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These are mournful, but somewhat hopeful strains; for one who feels that "time has long been knelling, sad one, depart!" must, if not a sceptic, have looked beyond the grave, and descried in better worlds, rest and solace for the aching heart. Here, in his "narrow dwelling," he gently sleeps, while pilgrims from afar drop tears of sympathy upon its "gra.s.sy mound."
Motherwell was a man of pure genius. His poems are distinguished for their deep tenderness and exquisite melody. They are gemmed, moreover, with beautiful conceptions, with original and striking expressions.
There is nothing, in the whole range of Scottish poetry, except Burns's "Highland Mary," equal in beauty and pathos to
"JEANIE MORRISON."
I've wandered east I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget, The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that's blawn on Beltane[126] e'en, May weel be black 'gin[127] Yule,[128]
But blacker fa' awaits the heart When first fond luve grows cule.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts of bygane years, Still fling their shadows o'er my path, And blind my een wi' tears: They blind my een wi' saut,[129] saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks[130] o' lang syne.
'Twas then we luvit ilk[131] ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time--sad time! twa bairns at school, Twa bairns and but ae[132] heart!
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh[133] bink, To lier[134] ilk ither lear; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair.
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof[135] locked in loof, What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent down o'er ae braid page Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee.
O mind[136] ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the schule[137] weans laughin' said, We cleeked[138] thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Sat.u.r.days, (The schule then skail't[139] at noon,) When we ran aff to speel[140] the braes, The broomy braes o' June?
My heid runs round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thochts rush back, O' schule time and o' thee.
O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!
O lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied[141] hopes around our hearts, Like simmer blossoms sprang!
O mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin'[142] dinsome[143] toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon?[144]
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood, The throssil[145] whusslit sweet.
The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, And we wi' Nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe[146] abune the burn, For hours thegither sat: In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very, very gladness grat.[147]
Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled down your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled,--unsung!
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin[148] I hae been to thee, As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, As ye hae been to me?
O! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine; O! say gin e'er your heart grows[149] grit Wi' dreamings o' lang syne?
I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings far or near, Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart, Still travels on its way; And channels deeper as it runs, The luve o' life's young day.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I die, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed, O' bygane days and me!
[Footnote 126: Holyrood day.]
[Footnote 127: Until.]
[Footnote 128: Christmas.]
[Footnote 129: Salt.]
[Footnote 130: Gleams, or flashes.]
[Footnote 131: Each other.]
[Footnote 132: One.]
[Footnote 133: Low bench.]
[Footnote 134: To teach.]
[Footnote 135: Hand.]
[Footnote 136: Remember.]
[Footnote 137: School children.]
[Footnote 138: Clasped.]
[Footnote 139: Dismissed.]
[Footnote 140: Climb.]
[Footnote 141: Honied.]
[Footnote 142: Deafening.]
[Footnote 143: Noisy.]
[Footnote 144: Murmur.]
[Footnote 145: Thrush or mavis.]
[Footnote 146: Knoll.]
[Footnote 147: Wept.]
[Footnote 148: If.]
[Footnote 149: Swells.]
Equally beautiful and still more pathetic, is "_My Heid is like to rend, Willie_." Indeed, we know of nothing so affecting as the last stanzas of this exquisite ballad. The poor heart-broken girl gives abundant evidence of her profound penitence:
O! dinna mind my words, Willie, I downa seek to blame,-- But O! it's hard to live, Willie, And dree a world's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek, And hailin' ower your chin; Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, For sorrow and for sin.
I'm weary o' this warld, Willie, And sick wi' a' I see,-- I canna live as I hae lived, Or be as I should be.
But fauld unto your heart, Willie, The heart that still is thine,-- And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek, Ye said was red lang syne.
