, and lie, and palter,
And cheat the victim of the dole
With which he means to drown his soul
In hell's hot fountains gushing near—
“Spirits and ales,” dark words of fear;
And so the groaning shelves are laden
With spoils of man, wife, child, and maiden.
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Gloats o'er the offerings and the pelf.
With heart that mourns, and eye that weeps,
I see him store the frowsy heaps
With hand of iron, and heart of stone,
Brow of brass, and feeling none.
Vampire-like, the blood he drains
From the drunkard's burning veins.
The whisky-shop absorbs his cash,
The pawn-shop swallows down the trash
Of household gear and wretched clothing.
Ah! my soul is sick to loathing
Of the sights, and sounds, and crimes,
Of these murder-tainted times,
When a bath of blood has charms,
And power to set a world in arms;
And the bather may be bolder
If a forty-ticket holder.
Here's a man of good connection—
Hang him, give him for dissection.
What makes your wrath so high to mount?
That old man keeps a bank account.
Some journals have inspired a furor
In many minds 'gainst judge and juror.
Would huntsmen cease to lash and growl,
“The many-headed monster's howl
Would die,” and common sense again
Resume the sceptre and the rein.
161
TEMPERANCE WARFARE.
“SOUND TO THE ONSET, THE ONSET, THE ONSET!”
Arouse ye! arouse ye! the foe is at large,
Again and again we must come to the charge.
Oh! hotly pursue, and fearless attack—
The blood of his victims is red on his track.
Again and again we must come to the charge.
Oh! hotly pursue, and fearless attack—
The blood of his victims is red on his track.
Our wives are dishonoured, our children are slain
By thousands—we labour, but often in vain,
For the plundering foe still devours the proceeds,
Till nothing is left us but sorrows and needs.
By thousands—we labour, but often in vain,
For the plundering foe still devours the proceeds,
Till nothing is left us but sorrows and needs.
We must take his strongholds, put his garrisons down,
And pull down his ensigns in village and town;
But this is the victory, most glorious of all,
Exile him for ever from homestead and hall.
And pull down his ensigns in village and town;
But this is the victory, most glorious of all,
Exile him for ever from homestead and hall.
Ye matrons and maidens of Britain, to you
I would speak, as a sister, most faithful and true
To all your best interests. I beg you to hear,
By all you hold sacred, by all you hold dear.
I would speak, as a sister, most faithful and true
To all your best interests. I beg you to hear,
By all you hold sacred, by all you hold dear.
'Tis found—Oh, alas! it should ever be so!—
That many amongst us are leagued with the foe,
Give harbour, and homage, and serve him as slaves,
Till bleeding and stumbling they crawl to their graves.
That many amongst us are leagued with the foe,
Give harbour, and homage, and serve him as slaves,
Till bleeding and stumbling they crawl to their graves.
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And oft with the dear names of mother and wife,
Entrusted by Heaven with the mind and the life
Of your children, a household, to care for and serve,
You pamper the foe while they shiver and starve.
Entrusted by Heaven with the mind and the life
Of your children, a household, to care for and serve,
You pamper the foe while they shiver and starve.
Dear sisters, I would, but I cannot, conceal
The guilt and the folly you often reveal—
Intemperance, and many a fatal neglect,
That ever the progress of mankind must check.
The guilt and the folly you often reveal—
Intemperance, and many a fatal neglect,
That ever the progress of mankind must check.
For who but a mother her dear little girl
Will lovingly teach her the ruin and peril
Of wanton exposure, the dark deeds of shame,
That blot the fair scutcheon of Scotia's fame?
Will lovingly teach her the ruin and peril
Of wanton exposure, the dark deeds of shame,
That blot the fair scutcheon of Scotia's fame?
The many small fripperies—worthless for use—
Your girls delight in, are but an abuse
Of time, and a sorry perversion of taste,
While the needful and useful are running to waste.
Your girls delight in, are but an abuse
Of time, and a sorry perversion of taste,
While the needful and useful are running to waste.
Precious the ruby, and pure is the pearl—
More precious and pure is an innocent girl;
And earth holds no gem of such value and beauty
As a Christian mother devoted to duty.
More precious and pure is an innocent girl;
And earth holds no gem of such value and beauty
As a Christian mother devoted to duty.
163
ADDRESS AND WELCOME TO J. B. GOUGH
Welcome! Oh, welcome! in thy course of fame—Through rolling clouds of smoke and lurid flame,
Belched from a hundred murky piles—at last
Thou com'st, and scared Intemperance stands aghast.
To charm the adder deaf, we lack the power—
Thy potent aid we crave, in this the hour
And power of darkness. Wisely thou can'st charm—
Unstop the serpent's ear, his sting disarm;
Cry, cry aloud, and spare not; lift on high
Thy voice of power, till quailing demons fly
Their wonted haunts; extinguish thou and quell,
With waves of eloquence, the fires of hell—
Those fires that scorch the tongue and fire the brain;
That feed Death's engines, linked to Ruin's train,
Dragging the inebriate, lost, through horrors dire,
Till 'neath the grinding wheels the wretch expire!
To red Crimea's corse-encumbered dells,
Where war with sickness, death, and carnage dwells,
All eyes are turned; all ears to hear are strained
Of fierce assault, and 'leaguered fortress gained—
But higher, holier, stern, though bloodless war,
'Gainst foe more terrible than Russia's Czar,
164
His forts and towers of strength, raze, raze them quite!
Accept the deepest, dearest thanks of those
Who, sharing not the sin, yet share the woes
And shame incurred by lost degraded ones—
Intemperate fathers, mothers, husbands, sons!
“Who winneth souls is wise”—in God's own might
Go on; thy path shall like the morning light
Wax brighter, till the noon of perfect day
Shall blind, and scorch, and scare the fiend away!
165
ON SEEING THE BODY OF A WOMAN DRAWN FROM THE MONKLAND CANAL
Drifting before the tempter's power,This piteous wreck in horror's hour
On dark perdition's rock was driven!
Let groaning earth and righteous heaven
Sum up the cost, the fearful price,
Intemperance—bloodiest, costliest vice—
Thy victims pay! Dread Alcohol!
No less than body, substance, soul
Thy minions and thy venders crave.
So, dripping from the muddy wave
They drag—but, ah! too late to save
From suicidal drunkard's grave—
A bruised and wasted female form,
Who perished in the deadly storm
Of maddening drink's delirious throes.
Bind up her hair; her eyelids close;
Her body lay beneath the sod—
The soul's award is given by God.
Oh, woman, woman! mother! wife!
The founts whence gush the streams of life
Are thine—why with the accursed thing
Thus poison and pollute the spring
Of human life? Why bear the name—
The drunkard's brand of guilt and shame—
The dire conjunction, ah! too common—
A mother, wife, and drunken woman!
166
LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS H. B. STOWE
Lady, to thee, to fortune, and to fame,
I, all unknown, would yet aspiring claim
A right to love thee, and admire from far
Thy pure and tender light. Benignant star,
Bright in Columbian heavens we see thee rise,
Herald of freedom's dawn in Southern skies.
Far on the dim horizon she appears
Struggling through blood, red clouds bedewed with tears,
The dews of anguish, wrung from hearts and eyes—
Crush'd, blasted, sever'd from all human ties.
Dark exhalations rise her form to shroud,
And wrathful demons glare from every cloud.
In vain shall Slavery's vile Draconian code
Of lawless laws, that flout the laws of God—
Her blood-hounds, scourges, chains—exclude the day.
No; things of darkness, hence! avaunt! away!
I, all unknown, would yet aspiring claim
A right to love thee, and admire from far
Thy pure and tender light. Benignant star,
Bright in Columbian heavens we see thee rise,
Herald of freedom's dawn in Southern skies.
Far on the dim horizon she appears
Struggling through blood, red clouds bedewed with tears,
The dews of anguish, wrung from hearts and eyes—
Crush'd, blasted, sever'd from all human ties.
Dark exhalations rise her form to shroud,
And wrathful demons glare from every cloud.
In vain shall Slavery's vile Draconian code
Of lawless laws, that flout the laws of God—
Her blood-hounds, scourges, chains—exclude the day.
No; things of darkness, hence! avaunt! away!
Day breaks. Aside the murky vapours roll'd,
Mid roseate draperies, rich with orient gold,
Appears the goddess, shouts the applauding world,
The striped and starry flag she holds unfurl'd.
From the proud blazonry wipes out the name—
The curse of slavery and the brand of shame.
Mid roseate draperies, rich with orient gold,
Appears the goddess, shouts the applauding world,
The striped and starry flag she holds unfurl'd.
167
The curse of slavery and the brand of shame.
Lady, my land breeds not nor barters slaves,
But she has ruined homes and drunkards' graves.
Here mad Intemperance clanks her Bedlam chain,
And plies her scourge of snakes, shame, ruin, pain—
The fangs of fell remorse, and fierce despair,
Sink in the victim's heart and quiver there.
But she has ruined homes and drunkards' graves.
Here mad Intemperance clanks her Bedlam chain,
And plies her scourge of snakes, shame, ruin, pain—
The fangs of fell remorse, and fierce despair,
Sink in the victim's heart and quiver there.
O gifted lady! from mine island strand
I gaze far sea-ward, wave the beckoning hand.
Thou comest—Oh, welcome guest!—and worthless, I
Shall meet thee—not on earth; our goal's the sky.
I gaze far sea-ward, wave the beckoning hand.
Thou comest—Oh, welcome guest!—and worthless, I
Shall meet thee—not on earth; our goal's the sky.
168
ON THE ANTICIPATED RETURN OF J. B. GOUGH TO BRITAIN.
Ere ancient Thebes began on high to raise
Her crest of towers; ere rose the wondrous maze
Of column'd temples, palaces, and halls,
Of pillar'd porticoes, and pondrous walls,
Far o'er the waste old Amphion's magic lyre
Rung forth wild music to his touch of fire—
Then heaved the rocks, and danced the stones along,
Moved by the mighty spell of glorious song.
High swelled the strain, swift rolled the stony flood,
Till Thebes, upreared, in gorgeous beauty stood.
Her crest of towers; ere rose the wondrous maze
Of column'd temples, palaces, and halls,
Of pillar'd porticoes, and pondrous walls,
Far o'er the waste old Amphion's magic lyre
Rung forth wild music to his touch of fire—
Then heaved the rocks, and danced the stones along,
Moved by the mighty spell of glorious song.
High swelled the strain, swift rolled the stony flood,
Till Thebes, upreared, in gorgeous beauty stood.
No fabled lyrist—Gough, in thee we find
Thy tuneful eloquence, thy wealth of mind,
Thy words of power, and melody of tone,
Can move the will and draw the heart of stone,
Can startle, thrill, inspire, and arm the soul
With power to abjure for aye the madd'ning bowl.
So, from the fearful pit and miry clay,
Where cold, insensate inebriates lay,
They shake, they move, they come, and tower and wall,
Palace and temple, dome and pillared hall,
In order rise beneath thy skilful hand,
Wise master-builder, moral structures grand,
On temperance based, amidst the desert smile,
The beauty, strength, and safety of our isle.
Again return. Ah! many a change has passed
Since from our island shores thou parted last—
Ten thousand welcomes wait on thy return.
Then come “with thoughts that breathe and words that burn”—
Entreat, appeal, and warn—thrill brain and heart;
While bosoms heave and tears spontaneous start.
The sense, the feeling, and the ear enchain,
And earth, yea heaven, shall prove thy words not vain.
Thy tuneful eloquence, thy wealth of mind,
Thy words of power, and melody of tone,
Can move the will and draw the heart of stone,
Can startle, thrill, inspire, and arm the soul
With power to abjure for aye the madd'ning bowl.
So, from the fearful pit and miry clay,
Where cold, insensate inebriates lay,
They shake, they move, they come, and tower and wall,
Palace and temple, dome and pillared hall,
169
Wise master-builder, moral structures grand,
On temperance based, amidst the desert smile,
The beauty, strength, and safety of our isle.
Again return. Ah! many a change has passed
Since from our island shores thou parted last—
Ten thousand welcomes wait on thy return.
Then come “with thoughts that breathe and words that burn”—
Entreat, appeal, and warn—thrill brain and heart;
While bosoms heave and tears spontaneous start.
The sense, the feeling, and the ear enchain,
And earth, yea heaven, shall prove thy words not vain.
170
LINES
What's a' the din? is Jonathan gane gyte?What ails the fallow, that he'll growl an' flyte,
An' shake his neive across the wide Atlantic,
Wi' glunchin' broo, an' mony a senseless antic?
Ne'er fash your thoom wi' us, my Yankee billy—
Thae blusterin' havers mak' ye unco silly;
Tak' tent, my man, ye're needfu' o' a skelpin',
For, gudeness kens, ye're never o'er the yelpin'.
Steek up your gab, ye wild, camstrarie laddie,
Nae mair yaff yaffin' at your British daddie;
I think ye micht hae ither tow tae tease,
When baith the North and South are in a bleeze.
A fleesome sight, atweel, tae a' the warl'—
Wi' friens that wish ye weel ye soudna quarrel—
For Britain, frae her cozie islan' dwallin',
Will naither mak' nor meddle wi' ye, callan.
Ye're no that unco steive in limb an' lith;
Ye're scrimpit baith in courage, sense, an' pith;
Langsyne ye gat yer legs out o'er the harrows,
Sin'syne ye think ye hae nae mony marrows.
But len' yer lugs, and dinna bounce and bark—
Ye needna tear your hair nor rive your sark—
171
They'd gart ye keep your place an' cou't your pride.
Your sangs o' liberty are bosh an' tee-dum;
It wad be better baith for you an' freedom
If ye had ne'er cut up the auld connection,
Nor snool't tae democratic mob direction.
Ye'll ne'er hae peace until ye get a king—
A coup d' etat for you's the vera thing;
There's Nap. the Third, wha whamel't bluidy France,
An' hauds her doon—had ane like him the chance,
He'd grip the reins, wi' bit an' bridle haud ye,
An' should ye rear or kick, he'd whip an' daud ye.
An' gif ye maun be sodgers, he will learn ye—
But ye'll needs dae his biddin', min' I warn ye;
For fock that canna guide nor rule themsel',
Should hae a ruler strong, an' stern, an' snell.
172
THE MOURNING MOTHER.
What woe is thine, pale mother?—say
What grief devours thy heart? For aye
Thy looks averted shun the day,
And midnight sees thee watch and pray
With sighing, quivering breath.
The hand of wedded love to clasp—
To feel true friendship's fervent grasp
Is thine. Why, then, with sob and gasp
Still heaves thy heart, as sting of asp
Had struck the pang of death?
What grief devours thy heart? For aye
Thy looks averted shun the day,
And midnight sees thee watch and pray
With sighing, quivering breath.
The hand of wedded love to clasp—
To feel true friendship's fervent grasp
Is thine. Why, then, with sob and gasp
Still heaves thy heart, as sting of asp
Had struck the pang of death?
“Oh, lost! lost! lost!—the loved, the young
On dark perdition's torrent flung—
With maddened brain and hearts unstrung
O'er deepest gulf of ruin swung,
And I—I cannot save!
O! minstrel King, thy soul-wrung cry
Draws from my heart a deep reply—
My sons, my sons! each burdened sigh
My sons, my sons! breathes to the sky—
My God, thy help I crave!
On dark perdition's torrent flung—
With maddened brain and hearts unstrung
O'er deepest gulf of ruin swung,
And I—I cannot save!
O! minstrel King, thy soul-wrung cry
Draws from my heart a deep reply—
My sons, my sons! each burdened sigh
My sons, my sons! breathes to the sky—
My God, thy help I crave!
“My gentle boys—obedient, fond—
How oft around my knees ye conned
The Book which taught all names beyond
His name to bless whose blood atoned
For guilt of fallen man!
How blessed the time when work and play
Alternate shared the hours of day!
Till pillowed cheek to cheek ye lay,
And mother o'er you stooped to pray,
As only mother can.”
How oft around my knees ye conned
The Book which taught all names beyond
His name to bless whose blood atoned
For guilt of fallen man!
173
Alternate shared the hours of day!
Till pillowed cheek to cheek ye lay,
And mother o'er you stooped to pray,
As only mother can.”
But, ah! on clouds of grief and shame,
To this dear home a demon came—
The undying worm, the quenchless flame
Are thine, Intemperance; at the name
The lesser fiends rejoice.
Well hath the dark-souled poet said—
“More sad than wail above the dead
Are words by living sorrow fed:”
Such breathe o'er lost inebriate's head
From mourning mother's voice.
To this dear home a demon came—
The undying worm, the quenchless flame
Are thine, Intemperance; at the name
The lesser fiends rejoice.
Well hath the dark-souled poet said—
“More sad than wail above the dead
Are words by living sorrow fed:”
Such breathe o'er lost inebriate's head
From mourning mother's voice.
The song, the dance, the wanton's love,
May fail the young desires to move;
But fiercer ordeal they must prove,
Launched on the world, who rise above
The tempter's proffer'd cup.
They fell, for guileless youth what hope?
Urged, bantered, drawn, nay, forced to cope
With senior mates in yard or shop:
Workmen, these human offerings stop
To Moloch offered up.
May fail the young desires to move;
But fiercer ordeal they must prove,
Launched on the world, who rise above
The tempter's proffer'd cup.
They fell, for guileless youth what hope?
Urged, bantered, drawn, nay, forced to cope
With senior mates in yard or shop:
Workmen, these human offerings stop
To Moloch offered up.
174
THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE.
O Jeanie, my woman! whar is't ye are gaun,
Wi' a bairn on yer arm an' ane in yer haun?
There's snaw on the grun, an' nae shoon on yer feet,
And ye speak na a word, but jist murther an' greet.
Wi' a bairn on yer arm an' ane in yer haun?
There's snaw on the grun, an' nae shoon on yer feet,
And ye speak na a word, but jist murther an' greet.
Yer ae drogget coat is baith scrimpy an' worn,
An' yer aul leloc toush is baith dirty an' torn;
An' roun' yer lean haffits, ance sonsy and fair,
Hings tautit an' tousie yer bonny broun hair.
An' yer aul leloc toush is baith dirty an' torn;
An' roun' yer lean haffits, ance sonsy and fair,
Hings tautit an' tousie yer bonny broun hair.
Yer wee shilpit weanie's a pityfu' prufe
That yer bosom's as dry an' as queem as my lufe;
For the bairn wi' the beard sooks ye sairest alace,
For he draws the red bluid frae yer hert an' yer face.
That yer bosom's as dry an' as queem as my lufe;
For the bairn wi' the beard sooks ye sairest alace,
For he draws the red bluid frae yer hert an' yer face.
Waesucks for ye, Jeanie! I kent ye fu' weel
When a lass; ye war couthie, an' cantie', an' leal:
Wi' cheeks like the roses, yer bonnie blue ee,
Aye glancin' an' dancin' wi' daffin an' glee.
When a lass; ye war couthie, an' cantie', an' leal:
Wi' cheeks like the roses, yer bonnie blue ee,
Aye glancin' an' dancin' wi' daffin an' glee.
175
They tauld ye that Davie was keen o' the drink,
That siller ne'er baid in his pouches a blink;
An' a' he got claut o' he waret on the dram,
An' ae pay ne'er sert till anither ane cam.
That siller ne'er baid in his pouches a blink;
An' a' he got claut o' he waret on the dram,
An' ae pay ne'er sert till anither ane cam.
But ye wadna be warnt, sae yer wierd ye maun dree,
Tho' aften ye raither wad lie doun an' dee;
For o' puir drucken Davie ye've nae houp ava,
Sae yer greetin', an' toilin', an' fechtin' awa.
Tho' aften ye raither wad lie doun an' dee;
For o' puir drucken Davie ye've nae houp ava,
Sae yer greetin', an' toilin', an' fechtin' awa.
176
LINES
Were thousand angels, sinless, bright,
With folded wings, and robes of light,
With flowing locks and glorious eyes,
To walk our streets—with what surprise
And awe-struck wonder we would gaze,
And ask each other in amaze,
Why to our sinful earth was given
To bear the denizens of heaven!
With folded wings, and robes of light,
With flowing locks and glorious eyes,
To walk our streets—with what surprise
And awe-struck wonder we would gaze,
And ask each other in amaze,
Why to our sinful earth was given
To bear the denizens of heaven!
No angel band to-day, I ween,
Upon our village street was seen;
But thousand spirits, young and fresh,
Wrapt in the veil of mortal flesh.
That veil on earth the Saviour wore;
In heaven He wears it evermore;
He took not angel nature on—
Your nature, dear ones, yours alone.
Upon our village street was seen;
But thousand spirits, young and fresh,
Wrapt in the veil of mortal flesh.
That veil on earth the Saviour wore;
In heaven He wears it evermore;
He took not angel nature on—
Your nature, dear ones, yours alone.
I gaze on thousand childish forms;
The veil they wear is food for worms;
If saved from sin, the spirit springs,
When drops the veil, on brighter wings,
In whiter robes than angel wears,
Washed in the Saviour's blood and tears.
The veil they wear is food for worms;
If saved from sin, the spirit springs,
When drops the veil, on brighter wings,
In whiter robes than angel wears,
Washed in the Saviour's blood and tears.
177
Dear children, 'twas with moistened eye
I saw you pass my window by;
I marked your gambols on the grass,
And, sighing, said, “Alas! alas!
What tongue may tell, what heart can know,
The heirs of bliss, the heirs of woe,
That mingle in the joyous throng,
That wake the woods with dance and song!”
To us the gracious words were given,
“Of such the kingdom is of heaven.”
Yet none who live and die in sin
That kingdom e'er shall enter in.
Then love your teachers; love your school;
Be subject to your parents' rule;
Be grateful for the loving care
That gave you all these joys to share.
Be love's sweet law your rule alone,
Like Him who took your nature on.
I saw you pass my window by;
I marked your gambols on the grass,
And, sighing, said, “Alas! alas!
What tongue may tell, what heart can know,
The heirs of bliss, the heirs of woe,
That mingle in the joyous throng,
That wake the woods with dance and song!”
To us the gracious words were given,
“Of such the kingdom is of heaven.”
Yet none who live and die in sin
That kingdom e'er shall enter in.
Then love your teachers; love your school;
Be subject to your parents' rule;
Be grateful for the loving care
That gave you all these joys to share.
Be love's sweet law your rule alone,
Like Him who took your nature on.
178
THE HAUNTED HOUSE.
The Haunted House in days of yore
Stood lone, deserted, ruined, hoar,
With dusty panes, and moss-grown sill,
With grass-grown steps, rooms dark and chill,
Where, while the wailing night winds moaned,
Pale shrouded spectres shrieked and groaned;
And nightly, winged with wild affright,
The trembling youth in rapid flight
Would pass the spot, nor look behind,
For fearful sounds were on the wind,
Nor paused till on the hearth he stood
Amidst the dear fraternal brood.
Stood lone, deserted, ruined, hoar,
With dusty panes, and moss-grown sill,
With grass-grown steps, rooms dark and chill,
Where, while the wailing night winds moaned,
Pale shrouded spectres shrieked and groaned;
And nightly, winged with wild affright,
The trembling youth in rapid flight
Would pass the spot, nor look behind,
For fearful sounds were on the wind,
Nor paused till on the hearth he stood
Amidst the dear fraternal brood.
The Haunted House!—how vast the change
In modern times! A goodly range
Of painted casements gaily shine
With glittering panes; large crystalline
And rich cut goblets brimming high—
Where troops of fiends in ambush lie,
Prompt to obey that potent charm—
The screw-propelling waiter's arm.
And, hark! through rooms gay, throng'd, and bright
Sound festal strains and laughter light,
And tinkling bells and dancing feet
Shall trip the time to music sweet.
In modern times! A goodly range
Of painted casements gaily shine
With glittering panes; large crystalline
And rich cut goblets brimming high—
Where troops of fiends in ambush lie,
Prompt to obey that potent charm—
The screw-propelling waiter's arm.
And, hark! through rooms gay, throng'd, and bright
Sound festal strains and laughter light,
And tinkling bells and dancing feet
Shall trip the time to music sweet.
179
Ah, simple youth! beware, beware!
Cross not that threshold snowy fair,
With varnished door for ever ope—
Within the ghosts of murdered hope
Of wedded duties, filial claims,
Of high resolves and noble aims,
Of health and fame, of time and peace,
With wail and plaint that will not cease,
For ever, when dark midnight falls,
Stalk through the rooms, glide round the walls;
While warning voices mournful swell
Upon the wind with dirge-like knell:
Pass, thoughtless youth! 'twere death to stay,
Avoid, turn from it, haste away!
Cross not that threshold snowy fair,
With varnished door for ever ope—
Within the ghosts of murdered hope
Of wedded duties, filial claims,
Of high resolves and noble aims,
Of health and fame, of time and peace,
With wail and plaint that will not cease,
For ever, when dark midnight falls,
Stalk through the rooms, glide round the walls;
While warning voices mournful swell
Upon the wind with dirge-like knell:
Pass, thoughtless youth! 'twere death to stay,
Avoid, turn from it, haste away!
180
ON SEEING THE DEAD BODY OF A MAN
'Twas night; I stood on yonder fir-crown'd height
And look'd on flaming furnace, forge, and mine;
The black-brow'd clouds with lurid fires were bright,
That flashed o'er road, canal, and railway line.
And look'd on flaming furnace, forge, and mine;
The black-brow'd clouds with lurid fires were bright,
That flashed o'er road, canal, and railway line.
One hour to midnight—Sabbath morn drew near
Mid sights and sounds, “might make even angels weep;”
No prayers, save those for liquor, reach'd my ear;
No sounds, save oaths profane and curses deep.
Mid sights and sounds, “might make even angels weep;”
No prayers, save those for liquor, reach'd my ear;
No sounds, save oaths profane and curses deep.
From chambers rank with vile and stifling fumes,
From tables full of vomit, staggering home
Comes one who still on past escapes presumes
To reach that home where he no more shall come.
From tables full of vomit, staggering home
Comes one who still on past escapes presumes
To reach that home where he no more shall come.
Down the lone bank, blaspheming as he goes,
Along the margin of the sluggish wave
That bears the treasures of the mine, and flows
An ever-open, frequent, drunkard's grave.
Along the margin of the sluggish wave
That bears the treasures of the mine, and flows
An ever-open, frequent, drunkard's grave.
181
Unseen, unheard, the plunge, the drowning strife,
The gasping agony, the gurgling cry
That o'er the waters rung the knell of life,
While echoes of the woods alone reply.
The gasping agony, the gurgling cry
That o'er the waters rung the knell of life,
While echoes of the woods alone reply.
Fair dawn'd that April Sabbath morn; the voice
Of joyous birds awoke on every bough,
The woods, the shining waters, all rejoice—
But where? O lost inebriate! where art thou?
Of joyous birds awoke on every bough,
The woods, the shining waters, all rejoice—
But where? O lost inebriate! where art thou?
Lo! where the dancing ripples wave his hair,
Erect against the slope his body stands;
His wide fixed eyes and death-pale brow are bare,
And fill'd with grass and clay his clenched hands.
Erect against the slope his body stands;
His wide fixed eyes and death-pale brow are bare,
And fill'd with grass and clay his clenched hands.
A thousand times his reeling steps had trode
The fatal path, and still escaped the doom
That sent him unprepared to meet his God,
And to a lone, unwept, unhonour'd tomb.
The fatal path, and still escaped the doom
That sent him unprepared to meet his God,
And to a lone, unwept, unhonour'd tomb.
182
THE CONTRAST.
See yonder wretched little girl,
Braving cold, and want, and peril,
Wandering through the frozen street,
Seeking her she fears to meet;
Matted locks hang round her ears,
From her wild eyes rain the tears;
In her arms a squalid child,
Wrapt in rags all torn and soil'd,
Clinging to her shivering breast—
Young bird cast from rifled nest.
Now the mother's form she sees,
Drooping head and tottering knees,
Babbling tongue and idiot stare,
Ah! too well her state declare.
“Mother! mother! father's come;
Haste! Oh haste! he waits at home!”
Ay! he waits for her returning,
Wrath and hate within him burning.
Oh! that home, how desolate!
Bare the walls, and cold the grate;
Empty cupboard, naked bed,
Health and peace and comfort fled!
Hark, those sounds! your ears they tingle!
Blows and shrieks and curses mingle—
Words of passion, fierce and wild.
Weeping girl and screaming child,
While the shades of evening close,
Cowering, sobbing, seek repose;
Couched on straw, the group, forlorn,
Wait the miseries of the morn.
God! I pray, with heart high swelling,
Mercy on the drunkard's dwelling.
Braving cold, and want, and peril,
Wandering through the frozen street,
Seeking her she fears to meet;
Matted locks hang round her ears,
From her wild eyes rain the tears;
In her arms a squalid child,
Wrapt in rags all torn and soil'd,
Clinging to her shivering breast—
Young bird cast from rifled nest.
Now the mother's form she sees,
Drooping head and tottering knees,
Babbling tongue and idiot stare,
Ah! too well her state declare.
“Mother! mother! father's come;
Haste! Oh haste! he waits at home!”
Ay! he waits for her returning,
Wrath and hate within him burning.
Oh! that home, how desolate!
Bare the walls, and cold the grate;
Empty cupboard, naked bed,
Health and peace and comfort fled!
183
Blows and shrieks and curses mingle—
Words of passion, fierce and wild.
Weeping girl and screaming child,
While the shades of evening close,
Cowering, sobbing, seek repose;
Couched on straw, the group, forlorn,
Wait the miseries of the morn.
God! I pray, with heart high swelling,
Mercy on the drunkard's dwelling.
See that playful, laughing girl,
Lips of rose, and teeth of pearl,
Brow unwrinkled by a frown.
Waving locks of golden brown,
Shading soft her azure eyes,
Dimpled cheeks, whose hue outvies
Rose-bud wild, I hear her singing—
O'er the mead her wild flight winging—
Weaving 'neath the willow bushes
Coronets of fragrant rushes.
Mother at the cottage door—
Gazing the fair landscape o'er—
Sees on homeward path advancing,
Her wee daughter skipping, dancing,
Fill'd her lap, and hands, and bosom
With flowery blooms and hawthorn blossom.
Look within; how clean and neat!
The fire is bright, the tea is set;
The father lifts his eyes to heaven,
And asks on all its bounties given,
God's blessing. Now the blooms and roses
Are laid aside; the evening closes—
The blinds are drawn—fast closed the door—
And now, upon the cottage floor,
That lovely, lowly group are kneeling
In fervent prayer, to Heaven appealing;
And while their hymn of praise is swelling,
We'll pray, “God bless the temperance dwelling.”
Lips of rose, and teeth of pearl,
Brow unwrinkled by a frown.
Waving locks of golden brown,
Shading soft her azure eyes,
Dimpled cheeks, whose hue outvies
Rose-bud wild, I hear her singing—
O'er the mead her wild flight winging—
Weaving 'neath the willow bushes
Coronets of fragrant rushes.
Mother at the cottage door—
Gazing the fair landscape o'er—
Sees on homeward path advancing,
Her wee daughter skipping, dancing,
Fill'd her lap, and hands, and bosom
With flowery blooms and hawthorn blossom.
Look within; how clean and neat!
The fire is bright, the tea is set;
184
And asks on all its bounties given,
God's blessing. Now the blooms and roses
Are laid aside; the evening closes—
The blinds are drawn—fast closed the door—
And now, upon the cottage floor,
That lovely, lowly group are kneeling
In fervent prayer, to Heaven appealing;
And while their hymn of praise is swelling,
We'll pray, “God bless the temperance dwelling.”
185
THE PLAGUE OF OUR ISLE.
It is said, it is sung, it is written, and read,
It sounds in the ear, and it swims in the head,
It booms in the air, it is borne o'er the sea—
“There's a good time coming,” but when shall it be?
It sounds in the ear, and it swims in the head,
It booms in the air, it is borne o'er the sea—
“There's a good time coming,” but when shall it be?
Shall it be when Intemperance, enthroned on the waves
Of a dark sea of ruin, is scooping the graves
Of thousands, while redly the dark current rolls
With the blood of her victims—the slaughter of souls?
Of a dark sea of ruin, is scooping the graves
Of thousands, while redly the dark current rolls
With the blood of her victims—the slaughter of souls?
A canker is found in the bud, flower, and fruit
Of human progression—a worm at the root
Of social improvement—a fiery simoom
That sweeps o'er the masses to burn and consume.
Of human progression—a worm at the root
Of social improvement—a fiery simoom
That sweeps o'er the masses to burn and consume.
'Tis found on the heaven-hallow'd day of repose—
Blest haven of rest from our toils and our woes!—
That voice of the drunkard, the oath, curse, and brawl,
Are sounds of such frequence, they cease to appal.
Blest haven of rest from our toils and our woes!—
That voice of the drunkard, the oath, curse, and brawl,
Are sounds of such frequence, they cease to appal.
We see the grey father, the youth in his prime,
Throw soul, sense, and feeling, health, substance, and time,
In the cup of the drunkard—the mother and wife
Hugs the snake in her bosom that 'venoms her life.
Throw soul, sense, and feeling, health, substance, and time,
In the cup of the drunkard—the mother and wife
Hugs the snake in her bosom that 'venoms her life.
186
We see the gaunt infant, so feeble and pale,
Crave nature's sweet fluid from fountains that fail;
Or run with hot poison, distill'd from the breast
Of the mother—O monstrous!—a drunkard, a pest!
Crave nature's sweet fluid from fountains that fail;
Or run with hot poison, distill'd from the breast
Of the mother—O monstrous!—a drunkard, a pest!
We've seen, with her bright hair all clotted with blood,
Lie cold on the hearth—where at morning she stood
The wife of a summer—a babe on her breast—
The husband a drunkard—let death tell the rest.
Lie cold on the hearth—where at morning she stood
The wife of a summer—a babe on her breast—
The husband a drunkard—let death tell the rest.
And darker and deeper the horrors that shroud
The brain of the drunkard; what dark phantoms crowd
“The cells of his fancy,” his couch of despair
Is empty—the suicide slumbers not there!
The brain of the drunkard; what dark phantoms crowd
“The cells of his fancy,” his couch of despair
Is empty—the suicide slumbers not there!
O why do we seek, do we hope to bestow
“The colours of heaven on the dwellings of woe?”
'Tis temperance must level the strongholds of crime—
'Tis temperance must herald the “coming good time.”
“The colours of heaven on the dwellings of woe?”
'Tis temperance must level the strongholds of crime—
'Tis temperance must herald the “coming good time.”
Then, turn ye! Oh, turn ye! for why will ye die?
Ye shrink from the plague when its advent is nigh—
The Indian pestilence, the plague of old Nile—
Less deadly by far than the Plague of our Isle!
Ye shrink from the plague when its advent is nigh—
The Indian pestilence, the plague of old Nile—
Less deadly by far than the Plague of our Isle!
| Poems and Essays of a Miscellaneous Character on Subjects of General Interest | |