Poems by Robert Nicoll :: :: University of Virginia Library

High thoughts!
They come and go,
Like the soft breathings of a list'ning maiden,
While round me flow
The winds, from woods and fields with gladness laden:
When the corn's rustle on the ear doth come—
When the eve's beetle sounds its drowsy hum—
When the stars, dew-drops of the summer sky,
Watch over all with soft and loving eye—
While the leaves quiver
By the lone river,
And the quiet heart
From depths doth call
And garners all—
Earth grows a shadow
Forgotten whole,
And Heaven lives
In the blessed soul!

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High thoughts!
They are with me
When, deep within the bosom of the forest,
Thy morning melody
Abroad into the sky, thou, Throstle, pourest.
When the young sunbeams glance among the trees—
When on the ear comes the soft song of bees—
When every branch has its own favourite bird
And songs of summer, from each thicket heard!—
Where the owl flitteth,
Where the roe sitteth,
And holiness
Seems sleeping there;
While Nature's prayer
Goes up to heaven
In purity,
Till all is glory
And joy to me!

High thoughts!
They are my own
When I am resting on a mountain's bosom,
And see below me strown
The huts and homes where humble virtues blossom;
When I can trace each streamlet through the meadow—
When I can follow every fitful shadow—
When I can watch the winds among the corn,
And see the waves along the forest borne;

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Where blue-bell and heather
Are blooming together,
And far doth come
The Sabbath bell,
O'er wood and fell;
I hear the beating
Of Nature's heart:
Heaven is before me—
God! Thou art!

High thoughts!
They visit us
In moments when the soul is dim and darken'd;
They come to bless,
After the vanities to which we hearken'd:
When weariness hath come upon the spirit—
(Those hours of darkness which we all inherit)—
Bursts there not through a glint of warm sunshine,
A winged thought, which bids us not repine?
In joy and gladness,
In mirth and sadness,
Come signs and tokens;
Life's angel brings,
Upon its wings,
Those bright communings
The soul doth keep—
Those thoughts of Heaven
So pure and deep!

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AROUSE THEE, SOUL!

Arouse thee, Soul!
God made not thee to sleep
Thy hour of earth, in doing nought,—away;
He gave thee power to keep.
O! use it for His glory, while you may.
Arouse thee, Soul!

Arouse thee, Soul!
O! there is much to do
For thee, if thou wouldst work for humankind—
The misty Future through,
A greatness looms—'tis mind, awaken'd mind!
Arouse thee, Soul!

Arouse thee, Soul!
Shake off thy sluggishness,
As shakes the lark the dew-drop from its wing;
Make but one Error less,—
One Truth—thine offering to Mind's altar bring!
Arouse thee, Soul!

Arouse thee, Soul!
Be what thou surely art,
An emanation from the Deity,
A flutter of that heart
Which fills all Nature, sea, and earth, and sky.
Arouse thee, Soul!

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Arouse thee, Soul!
And let the body do
Some worthy deed for human happiness
To join, when life is through,
Unto thy name, that angels both may bless!
Arouse thee, Soul!

Arouse thee, Soul!
Leave nothings of the earth;—
And, if the body be not strong, to dare
To blessed thoughts give birth,
High as yon Heaven, pure as Heaven's air,
Arouse thee, Soul!

Arouse thee, Soul!
Or sleep for evermore,
And be what all nonentities have been,—
Crawl on till life is o'er:
If to be ought but this thou e'er dost mean,
Arouse thee, Soul!

THE HERD LASSIE.

I'm fatherless and motherless,
There's nane on earth to care for me;
And sair and meikle are the waes
That in the warld I maun dree.

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For I maun work a stranger's wark,
And sit beside a stranger's fire;
And cauld and hunger I maun thole
From day to day, and never tire!

And I maun herd frae morn to e'en,
Though sleety rain upon me fa';
And never murmur or complein—
And be at ilka body's ca'.
I needna deck my gowden hair,
Nor make mysel' so fair to see;
For I'm an orphan lassie poor—
And wha would look or care for me?

The lave ha'e mothers good and kind,
And joyfu' is ilk daughter's heart;
The lave ha'e brothers stieve and strang,
To haud ilk loving sister's part.
But I'm a poor man's orphan bairn,
And to the ground I laigh maun bow;
And were it nae a sinfu' wish,
Oh, I could wish the world through!

The caller summer morning brings
Some joy to this wae heart o' mine;
But I the joy of life would leave,
If I could wi' it sorrow tine.
My mother said, in Heaven's bliss
E'en puir herd lassies had a share:
I wish I were where mother is—
Her orphan then would greet nae mair!

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I AM BLIND.

The woodland! O! how beautiful,
How pleasant it must be!
How soft its grass—how fresh the leaves
Upon each forest-tree!
I hear its wild rejoicing birds
Their songs of gladness sing;
To see them leap from bough to bough
Must be a pleasant thing:
I must but image it in mind,
I cannot see it—I am blind!

I feel the fragrance of the flowers,—
Go, pull me one, I pray:
The leaves are green upon its stalk—
'Tis richly red you say?
O! it must full of beauty be—
It hath a pleasant smell;
Could I but see its loveliness
My heart with joy would swell!
I can but image it in mind—
I ne'er shall see it—I am blind!

The trees are glorious green, you say—
Their branches widely spread;
And Nature on their budding leaves
Its nursing dew hath shed.

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They must be fair; but what is green?
What is a spreading tree?
What is a shady woodland walk?
Say, canst thou answer me?
No! I may image them in mind,
But cannot know them—I am blind!

The songsters that so sweetly chant
Within the sky so fair,
Until my heart with joy doth leap,
As it a wild bird were—
How seem they to the light-bless'd eye?
What! are they then so small?
Can sounds of such surpassing joy
From things so tiny fall?
I must but image them in mind—
I cannot see them—I am blind!

A something warm comes o'er my hand;
What is it? pray thee tell:
Sunlight come down among the trees
Into this narrow dell?
Thou seest the sunlight and the sun,
And both are very bright!
'Tis well they are not known to me,
Or I might loathe my night:
But I may image them in mind—
I ne'er shall see them—I am blind!

My hand is resting on your cheek—
'Tis soft as fleecy snow:

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My sister, art thou very fair?
That thou art good, I know.
Thou art—thou art! I feel the blush
Along thy neck doth wend!
Thou must be fair—so carefully
Thy brother thou dost tend!
But I must image thee in mind—
I cannot see thee—I am blind!

The changes of the earth and sky—
All Nature's glow and gloom—
Must ever be unknown to me—
My soul is in a tomb!
O! I can feel the blessed sun,
Mirth, music, tears that fall,
And darkness sad, and joy, and woe,—
Yea, Nature's movements all:
But I must image them in mind—
I cannot see them—I am blind!

WILD FLOWERS.

Beautiful children of the woods and fields!
That bloom by mountain streamlets 'mid the heather,
Or into clusters, 'neath the hazels, gather,—
Or where by hoary rocks you make your bields,
And sweetly flourish on through summer weather,—
I love ye all!

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Beautiful flowers! to me ye fresher seem
From the Almighty hand that fashion'd all,
Than those that flourish by a garden-wall;
And I can image you, as in a dream,
Fair, modest maidens, nursed in hamlets small,—
I love ye all!

Beautiful gems! that on the brow of earth
Are fix'd, as in a queenly diadem;
Though lowly ye, and most without a name,
Young hearts rejoice to see your buds come forth,
As light erewhile into the world came,—
I love ye all!

Beautiful things ye are, where'er ye grow!
The wild red rose—the speedwell's peeping eyes—
Our own bluebell—the daisy, that doth rise
Wherever sunbeams fall or winds do blow;
And thousands more, of blessed forms and dyes,—
I love ye all!

Beautiful nurslings of the early dew!
Fann'd, in your loveliness, by every breeze,
And shaded o'er by green and arching trees:
I often wish that I were one of you,
Dwelling afar upon the grassy leas,—
I love ye all!

Beautiful watchers! day and night ye wake!
The Evening Star grows dim and fades away,
And Morning comes and goes, and then the Day

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Within the arms of Night its rest doth take;
But ye are watchful wheresoe'er we stray,—
I love ye all!

Beautiful objects of the wild-bee's love!
The wild-bird joys your opening bloom to see,
And in your native woods and wilds to be.
All hearts, to Nature true, ye strangely move;
Ye are so passing fair—so passing free,—
I love ye all!

Beautiful children of the glen and dell—
The dingle deep—the moorland stretching wide,
And of the mossy fountain's sedgy side!
Ye o'er my heart have thrown a lovesome spell;
And, though the Worldling, scorning, may deride,—
I love ye all!

THE ANEMONE.

When Autumn winds blaw cauld and chill,
Why droop ye, flowerie, sae?
Why leave us for your winter cell,
Sweet, wild Anemone?

Dost think our hearts refuse to prize
The things we see alway?
To see thee is to love thee well,
Sweet, wild Anemone!

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Why need ye fear the bitter wind
That through the woods doth gae?
Its heart is cold, but thee 't would spare,
Sweet, wild Anemone!

A fit ensample thou mightst take
The hopping robin frae—
The emblem pure of Constancy,
Sweet, wild Anemone!

If winter fields be cauld and bare—
If winter skies be blae—
The mair we need thy bonnie face,
Sweet, wild Anemone!

But so it is; and when away
For dreary months you be,
The joy of meeting pays for all,
Sweet, wild Anenome!

TIME'S CHANGES.

Like mist upon the lea,
And like night upon the plain,
Auld age comes o'er the heart
Wi' dolour and wi' pain.
Blithe youth is like a smile,
Sae mirthfu' and sae brief;

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Syne wrinkles on the cheek
Come like frost upon the leaf.

O! were I young again,
Were my heart as glad and free,
And were my foot as firm
As it was wont to be,—
I would in youth rejoice
Mair than I yet ha'e done:
'Tis a happy, happy time,
But it passes unco soon.

Frae a distant stranger land
I came to sit again
In the hame that shelter'd me
Ere I sail'd across the main:
But its wa's were lying low,
And the bonnie tree that grew
By that couthie hamestead's door,
Like mysel', was wither'd now.

I sought my youthfu' friend,—
His heart was deadly cauld:
He had lost the gamesome glee
O' the merry days of auld.
He took my offer'd hand,
But he scarcely rais'd his e'e;
And a chill came o'er my heart—
There was nae place there for me.

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I sought a maiden's hame
Whom I had loved in youth;
But nae maiden now was there—
She had slighted love and truth:
I fand her wi' the bairn
Of anither on her knee;
And I turn'd and cam' awa'
Wi' a tear-drap in my e'e.

When my brother's ha' I sought—
Wha had sleepit on my breast
When we baith were bairnies young—
I found he was at rest:
And my sisters, dearly loved,
Were awa' amang the lave,
Aneath the chilly mools
In a cauld but peacefu' grave.

I sought the broomy howes,
Where I was wont to gang
When the flowers were buskit a'—
When the summer days were lang:
But as I sat me down
Beside the water-fa',
A shadow as of age
Grew dark upon them a'.

A spreading tree was there,
Which I in youth had set

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Beside the gowany green,
Where the neebor bairns met.
There were bees on ilka bud,
And birds on ilka spray,
And its leafy head was green,
While mine was frosted gray.

The burnie blithely ran,
And the lintie lilted sweet—
The laverock was on hie;
But mourning I did greet:
For I fand I couldna lo'e
What I lo'ed a mirthfu' boy;
As the heart that dwells in pain
Grows without a wish for joy.

It wasna like the time
When, singing, I ha'e run
Where the bluebell and the breckan
Lay beeking in the sun;
Or, to catch the glancing trout,
Ha'e waded in the burn,
While my blue-e'ed neebor lassie
My father's kye would turn.

I thought the hills were changed—
The brown and bonnie hills;
And the woods, sae fu' o' sang,
And the wimplin' mountain rills:

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But nae years could alter them,
Sae the thought was vanitie;
And my bosom whisper'd laigh,
“The change is a' in thee.”

I sought the nameless grave
Where my mother's banes did lie—
Where the lips that pray'd for me
Were dust and ashes dry:
I thought that kirkyard mould
Might on me pity take;
But the very grave was gane—
O! my heart is like to break.

And I am sitting now
Upon the kirkyard wa',
And gloamin's ghostly veil
Upon the earth doth fa'.
The cloud o' night is mirk;
But there's darker gloom on me—
The gloom o' friendless hearts:
For tears I canna see.

My auld een winna greet,
When their day o' life is past;
For the wishes o' my heart
Are ayont the world cast:
My feet are in the grave,
And I'm sinking slowly down;

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And the grass will shortly grow
My weary head aboon.

Oh, were that moment come!
Oh, were that moment gane!
Oh, were the spirit flown
Frae this mortal flesh and bane!
Were my coffin in the yird,
And my soul to God awa',
I, worshipping, would say,
“May Thou be bless'd for a'!”

THE FORSAKEN.

The rowing waves, the ocean tides,
Are changefu' baith at e'en and morn,—
Like sunshine and its following shade
Upon the dew-wet, yellow corn:
The burn sings saftly o'er the lea,
Where ance it like a torrent ran;
But a' are steadfastness itsel'
When liken'd to the heart o' man.

Ane sought my love, when in my teens,
A thoughtless lassie, I was gay;
I trusted, as a woman trusts,
And made his love my bosom's stay;

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And when, to gather gowd, he gaed
To some far land ayont the main,
I lang'd at e'en, I lang'd at morn,
To see my lov'd one back again.

I ne'er gaed near the youngsters' dance;
But, when the light o' day grew dim,
I sought the broomy trysting knowe,
Where quietness dwelt, to think on him.
Years cam' an' gaed; but hame to me
He hied na, as he should ha'e done:
But, O! I ne'er mistrusted him—
His name I cherish'd late an' soon.

My father and my mother baith
Were laid aneath the cauldrife yird,
And I was left alane, alane,
A mourning and a mateless bird.
He came at length,—and O! my heart
Was glad as heart can ever be,—
He cam' wi' a' his treasured love,
He came to gi'e it a' to me.

I heard his foot on my door-stane—
He stood upon my lanely floor—
I gazed upon the manly form
That did my lassie's heart allure;
And bitter thoughts came in my breast;
For Pride was dancing in the e'e

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Whence Love should ha'e been smiling sweet
To bless, and glad, and comfort me.

I saw his glance o' meikle scorn
Upon my lanely maiden hame;
And O! I thought my heart wad break
While laigh I murmur'd forth his name.
He gazed upon my alter'd form,—
I kent what in his e'e did gleam:—
He thought na, in his cruelty,
The change was wrought by waiting him.

He cauldly spake o' youthfu' days;
And o' his plighted faith spake he;
And syne I scorn'd the world's slave,
And proudly told him he was free.
He turn'd him wi' a mocking smile,
And offer'd gowd and offer'd gear:
And then I sought in vain to dee,—
For this I cou'dna, cou'dna bear.

Truth, Love, and Woman's Faith, in youth,
A dwellin' place had biggit me,—
A hame where Joy upon my heart
Had blinkit sunshine wondrouslie;
But Falsehood came, and to the earth
That Palace o' the Soul did fa':
For Woman's Trustin' Faith was gane,
And Truth and Love were far awa'.

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I bared my breast beneath a ray
Sent frae Love's bonnie Simmer sun;
But, ere I wist, cauld Winter cam',
And Hope and Joy gaed one by one.
I maybe loved a thing o' earth
O'er weel, and Heaven burst the chain;—
I ken na; but my heart is sair,
And Age is comin' cauld and lane!

A THOUGHT.

Yon sail on the horizon's verge
Doth like a wandering spirit seem,—
A shadow in a sea of light—
The passing of a dream.

A moment more and it is gone!
We know not how—we know not where;
It came—an instant staid—and then
It vanish'd into air.

Such are we all: we sail awhile
In joy, on life's fair summer sea;
A moment—and our bark is gone
Into Eternity.

154

THE THOUGHT SPIRIT.

Whence comest thou?
Far, far away,
I have chased the shadows of morning gray;
Up through the mists where the stars are shining,
Like the Blest, in their homes of light reclining—
Away through the wilds of immensity,
Where man is afar, and where God is nigh,
I have looked at the things which thou shalt see
When the earth-bound spirit is soaring free!

Whence comest thou?
I have wandered far,
Where the graves of the Patriot Martyrs are:
I have knelt 'mid the leaves of the forest-land—
By the graves of the Pilgrim Fathers' band;
Within their forests, beneath their trees,
I have breath'd a prayer to the midnight breeze,—
A prayer for a heart like the mighty and free,
Whose lives were a Gospel of Liberty!

Whence comest thou?
I have wandered free,
With the fearless bark, o'er the cold north sea;
I have swung in the hammock and heard the tale,
And followed the ship through storm and gale,

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Till I sunk in the wave where the tempest sweeps,
Then I turned to the home where the mother weeps,—
Where the wife and the orphan sigh and mourn
For the brave and the bold who will ne'er return!

Whence comest thou?
'Neath a tropic sky,
I have laid me down a sweet streamlet nigh;
And that sunny land was so sweet and fair,
That I longed to recline for ever there;
But man came near; and his soul was dark,
God's image defiled with the Tyrant's mark;
The sterile land is the land for me,
If man is mighty, and thought be free!

FOREST MUSINGS.

The green leaves waving in the morning gale—
The little birds that 'mid their freshness sing—
The wild-wood flowers so tender-ey'd and pale—
The wood-mouse sitting by the forest spring—
The morning dew—the wild bee's woodland hum,
All woo my feet to Nature's forest home.

'Tis beautiful, from some tall craggy peak
To watch the setting of the blessed sun—
To mark his light grow weaker, and more weak,
Till earth and sky be hid in twilight dun;

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'Tis beautiful to watch the earliest ray,
That sparkling comes across the ocean gray.

But, oh! more beautiful—more passing sweet
It is, to wander in an hour like this—
Where twisted branches overhead do meet,
And gentle airs the bursting buds do kiss—
Where forest-paths, and glades, and thickets green,
Make up, of flowers and leaves, a world serene.

To the pure heart, 't is happiness to mark
The tree-tops waving in the warm sunshine—
To hear thy song, thou cloud-embosom'd lark,
Like that of some fair spirit all divine—
To lie upon the forest's velvet grass,
And watch the fearful deer in distance pass.

O! gloriously beautiful is earth!—
The desert wild, the mountain old and hoar,
The craggy steep, upthrown at Nature's birth,
The sweeping ocean wave, the pebbled shore,
Have much of beauty all; but none to me
Is like the spot where stands the forest-tree.

There I can muse, away from living men,
Reclining peacefully on Nature's breast,—
The woodbird sending up its God-ward strain,
Nursing the spirit into holy rest!
Alone with God, within his forest fane,
The soul can feel that all save Him is vain.

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Here it can learn—will learn—to love all things
That He hath made—to pity and forgive
All faults, all failings: Hear the heart's deep springs
Are open'd up, and all on earth who live
To me grow nearer, dearer than before—
My brother loving I my God adore.

A deep mysterious sympathy doth bind
The human heart to Nature's beauties all;
We know not, guess not, of its force or kind;
But that it is we know. When ill doth fall
Upon us—when our hearts are sear'd and riven—
We'll seek the forest land for peace and Heaven.

THE SICK CHILD'S DREAM.

O! mither, mither, my head was sair,
And my een wi' tears were weet;
But the pain has gane for evermair,
Sae mither dinna greet:
And I ha'e had sic a bonnie dream,
Since last asleep I fell,
O' a' that is holy an' gude to name,
That I've wauken'd my dream to tell.

I thought on the morn o' a simmer day
That awa' through the clouds I flew,

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While my silken hair did wavin' play
'Mang breezes steep'd in dew;
And the happy things o' life and light
Were around my gowden way,
As they stood in their parent Heaven's sight
In the hames o' nightless day.

An' sangs o' love that nae tongue may tell,
Frae their hearts cam' flowin' free,
Till the starns stood still, while alang did swell
The plaintive melodie;
And ane o' them sang wi' my mither's voice,
Till through my heart did gae
That chanted hymn o' my bairnhood's choice,
Sae dowie, saft, an' wae.

Thae happy things o' the glorious sky
Did lead me far away,
Where the stream o' life rins never dry,
Where nathing kens decay;
And they laid me down in a mossy bed,
Wi' curtains o' spring leaves green,
And the name o' God they praying said,
And a light came o'er my een.

And I saw the earth that I had left,
And I saw my mither there;
And I saw her grieve that she was bereft
O' the bairn she thought sae fair;

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And I saw her pine till her spirit fled—
Like a bird to its young ane's nest—
To that land of love; and my head was laid
Again on my mither's breast.

And, mither, ye took me by the hand,
As ye were wont to do;
And your loof, sae saft and white, I fand
Laid on my caller brow;
And my lips you kiss'd, and my curling hair
You round your fingers wreath'd;
And I kent that a happy mither's prayer
Was o'er me silent breath'd;

And we wander'd through that happy land,
That was gladly glorious a';
The dwellers there were an angel-band,
And their voices o' love did fa'
On our ravish'd ears like the deein' tones
O' an anthem far away,
In a starn-lit hour, when the woodland moans
That its green is turn'd to gray.

And, mither, amang the sorrowless there,
We met my brithers three,
And your bonnie May, my sister fair,
And a happy bairn was she;
And she led me awa' 'mang living flowers,
As on earth she aft has done;

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And thegither we sat in the holy bowers
Where the blessed rest aboon:—

And she tauld me I was in Paradise,
Where God in love doth dwell—
Where the weary rest, and the mourner's voice
Forgets its warld-wail;
And she tauld me they kent na dule nor care;
And bade me be glad to dee,
That yon sinless land and the dwellers there
Might be hame and kin to me.

Then sweetly a voice came on my ears,
And it sounded sae holily,
That my heart grew saft, and blabs o' tears
Sprung up in my sleepin' e'e;
And my inmost soul was sairly moved
Wi' its mair than mortal joy;—
'Twas the voice o' Him wha bairnies lov'd
That wauken'd your dreamin' boy!

THE MOTHER.

There's a tear within my e'e, lassie—
A sorrow in my heart;
And I canna smile on thee,
Though dear to me thou art.

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My mither's dead an' gane,
An' I am lanely now;
An' the friendless there is nane
To love, save God an' you.

My mither's dead an' gane;
She has been a' to me:—
O! I wish when we are ane
I may be sae to thee.

'Mang cauld an' hunger's waes
She nurtured me wi' care;
An' to gi'e me meat an' claes
She toil'd baith lang and sair.

She toil'd an' ne'er thought lang,
An' keepit hersel' fu' cauld,
That I might couthie gang
When winter winds were bauld.

She liv'd for Heaven's land,
An' gude she gart me lo'e;
An' she tauld me aye to stand
Wi' the faithfu' an' the true.

She lived in povertie—
A widow lane was she;
But her deein' words to me
Were, “Haud by honestie.”

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The puir maun joy resign—
A puir man's wife was she;
An', like her, when thou art mine
A puir man's bride thou'lt be.

We ha'e love, but naething mair;
An' if frae thee I'm ta'en,
Thou'lt ha'e to struggle sair,
Like her that's dead an' gane.

Thou'lt ha'e to struggle sair,
To nurture men like me;
Baith toil an' scorn to bear—
The puir folk's destinie.

But there comes a restin' day—
She's soundly sleepin' now;
The joyfu' an' the wae
Are ane when life is through!

THE BEREAVED.

They're a' gane thegither, Jeanie—
They're a gane thegither:
Our bairns aneath the cauldrife yird
Are laid wi' ane anither.

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Sax lads and lasses Death has ta'en
Frae father an' frae mither;
But O! we mauna greet and mane—
They're a' on hie thegither, Jeanie—
They're a' on hie thegither.

Our eild will now be drearie, Jeanie—
Our eild will now be drearie:
Our young an' bonnie bairns ha'e gane,
An' left our hame fu' eerie.
'Neath Age's hand we now may grane—
In poortith cauld may swither:
The things that toddled but an' ben
Are a' on hie thegither, Jeanie—
Are a' on hie thegither.

Now sorrow may come near us, Jeanie—
Now sorrow may come near us:
The buirdly chields are lyin' low
Wha wadna let it steer us.
The bonnie lasses are awa'
Wha came like sun-glints hither,
To fill wi' joy their father's ha'—
They're a' on hie thegither, Jeanie—
They're a' on hie thegither.

In the kirkyard they're sleepin', Jeanie—
In the kirkyard they're sleepin':
It maybe grieves their happy souls
To see their parents weepin'.

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They're on to bigg a hame for us,
Where flowers like them ne'er wither,
Amang the starns in love an' bliss—
They're a' on hie thegither, Jeanie—
They're a' on hie thegither.

THE PARTING.

My heart is sad and wae, mither,
To leave my native land—
Its bonnie glens—its hills sae blue—
Its memory-hallow'd strand—
The friends I've lo'ed sae lang and weel—
The hearts that feel for me:
But, mither, mair than a' I grieve
At leavin' thee.

The hand that saft my bed has made
When I was sick and sair,
Will carefully my pillow lay
And haud my head nae mair.
The een that sleeplessly could watch
When I was in my pain,
Will ne'er for me, from night to dawn,
E'er wake again.

There's kindness in the warld, mither,
An' kindness I will meet;

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But nane can be what thou hast been—
Nane's praise can be sae sweet;
Nae ither e'er can love thy son
Wi' love akin to thine—
An' nane can love thee, mither dear,
Wi' love like mine.

I'll keep thee in my inmost soul
Until the day I dee;
For saft, saft is my mither's hand,
An' kindly is her e'e;
An' when God-sent spirits far away
To him my soul shall bear,
My deepest joy will be to meet
My mither there.

THE GRAVE OF BURNS.

By a kirkyard-yett I stood, while many enter'd in,
Men bow'd wi' toil an' age—wi' haffets auld an' thin;
An' ithers in their prime, wi' a bearin' proud an' hie;
An' maidens, pure an' bonnie as the daisies o' the lea;
An' matrons wrinkled auld, wi' lyart heads an' gray;
An' bairns, like things o'er fair for Death to wede away.

I stood beside the yett, while onward still they went,—
The laird frae out his ha', an' the shepherd frae the bent:

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It seem'd a type o' men, an' o' the grave's domain;
But these were livin' a', an' could straight come forth again.
An' of the bedral auld, wi' meikle courtesie,
I speer'd what it might mean? an' he bade me look an' see.

On the trodden path that led to the house of worshipping,
Or before its open doors, there stood nae livin' thing;
But awa' amang the tombs, ilk comer quickly pass'd,
An' upon ae lowly grave ilk seekin' e'e was cast.
There were sabbin' bosoms there, and proud yet soften'd eyes,
An' a whisper breathed around, “There the loved and honour'd lies.”

There was ne'er a murmur there—the deep-drawn breath was hush'd,—
And o'er the maiden's cheek the tears o' feelin' gush'd;
An' the bonnie infant face was lifted as in prayer;
An' manhood's cheek was flush'd wi' the thoughts that movin' were:
I stood beside the grave, and I gazed upon the stone,
And the name of “Robert Burns” was engraven thereupon.

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THE VILLAGE CHURCH.

God's lowly temple! place of many prayers!
Gray is thy roof, and crumbling are thy walls;
And over old green graves thy shadow falls,
To bless the spot where end all human cares!

The sight of thee brings gladness to my heart;
And while beneath thy humble roof I stand,
I seem to grasp an old familiar hand,
And hear a voice that bids my spirit start.

Long years ago, in childhood's careless hour,
Thou wast to me e'en like a grandsire's knee—
From storms a shelter thou wast made to be—
I bound my brow with ivy from thy tower.

The humble-hearted, and the meek and pure
Have, by the holy worship of long years,
Made thee a hallowed place; and many tears,
Shed in repentance deep, have blessed thy floor.

Like some all-loving good man's feeling heart,
Thy portal hath been opened unto all;
A treasure-house where men, or great or small,
May bring their purest, holiest thoughts, thou art!

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Church of the Village! God doth not despise
The torrent's voice, in mountain valleys dim,
Nor yet the blackbird's summer morning hymn;
And He will hear the prayers from thee that rise.

The father loves thee, for his son is laid
Among thy graves; the mother loves thee too,
For 'neath thy roof, by love time-tried and true,
Her quiet heart long since was happy made.

The wanderer in a far and foreign land,
When death's last sickness o'er him revels free,
Turns his heart homewards, even unto thee,
And those who, weekly, 'neath thy roof-tree stand.

Lowly thou art; but yet, when time is set,
Will He who loves what wicked men despise—
Who hears the orphan's voice, that up doth rise
In deep sincerity—not thee forget!

Lone temple! did men know it—unto thee
Would pilgrims come, more than to battle plains;
For thou hast lightened human woes and pains,
And taught men's souls the truth that makes them free!

The distant sound of thy sweet Sabbath bell
O'er meadows green no more shall come to me,
Sitting beneath the lonely forest tree—
Church of my native Village! fare-thee-well!

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A DIRGE.

Sleep on, sleep on, ye resting dead;
The grass is o'er ye growing
In dewy greenness. Ever fled
From you hath Care; and, in its stead,
Peace hath with you its dwelling made,
Where tears do cease from flowing.
Sleep on!

Sleep on, sleep on: Ye do not feel
Life's ever-burning fever—
Nor scorn that sears, nor pains that steel
And blanch the loving heart, until
'Tis like the bed of mountain-rill
Which waves have left for ever!
Sleep on!

Sleep on, sleep on: Your couch is made
Upon your mother's bosom;
Yea, and your peaceful lonely bed
Is all with sweet wild-flowers inlaid;
And over each earth-pillowed head
The hand of Nature strews them.
Sleep on!

Sleep on, sleep on: I would I were
At rest within your dwelling,—

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No more to feel, no more to bear
The World's falsehood and its care—
The arrows it doth never spare
On him whose feet are failing.
Sleep on!

MY AULD GUDEWIFE.

Come in, gudewife, an' sit ye down,
An' let the wark alane:
I'm thinkin' now o' youthfu' days
An' times that lang ha'e gane;
An' o' the monie ups an' downs
In life that we ha'e seen,
Since first aneath the trystin' tree
I clasp'd my bonnie Jean.

How sweetly holy was the hour
When first in love we met!
When first your breast was press'd to mine—
That hour can I forget?
Wi' blessed love our hearts were fu'
Aneath the hawthorn green:
'Twas then our happiness began,
My ain—my bonnie Jean.

Sweet shone the moon aboon our heads
When aff ye gaed wi' me,

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And left your father in his sleep
To wake and seek for thee—
Your mither left to flyte and ban
Frae mornin' until e'en,
'Cause he whose poverty she scorn'd
Was aff wi' bonnie Jean.

Our marriage-day was bright and clear—
Our marriage-day was fair:
For diamonds ye did daisies twine
Amang your glossy hair.
I wealthless was at openin' morn;
But at the closin' e'en
I had what mailins couldna buy—
My ain—my bonnie Jean.

An', Jean, our proud friends scorn'd us sair,
And coost their heads fu' hie,—
They couldna ken twa bodies puir,
Like senseless thee and me:
But we had wealth—our hands were good;
And wealth to us they've been;
And love was sunshine over a',
My ain—my bonnie Jean.

And mind ye, Jean, when we began
To gather flocks and gear,
How friends grew up in ilka neuk,
And came baith far and near?—
How we began to gather sense,
An' wise folk grew, I ween,

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As aye our wealth grew mair an' mair,
My ain—my bonnie Jean?

And now around us flourish fair,
Baith sons and dochters too:
You're happy in your bairns, gudewife,
And happy I'm in you;
And though your head be growin' gray,
And dimmer be your een,
Than in our days of blithsome youth,
You're aye my bonnie Jean.

GOD IS EVERYWHERE.

A trodden daisy, from the sward,
With tearful eye I took,
And on its ruin'd glories I,
With moving heart, did look;
For, crush'd and broken though it was,
That little flower was fair;
And oh! I loved the dying bud—
For God was there!

I stood upon a sea-beat shore—
The waves came rushing on;
The tempest raged in giant wrath—
The light of day was gone.

173

The sailor, from his drowning bark,
Sent up his dying prayer;
I look'd, amid the ruthless storm,
And God was there!

I sought a lonely, woody dell,
Where all things soft and sweet—
Birds, flowers, and trees, and running streams—
'Mid bright sunshine did meet:
I stood beneath an old oak's shade,
And summer round was fair;
I gazed upon the peaceful scene,
And God was there!

I saw a home—a happy home—
Upon a bridal day,
And youthful hearts were blithsome there,
And aged hearts were gay:—
I sat amid the smiling band,
Where all so blissful were—
Among the bridal maidens sweet—
And God was there!

I stood beside an infant's couch,
When light had left its eye—
I saw the mother's bitter tears,
I heard her woeful cry—
I saw her kiss its fair pale face,
And smooth its yellow hair;
And oh! I loved the Mourner's home,
For God was there!

174

I sought a cheerless wilderness—
A desert, pathless, wild—
Where verdure grew not by the streams,
Where Beauty never smiled;—
Where Desolation brooded o'er
A muirland lone and bare,—
And awe upon my spirit crept,
For God was there!

I looked upon the lowly flower,
And on each blade of grass—
Upon the forests, wide and deep;—
I saw the tempests pass:
I gazed on all created things
In earth, in sea, and air;
Then bent the knee—for God in Love
Was everywhere!

MY ONLY SISTER.

The wild-flowers, Marg'ret, round thee up are springing,
And sending forth into the summer sky
Their pure hearts' incense. Unto me they seem
Thy guardian angels, ever watching thee,
And praying for thee in sweet Nature's voice
So purely holy!

The light of Love is in thine eye, my sister!
The open smile of Joy is on thy brow,

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Thy floating hair falls o'er a little-heart
As innocent, as loving, and as pure,
As e'er on earth was lov'd with love like mine—
A brother's love!

Fair as the image of a Poet's musings—
Pure as the dreams of childhood's vision hour—
Thou art to me; for thou dost love me so.
My heart shall never tire of loving thee;
And what the heart doth love grows beautiful
As a pure soul!

I would that I the dusky veil could sever
Which shades the future from my longing sight,
That I might watch thy onward way through life—
That I might know how best to save thy heart
From woe—thy feet from snares—thy eye from tears—
My darling sister!

O! can that silver light which aye is flowing
From watching-stars, as flows unfailingly
A river from its source, which looks upon
Thy childhood's glee—e'er see thee lone with Woe,
A dweller in the dungeon-home of Grief
With none to comfort?

I know not, sister; but if purity
Be ever watching o'er thy virgin soul,
And if thy heart be filled with Steadfastness—

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With Trusting Love—with Truth that knows not guile—
Grief may be grievous, but thou'lt sternly bear,
My beautiful!

Who spake of Grief? Can eyes so brightly beaming
With Love, and Hope, and Joy, be fill'd with tears?
There is no heart so hard as do thee wrong,
Thou art so innocent: So brightly trusting
Would be thy smile into the face of Pain,
It could not harm!

My sister! friends may fail, and thy Affections
On Instability may all be laid:
But, in thy hour of loneliness, when those
Thou lovest most have left thee—then through tears
Remember that thy brother's heart and hand
Are ever open!

The love of all may change; but his!—O! never
While Time is flowing, nor beyond the Grave.
Dishonour ne'er shall cast its shadow o'er thee
While life is in his heart:—Thy head shall rest
For ever on his breast, and he will guard thee
As doth thy mother!

177

A DAY AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.

“Come, sit by your father's knee, My son,
On the seat by your father's door,
And the thoughts of your youthful heart, My son,
Like a stream of Gladness pour;
For, afar 'mong the lonely hills, My son,
Since the morning thou hast been;
Now tell me thy bright day-dreams, My son,—
Yea, all thou hast thought and seen!”

“When morn aboon yon eastern hill
Had raised its glimmering e'e,
I hied me to the heather hills,
Where gorcocks crawing flee;
And ere the laverock sought the lift,
Frae out the dewy dens,
I wandering was by mountain-streams
In lane and hoary glens.

“Auld frowning rocks on either hand,
Uprear'd their heads to Heaven,
Like temple-pillars which the foot
Of Time had crush'd and riven;

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And voices frae ilk mossy stane
Upon my ear did flow,—
They spake o' Nature's secrets a'—
The tales o' long ago.

“The daisy, frae the burnie's side,
Was looking up to God—
The crag that crown'd the towering peak
Seem'd kneeling on the sod:
A sound was in ilk dowie glen,
And on ilk naked rock—
On mountain-peak—in valley lone—
And holy words it spoke.

“The nameless flowers that budded up,
Each beauteous desert child,
The heather's scarlet blossoms, spread
O'er many a lanely wild,—
The lambkins, sporting in the glens—
The mountains old and bare—
Seem'd worshipping; and there with them
I breathed my morning prayer.

“Alang, o'er monie a mountain-tap—
Alang, through monie a glen—
Wi' Nature haudin' fellowship,
I journey'd far frae men.
Now suddenly a lonely tarn
Would burst upon my eye,
An' whiles frae out the solitudes
Would come the breezes' cry.

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“At noon, I made my grassy couch
Beside a haunted stream,—
A bonnie bloomin' bush o' broom
Waved o'er me in my dream.
I laid me there in slumberous joy
Upon the giant knee
Of yonder peak, that seem'd to bend
In watching over me.

“I dream'd a bonnie bonnie dream,
As sleepin' there I lay:—
I thought I brightly round me saw
The fairy people stray.
I dreamt they back again had come
To live in glen and wold—
To sport in dells 'neath harvest moons—
As in the days of old.

“I saw them dance upo' the breeze,
An' hide within the flower—
Sing bonnie and unearthly sangs,
An' skim the lakelets o'er!
That hour the beings o' the past,
Of ages lost an' gone,
Came back to earth, an' grot an' glen
Were peopled every one!

“The vision fled, and I awoke:—
The sun was sinkin' down;
The mountain-birds frae hazels brown
Had sung their gloamin' tune;

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The dew was sleepin' on the leaf,
The breezes on the flower;
And Nature's heart was beating calm,—
It was the evening hour.

“And, father, when the moon arose,
Upon a mountain-height
I stood and saw the brow of earth
Bound wi' its silver light.
Nae sound came on the watching ear
Upon that silent hill;
My e'en were filled with tears, the hour
Sae holy was and still!

“There was a lowly mound o' green
Beside me rising there,—
A pillow where a bairn might kneel,
And say its twilight prayer.
The moonlight kiss'd the gladsome flowers
That o'er that mound did wave;
Then I remember'd that I stood
Beside the Martyrs' grave!

“I knelt upon that hallow'd earth,
While Memory pictured o'er
The changing scenes—the changing thoughts
That day had held in store;
And then my breast wi' gladness swell'd,
And God in love did bless,—
He gave me, 'mong auld Scotland's hills,
A day of happiness!”

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THE WIDOW'S CHILD.

You said my lip was red, Mamma;
You said my face was fair;
You said my brow was white, Mamma,
And silken was my hair:
And you ca'd me your infant lassie sweet,
While I sat on the green grass at your feet;
And you said, while laigh was your tearful mane,
I was like my father dead and gane:—
O! I aye would like to be, Mamma,
What thou couldst love fu' weel;
And ever by your knee
Your bairn would like to kneel, Mamma,
Your bairn would like to kneel!

Do you mind the summer day, Mamma,
When through the woods we went—
When the e'enin' sunlight red, Mamma,
Wi' the leaves sae green was blent?—
And ye shawed me the wild-wood birdies a'—
The Lintie green and the Wren sae sma';
And I heard ilk singer chant its sang,
The green green leaves and buds amang:
And, O! their sangs were sweet, Mamma,
And their life was blithe and free;
And there's ane I there did meet
Whilk I would like to be, Mamma,
Whilk I would like to be!

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It's no the Lintie green, Mamma,
And it's no the Robin gray;
And it's no the little Wren, Mamma,
Nor the Mavis on the spray;
But, O! it's the bonnie wee Croodlin Doo,
That churm'd its sang where the beeches grew—
Wi' its downy wing and its glossy breast,
And its loving heart, and its forest nest:—
And though my lip be red, Mamma,
And though my face be fair,
I wish my hame were made
Wi' the bonnie Wild Doo there, Mamma,
Wi' the bonnie Wild Doo, there!

If I had the Wild Doo's wing, Mamma,
I far awa' wad flee,
Where my father, whom ye mourn, Mamma,
Is watchin' thee an' me!
An' I would press his lips to mine,
As ye aften press my cheek to thine—
I wad say to him my e'enin' prayer,
An' drop to sleep on his bosom there!
Syne back your wee Croodlin Doo, Mamma,
Wad come to its Mither's hand,
An' tidings bring to you
O' that far an' better land, Mamma,
O' that far an' better land!

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THE MOUNTAIN ORPHAN.

A picture of some olden fay—
A fairy in its charmed ring—
A creature all delight and joy—
Is that lone mountain-thing.

Around her widowed mother's home
Among the moors she roameth wild:
Free as their winds—fair as their flowers—
Is that pure joyous child.

Calmly at night she resteth here
Upon her mother's downy knee;
And on her breast she sleepeth sweet—
An orphan infant she.

And up she riseth in the morn,
And o'er the wilds she wanders lone,
And sitteth by their broom-hid streams:
Companions she hath none.

Companions! yes, the grass—the flowers—
The sunlight blithe—the heather brown—
The very moss that on the moors
The wind-beat crags doth crown—

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The living stars that gem the sky—
The gales that soothing murmur on—
The golden broom—are unto her
Companions every one!

The grass springs freshly up where she
The long, long summer-day is playing;
The flow'rets nod their heads in joy
Where she is blithely straying.

Yea that old moorland desert wild
That in its hoary age doth rest,
Seems smiling softly while she sits
Upon its rugged breast.

When on the hills that little maid
Is straying while her song she sings,
The gladness of her little heart
Through Nature's silence rings.

The glens and stream-banks are her home,
And Nature is a nurse to her;
The sounds that from her bosom come
Her infant spirit stir.

O'er moor, through glen, by rushy pool,
Untended still she seems to go;
But God doth watch that infant's feet
While wandering to and fro.

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Sweet moorland child! my heart hath leapt
While gazing on each sunny tress,
Thy glowing face, thy sparkling eyes,
Thy simple happiness.

The joy of hearts that know no guile
Hath shed its glory over thee:
Thou art—what great and wise are not—
As happy as a bee.

Yea, many, who, to gather gold
And hoary wisdom, long have toil'd,
Would wish to be again like thee,
Thou pure and happy child.

The mountain-winds have taught thee joy;
The flowers have taught thee purity;
Love, Hope, and Truth, the lips of earth
Have sweetly taught to thee.

Child of the mountains! may Deceit
Ne'er darken that blithe heart of thine!
May thou aye be a star of love
Upon this earth of ours to shine!

May God aye guard thee, infant sweet!
While on the moorlands thou dost tarry,
And keep thee in thy mother's home,
Thou bright young mountain fairy!

186

THE MOTHER'S MONODY.

O! she was the joy of her father's home—
The light of her mother's eye:
Yet she moulders now in the lonesome grave;
For the pure and good can die.
She was more akin to the Land above
Than the tearful earth below;
And there lives not a fairer spirit now
In the bliss she hath wander'd to.

I saw her bud, like a precious flower,
From infancy to youth,
As fair and pure as the rosy sky
Of the bright and fragrant South;
And I saw her loved in her father's house,
With a love earth ne'er surpass'd:
And I saw Decay, drear, dark, and cold,
O'er her youth its blighting cast.

But O! she murmur'd not to leave
This earth and the dwellers there,
Her parents loved or her sisters young,
With whom she had knelt in prayer:
But she droop'd with a smile upon her brow,
Which meekly seem'd to say,
Why weep ye, mother dear, for me?
It is best to be away!

187

And she would chant the lovesome songs
She had wont in joy to sing;
Their tones doth yet in her mother's ear
With a woeful cadence ring:
And she would kiss the cheek and lip
Of her sisters, loved so well;
And the joys of yon future Land of Love
To their infant ears would tell.

O! I saw her wither day by day,
And nightly saw her pine;
Yet I could not save—was e'er a lot
So woeful sad as mine?
I saw her grow more beauteous still,
As the day of death came near,
Till my daughter a spotless angel was
Ere she left her dwelling here!

And the last sad glance from her dear dark eye,
On her grieving parents fell;
And she was away to the better Land
She had ever loved so well:
And her sisters wept; and her father's eyes
With tears of grief were full;
But they forgot,—while her mother's heart
Remembers her daughter still!

O! I had hoped that her kindly hand
My dying eyes should close;
That upon my grave she would often sit
Where the grass of the churchyard grows;

188

And when long, long years had pass'd away,
And her hour of death had come,
That her mother's voice in that better Land
Should welcome her daughter home!

But I am left in this vale of tears,
And she to the Good hath gone;
And my daughter's eye, 'mid her holiness,
My grief is looking on:
And I would weep, for my heart is sore;
But her soul would my sorrow see;
And I dry my tears, and I seek to go,
My Mary, unto thee!

MY LILY.

Ae modest, winsome, little flower
Within a humble garden grew;
It cheered a lonely woman's hame—
But cauld decay the flower did pu'.
My orphan bairn, my only ane,
Ran round her widowed mother's knee,
And sleepit on her mother's breast;
Yet she is reft awa' frae me!

Fu' meek and gentle was her face,
And sweeter far my lassie's heart;
She wasna made for care or toil—
Her saft, laigh voice, has made me start:

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She was my last; but pale she grew—
Pale as the summer's fading day:
I grat in secret; for I saw
My Lily fading fast away!

She couldna sleep when winds were bauld,
And frost was hard upon the yird;
She couldna die till Spring came green,
And singing was each happy bird.
When flowers were busking everywhere,
And blackbirds sang in dean and shaw,
Like the last breath of Even's wind
My Lily faded fast awa'!

And then they tried to comfort me,
And hard and bitter words they spake,
And said it was a sinfu' thing
To greet and mane for Lily's sake.
I greet not now—this is her grave—
Earth has ae pleasure yet for me;
For I can sleep, and I can dream
That Lily's come again to me.

THE PRIMROSE.

The milk-white blossoms of the thorn
Are waving o'er the pool,

190

Moved by the wind that breathes along
So sweetly and so cool.
The hawthorn clusters bloom above,
The primrose hides below,
And on the lonely passer by
A modest glance doth throw!

The humble Primrose' bonnie face
I meet it everywhere;
Where other flowers disdain to bloom
It comes and nestles there.
Like God's own light, on every place
In glory it doth fall:
And where its dwelling-place is made,
It straightway hallows all!

Where'er the green-winged linnet sings
The Primrose bloometh lone;
And love it wins—deep love—from all
Who gaze its sweetness on.
On field-paths narrow, and in woods
We meet thee near and far,
Till thou becomest prized and loved,
As things familiar are!

The stars are sweet at eventide,
But cold, and far away;
The clouds are saft in summer time,
But all unstable they:

191

The rose is rich—but pride of place
Is far too high for me—
God's simple common things I love—
My Primrose, such as thee!

I love the fireside of my home,
Because all sympathies,
The feelings fond of every day,
Around its circle rise.
And while admiring all the flowers
That Summer suns can give,
Within my heart the Primrose sweet,
In lowly love doth live!

THE NAMELESS RIVULET.

We met within a Highland glen—
Where, wandering to and fro
Amid the rushes and the broom,
A pilgrim thou didst go.
Tripping betwixt thy gowany banks
I heard thy tinkling feet,
While with thy solitary voice
The primrose thou didst greet!

Then, nameless stream, I imaged thee
A pure and happy child,
Whose soul is filled with guileless love,
Its brain with fancies wild;

192

Which wanders 'mid the haunts of men,
Through suffering, care, and fear,
Pouring its waking thoughts and dreams
In Nature's faithful ear!

Like brothers, streamlet, forth we fared,
Upon a July morn,
And left behind us rocky steep,
And mountain wastes forlorn.
Where'er thy murmuring footstep strayed,
Along with thee I went;
Thy haunts were Nature's fanes, and I
Was therewith well content.

Adown by meadows green we roved,
Where children sweet were playing,
We glided through the glens of green,
Where lambkins fair were straying.
We lingered where thy lofty banks
Were clad with bush and tree,
And where the linnet's sweetest song
Was sung to welcome thee.

Then came the forest dark and deep;
As through its shade we went
The leaves and boughs, with foliage bowed,
Were with thy waters blent.
And through the leafy veil the sun
Fell lone, and fitfully,
To kiss thy waves, that from the hills
Came flowing on with me.

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And when we left the wild-wood's shade,
From fields of ripened grain
The reapers' song came sweetly down,
And thine replied again.
Away we went by hut and hall,
Away by cottage lone,
Now lingering by a patch of wood,
Now moving heedless on!

Where praying monks had been we passed,
And all was silent there,
Save when thy voice the echoes waked,
Which heard the hermit's prayer.
We passed by thickets green and old,
By craggy rocks so steep,
And o'er leaf-shadow'd waterfalls,
We cheerily did leap!

And then a spot upon us burst,
Where hills on either side
Rose up, all clad in coppice-wood,
Which rock and steep did hide.
The ivy clasp'd each stone and bush
Thou flow'dst along between;
While rock and river, bird and flower,
Filled up the glorious scene.

By happy homes of toiling men,
We this sweet day have passed,
And have enjoyed each sight and sound,
As though it were our last:

194

And now we loiter lazily
Beneath the setting sun;
My journey ends when starlight comes,
Thine is not well begun!

Now, Highland streamlet, ere we part,
Which didst thou love the best
Of all we've seen since, silently,
We left thy Highland nest?
Lovest thou best the meadow green,
Or Highland valley gray?
Or lovest thou best by hazel braes,
At eventide to stray?

Or dost thou love where forest trees
Thy little waves are laving?
Or wealthy fields, where golden grain,
Ripe, to the sun, is waving?
The rustle of thy fleety foot,
Upon my ear doth fall—
Thou stream, like this full heart of mine,
Dost dearly love them all!

Without a name, and all unknown,
Fair streamlet, though thou art,
Be still unchristen'd! but I'll keep
Thy murmurs in my heart.
My story of thy pilgrimage
Will to the careless tell,
How much of love and beauty in
Unnoted things do dwell.

195

THE BRAMBLE.

Be the bramble in the berry,
Or be it in the flower,—
Or be it bare of leaf and bud
Waved by the winter shower;
That creeping bush that lowly is,
As lowly well can be,
It hath a charm—a history—
A tale that pleases me!

When black grew bramble-berries,
Some twenty years ago,
The dawning often saw us set
Where mountain waters flow;
And when the gruesome gloaming came
To keek into our creel,
It found a fouth o' spotted trout
Whilk we had tackled weel!

The bramble-berries were our food,
And water was our wine,
The linnet to the self-same bush
Came after us to dine.
As down the glen at e'en we gaed,
The lammies round us bleated,
And we, wi' blithesome hearts, their word
To ilka rock repeated!

196

And when awa' we used to gang
By fieldpaths green and lane,
The bramble flower'd beside our feet,
And mantled tree and stane;
And wi' the hedgerow, oak, and thorn,
Its branches twisted were,
That scarcely through the wall of leaves,
Could breathe the caller air!

Then be the bramble-berry black,
Or be it in the flower,
I love its humble lowliness,
For sake o' days run ower:
And grow it in the woods sae green,
Or grow it on the brae,
I like to meet the bramble bush
Where'er my footsteps gae!

ALICE.

My breast is press'd to thine, Alice,
My arm is round thee twined;
Thy breath dwells on my lip, Alice,
Like clover-scented wind:

197

Love glistens in thy sunny e'e,
And blushes on thy brow;
Earth's Heaven is here to thee and me,
For we are happy now!

Thy cheek is warm and saft, Alice,
As the summer laverock's breast;
And Peace sleeps in thy soul, Alice,
Like the laverock on its nest!
Sweet! lay thy heart aboon my heart,
For it is a' thine ain;
That morning love it gi'es to thee,
Which kens nae guile or stain!

Ilk starn in yonder lift, Alice,
Is a love-lighted e'e,
Fill'd fu' o' gladsome tears, Alice,
While watching thee and me.
This twilight hour the thoughts run back,
Like moonlight on the streams,
Till the o'erladen heart grows grit
Wi' a' its early dreams!

Langsyne amang the hills, Alice,
Where wave the breckans green,
I wander'd by the burn, Alice,
Where fairy feet had been,—
While o'er me hung a vision sweet,
My heart will ne'er forget—
A dream o' Summer twilight times
When flowers wi' dew were wet!

198

I thought on a' the tales, Alice,
O' Woman's love and faith;
Of Truth that smiled at Fear, Alice,
And Love that conquer'd Death;
Affection blessing hearts and hames,
When joy was far awa,
And Fear and Hate; but Love, O Love!
Aboon and over a'!

And then I thought wi' me, Alice,
Ane walk'd in beauty there—
A being made for love, Alice,
So pure, and good, and fair—
Who shared my soul—my every hour
O' sorrow and o' mirth;
And when that dream was gone, my heart
Was lonely on the earth!

Ay, lonely grew the world, Alice—
A dreary hame to me;
Without a bush or bield, Alice,
Or leafy sheltering tree;
And aye as sough'd life's raging storm,
Wi' keen and eerie blaw,
My soul grew sad, and cold my heart,
I wish'd to be awa'.

But light came o'er my way, Alice,
And life grew joy to me;
The daisy in my path, Alice,
Unclosed its gentle e'e;

199

Love breath'd in ilka wind that blew,
And in ilk birdie's sang;
Wi' sunny thoughts o' summer time
The blithesome heart grew thrang.

My dreams o' youth and love, Alice,
Were a' brought back again;
And Hope upraised its head, Alice,
Like the violet after rain:
A sweeter maid was by my side
Than things of dreams can be,
First, precious love to her I gave,
And, Alice, thou wert she!

Nae lip can ever speak, Alice,
Nae tongue can ever tell,
The sumless love for thee, Alice,
With which my heart doth swell!
Pure as the thoughts of infants' souls,
And innocent and young;
Sic love was never tauld in sangs,
Sic sangs were never sung!

My hand is on thy heart, Alice,
Sae place thy hand in mine;
Now, welcome weal and woe, Alice,
Our love we canna tine.
Ae kiss! let others gather gowd
Frae ilka land and sea;
My treasure is the richest yet,
For, Alice, I ha'e thee!

These lines were addressed by Nicoll to his wife. They were sent from Leeds to a friend in Edinburgh, some time after his marriage, and have never appeared till now.

200

THE DYING MAIDEN.

The winds are soughin' o'er the hills,
The burns come gushin' doun—
The kelpie in the drumlie weil
Is singin' his eerie croon!
Sae sharp an' cauld the nippin' sleet
Blaws o'er the leafless lea,
An' Death, frae out the darksome grave,
Is callin' upon me!

O! mither, stand ye at my head—
Gang, sister, to my feet;
An', Willie, sit by my bedside,
But dinna moan an' greet.
I would like to look on those I love,
Sae lang as I can see,—
As the snaw-drap fades 'mang the lave awa',
Sae I would like to dee!

O! this is a bright an' glorious earth,
An' I ha'e lo'ed it weel—
I ha'e lo'ed to sleep on my mither's breast,
By my mither's knee to kneel:
An' I ha'e lo'ed thee, sister fair,
Wi' mair than a sister's love;
An' how I lo'ed thee, Willie dear,
The Angels ken above!

201

An' I ha'e dream'd o' comin' years,
When ane we twa should be,—
When Grief should sadden, Joy rejoice
Alike baith thee an' me—
When we should bear ae heart, ae hope,
Ae burden, an' ae name;
An' gang a-field thegither aye,
An' come thegither hame!

An' I ha'e dream'd o' bairnies fair,
Wi' een as blithe as thine—
An' hair like gowd, an' rosie lips,
An' lovin' hearts like mine:
An I ha'e heard their voices sweet
Say “Mither!” unto me,
An' seen them turn an', smilin', say,
“My Father!” unto thee!

An', Willie, ae fond wish ha'e I—
Though I would like awa'—
To live, that I my love for thee
Sae measureless might shaw.
My love for thee! it can be known
To mine own heart alone,—
A star o' love an' gladness, thou
For ever o'er me shone!

My voice is wearin' faint an' low;
Sae, Willie, ere I gang,

202

You'll promise me, when I am laid
The kirkyard yird amang,
To come at e'en, when o'er the glen
The birks their shadows cast,
An' sit upo' my grave, an' think
O' me an' moments past.

Awa', awa, to yonder Land,
My soul is wearin' now;
But 'mid yon Holiness an' Joy,
I'll aye be watchin' you.
An', if alane ye e'er be left,
In sickness or in wae,
Mind, Willie, that a spirit's hand
Doth lead ye night an' day.

Kiss ance again this burnin' brow;
An let me look upon
The lip—the cheek—the hazel eye
I've prized in moments gone!
My mither! ope the casement wide
That I may see the lea
Where gowans grow:—The Gates o' Light
Are open now to me!

203

A WOODLAND WALK.

The blackbird's song is bursting from the brake,
And morning breezes bear it far away;
The early sunbeam from its breast doth shake
The floating veil of dewy mist so gray;
The dun deer wanders, like a frighten'd fay,
Through dingles deep and wild, where linnets sing;
Ah! who would slumber, who along can stray,
Where mighty oaks their branches o'er him fling,
To which the diamond dew, in pearlings bright, doth cling?

How beautiful! the green corn-fields are waving,
The clouds of dawn are floating on the sky;
The fearful hare its hidden couch is leaving,
And, sporting, to the clover-field doth hie:
Beneath the morning sun the waters lie,
Like treasur'd sunbeams in a woody nook!
God's earth is glorious; and how bless'd am I
Who love it all? On what I love I look,
And joy runs through my heart, like yon calm, tinkling brook.

The cottage-hearths are cold, the peasant sleeps,
But all the mighty woodlands are awake;
Within its hermitage the primrose sleeps,
And with the dew the beech-trees' branches shake,
As through the wood my devious path I take;

204

The velvet grass a fairy carpet seems,
On which, through leafy curtains, light doth break,
Now bright and strong, and now in fitful gleams,
As 'mid realities come fancy's fairest dreams.

Now stooping 'neath the branches wet with dew—
Now o'er the open forest-glades I go—
Now listening to the cushat's wailing coo—
Now starting from its lair the bounding roe;
And now I hear the breezes, to and fro,
Making among the leaves a pleasant din;
Or find myself where silent streamlets flow,
Like hermits, wandering these wild-woods within—
While hoar and aged trees bend o'er each little linn.

The lakelet of the forest I have left,
Sleeping, like beauty, in a branchy bower:
The woodland opens:—Crumbling all, and cleft,
There stands the ruin'd Abbey's lonely tower,
To speak of vanish'd pomp, exhausted power—
To hear these winds among the leaflets blow
With the same tone as in its proudest hour—
To see the flowers within the forest grow,
As when the fallen reigned—a thousand years ago!

Decaying, roofless walls! and is this all
That Desolation's blighting hand hath left
Of tower, and pinnacle, and gilded hall?
The everlasting rocks by time are cleft—
Within each crevice spiders weave their weft;

205

The wandering gipsy comes to hide him here,
When he from plunder'd housewife's stores has reft
The needful elements of gipsy cheer;
For ghost of Abbot old the gipsy doth not fear.

Where are the glancing eyes that here have beam'd?
Where are the hearts which whilom here have beat?
Where are the shaven monks, so grim who seem'd?
Where are the sitters in the Abbot's seat?
Where are the ceaseless and unnoted feet,
That wore a pavement-path with kneeling prayers?
Where is the coffin—where the winding sheet—
And monuments which nobles had for theirs,
When death drew nigh, and closed life's long account of cares?

The ivy clings around the ruin'd walls
Of cell, and chapel, and refectory;
An oak-tree's shadow, cloud-like, ever falls
Upon the spot where stood the altar high:
The chambers all are open to the sky;
A goat is feeding where the praying knelt;
The daisy rears its ever open eye
Where the proud Abbot in his grandeur dwelt:
These signs of time and change the hardest heart might melt.

Is this a cell?—Offended God to serve
By the heart's crucifixion, here have tried
Self-immolated men, who would not swerve,
But in the impious work serene have died:
A glory on the lowly wall doth bide;

206

For though the hypocrite hath shuffled here,
Here, too, from earnest lips did often glide
The words of men mistaken but sincere,
Who, with pure spirits, tried to fight man's battle here.

The buttercups are lifting up their heads
Upon the floor of the confessional,
Where came the worshipper, with counted beads,
Upon his knees in penitence to fall—
Where came the great to listen unto all,
And scoff or pray, as good or ill was he.
Could words come forth of that time-stricken wall,
Some wondrous tales retold again would be:
The maiden's simple love—the feat of villany.

This is the chapel where the matin hymn
Was chanted duly for a thousand years,
Till faith grew cold and doubtful—truth grew dim—
Till earnest hope was wither'd up by sneers.
Within it now no glorious thing appears:
But as the dewy wind blows sweetly by,
Upon the thoughtful list'ner's joyful ears
Doth come a sweet and holy symphony,
And Nature's choristers are chanting masses high!

Grow up, sweet daisies, on the silent floor;
Fall down, dark ivy, over every wall;
Oak, send thy branches out at every door;
Goat, from its chambers to thy mate do call,
Power reign'd in might, and never fear'd a fall.

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And where is it? And what is here to-day?
Truth triumphs over mitre, crown, and all;
Mind rent its iron fetters all away—
The tyrants, proud and high—where, at this hour, are they?

Old walls and turrets, moulder silently,
Till not a trace of all your state remain!—
The throstle's song, from yonder spreading tree,
Doth call me to the woodlands once again;
Louder doth rise the blackbird's passing strain,
And gladness from its sacred heart doth flow,
Till music falls, like summer's softest rain,
On all that lives and suffers here below,
Making a flower upon the lonest pathway grow!

The sun is higher in the morning sky—
His beams embrace the mossy-trunkëd trees;
Yonder the squirrel, on the elm so high,
Frisketh about in the cool morning breeze—
Down peeps his diamond eye—amazed, he sees
A stranger in his solitary home;
And now he hides behind the oaken trees—
And now he forth upon a branch doth come,
To crack his beechen-nuts, and watch me as I roam.

The hawthorn hangs its clusters round me now,
Through which the sky peeps sweetly, sweetly in;
Through the green glades doth come the cattle's low
From the rich pastures of the meadow green.
Look up!—aloft, the twittering birds are seen

208

Upon the branches, their wild matins singing:
Look down! the grass is soft and thick, I ween;
And flowers around each old tree-root are springing,
Wood fancies, wild and sweet, to the lone wanderer bringing.

And here are rich blaeberries, black and wild,
Beneath the beech-tree's thickest branches growing;
This makes me once again a wayward child,
A pilgrimage into the woodland going—
The haunt of squirrel and of wood-mouse knowing,
And plucking black blaeberries all the day,
Till eastward mountain-shadows night was throwing,
And sending me upon my homeward way,
Fill'd, both in soul and sense, with the old forest gray.

I must away, for I have loiter'd long
Amid the wood, and by the ruins old:
I must away, for far the sky along
The sun doth pour his beams of brightest gold.
Farewell, sweet glades, wild dingles, grassy wold—
Squirrel and blackbird, linnet and throstle, too—
Farewell, ye woodland streamlets, pure and cold—
Sweet cooing cushat—primrose wet with dew—
To woodland thoughts and things a sweet, a short adieu!

It may be proper to mention, that this poem, like all those composed in the last busy and suffering year of Nicoll's life, is written in pencil; and is what he must have considered unfinished. Yet the Editor could not feel justified in suppressing a composition so rich in descriptive beauty, that it all but rivals some of his Scottish moorland landscapes.