The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Vi Part 25

We were baith neebor bairns, thegither we play'd, We loved our first love, an' our hearts never stray'd; When I got my young la.s.sie her first vow to gie, We promised to wait for each ither a wee.

My mother was widow'd when we should hae wed, An' the nicht when we stood roun' my father's death-bed, He charged me a husband and father to be, While my young orphan sisters clung weepin' to me.

I kent nae, my Mary, what high heart was thine, Nor how brightly thy love in a dark hour wad s.h.i.+ne, Till in doubt and in sorrow, ye whisper'd to me, "Win the blessing o' Heaven for thy Mary and thee."

An' years hae flown by deeply laden wi' care, But Mary has help'd me their burden to bear, She gave me my s.h.i.+eld in misfortune and wrong, 'Twas she that aye bade me be steadfast and strong.

Her meek an' quiet spirit is aye smooth as now, Her saft s.h.i.+nin' hair meekly shades her white brow, A few silver threads 'mang its dark faulds I see, They tell me how lang she has waited on me.

Her cheek has grown paler, for she too maun toil, Her sma' hands are thinner, less mirthfu' her smile; She aft speaks o' heaven, and if she should dee, She tells me that there she 'll be waitin' on me.

A SONG OF SUMMER.

I will sing a song of summer, Of bright summer as it dwells, Amid leaves and flowers and suns.h.i.+ne, In lone haunts and gra.s.sy dells.

Lo! the hill encircled valley Is like an emerald cup, To its inmost depths all glowing, With sunlight br.i.m.m.i.n.g up.

Here I 'd dream away the day time, And let happy thoughts have birth, And forget there 's aught but glory, Aught but beauty on the earth.

Not a speck of cloud is floating In the deep blue overhead, 'Neath the trees the daisied verdure Like a broider'd couch is spread.

The rustling leaves are dancing With the light wind's music stirr'd, And in gushes through the stillness Comes the song of woodland bird.

Here I 'd dream away the day-time, And let gentlest thoughts have birth, And forget there 's aught but gladness, Aught but peace upon the earth.

ROBERT DUTHIE.

The writer of some spirited lyrics, Robert Duthie was born in Stonehaven on the 2d of February 1826. Having obtained an ordinary elementary education, he was apprenticed, in his fourteenth year, to his father, who followed the baking business. He afterwards taught a private school in his native town; but, on the death of his father, in 1848, he resumed his original profession, with the view of supporting his mother and the younger members of the family. Devoting his leisure hours to literature and poetry, he is a frequent contributor to the provincial journals; and some of his lyrical productions promise to secure him a more extended reputation.

SONG OF THE OLD ROVER.

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the wild sea waves, And the tempest around me is swelling; The winds have come forth from their ice-ribb'd caves, And the waves from their rocky dwelling; But my trim-built bark O'er the waters dark Bounds lightly along, And the mermaid lists to my echoing song.

Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to lave In the briny spray of the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the foaming deep, And the storm-bird above me is screaming; While forth from the cloud where the thunders sleep The lightning is fearfully gleaming; But onward I dash, For the fitful flash Illumes me along, And the thunders chorus my echoing song.

Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to brave The dangers that frown on the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat where my well-served shot Lays the war-dogs bleeding around me; But ne'er do I yield on the tentless field Till the wreath of the victor hath crown'd me; Then I, a true child Of the ocean wild, With a tuneful tongue Bear away with my prize and my conquering song.

Hurrah! hurrah! shot and storm, let them rave-- I 'm at home, das.h.i.+ng on through the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on my ocean home-- The home of the hurrying billow; But the time is at hand when no longer I 'll roam, But in peace lay me down on its pillow: The petrel will scream My requiem hymn, And the thunders prolong The deep-chorus'd note of my last echo'd song, As I sink to repose in my rock-bound grave That is down in the depths of the wild sea wave.

BOATMAN'S SONG.

Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea, The home of the rover, the bold and free; Land hath its charms, but those be mine, To row my boat through the sparkling brine-- To lave in the pearls that kiss the prow Of the bounding thing as we onward go-- To nerve the arm and bend the oar, Bearing away from the vacant sh.o.r.e.

Pull away, pull away o'er the gla.s.sy sea-- 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me; Land hath its charms, but no charms like thine: Hurrah! let us dash through the sparkling brine.

Gloomily creeping the mists appear In denser shade on the mountains drear; And the twilight steals o'er the stilly deep, By the zephyrs hush'd to its evening sleep; Nor a ripple uprears a whiten'd crest, To wrinkle the blue of its placid breast; But all is still, save the lisping waves Was.h.i.+ng the sh.e.l.ls in the distant caves.

Pull away, pull away o'er the sleeping sea-- 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me-- 'Tis the home of my heart where I 'd ever rove!

Hurrah! hurrah! for the home I love.

Oh, I love the sound of the tempest's roar, And I love the splash of the bending oar, Playing amid the phosphoric fire, Seen as the eddying sparks retire.

'Tis a fairy home, and I love to roam Through its sleeping calm or its las.h.i.+ng foam.

The land hath its charms, but the sea hath more; Then away let us row from the vacant sh.o.r.e.

Pull away, pull away o'er the mighty sea-- 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me; 'Tis the home of the rover, the bold and free: Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea.

LISETTE.

When we meet again, Lisette, Let the sun be sunk to rest Beneath the glowing wavelets Of the widely spreading west; Let half the world be hush'd In the drowsiness of sleep, And howlets scream the music Of the revels that they keep.

Let the gentle lady-moon, With her coldly drooping beams, Be dancing in the ripple Of the ever-laughing streams, Where the little elves disport In the stilly noon of night, And lave their limbs of ether In the mellow flood of light.

When we meet again, Lisette, Let it be in yonder pile, Beneath the ma.s.sy fretting Of its darkly-shaded aisle, Where, through the crumbling arches The quaint old carvings loom, And saint and seraph keep their watch O'er many an ancient tomb.

ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON.

Alexander Stephen Wilson was born on the 4th April 1826, in the parish of Rayne, Aberdeens.h.i.+re. His father, who rented a farm, having been killed by a fall from his horse, the subject of this sketch was brought up from infancy under the care of his maternal grandfather. In his boyhood he attended school during winter, and in summer was employed as a cow-herd. At the age of fifteen he was apprenticed to a land-surveyor, with whom he served five years. With a native turn for versifying, he early invoked the muse, and contributed poetry to the public journals.

At the close of his apprentices.h.i.+p, he established a debating club among the young men in the district of Rayne, and subsequently adventured on the publication of a monthly periodical. The latter, ent.i.tled _The Rural Echo_, was almost wholly occupied with the ingenious projector's own compositions, both in prose and poetry, and commanded a wide circulation. Devoted to metaphysical inquiries, Mr Wilson has latterly turned his attention to that department of study. He has likewise been ardent in the pursuit of physical science. An ingenious treatise from his pen on the nature of light, published in 1855, attracted no inconsiderable notice, and is strongly indicative of original power. He has latterly resided in Perth, holding the appointment of a.s.sistant civil engineer.

THINGS MUST MEND.

The gloom of dark despondency At times will cloud the breast; Hope's eagle eye may shaded be, 'Mid fortune's fears oppress'd; But while we nurse an honest aim We shall not break nor bend, For when things are at the worst They must mend.

The gentle heart by hards.h.i.+p crush'd Will sing amid its tears, And though its voice awhile be hush'd, 'Tis tuned for coming years; A light from out the future s.h.i.+nes With hope's tear-drops to blend, And when things are at the worst They must mend.