“ That echo'd aloft o'er the furze cover'd dales.
How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell!
Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell;
I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!
[Pg 256] THERE IS A BONNIE, BLUSHING FLOWER.
There is a bonnie, blushing flower—
But ah! I darena breathe the name;
I fain would steal it frae its bower,
Though a' should think me sair to blame.
It smiles sae sweet amang the rest,
Like brightest star where ither's shine;
Fain would I place it in my breast,
And make this bonnie blossom mine. ”

“ I have always esteemed the sweetest privilege of life. No one can become utterly sour, no one can lose faith and hope in humanity, who was nurtured on the milk and honey of Fleurs, under "good Duke James." Poetry and enthusiasm must spring eternal in his breast. This is no illusion from the fancies of boyhood. Ask the old peasant of Tweedside—a mature, hardy man then—and he will tell, with a glow on his cheek, and a tear, due to remembrance, in his eye, "Ah! the Fleurs was a braw place under auld Duke Jemmy!" ”

“ The lass that weds a warly fool
May laugh, and sing, and dance a wee;
But earthly love soon waxes cool,
And foolish fancies turn ajee.
My laddie's heart is fu' o' grace,
His loving e'e blinks bonnily,
A heavenly licht illumes his face;
Nae wonder though he 's dear to me.
TWILIGHT JOYS.
Musing, we sat in our garden bower,
In the balmy month of June,
Enjoying the pensive gloamin' hour
When our daily task was done.
We spake of the friends of our early days,
Some living, some dead and gane,
And fancy skimm'd o'er the flow'ry braes
Of our morning life again. ”

“ Yourself a man of letters, you were among the foremost who took an interest in the establishment of the Scottish Literary Institute, of which you are now the President—a society having for its main object the relief, in circumstances of virtuous indigence, of those men of genius and learning who have contributed by the pen to perpetuate among our countrymen that spirit of intelligence and love of freedom which, by his sword, Sir William Wallace first taught Scotsmen how to vindicate and maintain. ”

“ Meet me then, my own true maiden,
Where the wild flowers shed their bloom
And the air with fragrance laden,
Breathes around a rich perfume.
With my true love as I wander,
Captive led by beauty's power,
Thoughts and feelings sweet and tender
Hallow that delightful hour.
Give ambition dreams of glory,
Give the poet laurell'd fame,
Let renown in song and story
Consecrate the hero's name;
Give the great their pomp and pleasure,
Give the courtier place and power;
Give to me my bosom's treasure,
And the lonely gloaming hour.
OH, LEAVE ME NOT.
Oh, leave me not! ”

“ Give misers their gold, all the bliss they can know;
But let me meet Flora, while pensive I wander—
Fair Flora, dear Flora! the maid of Glencoe!
Oh, first when we met, being handsome and gay,
I felt she had stole my affections away;
The mavis sang loud on the sweet hawthorn tree,
But her voice was more sweet and endearing to me.
The sun spread his rays of bright gold o'er the fountain,
The hours glided by without languor or woe,
As we pull'd the sweet flowers from the steep rocky mountains—
My blessings attend thee, sweet maid of Glencoe! ”

“ He calls the curlers on to the field of hope and fame,
An' the spreading lake resounds wi' the noble Scottish game!
The hedges an' the trees are a' hung wi' pearls braw,
An' the rinks are glancing clear 'mang the heaps o' shinin' snaw;
The wee birds in the blast are a' tremblin' wi' the cauld;
The sheep are lyin' close in the safely guarded fauld;
The farmer leaves the plough, an' the weaver leaves the loom,
Auld age gangs totterin' by wi' the youth in manhood's bloom;
The miseries o' life are a' banish'd far frae hame,
When the curlers meet to play at the brave old Scottish game! ”

“ Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.
If a noble—remember, though ancient thy blood,
The heart truly noble is that which is good;
Should a stain of dishonour encrimson thy brow,
Thou art slave to the peasant that sweats at the plough.
Be noble as man—and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.
If lover or husband—be faithful and kind,
For doubting is death to the sensitive mind;
Love's exquisite passion a breath may destroy ”

“ To brave the wintry breeze.
Our hearts shall never quail
Below the servile yoke,
Long as our seamen trim the sail,
And wake the battle smoke—
Long as they stem the stormy gale,
On planks of British oak!
Then in its native mead,
The golden acorn lay;
And watch with care the bursting seed,
And guard the tender spray;
England will bless us for the deed,
In some far future day!
Oh! plant the acorn tree
Upon each Briton's grave;
So shall our island ever be,
The island of the brave—
The mother-nurse of liberty,
And empress o'er the wave!
PEACE IN WAR.
Peace be upon their banners! ”

“ Its heart burst in blossom 'neath simmer's warm breath;
But when shall the warm blush o' life's faded simmer
Bring back the rose-bloom frae the winter o' death?
How kin' should the heart be, aye warm an' forgi'en,
When sune, like a leaf, we maun a' fade awa';
When life's winter day as a shadow is fleein'—
But simmer aye shines whar nae autumn leaves fa'! ”

“ Whatever storms in life may blaw,
Take nae sic heart o' fear.
Though life's been aye a checker'd scene
Since Eve's first apple grew,
Nae blade o' grass has been forgot
O' its ain drap o' dew.
The bonnie flowers o' Paradise,
And a' that 's bloom'd sinsyne,
By bank an' brae an' lover's bower,
Adown the course o' time,
Or 'neath the gardener's fostering hand,—
Their annual bloom renew,
Ilk blade o' grass has had as weel
Its ain sweet drap o' dew.
The oaks and cedars of the earth
May toss their arms in air,
Or bend beneath the sweeping blast
That strips the forest bare ”

“ Great rock, whose sterile granite heart
Knows not, like us, misfortune's smart,
The river sporting at thy knee,
On thy stern brow no change can see:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!
Stand fast on thine own Scottish ground,
By Scottish mountains flank'd around,
Though we uprooted, cast away
From the warm bosom of Strathspey,
Flung pining by this western sea,
The exile's hopeless lot must dree:
Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie! ”

“ To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above,
Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves,
For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves.
[Pg 133] GENIUS.
Eye of the brain and heart,
O Genius, inner sight,
Wonders from thee familiar start,
In thy decisive light.
Wide and deep the eye must go,
The process of our world to know.
Old mountains grated to the sea,
Sow the young seed of isles to be.
States dissolve, that Nature's plan
May bear the broadening type of man.
Passes ne'er the Past away ”

“ The sun, though obscured, never ceases to shine;
Above the black tempest his radiance is pouring
While faithless and faint-hearted mortals repine.
The journey of life has its lights and its shadows,
And Heaven in its wisdom to each sends a share;
Though rough be the road, yet with reason to guide us,
And courage to conquer, we'll never despair!
Never despair! when with troubles contending,
Make labour and patience a sword and a shield,
And win brighter laurels, with courage unbending,
Than ever were gained on the blood-tainted field. ”

“ Wi' their wild-sounding pipes, march'd her callant awa';
Though she schules, feeds, an' cleeds his wee orphan wean,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Ye wild wintry winds, ye blaw surly and sair,
On the heart that is sad, on the wa's that are bare;
When care counts the links o' life's heavy chain,
The poor heart is hopeless that winna complain.
The Sabbath-day comes, and the Widow is seen,
I' the aisle o' the auld kirk, baith tidy and clean;
Though she aft sits for hours on the mossy grave-stane,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain! ”

“ Than glancing spear and temper'd sword, bright instruments of war;
As thee I grasp with willing hand, and feel a reaper's glee,
When, waving in the rustling breeze, the ripen'd field I see;
Or listen to the harmless jest, the bandsman's cheerful song,
The hearty laugh, the rustic mirth, while mingling 'mid the throng;
With joy I see the well-fill'd sheaf, and mark each rising stook,
As thee I ply with agile arm, my trusty Reaping Hook!
They tell of glorious battle-fields, strew'd thick with heaps of slain!
Alas! the triumphs of the sword bring only grief and pain ”

“ Nature, industry, peace, mirth, love, a kindred soul between duke and people, seemed to breathe in every gale there, and sing in the matins and vespers of every bird. There the lyric joyousness, characteristic of the Scottish people when allowed freely to develop, expanded itself to the utmost of its power and fervour. ”

“ Suppose summer shining in all its pride, and that labour is to enjoy one of its highest festivals at Fleurs. All work ceases at noon; and by two, the people, dressed in holiday attire, muster at the trysting-spot, and march in a body to the castle, preceded by Tam Anderson, the duke's piper, a grave, old-fashioned man, in livery of green coat and black velvet breeches—a fossil specimen he of what the Border minstrel once was, when his art was in its prime. ”

“ Round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed,
A dream o' the past, when a' other's hae fled.
The young hearts may kythe, though they 're forced far away,
But its dool to the spirit when haffets are gray;
The saplin transplanted may flourish a tree,
Whar the hardy auld aik wad but wither and dee.
[Pg 92]
They tell me I gang whar the tropic suns shine
Owre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine;
For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined
Turn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind.
No, my spirit shall stray whar the red heather grows! ”

“ The sea gives up her secrets hoary;
And Beauty thine, on loom divine,
Weaving the rainbow's woof of glory.
Power of the civic heart,
More than a power to know,
Genius, incarnated in Art,
By thee the nations grow. ”

“ And the above thin water-colour sketch of a real popular life, though presenting only one or two out of an endless variety of its phases, will give a more distinct conception than a volume of fanciful generalities could, of what I mean by the lyric joyousness of the Scottish people; and is, besides, a sincere, though mean and unworthy tribute to the virtues of a true patriarchal nobleman, about the last of the race, whose name, if the world were not too apt to forget its most excellent ones, would be eternised in the memory of mankind. ”

“ Her heart is a fount rinnin' owre wi' affection,
And a warld o' feeling is the love o' her e'e.
The prince may be proud o' his vast hoarded treasures,
The heir o' his grandeur and high pedigree;
They kenna the happiness dwalt in my bosom,
When alane wi' the angel o' luve and o' le.
I 've seen the day dawn in a shower-drappin' goud,
The grass spread wi' dew, like a wide siller sea;
The clouds shinin' bricht in a deep amber licht,
And the earth blushin' back to the glad lift on hie. ”

“ But nane stirs my heart wi' sae happy a thrill
As the sound o' the wheel o' the auld meal mill.
Success to the mill and the merry mill-wheel!
Lang, lang may it grind aye the wee bairnies' meal!
Bless the miller—wha often, wi' heart and good-will,
Fills the widow's toom pock at the auld meal mill.
The auld meal mill—oh, the auld meal mill,
Like a dream o' my schule days it haunts me still;
Like the sun's summer blink on the face o' a hill,
Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.
THE THISTLE.
Hurrah for the thistle! ”

“ They are the ballads, songs, and tunes of the people. In their own language, but that language glittering from the hidden well of poesy—in ideas which they at once recognise as their own, because photographed from nature—these lyrics embody the loves and thoughts [Pg viii] of the people, the themes on which they delight to dwell, even their passions and prejudices; and vibrate in their memories, quickening the pulses of life, knitting them to the Old Land, and shedding a poetic glow over all the commonplaces of existence and occupation. ”

“ Three hundred workpeople and their families are there; for the duke sternly forbids any but his own people to be present. It is in vain for me, whose knowledge of cookery never extended beyond the Edinburgh student's fare of mince collops and Prestonpans beer, to attempt a description of this monster-feast—the mountains of beef and dumplings, the wilderness of pasties and tarts, the orchardfuls of fruit, the oceans of strong ale—the very fragments of which would have been enough to carry a garrison through a twelvemonth's siege. ”

“ The rich forget their state and the charms o' wealth and power,
When the bosom swells wi' joy in the bright triumphant hour.
The wise may laugh an' sneer, and the unco guid may gloom
At the happy, happy man, wi' his curlin' stanes and broom;
The melody to charm is the sport we love to name,
Ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old Scottish game! ”

“ Nae mair the summer's op'ning bloom
Gies ought o' joy to me.
Dark, dark to me the pearly flowers,
An' sad the mavis sang,
An' little heart hae I to roam
These leafy groves amang.
She 's gane! she 's gane! the loveliest maid!
An' wae o'erpress'd I pine;
The grass waves o'er my Myra's grave!
Ah! ance I ca'd her mine.
What ither choice does fate afford,
Than just to mourn and dee,
Sin' gane the star that cheer'd my sky,
The beam that bless'd my e'e?
At gloamin' hour alang the burn,
Alane she lo'ed to stray,
To pu' the rose o' crimson bloom,
An' haw-flower purple gray. ”