The Modern Scottish Minstrel, Volume IV.
V >> Various >> The Modern Scottish Minstrel, Volume IV.Hers was a face, to which was given
Less portion of the earth than heaven,
As if each trait had stole
Its hue from Nature's shapes of light;
As if stars, flowers, and all things bright
Had join'd to form her soul.
Her heart was young--she loved to breathe
The air which spins the mountain's wreath,
To wander o'er the wild,
To list the music of the deep,
To see the round stars on it sleep,
For she was Nature's child!
Nursed where the soul imbibes the print
Of freedom--where nought comes to taint,
Or its warm feelings quell:
She felt love o'er her spirit driven,
Such as the angels felt in heaven,
Before they sinn'd and fell.
Her mind was tutor'd from its birth,
From all that's beautiful on earth--
Lights which cannot expire--
From all their glory, she had caught
A lustre, till each sense seem'd fraught
With heaven's celestial fire.
The desert streams familiar grown,
The stars had language of their own,
The hills contain'd a voice
With which she could converse, and bring
A charm from each insensate thing,
Which bade her soul rejoice.
She had the feeling and the fire,
That fortune's stormiest blast could tire,
Though delicate and young;
Her bosom was not formed to bend--
Adversity, that firmest friend,
Had all its fibres strung.
Such was my love--she scorn'd to hide
A passion which she deem'd a pride!
Oft have we sat and view'd
The beauteous stars walk through the night,
And Cynthia lift her sceptre bright,
To curb old Ocean's mood.
She'd clasp me as if ne'er to part,
That I might feel her beating heart--
Might read her living eye;
Then pause! I've felt the pure tide roll
Through every vein, which to my soul,
Said--Nature could not lie.
LUCY'S GRAVE.
My spirit could its vigil hold
For ever at this silent spot;
But, ah! the heart within is cold,
The sleeper heeds me not:
The fairy scenes of love and youth,
The smiles of hope, the tales of truth,
By her are all forgot:
Her spirit with my bliss is fled--
I only weep above the dead!
I need not view the grassy swell,
Nor stone escutcheon'd fair;
I need no monument to tell
That thou art lying there:
I feel within, a world like this,
A fearful blank in all my bliss--
An agonized despair,
Which paints the earth in cheerful bloom,
But tells me, thou art in the tomb!
I knew Death's fatal power, alas
Could doom man's hopes to pine,
But thought that many a year would pass
Before he scatter'd mine!
Too soon he quench'd our morning rays,
Brief were our loves of early days--
Brief as those bolts that shine
With beautiful yet transient form,
Round the dark fringes of the storm!
I little thought, when first we met,
A few short months would see
Thy sun, before its noontide, set
In dark eternity!
While love was beaming from thy face,
A lover's eye but ill could trace
Aught that obscured its ray;
So calm its pain thy bosom bore,
I thought not death was at its core!
The silver moon is shining now
Upon thy lonely bed,
Pale as thine own unblemish'd brow,
Cold as thy virgin head;
She seems to breathe of many a day
Now shrouded with thee in the clay,
Of visions that have fled,
When we beneath her holy flame,
Dream'd over hopes that never came!
Hark! 'tis the solemn midnight bell,
It mars the hallow'd scene;
And must we bid again--farewell!
Must life still intervene?
Its charms are vain! my heart is laid
E'en with thine own, celestial maid!
A few short days have been
An age of pain--a few may be
A welcome passport, love! to thee.
THE FORGOTTEN BRAVE.
'Tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land,
As the patriot sons of the mountain should die,
With the mail on each bosom, the sword in each hand,
On the heath of the desert they lie.
Like their own mountain eagles they rush'd to the fight,
Like the oaks of their deserts they braved its rude blast;
Their blades in the morning look'd dazzling and bright,
But red when the battle was past.
They rush'd on, exulting in honour, and met
The foes of their country in battle array;
But the sun of their glory in darkness hath set,
And the flowers of the forest are faded away!
Oh! far from the scenes of their childhood they sleep,
No friend of their bosom, no loved one is near,
To add a gray stone to their cairns on the steep,
Or drop o'er their ashes a tear.
THE FIRST SHIP.
The sky in beauty arch'd
The wide and weltering flood,
While the winds in triumph march'd
Through their pathless solitude--
Rousing up the plume on ocean's hoary crest,
That like space in darkness slept,
When his watch old Silence kept,
Ere the earliest planet leapt
From its breast.
A speck is on the deeps,
Like a spirit in her flight;
How beautiful she keeps
Her stately path in light!
She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee--
The sun has on her smiled,
And the waves, no longer wild,
Sing in glory round that child
Of the sea.
'Twas at the set of sun
That she tilted o'er the flood,
Moving like God alone
O'er the glorious solitude--
The billows crouch around her as her slaves.
How exulting are her crew--
Each sight to them is new,
As they sweep along the blue
Of the waves!
Fair herald of the fleets
That yet shall cross the wave,
Till the earth with ocean meets
One universal grave,
What armaments shall follow thee in joy!
Linking each distant land
With trade's harmonious band,
Or bearing havoc's brand
To destroy!
WEEP NOT.
Though this wild brain is aching,
Spill not thy tears with mine;
Come to my heart, though breaking,
Its firmest half is thine.
Thou wert not made for sorrow,
Then do not weep with me;
There is a lovely morrow,
That yet will dawn on thee.
When I am all forgotten--
When in the grave I lie--
When the heart that loved thee 's broken,
And closed the sparkling eye;
Love's sunshine still will cheer thee,
Unsullied, pure, and deep;
For the God who 's ever near thee,
Will never see thee weep.
TO THE CLYDE.
When cities of old days
But meet the savage gaze,
Stream of my early ways
Thou wilt roll.
Though fleets forsake thy breast,
And millions sink to rest--
Of the bright and glorious west
Still the soul.
When the porch and stately arch,
Which now so proudly perch
O'er thy billows, on their march
To the sea,
Are but ashes in the shower;
Still the jocund summer hour,
From his cloud will weave a bower
Over thee.
When the voice of human power
Has ceased in mart and bower,
Still the broom and mountain flower
Will thee bless.
And the mists that love to stray
O'er the Highlands, far away,
Will come down their deserts gray
To thy kiss.
And the stranger, brown with toil,
From the far Atlantic soil,
Like the pilgrim of the Nile,
Yet may come
To search the solemn heaps
That moulder by thy deeps,
Where desolation sleeps,
Ever dumb.
Though fetters yet should clank
O'er the gay and princely rank
Of cities on thy bank,
All sublime;
Still thou wilt wander on,
Till eternity has gone,
And broke the dial stone
Of old Time.
REV. T. G. TORRY ANDERSON.
The author of the deservedly popular words and air of "The Araby Maid,"
Thomas Gordon Torry Anderson was the youngest son of Patrick Torry,
D.D., titular bishop of St Andrews, Dunkeld, and Dunblane. His mother,
Jane Young, was the daughter of Dr William Young, of Fawsyde,
Kincardineshire. Born at Peterhead on the 9th July 1805, he received his
elementary education at the parish school of that place. He subsequently
prosecuted his studies in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and the
University of Edinburgh. In 1827, he received holy orders, and was
admitted to the incumbency of St John's Episcopal Church, Portobello. He
subsequently became assistant in St George's Episcopal Church,
Edinburgh, and was latterly promoted to the pastorate of St Paul's
Episcopal Church, Dundee.
Devoted to the important duties of the clerical office, Mr Torry
Anderson experienced congenial recreation in the cultivation of music
and song, and in the occasional composition of both. He composed, in
1833, the words and air of "The Araby Maid," which speedily obtained a
wide popularity. The music and words of the songs, entitled "The
Maiden's Vow," and "I Love the Sea," were composed in 1837 and 1854,
respectively. To a work, entitled "Poetical Illustrations of the
Achievements of the Duke of Wellington and his Companions in Arms,"
published in 1852, he extensively contributed. During the summer of
1855, he fell into bad health, and was obliged to resign his incumbency.
He afterwards resided on his estate of Fawsyde, to which he had
succeeded, in 1850, on the death of his uncle, Dr Young. He died at
Aberdeen on the 20th of June 1856, in his fifty-first year. He was three
times married--first, in 1828, to Mrs Gaskin Anderson of Tushielaw,
whose name he adopted to suit the requirements of an entail; secondly,
he espoused, in 1838, Elizabeth Jane, daughter of Dr Thomas Sutter,
R.N.; and lastly, Mrs Hill, widow of Mr William Hill, R.N., whom he
married in 1854. He has left a widow and six children.
THE ARABY MAID.
Away on the wings of the wind she flies,
Like a thing of life and light--
And she bounds beneath the eastern skies,
And the beauty of eastern night.
Why so fast flies the bark through the ocean's foam,
Why wings it so speedy a flight?
'Tis an Araby maid who hath left her home,
To fly with her Christian knight.
She hath left her sire and her native land,
The land which from childhood she trode,
And hath sworn, by the pledge of her beautiful hand,
To worship the Christian's God.
Then away, away, oh swift be thy flight,
It were death one moment's delay;
For behind there is many a blade glancing bright--
Then away--away--away!
They are safe in the land where love is divine,
In the land of the free and the brave--
They have knelt at the foot of the holy shrine,
Nought can sever them now but the grave.
THE MAIDEN'S VOW.
The maid is at the altar kneeling,
Hark the chant is loudly pealing--
Now it dies away!
Her prayers are said at the holy shrine,
No other thought but thought divine
Doth her sad bosom fill.
The world to her is nothing now,
For she hath ta'en a solemn vow
To do her father's will.
But why hath one so fair, so young,
The joys of life thus from her flung--
Why hath she ta'en the veil?
Her lover fell where the brave should fall,
Amidst the fight, when the trumpet's call
Proclaim'd the victory.
He fought, he fell, a hero brave--
And though he fill a lowly grave,
His name can never die.
The victory's news to the maiden came--
They loudly breathed her lover's name,
Who for his country fell.
But vain the loudest trumpet tone
Of fame to her, when he was gone
To whom the praise was given!
Her sun of life had set in gloom--
Its joys were withered in his tomb--
She vow'd herself to Heaven.
I LOVE THE SEA.
I love the sea, I love the sea,
My childhood's home, my manhood's rest,
My cradle in my infancy--
The only bosom I have press'd.
I cannot breathe upon the land,
Its manners are as bonds to me,
Till on the deck again I stand,
I cannot feel that I am free.
Then tell me not of stormy graves--
Though winds be high, there let them roar;
I 'd rather perish on the waves
Than pine by inches on the shore.
I ask no willow where I lie,
My mourner let the mermaid be,
My only knell the sea-bird's cry,
My winding-sheet the boundless sea!
GEORGE ALLAN.
George Allan was the youngest son of John Allan, farmer at Paradykes,
near Edinburgh, where he was born on the 2d February 1806. Ere he had
completed his fourteenth year, he became an orphan by the death of both
his parents. Intending to prosecute his studies as a lawyer, he served
an apprenticeship in the office of a Writer to the Signet. He became a
member of that honourable body, but almost immediately relinquished
legal pursuits, and proceeded to London, resolved to commence the career
of a man of letters. In the metropolis his literary aspirations were
encouraged by Allan Cunningham and Mr and Mrs S. C. Hall. In 1829, he
accepted an appointment in Jamaica; but, his health suffering from the
climate of the West Indies, he returned in the following year. Shortly
after his arrival in Britain, he was fortunate in obtaining the
editorship of the _Dumfries Journal_, a respectable Conservative
newspaper. This he conducted with distinguished ability and success for
three years, when certain new arrangements, consequent on a change in
the proprietary, rendered his services unnecessary. A letter of Allan
Cunningham, congratulating him on his appointment as a newspaper editor,
is worthy of quotation, from its shrewd and sagacious counsels:--
"Study to fill your paper," writes Cunningham, "with
such agreeable and diversified matter as will allure
readers; correct intelligence, sprightly and elegant
paragraphs, remarks on men and manners at once free
and generous; and local intelligence pertaining to the
district, such as please men of the Nith in a far land.
These are the staple commodity of a newspaper, and
these you can easily have. A few literary paragraphs
you can easily scatter about; these attract
booksellers, and booksellers will give advertisements
where they find their works are noticed. Above all
things, write cautiously concerning all localities; if
you praise much, a hundred will grumble; if you are
severe, one only may complain, but twenty will shake
the head. You will have friends on one side of the
water desiring one thing, friends on the other side
desiring the reverse, and in seeking to please one you
vex ten. An honest heart, a clear head, and a good
conscience, will enable you to get well through all."
On terminating his connexion with the _Dumfries Journal_, Allan
proceeded to Edinburgh, where he was immediately employed by the Messrs
Chambers as a literary assistant. In a letter addressed to a friend,
about this period, he thus expresses himself regarding his enterprising
employers:--
"They are never idle. Their very recreations are made conducive
to their business, and they go through their labours with a
spirit and cheerfulness, which shew how consonant these are with
their dispositions." "Mr Robert Chambers," he adds, "is the most
mild, unassuming, kind-hearted man I ever knew, and is perfectly
uneasy if he thinks there is any one uncomfortable about him. The
interest which he has shewn in my welfare has been beyond
everything I ever experienced, and the friendly yet delicate way
in which he is every other day asking me if I am all comfortable
at home, and bidding me apply to him when I am in want of
anything, equally puzzles me to understand or express due thanks
for."
Besides contributing many interesting articles to _Chambers's Edinburgh
Journal_, and furnishing numerous communications to the _Scotsman_
newspaper, Allan wrote a "Life of Sir Walter Scott," in an octavo
volume, which commanded a wide sale, and was much commended by the
public press. In preparing that elegant work, the "Original National
Melodies of Scotland," the ingenious editor, Mr Peter M'Leod, was
favoured by him with several songs, which he set forth in that
publication, with suitable music. In 1834, some of his relatives
succeeded, by political influence, in obtaining for him a subordinate
situation in the Stamp Office,--one which at once afforded him a certain
subsistence, and did not necessarily preclude the exercise of his
literary talents. But a constitutional weakness of the nervous system
did not permit of his long enjoying the smiles of fortune. He died
suddenly at Janefield, near Leith, on the 15th August 1835, in his
thirtieth year. In October 1831, he had espoused Mrs Mary Hill, a widow,
eldest daughter of Mr William Pagan, of Curriestanes, and niece of Allan
Cunningham, who, with one of their two sons, still survives. Allan was a
man of singularly gentle and amiable dispositions, a pleasant companion,
and devoted friend. In person he was tall and rather thin, with a
handsome, intelligent countenance. An enthusiast in the concerns of
literature, it is to be feared that he cut short his career by
overstrained application. His verses are animated and vigorous, and are
largely imbued with the national spirit.[20]
FOOTNOTES:
[20] We are indebted to William Pagan, Esq. of Clayton, author of "Road
Reform," for much of the information contained in this memoir. Mr Pagan
kindly procured for our use the whole of Mr Allan's papers and MSS.
IS YOUR WAR-PIPE ASLEEP?[21]
Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, M'Crimman?
Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever?
Shall the pibroch, that welcom'd the foe to Benaer,
Be hush'd when we seek the dark wolf in his lair,
To give back our wrongs to the giver?
To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone,
Like the course of the fire-flaught the clansmen pass'd on,
With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have boon'd them,
And have ta'en to the field with their vassals around them;
Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen,
Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!
II.--(M'CRIMMAN.)
Youth of the daring heart! bright be thy doom
As the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now,
But the fate of M'Crimman is closing in gloom,
And the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow;
Victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to Benaer,
And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there,
But M'Crimman, M'Crimman, M'Crimman, never--
Never! Never! Never!
III.--(CLANSMEN.)
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not, M'Crimman?
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not?
If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know
That the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when a foe
Bared his blade in the land he had won not!
Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind,
And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind,
There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing,
'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing,
Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen;
Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!
FOOTNOTES:
[21] In Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," this song is attributed to
the Rev. George Allan, D.D. It is also inserted among the songs of the
Ettrick Shepherd, published by the Messrs Blackie. The latter blunder is
accounted for by the fact that a copy of the song, which was sent to the
Shepherd by Mr H. S. Riddell, as a specimen of Mr Allan's poetical
talents, had been found among his papers subsequent to his decease. This
song, with the two immediately following, appeared in M'Leod's "National
Melodies," but they are here transcribed from the author's MSS.
I WILL THINK OF THEE YET.
I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be,
In the land of the stranger, deserted and lone,
Though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd to me,
And the hopes which once bloom'd in my bosom are gone,
I will think of thee yet, and the vision of night
Will oft bring thine image again to my sight,
And the tokens will be, as the dream passes by,
A sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye.
I will think of thee yet, though misfortune fall chill
O'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that lours on the lea,
And I'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still,
While I know that one heart still beats warmly for me.
Yes! Grief and Despair may encompass me round,
'Till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found;
But mine anguish will cease when my thoughts turn to you
And the wild mountain land which my infancy knew.
I will think of thee; oh! if I e'er can forget
The love that grew warm as all others grew cold,
'Twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set,
Or memory fled from her care-haunted hold;
But while life and its woes to bear on is my doom,
Shall my love, like a flower in the wilderness, bloom;
And thine still shall be, as so long it hath been,
A light to my soul when no other is seen.
LASSIE, DEAR LASSIE.
Lassie, dear lassie, the dew 's on the gowan,
And the brier-bush is sweet whar the burnie is rowin',
But the best buds of Nature may blaw till they weary,
Ere they match the sweet e'e or the cheek o' my dearie!
I wander alane, when the gray gloamin' closes,
And the lift is spread out like a garden o' roses;
But there 's nought which the earth or the sky can discover
Sae fair as thysell to thy fond-hearted lover!
The snaw-flake is pure frae the clud when it 's shaken,
And melts into dew ere it fa's on the bracken,
Oh sae pure is the heart I hae won to my keepin'!
But warm as the sun-blink that thaw'd it to weepin'!
Then come to my arms, and the bosom thou 'rt pressing
Will tell by its throbs a' there's joy in confessing,
For my lips could repeat it a thousand times over,
And the tale still seem new to thy fond-hearted lover.
WHEN I LOOK FAR DOWN ON THE VALLEY BELOW ME.[22]
When I look far down on the valley below me,
Where lowly the lot of the cottager's cast,
While the hues of the evening seem ling'ring to shew me
How calmly the sun of this life may be pass'd,
How oft have I wish'd that kind Heaven had granted
My hours in such spot to have peacefully run,
Where, if pleasures were few, they were all that I wanted,
And Contentment 's a blessing which wealth never won.
I have mingled with mankind, and far I have wander'd,
Have shared all the joys youth so madly pursues;
I have been where the bounties of Nature were squander'd
Till man became thankless and learn'd to refuse!
Yet _there_ I still found that man's innocence perish'd,
As the senses might sway or the passions command;
That the scenes where alone the soul's treasures were cherish'd,
Were the peaceful abodes of my own native land.
Then why should I leave this dear vale of my choice
And the friends of my bosom, so faithful and true,
To mix in the great world, whose jarring and noise
Must make my soul cheerless though sorrows were few?
Ah! too sweet would this life of probation be render'd,
Our feelings ebb back from Eternity's strand,
And the hopes of Elysium in vain would be tender'd,
Could we have all we wish'd in our dear native land.
FOOTNOTES:
[22] Printed, for the first time, from the author's MS.
I WILL WAKE MY HARP WHEN THE SHADES OF EVEN.[23]
I will wake my harp when the shades of even
Are closing around the dying day,
When thoughts that wear the hues of Heaven
Are weaning my heart from the world away;
And my strain will tell of a land and home
Which my wand'ring steps have left behind,
Where the hearts that throb and the feet that roam
Are free as the breath of their mountain wind.
I will wake my harp when the star of Vesper
Hath open'd its eye on the peaceful earth,
When not a leaf is heard to whisper
That a dew-drop falls, or a breeze hath birth.
And you, dear friends of my youthful years,
Will oft be the theme of my lonely lay,
And a smile for the past will gild the tears
That tell how my heart is far away.
I will wake my harp when the moon is holding
Her star-tent court in the midnight sky,
When the spirits of love, their wings unfolding,
Bring down sweet dreams to each fond one's eye.
And well may I hail that blissful hour,
For my spirit will then, from its thrall set free,
Return to my own lov'd maiden's bower,
And gather each sigh that she breathes for me.