Corpus of Modern Scottish Writing (CMSW) - www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk/cmsw/ Document : 113 Title: Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver Author(s): Thom, Mr William RHYMES AND RECOLLECTIONS OF A HAND-LOOM WEAVER. BY WILLIAM THOM, OF INVERURY. "An' syne whan nichts grew cauld an' lang, Ae while he sicht — ae while he sang." — Old Ballad. LONDON: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., AND SAMUEL CLARKE. EDINBURGH: JOHN MENZIES; GLASGOW: DAVID ROBERTSON. ABERDEEN: W. RUSSEL; INVERURY: R. EMSLIE. MDCCCXLIV. ABERDEEN: PRINTED AT THE HERALD OFFICE, BY JOHN FINLAYSON. TO MRS. GORDON OF KNOCKESPOCK, THE LADY OF MY EARLIEST PATRON, SHARER OF HIS BLESSINGS, WORTHY ASSOCIATE IN HIS VIRTUES, This Little Book IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. PAGE DEDICATION, 3 TO THE READER, 7 RECOLLECTIONS, 11 THE BLIND BOY'S PRANKS. — NO. I., 33 NO. II., 36 NO. III., 40 KNOCKESPOCK'S LADY, 43 THE MANIAC MOTHER'S DREAM, 47 OLD FATHER FROST AND HIS FAMILY, 51 AUTUMN WINDS, 53 O, MARY, WHEN YOU THINK OF ME, 55 I'VE SOUGHT IN LANDS AYONT THE SEA, 57 I WOULDNA — O, I COULDNA LOOK, 59 JEANIE'S GRAVE, 61 THEY SPEAK O' WYLES, 63 THE LAST TRYST, 65 ONE OF THE HEART'S STRUGGLES, 67 YE DINNA KEN YON BOWER, 69 BONNIE MAY, 71 LINES WRITTEN AT RAVENSCRAIG, 73 A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE ———, 75 YTHANSIDE, 78 A CHIEFTAIN UNKNOWN TO THE QUEEN, 80 THE DRUNKARD'S DREAM, 82 CAN YE FORGET, 84 THE LASS O' KINTORE, 86 DID THEY MEET AGAIN? 88 WHAUR DOES THE BLYTHE BEE SIP? 90 THE LASS WI' THE WANDERIN' E'E 92 MY HEATHER LAND, 94 MY HAMELESS HA' 96 LETTER TO J. ROBERTSON, ESQ. LONDON, 98 ADDRESS TO WILLIE, 99 HOSPITAL CHARITIES, 100 DREAMINGS OF THE BEREAVED, 102 THE MITHERLESS BAIRN, 104 THE WEDDED WATERS, 106 O, THAT MY LOVE WAS SO EASILY WON, 108 A WISH, 110 SECOND LOVE, 112 ADDRESS TO THE DON, 114 NOTES, 117 TO THE READER. IF, in my song or in my saying, there appears more of egotism than enough, how can I avoid it and speak at all? The narrative portion of these pages is a record of scenes and circumstances interwoven with my experience — with my destiny. Hence the necessity of my telling my own tale. Then the feelings and fancies, the pleasure and the pain, that for a time hovered about my aimless existence were all my own — my property. These aerial investments I held and fashioned into measured verse. Thus, by the self-derived authority whereby I tell my own tale, do I sing my own song; so that I, We, and Us, are the all and all of the matter. The self-portraiture herein attempted, is not altogether egotism neither, inasmuch as the main lineaments of the sketch are to be found in the separate histories of a thousand families in Scotland within these last ten years. That fact, however, being contemplated in mass, and in reference to its bulk only, acts more on the wonder than on the pity of mankind, as if human sympathies, like the human eye, could not compass an object exceedingly large. and same time exceedingly near. It is no small share in the end and aim of the present little work, to impart to one portion of the community a glimpse of what is sometimes going on in another; and even if only that is accomplished, some good service is done. I have long had a notion that many of the heartburnings that run through the SOCIAL WHOLE, spring, not so much from the distinctiveness of classes, as their mutual ignorance of each other. The miserably rich look on the miserably poor with distrust and dread, scarcely giving them credit for sensibility sufficient to feel their own sorrows. That is ignorance with its gilded side. The poor, in turn, foster a hatred of the wealthy as a sole inheritance — look on grandeur as their natural enemy, and bend to the rich man's rule in gall and bleeding scorn. Puppies on the one side, and demagogues on the other, are the portions that come oftenest into contact. These are the luckless things that skirt the great divisions, exchanging all that is offensive therein. "Man know thyself" should be written on the right hand; on the left, "Men know each other." It is a subject worthy of a wise head and a pithy pen. To these I leave it, and turn to tell my readers a few words more about this book. With very little exception, every thing here presented was written in Inverury, and within these last three years. The "Recollections" are introduced for the sake of the "Rhymes," and in the same relationship as parent and child — one the offspring of the other; and in that association alone can they be interesting. I write no more in either than what I knew — and not all of that — so feeling has left fancy little to do in the matter. While in London, I was introduced to Mr. Robert Chambers of the Edinburgh Journal. In course of gossip, I related to him what led to the production of an "Ode to my Flute." He liked the story, and, at his request, I wrote it. It appeared in the Edinburgh Journal, and is here reprinted in a more extended form. RECOLLECTIONS. IN the spring of 18—, the failure of certain great commercial establishments in America, combining with other causes, silenced, in one week, upwards of 6000 looms in Dundee, and the various agencies in its connexion, and spread dismay throughout the whole county of Forfar. Amongst the many villages thus trade-stricken, none felt the blow more severely than that of Newtyle, near Cupar-Angus. This village was new, having sprung up since the completion of the Dundee Railway, a few years ago. It consisted chiefly of weaving-shops and dwellings for the weavers. The inhabitants, about two hundred in number, were strangers to the place and to each other, having been recently collected from distant places by advertisements promising them many advantages, but which, when the evil day came, were little regarded. While employers were, some unwilling and many unable, to do anything for the relief of those whom they had brought together for their own purposes, the people of the neighbourhood, including those of the old village of Newtyle, regarded them with stern prejudice, as intruders "that naebody kent naething about." It were too much to say that they were positively persecuted by their neighbours, but certainly they received no sympathy in their distresses from that quarter, much less any relief. A little while thinned the village, those only remaining who had many children, and were obliged to consider well before they started. To these (and I was of the number) one web was supplied weekly, bringing five shillings. The weaver will know what sort of job the weaving of an "Osnaburg" was at that price. It had been a stiff winter and unkindly spring, but it passed away, as other winters and springs must do. I will not expatiate on six human lives subsisted on five shillings weekly — on babies prematurely thoughtful — on comely faces withering — on desponding youth and too quickly declining age. These things are perhaps too often talked of. Let me describe but one morning of modified starvation at Newtyle, and then pass on. Imagine a cold spring forenoon. It is eleven o'clock, but our little dwelling shows none of the signs of that time of day. The four children are still asleep. There is a bed-cover hung before the window, to keep all within as much like night as possible; and the mother sits beside the beds of her children, to lull them back to sleep whenever any shows an inclination to awake. For this there is a cause, for our weekly five shillings have not come as expected, and the only food in the house consists of a handful of oatmeal saved from the supper of last night. Our fuel is also exhausted. My wife and I were conversing in sunken whispers about making an attempt to cook the handful of meal, when the youngest child awoke beyond its mother's power to hush it again to sleep, and then fell a whimpering, and finally broke out in a steady scream, which, of course, rendered it impossible any longer to keep the rest in a state of unconsciousness. Face after face sprung up, each with one consent exclaiming, "Oh, mother, mother, gie me a piece!" How weak a word is sorrow to apply to the feelings of myself and wife during the remainder of that dreary forenoon! We thus lingered on during the spring, still hoping that things would come a little round, or that at least warmer weather would enable us, with more safety, to venture on a change of residence. At length, seeing that our strength was rapidly declining, I resolved to wait no longer. Proceeding to Dundee, I there exchanged, at a pawnbroker's, a last and most valued relic of better days, for ten shillings, four of which I spent on such little articles as usually constitute "a pack," designing this to be carried by my wife, while other four shillings I expended on second-hand books, as a stock of merchandize for myself; but I was very unfortunate in my selection, which consisted chiefly of little volumes, containing abridgements of modern authors, these authors being generally of a kind little to the taste of a rustic population. On a Thursday morning, we forsook our melancholy habitation, leaving in it my two looms and some furniture (for we thought of returning to it), and the key with the landlord. On the third day, Saturday, we passed through the village of Inchture, in the Carse of Gowrie, and proceeded towards Kinnaird. Sunset was followed by cold, sour east winds and rain. The children becoming weary and fretful, we made frequent inquiries of other forlorn-looking beings whom we met, to ascertain which farm-town in the vicinity was most likely to afford us quarters. Jean was sorely exhausted, bearing an infant constantly at the breast, and often carrying the youngest boy also, who had fairly broken down in the course of the day. It was nine o'clock when we approached the large and comfortable-looking steading of B—, standing about a quarter of a mile off the road. Leaving my poor flock on the wayside, I pushed down the path to the farm-house with considerable confidence, for I had been informed that B— (meaning, by this local appellation, the farmer) was a humane man who never turned the wanderer from his door. Unfortunately for us, the worthy farmer was from home, and not expected to return that night. His housekeeper had admitted several poor people already, and could admit no more. I pleaded with her the infancy of my family, the lateness of the night, and their utter unfitness to proceed — that we sought nothing but shelter — that the meanest shed would be a blessing. Heaven's mercy was never more earnestly pleaded for than was a night's lodging by me on that occasion; but "No, no, no," was the unvarying answer to all my entreaties. I returned to my family. They had kept closer together, and all, except the mother, were fast asleep. "Oh, Willie, Willie, what keepit ye?" inquired the trembling woman; "I'm dootfu' o' Jeanie," she added; "isna she waesome like? Let's in frae the cauld." "We've nae way to gang, lass," said I, "whate'er come o' us. Yon folk winna hae us." Few more words passed. I drew her mantle over the wet and chilled sleepers, and sat down beside them. My head throbbed with pain, and for a time became the tenement of thoughts I would not now reveal. They partook less of sorrow than of indignation, and it seemed to me that this same world was a thing very much to be hated; and, on the whole, the sooner that one like me could get out of it, the better for its sake and mine own. I felt myself, as it were, shut out from mankind — enclosed — prisoned in misery — no outlook — none! My miserable wife and little ones, who alone cared for me — what would I not have done for their sakes at that hour! Here let me speak out — and be heard, too, while I tell it — that the world does not at all times know how unsafely it sits — when Despair has loosed Honour's last hold upon the heart — when transcendent wretchedness lays weeping Reason in the dust — when every unsympathizing onlooker is deemed an enemy — who THEN can limit the consequences? For my own part. I confess that, ever since that dreadful night, I can never hear of an extraordinary criminal, without the wish to pierce through the mere judicial view of his career, under which, I am persuaded, there would often be found to exist an unseen impulse — a chain, with one end fixed in Nature's holiest ground, that drew him on to his destiny. The gloamin' light was scarcely sufficient to allow me to write a note, which I carried to a stately mansion hard by. It was to entreat what we had been denied at B—. This application was also fruitless. The servant had been ordered to take in no such notes, and he could not break through the rule. On rejoining my little group, my heart lightened at the presence of a serving-man, who at that moment came near, and who, observing our wretchedness, could not pass without endeavouring to succour us. The kind words of this worthy peasant sunk deep into our hearts. I do not know his name; but never can I forget him. Assisted by him, we arrived, about eleven o'clock, at the farm-house of John Cooper, West-town of Kinnaird, where we were immediately admitted. The accommodation, we were told, was poor — but what an alternative from the storm-beaten wayside! The servants were not yet in bed; and we were permitted a short time to warm ourselves at the bothy fire. During this interval, the infant seemed to revive; it fastened heartily to the breast, and soon fell asleep. We were next led to an out-house. A man stood by with a lantern, while, with straw and blankets, we made a pretty fair bed In less than half an hour, the whole slept sweetly in their dark and almost roofless dormitory. I think it must have been between three and four o'clock when Jean wakened me. Oh, that scream! — I think I can hear it now. The other children, startled from sleep, joined in frightful wail over their dead sister. Our poor Jeanie had, unobserved by us, sunk during the night under the effects of the exposure of the preceding evening, following, as it did, a long course of hardship, too great to be borne by a young frame. Such a visitation could only be sustained by one hardened to misery and wearied of existence. I sat a while and looked on them; comfort I had none to give — none to take; I spake not — what could be said — words? Oh, no! the worst is over when words can serve us. And yet it is not just when the wound is given that pain is felt. How comes it, I wonder, that minor evils will affect even to agony, while paramount sorrow overdoes itself, and stands in stultified calmness? Strange to say, on first becoming aware of the bereavement of that terrible night, I sat for some minutes gazing upwards at the fluttering and wheeling movements of a party of swallows, our fellow-lodgers, which had been disturbed by our unearthly outcry. After a while, I proceeded to awaken the people in the house, who entered at once into our feelings, and did every thing which Christian kindness could dictate as proper to be done on the occasion. A numerous and respectable party of neighbours assembled that day to assist at the funeral. In an obscure corner of Kinnaird churchyard lies our favourite, little Jeanie. Early on Monday, we resumed our heartless pilgrimage — wandering onwards, without any settled purpose or end. The busy, singing world above us was a nuisance; and around, the loaded fields bore nothing for us — we were things apart. Nor knew we where that night our couch might be, or where to-morrow our grave. 'Tis but fair to say, however, that our children never were ill-off during the day-time. Where our goods were not bought, we were, nevertheless, offered "a piece to the bairnies." One thing which might contribute to this was, that our appearance, as yet, was respectable, and it seemed as if the people saw in us neither the shrewd hawker nor the habitual mendicant, so that we were better supplied with food than had been our lot for many a month before. But oh, the ever-recurring sunset! Then came the hour of sad conjecturing and sorrowful outlook. To seek lodging at a farm before sunset, was to insure refusal. After nightfall, the children, worn out with the day's wanderings, turned fretful, and slept whenever we sat down, After experience taught us cunning in this, as in other things — the tactics of habitual vagrants being to remain in concealment near a farm of good name, until a suitable lateness warranted the attack. This night, however, we felt so much in need of a comfortable resting-place, that it was agreed we should make for Errol. There we settled for the night in a house kept for the humblest description of "travellers." It is one of those places of entertainment whose most engaging feature is the easy price. Its inmates, unaccustomed even to the luxury of a fire, easily enough dispense with seats; and where five or six people are packed up alive in one box, a superabundance of bed-clothes would be found uncomfortable. Hence the easy charges. Our fellow-- lodgers were of all nations, to the amount of two dozen or so. As it has been my lot, since then, to pass many a night and day in similar society, and, having somewhat of a turn for observation, my memory could furnish many records of "gangrel bodies," that are not altogether wanting in interest; but of that another time. One case, however, has, in some points, so much of resemblance to my own, at one period, that I would fain notice it here. At the gloamin' hour, we entered the village of Errol. In the main street, a group of people had gathered round a man, and stood silent and attentive, as if expecting some display or another. I wondered, for a moment, whether the man was a preacher, and at a dead stop for material. The grave and benevolent expression on his comely face, as well as the dark hue of his apparel, misled me so far; and for the rest, the bewilderment of his look certainly intimated that, whatever the employment, his lips had "closed for the season." It was not so. I knew it all afterwards. He had been just then singing — for the first time, singing on the streets. I heard his song. Surely, surely, thought I, it comes from his very heart; such earnestness, such sorrowful sweetness! Misery makes niggards of us, and at times sympathies will actually become self-consumed; yet the man and his "Light of other days," haunted my fancy, even to my motley lodgings — my caravansary — my bield of meal-bags and monsters. Here, aside from the coarse and bloated inmates of our dwelling, a respectable-looking woman sat nursing a sick infant — a poor, withered, corpse-like baby, with little of life there but the wailing, wailing, that would not be stilled. One or two of our neighbours seemed to sympathize with the young and lonely mother; others grumbled harshly to want their sleep. By and by, another lodger entered. It was the man — the very singing man — I heard in the gloamin'. In a moment he was in our group, leaning over his dying infant! Now, just think of singing, and that the key-note! I will not bother you with remarks. "I have wearied sadly for your coming, James," said the woman. "Its so dark out bye the nicht," he replied, "I only faund out this door by our wean greetin'." Many a time, since that sad night, have I seen him and his interesting family snug and happy at their own hearth. A feeling unknown to the many, sprung up between us — it endures for life — like that of creatures who had met in a desert. Fain would at this moment introduce his story, for it is a sad one — his name, his sufferings, and his amiabilities. But no; there are minds anew in the world little enough — cruel enough, to remind him, as they have me, of the desolate day that was never chosen; and envy sufficient to blot his prosperity — to find invidious causes for his calamity — for sorrows and circumstances that no man would seek. With minds like these, to be once down, is never to look up again — once humbled, nothing after is sufficiently low. His infant died ere he left that lodging-house. In justice to silent sufferers, as well as to the unwary benevolent, it is well to mention here a cast of imposture carried on by the thoroughbred, never-give-up, "all right" class of beggarhood. In common tramp-houses, wherein this class mostly harbour, a death is, in a double sense, a godsend — such, indeed, is to them a gracious notice, even when it comes in a "fair strae" kind of way. But if the decease has aught about it of the extraordinary, so as to attract local sympathy, out of that comes a true Christmas. Every crutch is on end — every bag hoisted — every face stretched to the nonce, and these things spread to every point, each wailing the loss of child, mother, brother, sister, or wife — or all together, rather than not melt. This and shipwrecks, form a kind of staple in the commonwealth of Gaberlunzie. Leaving Errol next day, we passed up the Carse to Perth, were kept there a few days by some old acquaintances, started from thence towards Methven, sold little on the way thither, but were kindly treated by the workers at Huntingtower and Cromwell Park. The people there were themselves on limited work — indeed, many of them had none; yet they shared their little substance with those that had less. It is always so; but for the poor, the poorer would perish. Just before entering Methven, I sold a small book to a person breaking stones for the road. After some conversation, I discovered he was musical, and was strongly tempted to sell him my flute. He had taken a fancy to it, and offered a good price. I resisted; it had long been my companion, and sometimes my solace; and, indeed, to speak truth, I had, for some days past, attended to certain "forlorn hope" whisperings, implying the possible necessity of using that instrument in a way more to be lamented than admired. The sum-total of my earthly moneys was fivepence-halfpenny, which my little volume had seduced from the pocket of the musical lapidary. With this treasure, we sat by the fireside of Mrs. L.'s lodging-house in Methven. The good woman gave us to understand that our entertainment would cost sixpence, at the same time declaring it to be a standing rule in her establishment to see payment made of all such matters before the parties "took aff their shoon." I only wondered, when I looked round on the bare feet that luxuriated about her hearth, how she contrived to put this test into execution. The demand for our lodging-money was decided, and so was I. I took my woe-worn partner aside, whispered her to pick my flute from out our "budgets," put on her mantle, and follow me. As we went along, I disclosed my purpose of playing in the outskirts of the village. This was a new line of action, not to be taken without some qualms. But then the landlady! Besides, nobler natures, and higher names than I could ever aim at, had betaken themselves to similar means. Homer had sung his epics for a morsel of bread; Goldsmith had piped his way over half the Continent. These were precedents indeed! Moreover, neither of these worthies had children in Methven or elsewhere, that ever I heard of. Nor is it recorded in the history of those great men, whether they had at any time been under the compulsion of a landlady who attached a special consequence to the moment that undid the shoe-tie. Musing over these and many other considerations, we found ourselves in a beautiful green lane, fairly out of the town, and opposite a genteel-looking house, at the windows of which sat several well-- dressed people. I think that it might be our bewildered and hesitating movements that attracted their notice — perhaps not favourably. "A quarter of an hour longer," said I, "and it will be darker; let us walk out a bit." The sun had been down a good while, and the gloamin' was lovely. In spite of everything, I felt a momentary reprieve. I dipped my dry flute in a little burn, and began to play. It rang sweetly amongst the trees. I moved on and on, still playing, and still facing the town. "The flowers of the forest" brought me before the house lately mentioned. My music raised one window after another * * * Shall I not bless the good folk of Methven? Let me ever chance to meet a Methven weaver in distress, and I will share my last bannock with him. These men — for I knew them, as they knew me, by instinct — these men not only helped me themselves, but testified their gratitude to every one that did so. There was enough to encourage further perseverance; but I felt, after all, that I had begun too late in life ever to acquire that "ease and grace" indispensable to him who would successfully "carry the gaberlunzie on." I felt I must forego it, at least in a downright street capacity. After some consideration, another mode of exercising my talents for support occurred to me. I had, ever since I remember, an irrepressible tendency to make verses, and many of these had won applause from my friends and fellow-workmen, so I determined to press this faculty into my service on the present occasion. Accordingly, after sundry downsittings and contemplations, by waysides and in barns, my Muse produced the following ode TO MY FLUTE. 'Tis nae to harp, to lyre, nor lute, I ettle now to sing; To thee alane, my lo'esome flute, This hamely strain I bring! Oh! let us flee on memory's wing, O'er twice ten winters flee, An' try ance mair that ae sweet spring Whilk young love breathed in thee. Companion o' my happy then, Wi' smilin' frien's around; In ilka but, in ilka ben, A couthie welcome found — Ere yet thy master proved the wound That ne'er gaed skaithless by; That gies to flutes their saftest sound, To hearts their saddest sigh. Since then, my bairns hae danced to thee, To thee my Jean has sung; And monie a nicht, wi' guiltless glee, Our hearty hallan rung. But noo, wi' hardship worn and wrung, I'll roam the warld about; For her and for our friendless young, Come forth, my faithful flute! Your artless notes may win the ear That wadna hear me speak, And for your sake that pity spare, My full heart couldna seek. And whan the winter's cranreuch bleak Drives houseless bodies in, We'll aiblins get the ingle-cheek, A' for your lichtsome din. This I designed to be printed on fine paper, with a fly-leaf attached, and folded in the style of a note, to be presented to none under a footman, by a decently-- dressed, modest-looking man (myself, of course), who, after waiting ten minutes, the time wanted to utter the "Oh, la's!" and "Who may he be's?" would, I expected, be asked into the drawing-room. where the admiring circle should be ravished with his sweet-toned minstrelsy. After compliments sufficient for any mere man, this person I supposed to retire with that in his pocket that could not rightly be expended without a great deal of prudent consideration. Such was my dream. I accordingly proceeded to act as I had designed. With a few copies of my poem, I set out once more upon my travels, and, to do justice to the scheme, it was, on several occasions, successful to the extent anticipated. In one laird's house I received a guerdon of half a guinea; but, after all, it was but beggar's work, and my soul in time grew sick of it. It was with no sighings after flesh-pots that, in a few weeks, on times becoming a little better, I settled down once more to my loom. Weaving about a year in Aberdeen, I accidentally obtained a job from a customary weaver in the Garioch — a district bordering on Mar and Strathbogie, in Aberdeenshire. This proving far more profitable than factory work, induced me to remove my family from Aberdeen to Inverury, a place centrical and convenient to the call of employers in the customary line. Nine months after our settlement here, she died — Jean — the mother of my family — partner of my wanderings — the unmurmuring sharer in all my difficulties, left us — left us, too, just as the last cold cloud was passing, ere the outbreak of a brighter day. That cloud passed, but the warmth that followed lost half its value to me, she being no partaker therein. In January, 1841, precisely one year after having taken residence at Inverury, my better star had, all unknown to me, determined to take a turn on the upward way. Customary work almost ceases here at this season, and remains dull for several months. I had been unemployed thus for two weeks. To lull the weariness, and make away with very tedious hours, I composed small poems, on subjects that pleased me. This I did, without a glance beyond the selfish pleasure one finds in shaping out a fixed and tangible abode to feelings and fancies dear to the memory. One of these compositions I sent to the Aberdeen Herald. It appeared anonymously in that paper, ushered by a flattering notice from the Editor — a gentleman to whom I was then entirely unknown. This poem, No. I. of "The Blind Boy's Pranks," was copied into most newspapers in the kingdom. With a rather full average of human vanity in my disposition, all this, at another time, would have been pleasing enough; but as it was, the first gleam of public favour had not power to withdraw my mind from what was before me, nor to brighten the dreary outlook. On a cold, cold winter day, we sat alone, my little ones and I, looking on the last meal procurable by honourable means. My purpose was settled — our wearables, such as they were, lay packed up for the journey — Aberdeen and the House of Refuge our next home. I felt resigned. True, we might have breathed on a little while longer, had I been able to worm through all the creeping intricacies that lie between starvation and parish charities. But oh! how preferable, surely, the unseen, silent, sadness in a House of Refuge to the thousand and one heartless queries, taunts, and grumblings that accompany the elder's "eighteenpence." Heaven averted all these, at any rate. On the foreooon of that same day, there came to me a post letter, dated "Aberdeen Journal Office." The nature of that letter will be sufficiently understood by the following extract: — The beautiful verses entitled "The Blind Boy's Pranks," the production of a "Serf,"* which appeared in our paper of the 20th January [copied from the Herald, whore the production of the "Serf" first appeared], are, we doubt not, fresh in the memory of many of our readers; and it will delight them to learn that the humble yet gifted author has not passed unnoticed or unrewarded. We have had the pleasure of conveying to him, from a gentleman of this county, the friend and patron of humble merit and of native genius, a very substantial token of his admiration; and make no apology for submitting *The signature originally appended to the verses. to our readers the simple tale of thanks with which it has been received. The genuine spirit of poetry pervades "The Blind Boy's Pranks;" and is no less conspicuous in the lines which follow. They cannot fail to create an interest in the welfare of the hard-working and talented "Serf": — Inverury, February 7, 1841. DEAR SIR, — I have this hour received your kind letter, enclosing another, with five pounds, from Knockespock. Unaccustomed — utterly unaccustomed as I have been to such correspondents, and with such accompaniments, what shall I say? Nothing now — indeed, I cannot; neither can I delay this acknowledgment — but after hours will speak my gratitude. That gentleman shall hear from me soon. Meantime, I subjoin a little thing* that happened to be in the "loom" when yours came to hand. You are fairly entitled to the freshest of my homely productions. Through your hand, for the first time in my life, has my rhyming brought me aught beyond "fusionless" praise — indeed, beyond that, I have never hoped nor wished; but now that, through the munificence of Knockespock, my physical struggle is slackened, I foresee that my pursuits (mentally) may be less fettered and have a wider range. O! Sir, it is difficult for those in other circumstances to think what a strife is his who has to battle lip-deep in poverty, with a motherless family and a poetical temperament! The last item the worst — inasmuch as it enhances tenfold the pain that is frequent, and the joy that is rare. Let sincerity atone for the want of elegance in, DEAR SIR, Your grateful and obliged W. THOM. To D. CHALMERS, Esq. Aberdeen, Editor of the Journal. I wrote my thanks to Mr. Gordon, who, soon after, sent a letter containing many inquiries concerning my situation and prospects. My reply may be acceptable at this point of the story, as it embodies the pith of his letter, and exhibits that kind of family statistics which his amiable nature seeks out, in every instance, to help and to heal. It would fill a volume what I have witnessed of that gentleman's benevolent doings, and of the delight he enjoys in the happiness *"o, Mary, when ye think of me." of a fellow-creature; but let me speak now only of the instance at hand. After chastising myself for not attending more promptly to his very first communication, my reply to his second one runs thus: — As to the long silence that ensued, I must recur to my former plea — namely, my inability to express my own feelings, with a certainty all the while, that I did not trespass on those of my benefactor. Again I sincerely ask pardon; and let this farther consideration plead for me, that my lowly breeding has hid from me those nice and proper distinctions recognized by people of education and superior training — even now, I know not, thus speaking, how far I may commit myself, and beg leave to proceed to the queries as they stand in your letter, replying to all in single-hearted sincerity. "What was you bred to?" Born in Aberdeen, the son of a widow unable to keep me at home idle, I was, when ten years of age, placed in a public factory, where I served an apprenticeship of four years, at the end of which I entered another great weaving establishment, "Gordon, Barron, & Co." where I continued seventeen years. During my apprenticeship, I had picked up a little reading and writing. Afterwards set about studying Latin — went so far, but was fairly defeated through want of time, &c. — having the while to support my mother, who was getting frail. However, I continued to gather something of arithmetic and music, both of which I have mastered so far as to render further progress easy did I see it requisite. I play the German flute tolerably in general subjects, but in my native melodies, lively or pathetic, to few will I lay it down. I have every Scotch song that is worth singing; and though my vocal capability is somewhat limited, I can convey a pretty fair idea of what a Scotch song ought to be. So much for "acquirements." You next ask my "age and state health?" I am forty two — my health not robust but evenly; a lameness of one leg occasioned by my being, when in infancy, crushed under the wheel of a carriage. This unfits me for work requiring extra personal strength; and indeed it is mostly owing to little mechanical appliances of my own contriving, that I am enabled to subject the more laborious parts of my calling to the limits of my very stinted bodily power. "The number and age of my family?" Three — Elizabeth, aged ten and a-half years, William eight, and James five. My wife died in childbed, last November; my girl does the best she can by way of housekeeper; the boys are at school. I cannot spare the lassie, so she gets a lesson at home. "Description of my dwelling" — I occupy two trim little garrets in a house belonging to Sir Robert Elphinstone, lately built on the market stance of Inverury. We have everything required in our humble way — perhaps our blankets pressed a little too lightly during the late severe winter, but then we crept closer together — that is gone — 'tis summer now, and we are hopeful that next winter will bring better things. "Means of Living" — employed seven or eight months yearly in customary weaving — that is, a country weaver who wants a journeyman sends for me. I assist in making bedding, shirting, and other household stuffs. When his customers are served, I am discharged, and so ends the season. During that time I earn from ten to twelve shillings a-- week; pay the master generally four shillings for my "keep," and remit the rest to my family. In this way, we moved on happy enough. Ambition, or something like it, would now and then whisper me into discontent. But now, how blest would I deem myself had I my beloved partner again, and the same difficulties to retrace. I eke out the blank portions of the season by going into a factory. Here the young and vigorous only can exceed six shillings weekly. This alone is my period of privation; however, it is wonderful how nicely we get on. A little job now and then, in the musical way, puts all right again. I don't drink, as little at any rate as possible. I have been vain enough to set some value on my mind, and it being all that I possess now, and the only thing likely to put me in possession of aught afterwards, I would not willingly drown it. "My Books" — I have few of my own — pick up a loan where it can be had; so of course my reading is without choice or system. Your question with regard to "Religion" — I believe in God, and in Christ the Saviour of mankind. "What do I look forward to in life?" Lately I looked to nothing but increasing labour and decreasing strength — interminable toil and ultimate starvation — such is the fate of nine-- tenths of my brethren — but now daylight breaks on my destiny. Since you wrote me, my verses have attracted the notice of several literary gentlemen in Edinburgh, who have tendered friendship to me — and are to use their influence in my behalf in the event of my publishing. Mr. M. of the Weekly Chronicle, has frequently mentioned me in kindness.* Hence I dream of making my "escape" from the loom; and of being enabled to *LITERATURE, when pursued as a profession, confers dignity on its votary; but when, as in the case of the amiable and gifted Thom of Inverury, Aberdeenshire, and many others of his class similarly situated, it is resorted to amid the little relaxation which a laborious profession allows, we confess we reverence that man who can thus vindicate the superiority of mind over matter. Many are content to eat, to sleep, and do a little work again; who, when the sun shines, feel no other pleasure than that of being dry and warm; who, when the storm roars and the thunder and lightning are raging around the heavens, hie to some dark retreat and there fancy themselves secure; the day-spring conveys to such minds no other feeling than that they must rise and work; and the evening closes around them and glads their dull faculties with only the visions of a supper and a bed. This is the animal, the vegetable life which but too many live, to the utter abasement of intellect and elevated feeling. — Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle, Feb. 1841. pull my little ones out from amongst "folk's feet." I fully appreciate your friendly counsel regarding premature publication, and shall attend to it — also to the selection of subjects, but I would not be diverted from my original purpose anent the dedication to you. God knows, I have been taught the value of a shilling, but have never yet stooped to an unbecoming action to obtain one; and although they were in my neighbourhood (as I don't know if they are) that would better me* — yet, Sir, permit me to abide by my first notion. I had nearly forgot that you ask me whether I possess "Good common sense as well as poetical ability?" Well, really, Sir, I cannot say — most people erect their own standard in that matter, and generally award to themselves a pretty fair share; and few are found grumbling with the distribution. I have looked as closely as my degree permitted, upon man; his ways and his wishes, and I have tasted in my own experience some of life's bitterest tastings; hence I have obtained some shrewd glimpses of what calls common sense into action, and what follows the action wherein common sense has no share. You speak of "respectable references;" Dr. Thomson here has known me these two years, being the amount of my residence in this place; Mr. M'Naughtan, manager to Gordon, Barron, & Co. Aberdeen. To these I can refer, and if they do not call me a good, I dare them to call me a bad man. By the way, I have never sought to cultivate amongst those not in my immediate degree, and am little known — my hands recommended me to my employers, and beyond that I seldom thought. I have recovered the number of copies you requested, and shall remit the rest whenever they come to hand. I am, &c. &c. Ten days after sending the above letter, I and my daughter were dashing it in a gilded carriage through the streets of London. Here was a change sufficient to turn the head of a bewildered weaver. Under the protection of my patron, Mr. Gordon, I remained there, and in other parts of England, upwards of four months, and paid great attention to all I saw and heard. I was introduced to many of the master minds of yon great city. In the studio of Sir *Knockespock had suggested to me that there might be others to whom I might dedicate more advantageously than to him. Francis Chantrey, I conversed with the lamented Allan Cunningham. I have listened to the eloquence, and heard the nonsense of those who give laws to the people. I saw Majesty and Misery, and many of the paths between. There is not a purchaseable pleasure but was put within my power; and many are the delights of happy England, and kind the hearts therein; yet I longed for Scotland, and am again upon my heather and at my loom. Alas! for the loom though! Hitherto it has been to me the ship on which I voyaged o'er life — Happiness and Hardship alternate steersmen — the Lyre and a light heart my fellow-passengers. Now, amid the giant waves of monopoly the solitary loom is fast sinking. Thus must the Lyre, like a hencoop, be thrown on the wrecking waters, to float its owner ashore. POEMS. THE BLIND BOY'S PRANKS. NO. I. "I'll tell some ither time, quo' he, How we love an' laugh in the north countrie." — Legend. MEN grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind, Love kentna whaur to stay. Wi' fient an arrow, bow, or stringWi' droopin' heart an' drizzled wing, He faught his lonely way. "Is there nae mair, in Garioch fair, Ae spotless hame for me? Hae politics, an' corn, an' kye, Ilk bosom stappit? Fie, O fie! I'll swithe me o'er the sea." He launched a leaf o' jessamine, On whilk he dared to swim, An' pillowed his head on a wee rosebud, Syne laithfu', lanely, Love 'gan scud Down Ury's waefu' stream. The birds sang bonnie as Love drew near, But dowie when he gaed by; Till lull'd wi' the sough o' monie a sang, He sleepit fu' soun' an' sailed alang 'Neath heav'n's gowden sky! 'Twas just whaur creepin' Ury greets Its mountain cousin Don, There wandered forth a weelfaur'd dame, Wha listless gazed on the bonnie stream, That flirted an' played wi' a sunny beam Whilk flickered its bosom upon. Love happit his head, I trow, that time, When the jessamine bark drew nigh, An' the lassie espied the wee rosebud, An' aye her heart gae thud for thud, An' quiet it wadna lie. "O gin I but had yon wearie wee flower That floats on the Ury sae fair!" She lootit her hand for the silly rose-leaf, But little kent she o' the pawkie thief, That was lurkin' an' laughin' there! Love glower'd when he saw her bonnie dark e'e, An' swore by Heaven's grace He ne'er had seen nor thought to see. Since e'er he left the Paphian lea,* Mair lovely a dwallin' place. Syne, first of a', in her blythesome breast, He built a bower, I ween; An' what did the waefu' devilick neist? But kindled a gleam like the rosy east, That sparkled frae baith her een. An' then beneath ilk high e'e bree He placed a quiver there; His bow? What but her shinin' brow? An' O sic deadly strings he drew Frae out her silken hair. God be our guard! sic deeds waur deen, Roun' a' our countrie then; An' monie a hangin' lug was seen 'Mang farmers fat, an' lawyers lean, An' herds o' common men! *See Note A. THE BLIND BOY'S PRANKS. NO. II. LOVE roam'd awa frae Uryside, Wi' bow an' barbet keen, Nor car'd a daisy whaur he gaed; "Auld Scotland's mine, howe, heath, and And I'll trock that wi' nane. "Yon Ury damsel's diamond e'e, I've left it evermair; She gied her heart unkent to me; Noo prees what wedded wichts maun pree, When I'm unpriested there. "That time by Ury's glowing stream, In sunny hour we met; A lichter beild, a kinder hame Than in the breast o' that fair dame, I'll never, never get. "I kenn'd her meet wi' kindly say, A lov'd, a lowly name; The heartless ruled poor Jean — an' they Hae doom'd a loveless bride, for aye To busk a loveless hame. "I'll seek bauld Benachie's proud pow, Grey king o' common hills! And try hoo bodies hearts may lowe Beneath thy shadeless, shaggy brow, Whaur dance a hundred rills." Noo trampin' bits, noo fleein' miles, Frae aff the common road, To keek at cadgers loupin' styles, Wha try the virtue an' the wyles O' maidens lichtly shod, He passed Pittodrie's haunted wood,* Whaur devils dwalt langsyne; He heard the Ury's timid flood, An' Gadie's heigh an' hurrit scud, In playfu' sweetness twine. An' there he saw (for Love has een, Tho' whiles nae gleg at seein'), He saw an' kenn'd a kind auld frien', Wha wander'd ghaistlike an' alane, Forsaken, shunn'd, an' deein'. *See Note B. Her look ance gay as gleams o' gowd Upon a silver sea; Noo dark an' dowie as the cloud That creeps athwart yon leafless wood, In cauld December's e'e. Hear ye the heartsick soun's that fa' Frae lips that bless nae mair? Like beildless birdies when they ca' Frae wet, wee wing the batted snaw, Her sang soughs o' despair. Song of the Forsaken. MY cheek is faded sair love, An' lichtless fa's my e'e; My breast a' lane and bare, love, Has aye a beild for thee. My breast, though lane and bare, love, The hame o' cauld despair, love, Yet ye've a dwallin' there, love, A' darksome though it be. Yon guarded roses glowin', Its wha daur min't to pu'? But aye the wee bit gowan Ilk reckless hand may strew. An' aye the wee, wee gowan, Unsheltered, lanely growin', Unkent, uncared its ruin, Sae marklessly it grew. An' am I left to rue, then, Wha ne'er kent Love but thee; An' gae a love as true, then, As woman's heart can gie? But can ye cauldly view, then, A bosom burstin' fu' then? An' hae ye broken noo, then, The heart ye sought frae me? THE BLIND BOY'S PRANKS. NO. III. BY the lowe o' a lawyer's ingle bricht, Wi' gruesome looks an' dark, The deil sat pickin' his thum's ae nicht Wi' evendoun want o' wark. At length in the learn'd lug to hark He cannilie screw'd him roun', Syne clew his elbow an' leuch to mark The lang-leaft buik brocht doun. Wi' outshot een, o'er leaf an' line, Sae keenly did they leuk, An' o' there was ae waefu' sign Within that wearie buik, Whan Hornie gae his mou a cruik An' whisper'd, "Look ye, here's A crafter carl upon our hook Ahint these twa 'ha'f years.' "Gae harry him, man, an' gar him dee — The lave is your's an' mine; His daisy dochter's scornfu' e'e Will blink less saucy syne. In beinless wa's just lat her pine, Sic lanesome hardships pree; An' here's my loof the haughty quean Will fa' afore she flee." Love heard, an' scunnert wi' the plot Swore grey the very moon, But he would hae the lawyer shot, An' gar the deevil droun. He flaft his wing o'er brae, an' boun' O'er bank an' burn wide; In lowly biggin lichted doun An' knelt by Annie's side. O, whaur is love maist lovely seen? In timorous glances stealing — Half-hid, half-own'd, in diamond e'en The soul-fraught look revealing? No; see it there — a daughter kneeling A father's sick-bed near; With upraised heart to Heaven appealing, That — that's the look for angel's wear. Sic look was thine, poor Ann that nicht, Yon waesome watchfu' hour; The man o' buiks thow'd at the sicht — He tint a' pith an' pow'r. The very deil forthwith 'gan scour By heicht an' howe — an' then At Cardin's brig he tumbl't o'er An' never raise again. The lanefu' lawyer held his breath, An' word might utter nane; But lookit aye — grew aye mair laith To bland her bonnie een. Love threw a shaft, sae curst an' keen, It trembled in his heart; An' might a deen, altho' a stane Had dwallin in the part. Syne, dull an' dowie, wending hame, Wi' cares ne'er kent afore, His heart a' sunken down wi' shame — Wi' new love gushing o'er. By book or bond he held nae store, Sith bound enough was he; Nor could he read aught ither lore Than beam'd in yon bricht e'e. A saftness hangs on ilka word, A wish on ilka hour; A sang is sought frae every bird, A sick frae every flower. Now briefs forsaken, rot an' sour — A sonnet rules a summons; E'en Blackstone's weighty wit maun cour To far mair weighty woman's. KNOCKESPOCK'S LADY. AN ancestor of JAMES ADAM GORDON, Esquire, the present Laird of Knockespock, about a century and a-half ago, in a second marriage, had taken to wife the lovely Jean Leith of Harthill. His affectionate lady, notwithstanding their great disparity of age, watched the chamber of her sick husband by day and by night, and would not divide her care with any one. Worn out and wasted from continued attendance on her husband, she fell into a sleep, and was awakened only by the smoke and flames of their burning mansion; the menials had fled — the doom of the dying laird and his lady seemed fixed. In her heroic affections she bore her husband from the burning house — laid him in a sheltered spot, and forced through the very flames for "plaids to wrap him in." AE wastefu' howl o'er earth an' sea, Nae gleam o' heaven's licht Might mark the bounds o' Benachie That black an' starless nicht. Siclike the nicht, siclike the hour, Siclike the was they ken, Wha watch till those lov'd eyes shall close That ne'er may ope again. As gin to tak' the last lang look, He raised a lichtless e'e; Now list, O, thou, his lady wife, Knockespock speaks to thee! "Sit doun, my Jeanie Gordon, love, Sit doun an' haud my head; There's sic a lowe beneath my brow Maun soon, soon be my dead. "Aye whaur ye find the stoun, oh, Jean, Press tae your kindly han'; I wadna gie ae breath o' thee For a' else on my lan'. Your couthie word dreeps medicine, Your very touch can heal; An', oh, your e'e does mair for me Than a' our doctor's skill!" She leant athwart his burnin' brow, Her tears lap lichtly doun; Beneath her saft, saft, dautin' han' Knockespock sleepit soun'. For woman's watch is holiness — In woman's heart, sae rare, When a' the warld is cauld an' dark, There's licht an' litheness there! What's yon that tints the deep dark brae, An' flichers on the green? It's no the rays o' morning grey, Nor yet the bonnie meen! That licht that flares on Benachie Knockespock weel may rue; Nor Gadie's stream would dit yon gleam That wraps his dwallin' now. But what recks she how fast they flee — The heartless hinds are gane; Are nane to help their listless laird? Their friendless lady? Nane! Yet woman's love, O, woman's love, The wide unmeasured sea Is nae so deep as woman's love, As her sweet sympathy! Upon the wet an' windy sward She wadna lat him down, But wiled an' wiled the lithest beild Wi' breckans happet roun'. Knockespock's cauld, he's deadly cauld — Whaur has his lady gane? How has she left him in the loan A' tremblin' there alane? An' has she gane for feckless gowd, To tempt yon fearfu' lowe? Or is her fair mind, wreck'd an wrang, Forgane its guidance now? She fearless speels the reekin' tow'r, Tho' red, red is the wa', An' braves the deaf'nin' din an' stour, Whare cracklin' rafters fa'. It is na gowd, nor gallant robes, Gars Jeanie Gordon rin; But she has wiled the saftest plaids To wrap her leal lord in. For woman's heart is tenderness, Yet woman weel may dare The deftest deed, an' tremble nane, Gin true love be her care. "The lowe has scaith'd your locks, my Jean, An' scorch'd your bonnie brow; The graceless flame consumes our hame — What thinks my lady now?" "My locks will grow again, my love, My broken brow will men', Your kindly breast's the lealest hame That I can ever ken; "But, O, that waesome look o' thine, Knockespock, I wad gie The livin' heart frae out my breast For aught to pleasure thee!" Weel, woman's heart! ay, woman's heart! There grows a something there, The sweetest flower on bank or bower Maun nane wi' that compare. THE MANIAC MOTHER'S DREAM. WHEN sunlight leaves the lea, And songless birds would rest, When sleeping dews there be Upon the gowan's breast — Who, like the dark'ning west, That lone one? Who is she? 'Tis sorrow's fated guest, And this her revelry: — Through crumbling tombs, o'er boneless graves The wrathful wind in that hour that raves, Shall mingling, mingling, moan and sigh, To the maniac mother's lullaby. While cow'ring 'neath the ruined wall Of Elgin's dark Cathedral.* As o'er her burning brow She laves yon holy spring. And down her cheek of snow The big tear mingling — *See Note C. Would some mild spirit bring The heart-wrung living gem, And place it sparkling In sorrow's diadem! Well might the sallow goddess wear In her cold coronal that tear! The tear of tears is her's, all shed On sireless son's unshelter'd head. When misery's guideless gush is o'er, And drowning reason speaks no more; When broken, withered, one by one, All, all earth-bounded wish is gone; When woe is wearied, nor can tell On the scaithed breast another knell — O, mother's heart! up-welling there, Affection wrestles with despair, And measureless that burning flow A mother's heart alone may know. "Bairnie, mine, be hush'd to me, An' I'll tell you a dream that I dreamt o' thee, As we lay in the lythe o' you bare graif-stane — O me, 'twas an unco dream yestreen! Yon gruesome spirit that haunts our hame, Wi'ither eldrich goblins came; They pu'd my heart and they dimm'd my e'e, Till my baby bairn I cou'dna see: But aye I heard your waesome cry, As they bore me o'er yon dreamy sky; And weel, frae the height o' my heavenly ha', On sorrowin' earth my bairn I saw; I saw you conjured — kent your greet, As you crouch'd and cower'd at the carlin's feet; Ilk tear that sped frae your sleepless e'e Were draps like the livin' bleed frae me, Till toil'd and torn, and wan and wae, Ye wandered far frae your heather brae. The shrifted souls that dwelt wi' me, Looked wistfu' o'er your destiny; And O to me their holy sang In changefu' sweetness swelled alang! And aye their godward melody Breathed watchfu' benisons on thee. I saw the warl' gang rowin' by, And you beneath its kindest sky; I marked the hue o' crimson weir, Bedeck the breast o' my bairnie dear; Till the highest head in yon jewelled land, Bent to the beck o' my Andrew's hand. Ae time the warld came rowin' by, We missed ye in yon lo'esome sky, But tracked your keel across the main, To your hameless Highland braes again, And bonnie was the bough and fair Your brave hand brought and planted there! Braid, braid its branch o' fadeless green, Wi streaks o' sunny light between, As, laughing frae their yellow sky, They kissed the leaves that loot them by. There smiling Plenty safely laid In Mercy's lap her gowden head; The fiercest winter winds that rair Could never fauld a sna'-wreath there; E'en Misery's cauld and withering e'e Fell feckless o'er your stately tree. The stricken deer weel there might rest, And lap the bleed frae its dapple breast; The wingless doo would leap and splash A' drippin' frae the hunter's flash, Safe shelter'd in yon shady fa', To croon its little heart awa'; And wee, wee birdies, nane could name, Came flutterin' there, and found a hame; E'en rooks and ravens, tired o' bleed, Sought shelter there in time o' need. But O, that wind! its harrying scream, Reive through the rest o' my bonnie dream." OLD FATHER FROST AND HIS FAMILY. GRIM father Frost, he hath children twain, The cloud-born daughters of Lady Rain; The elder a coquetish, pattering thing, Would woo you in winter and pelt you in spring; At times you might scarce feel her feathery fall, Anon she will beard you with icicle ball; When the warrings of heaven roll higher and higher, She, coward-like, flees from the conflict of fire — Yet heightens the havoc, for her feeble power, Tho' scaithless the oak, how it fells the frail flower! And the bud of the berry, the bloom of the bean, Are founder'd to earth by the merciless quean; E'en the stout stems of summer full often must quail To this rattling, brattling, head-breaking hail. I'll not say a word of how rudely she breaks On the dream of the garret-doomed maid, and awakes A thousand regrets in the marrowless* lass, And cruelly mimics the "touch on the glass," With her cold little pearls, that dance, bound, and play, Like our ain bonnie bairns on Candlemas day. *Marrowless — ummarried. You know her meek sister? O, soft is the fall Of her fairy footsteps on hut and on hall! To hide the old father's bleak doings below, In pity she cometh, the minist'ring snow. With her mantle she covers the shelterless trees, As they groan to the howl of the Borean breeze; And baffles the search of the subtle wind, Guarding each crevice lest it should find Its moaning way to the fireless fold Of the trembling young and the weeping old, When through her white bosom the daisy appears, She greets the fair stranger with motherly tears! And they mingle so sweet with the golden ray Of the struggling beam that chides her away. But where's the last speck of her brightness seen, Mid the bursting spring and its saucy green? In the coldest side of yon lone churchyard, Neglected graves she loveth to ward; But not where gorgeous marble pleads, And frequent foot of mourner treads; But down by the stranger's noteless lair, Where sighs are few and footsteps rare — She loveth — she loveth to linger there! O'er hearts forgotten that sleep below, There is none to weep but the friendly snow. AUTUMN WINDS. AIR — "Bonnie House o' Airly." O, YE waesome winds, hoo yer mourning grieves, Hoo yer sighing an' moaning fear me; As ye toss an' tear the trembling leaves That ye cherished when he was near me. I've kent ye woo them — I've heard ye woo, As saftly as woman's lane sighing; Whan ye slyly kissed the cozie dew Frae their faulded bosoms lying. Now nightly athwart the naked plain, Yer whirling the saucy snaw in; Ye've changed the dew to the pelting rain, Till yer poor droukit leaves are fa'in. Hae ye fausely strayed 'mang misty groves, Wi' ice-wreathed maidens to marrow? O, they've come an' slain yer bonnie summer loves, An' driven ye daft wi' sorrow. But my love is true, ye winds that blaw, An' yer fauseness maunna fear me; His kind heart never will flit nor fa', Tho' he daurna own his dearie. There's ae green branch on yon blighted tree, An' the lave a' darkly dwining; There's a bricht e'e looks love to me, Like the weird licht o'er me shining. Yet O, ye winds, hoo yer wailing grieves, Hoo yer sighing and moaning fear me! As ye toss an' tear the dowie grey leaves That waur green, green, when he was near me. O, MARY, WHEN YOU THINK OF ME.* O, MARY, when you think of me, Let pity hae its share, love; Tho' others mock my misery, Do you in mercy spare, love. My heart, O, Mary, own'd but thee, And sought for thine so fervently! The saddest tear e'er wet my e'e, Ye ken wha brocht it there, love. O, lookna wi' that witching look, That wiled my peace awa, love! An' dinna let me hear you sigh, It tears my heart in twa, love! Resume the frown ye wont to wear! Nor shed the unavailing tear! The hour of doom is drawing near, An' welcome be its ca', love! *See Note D. How could ye hide a thought sae kind, Beneath sae cauld a brow, love? The broken heart it winna bind Wi' gowden bandage, now, love. No, Mary! mark yon reckless shower! It hung aloof in scorching hour, An' helps nae now the feckless flower That sinks beneath its flow, love. I'VE SOUGHT IN LANDS AYONT THE SEA. AIR — "My Normandie." I'VE sought in lands ayont the sea A hame — a couthie hame for thee, An' honeysickle bursts around The blithesome hame that I hae found; Then dinna grudge your heather bell — O, fretna for your flowerless fell — Here dale an' down mair fair to see, Than ought in our bleak countrie! Come o'er the waters, dinna fear, The lav'rock lilts as lo'esome here, An' mony a sweet, around, above, Shall welcome o'er my Jessie, love, My hame wi' halesome gear is fu', My heart wi' loweing love for you; O haste, my Jessie, come an' see The hame — the heart that wants but thee! But mind ye, lass, the fleetfu' hours, They wait nae — spare nae fouk nor flowers, An' sair are fouk and flowers to blame, Wha wishfu', wastefu' wait for them. O, bide nae lang in swither, then, Since flowers an' fouk may wither, then, But come, as lang's I hae to gie A hame, a heart to welcome thee! I WOULDNA — O, I COULDNA LOOK. I WOULDNA — O, I couldna look On that sweet face again; I daurna trust my simple heart, Now it's ance mair my ain. I wouldna thole what I hae thol'd, Sic dule I wouldna dree, For a' that love could now unfold Frae woman's witchfu' e'e. I've mourn'd until the waesome moon Has sunk ahint the hill, An' seen ilk sparkling licht aboon Creep o'er me, mournin' still. I've thocht my very mither's hame Was hameless-like to me; Nor could I think this warld the same That I was wont to see. But years o' mingled care hae past, Wi' blinks o' joy between; An' yon heart-hoarded form at last Forsakes my doited een. Sae cauld and dark my bosom now, Sic hopes lie buried there! That sepulchre whare love's saft lowe May never kindle mair. I couldna trust this foolish heart When its ance mair my ain; I couldna — O! I daurna look On Mary's face again! JEANIE'S GRAVE. I SAW my true Love first on the banks of queenly Tay, Nor did I deem it yielding my trembling heart away; I feasted on her deep dark eye, and loved it more and more, For, oh! I thought I ne'er had seen a look so kind before! I heard my true love sing, and she taught me many a strain, But a voice so sweet, oh! never shall my cold ear hear again. In all our friendless wanderings — in homeless penury — Her gentle song and jetty eye, were all unchanged to me. I saw my true Love fade — I heard her latest sigh — I wept no friv'lous weeping when I closed her lightless eye; Far from her native Tay she sleeps, and other waters lave The markless spot where Ury creeps around my Jeanie's grave. Move noiseless, gentle Ury! around my Jeanie's bed, And I'll love thee, gentle Ury! where'er my footsteps tread; For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea, Than I forget yon lowly grave, and all it hides from me.* *See Note E. THEY SPEAK O' WYLES. AIR — "Gin a bodie meet a bodie." THEY speak o' wyles in woman's smiles, An' ruin in her e'e — I ken they bring a pang at whiles That's unco sair to dree; But mind ye this, the half-ta'en kiss, The first fond fa'in' tear, Is, Heaven kens, fu' sweet amen's, An' tints o' heaven here. When twa leal hearts in fondness meet, Life's tempests howl in vain — The very tears o' love are sweet When paid with tears again. Shall sapless prudence shake its pow, Shall cauldrife caution fear? O, dinna, dinna droun the lowe That lichts a heaven here! What tho' we're ca'd a wee before The stale "threescore an' ten;" When "Joy" keeks kindly at your door, Aye bid her welcome ben. About yon blissfu' bowers above Let doubtfu' mortals speir, Sae weel ken we that "heaven is love," Since love maks heaven here. THE LAST TRYST. THIS nicht ye'll cross the bosky glen, Ance mair, O would ye meet me then? I'll seem as bygane bliss an' pain Were a' forgot; I winna weep to weary thee, Nor seek the love ye canna gie; — Whaur first we met, O let that be The parting spot! The hour just when the faithless licht O' yon pale star forsakes the nicht; I wouldna pain ye wi' the blicht Ye've brought to me. Nor would I that yon proud cauld ray Should mock me wi' its scornfu' play; — The sunken een and tresses grey Ye maunna see. Wi' sindered hearts few words will sair, An' brain-dried grief nae tears can spare; These bluidless lips shall never mair Name thine or thee. At murky nicht, O meet me then! Restore my plighted troth again; Your bonnie bride shall never ken Your wrangs to me. ONE OF THE HEART'S STRUGGLES. AIR — "Willie was a wanton wag." "O! LET me gang, ye dinna ken How sair my mither flate yestreen — An', mournin' o'er and o'er again, Speir'd whaur I gaed sae late at e'en. An' aye I saw her dicht her een — My very heart maist brak to see't — I'll byde a flyte tho' e'er sae keen, But canna, canna thole her greet." "O! blessings guard my lassie's brow, And fend her couthie heart frae care; Her lowein' breast o' love sae fu' — How can I grudge a mither's share? The hinnysuckle's no sae fair, In gloamin's dewy pearl weet, As my love's e'e when tremblin' there The tear that owns a mither's greet. "A heart a' warmed to mither's love — O! that's the heart whaur I wad be; An' when a mither's lips reprove, O! gie me then the glist'nin' e'e. For feckless fa's that look on me, Howe'er sae feigned in cunning's sweet — And loveless — luckless — is the e'e That, tearless, kens a mither greet." YE DINNA KEN YON BOWER. AIR — "Jenny Nettles." YE dinna ken yon bower, Frae the glow'rin' warl' hidden, Ye maunna ken yon bower, Bonnie in the gloamin'. Nae woodbine sheds a fragrance there, Nae rose, nae daffodillie fair; But, O! yon flow'r beyond compare, That blossoms in the gloamin'. There's little licht in yon bower, Day and darkness elbow ither, That's the licht in yon bower, Bonnie in the gloamin'. Awa', ye sun, wi' lavish licht. And bid brown Benachie guid nicht; To me a star mair dearly bricht Aye glimmers in the gloamin'. There's nae a sound in yon bower, Merl's sough nor mavis singin'; Whispers saft in yon bower, Mingle in the gloamin'. What tho' drowsie lav'rocks rest, Cow'rin' in their sangless nest? When, O! the voice that I like best, Cheers me in the gloamin'. There's artless truth in yon bower, Sweeter than the scented blossom; Bindin' hearts in yon bower, Glowin' in the gloamin'. The freshness o' the upland lea, The fragrance o' the blossom'd pea, A' mingle in her breath to me, Sichin' in the gloamin'. Concluding Chorus. Then hand awa frae yon bower, Cauldrife breast or loveless bosom; True love dwells in yon bower, Gladdest in the gloamin'. BONNIE MAY. Note to a Friend, with the accompanying verses. The Muse made a short and surly "drop in," yesterday morning — quite unsexed as to apparel — greatcoat buttoned over Taglioni, superinvolved by a Kilmarnock cravat. Several apologies for absence of late, bad cold, &c. &c. Asked, with rueful solemnity, whether I had heard anything of May? Hinted at certain scandals current in the "twelve signs," bearing unfavourably on the repute of our darling month. In short, that she had made off and away with that bloodless old fool, January. Poor thing, how she wailed — her May, her May! Well, I picked up so many tears from a fold of the Kilmarnock, strung them on as many sighs, and here they are, to the tune of "The year that's awa'." O, WHAUR hae ye gane, bonnie May? Hae ye left us for ever an' aye? Yer daft brither, June, brak in wi' a stoun, Maist frichtit our birdies away, O, May! An' feint a bit liltie hae they. Our gowans droop wither'd an' grey, Our bairnies creep sullen an' blae; Thro' blifferts o' caul' they yaumer an' yaul, An' want ye to warm them, May, O, May! Our dear, duddie bairnies, May. The whir o' the witherin' win', Drives madly o'er burn an' brae; The tremblin' brierd fa's sodden an' sear'd, An' kens nae the nicht frae the day, O, May! An' hae ye forsaken us, May? Our crafters look crabbit an' fey, Our wee bits o' bushes decay; They crouch in the yard, cauld blabs on ilk baird, An' greet to the mornin' grey, O, May! They miss the lythe Licht o' their May. I've nae mair to sing or to say, But come, gin yer comin', sweet May, E'er Martinmas drear, set the factor asteer, An' then there's the deevil to pay, O, May! Our stools an' our tubbies away! LINES WRITTEN AT RAVENSCRAIG, A RUIN ON THE BANKS OF UGIE, NEAR PETERHEAD, ABERDEENSHIRE. "A building — such a one As age to age might add for uses vile, A windowless, deformed, and dreary pile." YON'S Ravenscraig, wi' riven ha', A thousand winters shook its wa' — Tired Time let scythe an' san'glass fa', To breathe awhile at Ugie. For here, by brake, by burn an' lea, Fair Nature freaks sae changefullie, Now laughin' daft, syne greets to see Yon grim, grey towers at Ugie. An' wha can mark yon dungeon dour, Unmindfu' o' the waesome hour, When man o'er man, wi' fiendish power, Made sick the tremblin' Ugie. Bring ivy wi' its peacefu' green, Gae hide ilk hoar, unhallow'd stane; They maunna bloat yon bonnie een That watch the gushin' Ugie. For yonder's she, in love's loved dress, In youth, in truth, in tenderness — Has Heaven lent that bonnie face To bless the tearfu' Ugie? 'Tis sic a face, 'tis sic a mein, An' O, sic wylie, witchin' een, Gars Time upon his elbow lean, An' sich to cross the Ugie. A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE — Inverury, March 1, 1844. SIR, — In your paper, the other week, I read of a woman, Cameron, Overgate, Dundee, found dead — her child, a boy of seven years, sleeping beside her. She expired unknown to any — she and her little son lying on a shakedown in a wretched hovel — not a morsel of food, but every mark of starvation, cold and hunger. Now, sir, having myself tasted the bitter cup — having seen death at work in this same hideous form — the above tragedy affected me very much. I do not think ill of mankind, but the contrary. I would not reflect on the good-will of those who undertake, and whose duty it then is, to watch the abodes of misery. Reproach may not apply to the will of parties so placed; but what could the mildest say of that blameable and fatal ignorance that thus defeats the very best ends of mercy — leaving a human creature to struggle with death in its most revolting attitude — then mock the whole with a sort of posthumous wail? I sincerely believe that there was not one in Dundee, that night — whether on hardest pallet or softest down — but would have started in the dark hour, ministered to yon perishing woman, soothed the little trembler at her cold breast, and been happy. But who knew of it? Why, everybody, next day, when the white coffin* is seen borne along by a troop of pale-faced existences, whose present suffering is nowise smoothed by the prospect offered in their then dowie occupation, and the fate that may be their own one cold dark night, ere long. Starvation to death is not uncommon amongst us; yet we are in the nineteenth century — the pearl age of benevolent societies, charity schools, and "useful knowledge." Would *In Dundee, it lately was the case, if not still, that paupers' coffins were not allowed to be blackened. benevolence be perverted, charity made colder, or the knowledge useless, that made us timeously acquainted with catastrophes like these? In Aberdeen, the other week, an aged man was found dead in his garret, with every appearance of want and wretchedness! How came it to be known? Did the elder of the district discover it while on his round of Christian inquiry? Did some benevolent ruler in a benevolent society miss his poor old neighbour? Weeks and weeks his tottering footsteps had not been seen on the pavement, or heard in his naked abode. He is dead — starved dead — and the stench of his half-- consumed body gave notice that, however man may act by man, death is at its post. O! that some kind-hearted creature, with a turn for statistical computation, would lend me a hand! It might be made clear, I think, that, in a population of sixty thousand, one hundred could be spared (by regular changes) to hunt misery to its very heels, and scare it, at least, from its more hideous feasts. Say that districts are subdivided into wards, each ward having its appointed inspector, whose duty it should be to observe earnestly, and report faithfully, all concerning the poverty-stricken residents in his charge. That the murder of neglect is perpetrated in this land, is one terrible fact, and it is as true, though, alas! not so terrifying, that he who is ignorant of it, or, knowing it, feels it only as an incident per course, bestowing upon it a fusionless shrug, and a "woes me," that man has blood upon his head! We are the children of one Father, travelling together on the broad and brief way to eternity. Alas! for such unequal equipment — seeing we must at last pull up at one stage! You will forgive me all this preaching, but my soul is into it, and, last night, I composed the following lines bearing that way. If you think these, or any sentiments here expressed, would, if made public, in any way move an additional feeling in favour of the "Overgate Orphan," I would be proud and happy. 'Tis the lone wail of woman, a mother's last woe, And tearless the eye when the soul weepeth so — Nor fuel nor food in you windowless lair, The sleeping is watched by the dying one there. "O, wauken nae, wauken nae, my dowie dear, My dead look would wither your wee heart wi' fear; Sleep on till yon cauld moon is set in the sea, Gin mornin', hoo cauld will yer wauknin' be! "Ye creep to a breast, Jamie, cauld as the snaw, Ye hang roun' a heart, Jamie, sinkin' awa'; I'm laith, laith to leave ye, tho' fain would I dee, Gin Heaven would lat my lost laddie wi' me!" Awaken, lone trembler, the moon has no licht, And the grey glint of morning drives back the fell nicht; The last look is fixing in yon frozen tear — Awaken, lone trembler, thy home is not here! The death-cling awoke him — the struggle is o'er, He moans to the ear that will listen no more; "You're caulder than me, mither, cauld though I be, And that look is nae like yer ain look to me. "I dreamt hoo my father came back frae the deid, A' waesome an' eerie the looks that he gied; He wyled ye awa till ye sindered frae me — O, hap me, my mither, I'm cauld — like to dee!" YTHANSIDE. I HAD ae nicht, and only ane, On flow'ry Ythanside, An' kith or kindred I hae nane That dwall by Ythanside; Yet midnicht dream and morning vow At hame they winna bide, But pu', and pu' my willing heart Awa' to Ythanside. What gars ilk restless, wand'ring wish Seek aye to Ythanside, An' hover round yon fairy bush That spreads o'er Ythanside? I think I see its pawkie boughs, Whaur lovers weel might hide; An' O! what heart could safely sit You nicht at Ythanside? Could I return and own the scaith I thole frae Ythanside, Would her mild e'e bend lythe on me Ance mair on Ythanside? Or, would she crush my lowly love Beneath a brow o' pride? I daurna claim, and maunna blame, Her heart on Ythanside. I'll rue yon high and heathy seat* That hangs o'er Ythanside; I'll rue the mill whaur burnies meet; I'll rue ye, Ythanside. An' you, ye Moon, wi' luckless Licht, Pour'd a' yer gowden tide O'er sic a brow ! — sic een, you nicht! — Oh, weary Ythanside! *In the woods of Eslemont, there is a most romantic looking pinnacle overhangs the water Ythan. Nature has scooped in it a beautiful little gallery. There the late Miss Gordon was daily seen, surrounded by the children of the neighbouring peasantry, teaching them all things needful to their situation in life — their duty to God and the world. A CHIEFTAIN UNKNOWN TO THE QUEEN.* AULD Scotland cried "Welcome your Queen!" Ilk glen echoed "Welcome your Queen!" While turret and tower to mountain and moor, Cried"Wauken and welcome our Queen!" Syne, O sic deray was exprest, As Scotland for lang hadna seen; When bodies cam bickerin' a' clad in their best — To beck to their bonnie young Queen. When a' kinds o' colours cam south, An' scarlet frae sly Aberdeen; Ilk flutterin' heart flitted up to the mouth, A' pantin' to peep at our Queen. There were Earls on that glitterin' strand, Wi' diamonded Dame mony ane; An' weel might it seem that the happiest land Was trod by the happiest Queen. *See Note F. Then mony a chieftain's heart Beat high 'neath its proud tartan screen; But one sullen chief stood afar and apart, Nor recked he the smile o' a Queen. "Wha's he winna blink on our Queen, Wi' his haffets sae lyart and lean?" O ho! it is Want, wi' his gathering gaunt, An' million of mourners unseen. Proud Scotland cried "Hide them, O hide! An' lat nae them licht on her een; Wi' their bairnies bare, it would sorrow her sair! For a mither's heart moves in our Queen." THE DRUNKARD'S DREAM. "Who hath woe? Who hath sorrows? They that tarry long at the wine." PROVERBS xxiii. 29, 30. O TEMPT me not to the drunkard's draught, With its soul-consuming gleam! O hide me from the woes that waft Around the drunkard's dream! When night in holy silence brings The God-willed hour of sleep, Then, then the red-eyed revel swings Its bowl of poison deep. When morning waves its golden hair, And smiles o'er hill and lea, One sick'ning ray is doomed to glare On you rude revelry. The rocket's flary moment sped, Sinks black'ning back to earth; Yet darker — deeper sinks his head Who shares in drunkard's mirth! Know ye the sleep the drunkard knows? That sleep, O who may tell! Or who can speak the fiendful throes Of his self-heated hell! The soul all reft of heav'nly mark — Defaced God's image there — Rolls down and down yon abyss dark, Thy howling home, Despair! Or bedded his head on broken hearts, Where slimy reptiles creep; And the ball-less eye of Death still darts Black fire on the drunkard's sleep. And lo! their coffin'd bosoms rife, That bled in his ruin wild! The cold, cold lips of his shrouded wife, Press lips of his shrouded child So fast — so deep the hold they keep; Hark his unhallow'd scream! Guard us, O God, from the drunkard's sleep — From the drunkard's demon-dream! CAN YE FORGET. — "My sight Is dim to see that charactered in vain On this unfeeling leaf, which burns the brain And eats into it, blotting all things fair And wise and good, which time had written there." CAN ye forget yon sunny day Whan sparkling Ury murmured by; Whaur birdies in their blythest way Poured April sangs athwart the sky. How little, little then kent I Sae fause the lip that prest to mine; Oh, wha could think you fever'd sigh Cam frae a breast sae cauld as thine! But weel mind I as o'er my head A wee, wee lanesome birdie sang; Sae waesome did its music plead, I scarce could hide the tear it brang. My heart maist frae my bosom sprang, Syne trembling sank wi' bodefu' knell For oh! I feared that I ere lang Micht maen in siclike lonely wail. Sinsyne I've kent could gloamin' come Whan blae and wae the Ury ran; Whan cow'rin' birds a' nestled dumb, An' cheerless nicht lower'd o'er the lawn. Sic time my bursting bosom faun' The slack'ning gush that nane micht see! And aye the licht's unlo'esome dawn Brang life an' love to a' but me. I had nae hinnied words to woo, Nae gainfu' gifts had I to spare; But oh! I had a heart sae true That nocht could shift, that nane should share. Ae trembling wish alane lived there — Ae hope that held the witless way; That hope is gane, an' evermair Left darkness owre life's dowie day. THE LASS O' KINTORE. AIR — "O as I was kiss'd yestreen." AT hame or afield I am cheerless an' lone, I'm dull on the Ury an' droop by the Don; Their murmur is noisy an' fashions to hear, An' the lay o' the lintie fa's deid on my ear. I hide frae the moon, and whaur naebody sees, I greet to the burnie an' sich to the breeze; Tho' I sich till I'm silly, an' greet till I dee, Kintore is the spot in this world for me. But the lass o' Kintore, oh the lass o' Kintore, Be warned awa frae the lass o' Kintore; There's a love-luring look that I ne'er kent afore, Steals cannily hame to the heart at Kintore. They bid me forget her — oh! how can it be? In kindness or scorn she's ever wi' me; I feel her fell frown in the lift's frosty blue, An' I weel ken her smile in the lily's saft hue. I try to forget her, but canna forget — I've liket her lang, an' I aye like her yet; My poor heart may wither — may waste to its core, But forget her? oh never! the lass o' Kintore! Oh the wood o' Kintore — the holmes o' Kintore! The love-lichtin' e'e that I ken at Kintore; I'll wander afar, an' I'll never look more On the grey glance o' Peggy or bonnie Kintore! DID THEY MEET AGAIN? AWA ye weary licht, Nae moon nor starnie bricht; Oh! for thy midwatch nicht An' rayless hour; Whan I may gang alane, Unmarked by mortal een, An' meet my bosom queen In her murky bower. I ken she's waitin' there — She's faithfu' as she's fair — I'll twine her raven hair Roun' her snawie brow An' vow by earth an' sea Hoo dear she's been to me, An' thou lone Benachie Maun hear that vow. We loved — alas! sae leal! But this sad nicht maun seal The lang — the last fareweel 'Tween her an' me. Whaur e'er my fate may guide Or weel or was betide, I'll mind wha dwalls beside Dark Benachie. WHAUR DOES THE BLYTHE BEE SIP? "WHAUR does the blythe bee sip" Whan it laves in the lo'esome honey? It may lair itsel' In the bricht blue bell, But I ken a lip Whaur nane daur sip — Whaur sweets are twice as monie. There are wyles in yon peerless mou, Whan her sang in the heart rings bonnie, An' I daurna think O' the witchfu' blink Frae an e'e as blest As the draps that rest On the gowan's breast sae cannie. I may sigh whan my heart is sair, I may rue unkent to onie; But O come again Wi' yer 'wilderin' strain, An' the balmy lip Whaur angels wad sip Whan sair'd o' their heaven's honey! THE LASS WI' THE WANDERIN' E'E. "O WHA that sang yon sang to me That I can ne'er forget? Wha is't that aucht you lo'esome e'e? Sae weel's I see it yet! An' cam she frae the far, far east. The lass wi' the wanderin' e'e; The heart lay tremblin' in my breast To the sang she sung to me!" "Haud doun sic hope ye fond, fond man, For loveless is her strain; She feasts on hearts aroun' her fa'in, Yet scaithless keeps her ain. She laughs to ken the bleed-drap fa', An' gladdens at ilka woun'; O turn yer wishfu' heart awa, There's was in yon sweet soun'." "I maunna mind what may betide — Oh! send that maid to me, An' place her near this beating side, Sae like to gar me dee; For I would feast on her fair look An' lavish on her sang; — Her dark e'e is a holy book In whilk I read nae wrang." MY HEATHER LAND. AIR — "The Highland Watch." MY heather land, my heather land! My dearest pray'r be thine; Altho' upon thy hapless heath, There breathes nae friend o' mine. The lanely few that Heaven has spar'd Fend on a foreign strand; And I maun wait to weep wi' thee, My hameless heather land! My heather land, my heather land! Though fairer lands there be, Thy gow'nie braes in early days, Were gowden ways to me. Maun life's poor boon gae dark'ning doun Nor die whaur it had dawn'd, But claught a grave ayont the wave, Alas! my heather land! My heather land, my heather land! Though chilling winter pours Her freezing breath roun' fireless hearth, Whaur breadless misery cow'rs; Yet breaks the light that soon shall blight The godless reivin' hand — Whan wither'd tyranny shall reel Frae our rous'd heather land! MY HAMELESS HA'. OH! how can I be cheerie in this hameless ha'; The very sun glints eerie on the gilded wa'; An' aye the nicht sae drearie, Ere the dowie morn daw, Whan I canna win to see you My Jamie, ava. Tho' monie miles between us, an' far, far frae me, The bush that wont to screen us frae the cauld warl's e'e, Its leaves may waste and wither, But its branches winna fa', An' hearts may haud thegither Tho' frien's drap awa. Ye promis'd to speak o' me to the lanesome moon, An' weird kind wishes to me, in the lark's saft soun'; I doat upon that moon, Till my very heart fills fou, An' aye yon birdie's tune Gars me greet for you. Then how can I be cheerie in the stranger's ha'? A gowden prison drearie, my luckless fa'! 'Tween leavin' o' you Jamie, An' ills that sorrow me, I'm wearie o' the warl' An' carena tho' I dee. Extract from a Letter to J. ROBERTSON, Esq. London. INSTANTLY on receipt of yours, expressing a wish to see some of my pieces, I made search and recovered copies of a few which had been printed by friends for private circulation. Enclosed is one piece written about two years ago, my wife lately before having died in child-bed. At the time of her decease, although our dwelling was at Inverury, my place of employment was in a village nine miles distant, whence I came once a fortnight, to enjoy the ineffable couthieness that swims around "ane's ain fireside," and is nowhere else to be found. For many months, we knew comfort and happiness — our daughter Betsy, about ten years of age, was in country service, two boys, younger still, kept at home with their mother. The last Sabbath we ever met, Jean spoke calmly and earnestly of matters connected with our little home and family — bade me remain a day or two with them yet, as she felt a foreboding that the approaching event would be too much for her enfeebled constitution. It was so. She died two days thereafter. On returning from the kirkyard, I shut up our desolate dwelling, and never more owned it as a home. We were but as strangers in the village, so the elder boy and I put over that night in a common tramp house. A neighbour undertook to keep the other little fellow, but he, somehow, slipped away unobserved, and was found fast asleep at the door of our tenantless home. Next morning, having secured a boarding-house for him (the youngest), I took the road to resume labour at the usual place — poor, soft-hearted Willie by my side — a trifle of sad thinking within, and the dowie mists of Benachie right before me. We travelled off our road some miles to the glen where Betsy was "herdin'."* Poor Bet knew nothing of what had happened at Inverury. Her mother had visited her three weeks before — had promised to return with some wearables, for winter was setting in fast and bitterly. The day and very hour we approached her bleak residence, that was their trysted time. She saw us as we stood on the knowe hesitating — ran towards us — "O whaur is my mither? foo is nae she here? Speak, father! speak, Willie!" Poetry, indeed! Poetry, I fear, has little to do with moments like these. Oh, no! When the bewildering gush has passed away, and a kind of grey light has settled on the "Herdin'" — tending cows. ruin, one may then number the drops as they fall, but the cisterns of sorrow echo not when full — hence my idealized address to Willie was written long after the event that gave it existence. With feelings more tranquil, and condition every way better, it came thus — THE ae dark spot in this loveless world, That spot maun ever be, Willie, Whaur she sat an' dauted yer bonnie brown hair, An' lithely looket to me, Willie; An' oh! my heart owned a' the power Of your mither's gifted e'e, Willie. There's now nae blink at our slacken'd hearth, Nor kindred breathing there, Willie; But cauld and still our hame of Death, Wi' its darkness evermair, Willie; For she wha lived in our love, is cauld, An' her grave the stranger's lair, Willie. The sleepless nicht, the dowie dawn, A' stormy tho' it be, Willie, Ye'll buckle ye in yer weet wee plaid, An' wander awa wi' me, Willie; Yer lonesome sister little kens Sic tidings we hae to gie, Willie. The promised day, the trysted hour, She'll strain her watchfu' e'e, Willie; Seeking that mither's look of love, She ne'er again maun see, Willie; Kiss aye the tear frae her whitening cheek, An' speak awhile for me, Willie. Look kindly, kindly when ye meet, But speak nae of the dead, Willie; An' when yer heart would gar you greet, Aye turn awa yer head, Willie; That waesome look ye look to me Would gar her young heart bleed, Willie. Whan e'er she names a mither's name, An' sairly presseth thee, Willie, O tell her of a happy hame Far, far o'er earth an' sea, Willie; An' ane that waits to welcome them — Her hameless bairns an' me, Willie. I shall just mention another incident, though, in point of order, it should have been told before. After many months of hopeless wanderings, my family and I at length found a settled home at Inverury. Comparative rest and warmth succeeding to watchful misery, we were. one and all, afflicted with dishealth. Willie, especially, suffered long, and, at last, had to be conveyed to the Aberdeen Infirmary. There he had to undergo a serious operation. I knew his timid nature, and went thither to sustain and comfort him through that severe trial. The operation took place a day earlier than that mentioned to me, so all was over ere I arrived. I found him asleep in his little chamber, and the feelings of that moment are partially embodied in the following lines: — "Hospital charities for devastated homes? Faugh! Give me my wages; have I not laboured?" — Moliere. WAKE ye — sleep ye, my hapless boy, In that homeless house of care? Lack ye the warmth of a mother's eye On thy cauldrife, lonely lair? Dost thou strain in thy dream a brother's hand, Yet waken thee all alone? Thy deep dark eye, shall it open unblest? Nor father? — nor sister? None! Thy father's board is too narrow my child, For ills like thine to be there; The comfortless hearth of thy parents is cold, And their light but the light of despair. Has God disown'd them, the children of toil? Is the promise of Heaven no more? Shall industry weep — shall the pamper'd suppress The sweat-earned bread of the poor? Alas! and the wind as it blew and blew On the famished and houseless, then, Has blighted that bud of my heart's best hope, And it never may blossom again. 'Twas so. In my very, very heart I found it. Who are they that beat about in the substanceless regions of fancy for material to move a tear? Who but the silken bandaged sons of comfort? — ink-bleeders whose sorrows are stereotyped — they who see life only through the hazy medium of theory, and do at farthest obtain but a mellow blink of those sickening realities that settle around the poor man's hearth. DREAMINGS OF THE BEREAVED. THE morning breaks bonnie o'er mountain an' stream, An' troubles the hallowed breath o' my dream! The gowd light of morning is sweet to the e'e, But, ghost-gathering midnight, thou'rt dearer to me The dull common world then sinks from my sight, An' fairer creations arise to the night; When drowsy oppression has sleep sealed my e'e, Then bright are the visions awaken'd to me! O! come spirit mother — discourse of the hours, My young bosom beat all its beatings to yours, When heart-woven wishes in soft counsel fell, On ears — how unheedful prov'd sorrow might tell! That deathless affection — nae trial could break, When a' else forsook me ye wouldna forsake, Then come, O! my mother, come often to me, An' soon an' for ever I'll come unto thee! An' thou shrouded loveliness! soul-winning Jean, How cold was thy hand on my bosom yestreen! 'Twas kind — for the lowe that your e'e kindled there, Will burn — ay, an' burn, till that breast beat nae mair. Our bairnies sleep round me, O! bless ye their sleep, Your ain dark-e'ed Willie will wauken an' weep, But blythe in his weepin' he'll tell me how you, His heaven-hamed mammie was "dautin' his brou."* Tho' dark be our dwallin' — our happin' tho' bare, An' night closes round us in cauldness an' care; Affection will warm us — an' bricht are the beams That halo our hame in yon dear land of dreams. Then weel may I welcome the night's deathy reign, Wi' souls of the dearest I mingle me then, The gowd light of morning is lightless to me, But oh for the night wi' its ghost revelrie! * Patting his forehead. THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. WHEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame, By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame; Wha stan's last an' lanely, an' naebody carin'? 'Tis the puir doited loonie — the mitherless bairn! The mitherless bairn gangs till his lane bed, Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; His wee, hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn! Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams tremble there, O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair! But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn! Yon sister, wha sang o'er his saftly-rocked bed, Noo rests in the mools whaur her mammie is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens nae the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn! Her spirit, that pass'd in you hour o' his birth, Still watches his lone, lorn wand'rings on earth, Recording in heaven the blessings they earn, Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn! Oh! speak him nae harshly — he trembles the while — He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile! In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn! THE WEDDED WATERS. AIR — "Kind Robin lo'es me." GADIE wi' its waters fleet, Ury wi' its murmur sweet, They hae trysted aye to meet Among the woods o' Logie. Like bride an' bridegroom happy they, Wooing smiles frae bank an' brae, Their wedded waters wind an' play Round leafy bowers at Logie. O'er brashy linn, o'er meadow fine, They never sinder, never tyne, An' oh! I thought sic meetings mine, Yon happy hours at Logie. But Fortune's cauld an' changefu' e'e, Gloomed bitterly on mine an' me, I looket syne, but cou'dna see My sworn love at Logie. Now lowly, lanely, I may rue The guilefu' look, the guilefu' vow, That fled as flees the feckless dew Frae withered leaves at Logie. But Gadie wi' its torrents keen, An' Ury wi' its braes sae green, They a' can tell how true I've been To my lost love in Logie. "O THAT MY LOVE WAS SO EASILY WON."* O THAT my love was so easily won! Whaur nae love word was spoken; Unsought — unwoo'd, my heart had flown — I canna hide, I daurna own How that poor heart is broken. O that my love was so easily won! The gay an' the gallant hae woo'd me; But he — O he never sought to share The envied smile, yet mair an' mair Yon wordless look subdued me. O that my love was so easily won! O that my life would restore him! He lightlied the love o' my pridefu' clan — My dreams are fu' o' yon friendless man, For the wrath o' my kindred hangs o'er him. *The burden line of a very old song. O that my love was so easily won! My kin will ye never forgie me? I've gien my heart to a hameless man, But I'll wander far frae this friendless lan', An' it never mair shall see me. A WISH. O PEGGY waur yer heart as free, As free as it is rare; I'd be the saint to worship thee, And build an altar there. Or could I wyle that heart awa, An' haud it aye my ain; Within this bosom's benmost ha', Never to flit again. I saw yon gleam o' sunny licht Spread o'er yer gladsome brow, An' O! love lurks wi' fatal micht Aroun' yer comely mou. Yet frae the brichtness o' that brow, There fa's nae licht for me; An' O! its sair to doat, I trow, On lips we daurna pree! Ye bid me sing, an' fain would I Do a' ye bid me do; But aye my tremblin' lips deny — My tremblin' heart fills fou. But aft I'll sing the sang ye lo'e When yer nae bye to hear, An' ilka soun' that pleasur'd you I'll welcome wi' a tear. SECOND LOVE. "THE breast that has felt love, justly shrinks from the idea of its total extinction, as from annihilation itself." O SAY not Love will never Breathe in that breast again; That where he bled must ever All pleasureless remain. Shall tempest-riven blossom, When fair leaves fall away, In coldness close its bosom 'Gainst beams of milder day? O never, nay! It blooms where'er it may. Though ruthless tempest tear — Though biting frosts subdue, And leave no tendril where Love's pretty flow'rets grew; The soil all ravaged so Will nurture more and more, And stately roses blow Where gowans droop'd before; Then why, O why Should sweet love ever die! ADDRESS TO THE DON. "Will it fair up do you think?" "Aye will't yet." "THE deil an' Don came down that day, Wi' a' their highland fury; An' vowed to 'bear the Bass away,' Frae bonnie tremblin' Ury." DARK Don, thy water's rude repulsive scowl And frothy margin, all too well bespeak The upland ravages, the conflict bleak Of mountain winter — the maddened howl Of bruiting elements, distraught and foul Have ruffled thy fair course and chok'd thy braes. Love flies affrightened at thy swollen look, The laverock may not hear its own sweet lays O'er thy rough grumblings, and the timid brook Sinks tremblingly amid thy surfy maze, Thou cold remembrancer of wilder human ways! So soiled the social tide, by some curst deed Of ancient ruffian or fool — so ages read To weeping worlds, of hearts that bleed — Of patriots — sages that have died Ere that broad stream was half repurified. Roll thy dark waters Don — we yet shall see On thy bright bosom the fair symmetry Of vaulted heaven, when the shrill lark pours Voluptuous melody to listening flowers, And all of man, of earth, and air shall feel What hate and darkness hurteth, love and light can heal! For who so dull that may not now behold Yon cloud-repelling light, yon moral ray Scatter the dingy mist, the murky fold That aye obscured the intellectual day? God breathes again in man — those melt, decay, Preparing, purifying to the sacred birth Of virtues hitherto undared on earth. NOTES. See p.35 — A. Since e'er he left the Paphian lea. "PAPHOS, a very ancient city of Cyrus, on the western side of the island, situate in a height near the little river Bocarus. It was said to have been founded by Cinyras, the reputed father of Adonis. It was celebrated for its beautiful temple of Venus, built on the spot where she landed when she rose from the sea. There were one hundred altars in her temple, which smoked daily, with a profusion of frankincense, and though exposed to the open air, they were never wetted by rain. Annual festivals were held here in honour of the goddess, and her oracle, which was connected with the temple, acquired for it considerable reputation." So here it was that this same little urchin, Cupid, imbibed a taste for bow-bending; and getting thereat so expert, and withal so troublesome, it was resolved by certain infirm gods and ugly goddesses, to do for him. One night, then, when Venus, his mother, was invisible (Adonis had been seen skulking in a wood close by), the aforementioned divinities laid hands on Master Mischief — " skelpt" him rarely — ordered Father Time to clip the little rascal's wings, and lay him down somewhere about the Garioch. Here he wandered so long and wept so sorely, that his "blear'd een" obtained for him the name of the "Blind Boy." See p.37 — B. He passed Pittodrie's haunted wood, Whaur devils dwalt langsyne. AMONG the many pretty legends and stories that affix to almost every hill and water, wood and howe of the Garioch, the following is often heard: — Upon a time far, far gone by, the enemy of mankind took a fancy, it seems, to amuse himself awhile in the neighbourhood of Benachie — a portion of our fallen world he had scarcely looked upon since the days of Harlaw. Now, to put matters astirring again in his own way, he just took a stroll into the woods of Pittodrie. There let him walk, while we take a hasty look at those upon whom he is said to have recommenced his dark doings. The boasted beauty of five parishes was the "Maiden of Drumdurno." A farmer's only daughter she — a cantie, clever, hame-bred Scotch lassie. Three notions, in particular, appear to have held uppermost keeping in her bonnie brow — to wit, that her father had the sharpest outlook, Benachie the highest tap, and her ain Jamie, the kindest heart in the whole world. Aware (and why not?) of her own personal loveliness, she wisely made all within as fair and fitting. She lived a creature full of soul — her breast the tenement of love and happiness — gaiety and tenderness hovered in her eye, like watchful spirits, ready to minister — waiting, as it were, just to see what was wanted — a laugh or a tear. Many, many had wooed — one, at last, had won her. The unsuccessful went, each according to his way, in these cases — some sighing, some singing, some drawing comfort from a new purpose, some from an old pipe — all, however, wishing happy days to the betrothed "Maiden of Drumdurno." One alone — one fed the hope of vengeance — one grim, horse-shoe-hearted rascal of a smith. Parish smith and precentor, too, he was. This rejected ruffian watched that night in Pittodrie woods, in thought that "Jamie" would, as usual, in leaving Drumdurno, pass that way. "O that my eternal destruction could plague their earthly peace," cried he, "how soon and sure the bargain would be mine!" "Capital wish!" cried the seducer of Eve, "I'll do the thing for you on your own conditions." Perpetual vassalage on the part of the "red wud" smith — written desolation to the luckless lovers of Drumdurno, was compact and settlement that night, in the black woods of Pittodrie. * * * The bonniest and the blythest lass within sight of Benachie was drifting up the bridal baking — and the bridal and the bannocks "baith her ain." "It sets ye weel to work, lass, gin ye had onie mair speed at it." This compound of taunt and compliment was uttered by a stranger, who had been hanging on about the kitchen, the last hour or so — a queer, rollicking, funny, lump of a "roader," and, by his own story, in search of work. "I kenna whether it sets me or no," quoth the maiden, "but I think nane could grudge wi' my speed." It is clear by this, that the complimentary portion of the stranger's remark had found its way. Alas! the pitiable truth! Alas! for humanity! When it would be flattered, the poison is more surely imparted beneath the roughest coverture. In faulting that which is blameless, the flatterer assumes the hue and weight of honesty, and works securely there. The jest and banter was exchanged, with mingled glee and earnestness, till at length the lass, all thoughtlessly, was inveigled into the fatal wager. The terms of that fearful agreement are stated at varied points of the horrible. The most temperate reciters insist that HE undertook to "lay" a road from bottom to top of Benachie ere she baked up her firlot of meal. The forfeiture hazarded on his part is not on record. Most likely the light-hearted, happy bride regarded the whole as one of the merry jokes that rang from that merry old man, and heeded not exacting conditions in a matter she conceived to be impossible. Her part of the pledge, however, was, "that she become his own if the road is laid ere the meal be baken." * * * Now, now, the last bannock is on the girdle, but for the past hour her mind was filling, in the gush of that tearful sweetness that pours o'er the heart of a willing bride, so the hill, the road, the wager, old man and all — all were forgotten — all overshaded that shared of earth — but one — one only, one darling thought. The hour of tryst was near. The lowering, gloomy-like fall of the night dismayed her, and she looked wistfully at the cloud settling on the hill. "Its nae that, nor mony siclike 'ill gar him bide frae me; but I'm was to see him weet. God of my heart," she cried, "what's yon I see!" * * * The road is to be seen to this day. She fled towards the woods of Pittodrie, pursued. The prayer she could not utter was answered. With the last bound the demon grasped a stone. Such the transformed bride. So she stands there even now. And quick the pace, and quick the pulse, Wha wanders there alane, Atween Pittodrie's drearie wood An' the dowie "maiden's stane." See p.47 — C. While cow'ring 'neath the ruined wall Of Elgin's dark cathedral. THIS venerable and magnificent relic of cathedral grandeur is situated in Elgin, Morayshire, on the banks of the river Lossie. It was built early in the thirteenth century. About a hundred and fifty years after the foundation, it was entirely burned down by the ruffian son of a Scottish king. The creature — a common destroyer — lives yet in hateful record, as "The Wolf of Badenoch." "The cathedral is surrounded by a burying-ground, one of the largest churchyards, perhaps, in Great Britain. In it are interred the remains of many distinguished persons, including several of the kings of Scotland. The churchyard is enclosed by a stone wall. What with the number of graves, the beauty and variety of the sculptured memorials of departed worth and greatness, and the grandeur of the dilapidated cathedral — a building which is, indeed, pre-eminently magnificent, even in ruins — the scene is calculated to make a strong impression on the spectator." It is not all of its early grandeur, nor of its latter desolation, its splendour nor its ruin — not all the historian has told or antiquarian minuted — will impart an interest to the spot, like what it derives now from a maniac — an outcast mother and her orphan boy. It fell out thus: — In 1745, Marjory Gillan, a young woman, resided in Elgin — she was well connected and good-- looking — was privately married to a young man who had enlisted in a regiment then quartered in the town — she went abroad with her husband, followed by the bitter reproach of her relatives and friends, who considered the step she had taken a discredit and an affront to all connected. In the same spirit of unrelenting harshness, was she received on her return, which occurred about two years from the time she left. It was rumoured that her husband had used her ill, had left her behind, and was killed in battle. The forlorn one now sought her homeless native, unsettled in mind, and carrying a baby in her arms. [Let me here copy, occasionally verbatim, from Chambers' Edinburgh Journal, No. 385, where the story is so beautifully told. I regret to break it down, but my readers may not all of them have that very number at hand.] "The reception she met with, and the wild fancies of a wandering mind, induced her to take a strange step. Close beside the burgh are the yet majestic remains of an ancient cathedral, the area and precincts of which have continued since the Reformation to be used as a burying-ground. Amidst these crumbling ruins, there is one chamber still entire, a small, cellar-like room, about five feet square, with scarcely any light, and which is said, in ancient times, to have been the sacristy, or place for keeping the vessels used in the offices of religion. Here the poor outcast took up her abode, rendered insensible, by her obscured reason, to the nocturnal horrors of a place which, in a better state of mind, she would have dreaded to approach after dusk. There was, in this room, an ancient sculptured font, which she used as a bed to her infant; other furniture she had none. When it was known that she had gone to reside in this dismal place, the people felt as if it were an imputation against their Christian feelings. She and her babe were repeatedly carried, by some one or other of them, to their houses, but she always made her way back to the sacristy. At length, finding her determined to live there, they contented themselves with giving her food and alms, and, for several years, she wandered about with her boy, under the appellation of 'Daft May Gilzean'* — a harmless creature, that wept and sang by turns. Her lover or husband was no more heard of in the country, although he had several relations living in the neighbourhood, with whom he might have been expected to correspond, if he had remained in life. Andrew Anderson, the son of May Gilzean, grew up in all the raggedness and misery which might be expected under such circumstances to fall to his lot. It is questionable if he ever knew the comforts of a bed, or of a cooked meal of any kind, till his boyhood was far advanced. The one solacement of his forlorn existence was the affection which his mother always continued to feel for him." May Gillan dies — Andrew Anderson, her ragged and bewildered *The z in this name is not pronounced. boy, is forced, by ungracious treatment, from an uncle with whom he dwelt, to cast himself upon the world. Fortunately, he had obtained some education, gratuitously, in his native place. With this, his only wealth, "he made his way to Leith, and thence to London, where he was taken into the workshop of a tailor, who, finding that he wrote neatly, and had a knowledge of accounts, began, after some time, to employ him as a clerk. He was, one day, commissioned to take home a suit of clothes to a military gentleman, and to grant a discharge for the account. This gentleman was himself a Scotsman, and bore a commission in a regiment about to proceed to the East Indies. He was, like all Scotsmen at a distance from home, interested in hearing his native tongue spoken, by however humble a person. When, in addition to this, he observed the pleasing countenance and manners of the youth, and found that the discharge appended by him to the account was in a good regular hand, he entered into conversation, asked whence he came, what were his prospects, and other such questions, and finally inquired if he would like to go abroad as a soldier and officer's servant. Anderson, who was not perhaps disinclined to leave a country in which there was at least one individual whom he had reason to dread, required little persuasion to induce him to enter into the stranger's views. He enlisted as a private, and immediately after set sail with the regiment, in the capacity of drummer, acting, at the same time, according to previous agreement, as the valet or servant of his patron." A singularly marked Providence guided the footsteps of "Daft May's loonie," and, after an absence of sixty years, he returned to his remorseless nativity the renowned and wealthy Lieutenant-General Anderson of the East India Company's Service. He "founded and endowed, within the burgh of Elgin, an hospital for the maintenance of indigent men and women not under fifty years of age, also a school of industry for the maintenance and education of male and female children of the labouring classes whose parents are unable to maintain and educate them, and for putting out the said children, when fit to be so, as apprentices to some trade or occupation, or employing them in such a manner as may enable them to earn a livelihood by their lawful industry, and make them useful members of society." See p.51 — "Old Father Frost." With her cold little pearls that dance, bound and play, Like our ain bonnie bairns on Candlemas day. ERE yet the schoolmaster was so much abroad, the schoolmistress was very much at home. In Aberdeen, about thirty years ago, at any of fifty lowly firesides, could be found one of these simple academies yclept a "Wifie's Squeel." In one of those was imparted to me all the tuition I ever received in the way of letters — gatherings in after-life being only "crumbs from the rich man's table." Our Wifie had always twenty scholars, one cat, one taurds, and one opinion. The scholars exercised her patience, the cat her affections, and the opinion, simply that the taurds (a cordovan improvement on the feebler birch) was, as an exercise, the best panacea on earth for rheumatism in the right shoulder. When Elspet Gillespie wanted a bit of exercise in this way, there was no long waiting for a defaulter to give a duty-like interest to her emotions. The evolutions of the taurds then awakened some excitement throughout the establishment, accompanied by strong marks of disapproval in the party honoured by her immediate regard, and stirred curious sympathies, even in those who sat by in safety — if, indeed, safety could be coupled with such an hour. When the pangs of rheumatism were lulled by a sense of weariness about the shoulder blade, Elspet resumed her proud elevation above the trembling assembly, who felt there was one great woman in the world, and there sat she. Boys five years old and upwards brought the fee of three "bawbees" and a peat weekly. Our junior class was composed of little ones, who were too young to talk, but who, of course, made most noise. These were charged sixpence. I cannot say what portion of that sum was entered to "din." She had, indeed, much trouble with these, and longer time of it, having to tend them during the whole day, until their poor mothers returned from the spinning-mill or the field. The outfit for grown-up students was a Bible, a Westminster Catechism, and a stool, all of which were removed on Saturday, and fetched again on Monday. O that I could tell, and tell it rightly, the "skailing of the squeel," or paint yon joyous little mob, gushing forth from the laigh door of Elspet Gillespie! Every living face a commentary on the "rights of man" — every little head crowned with a three-footed stool, its "cap of liberty." There they go, a living forest, less leafy, less orderly than the Birnam wood that moved to Dunsinane. Thus should it be — this left a tyrant — that sought one. But the day of days, in Elspet Gillespie's ragamuffin college, was Candlemas day. Then the very madness of young mirth prevailed, washing off the jagged recollections of bygone sufferings, and sweetening down the three hundred and sixty-four sorrows of the season. Elspet, on that day, wore a smile on her face, and a high caul cap on her head — the taurds and cat invisible — locked up, it may be, in passive unity — the envied brute and detested leather. No matter how wrapped, our vulgar days, Candlemas claimed a clean sark to every laddie — to every lassie a white frock, and to each a white pocket napkin. A king and queen were, by the breath of Elspet, created on the spot. Who the distinguished? It was the undeviatable custom for parents to tender, on Candlemas eve, a guerdon to our tutoress, less or lesser, as earthly means permitted. So it fell out somehow that, in every rememberable instance, either the baker or the butcher rejoiced in the royal issue. Hence our gossiping mothers of meaner note did, in their envy, whisper that Eppie's royal rule was, "Wha buys the whistle?" Never mind that, we've seen the like since then — no disparagement to "the powers that breathe." Two tea spoonfuls of sweeties and an orange was laid on every happy hand. The fiddler comes — all on foot at once — all at once in motion— twenty white napkins flutter over twenty pretty heads. Fiddler! what care they for a fiddler? They see the fiddle! The dance started when he began to tune — the dance continues — he is tuning still — hands up! Patter, patter, patter — forty little feet pattering! Think of that when you see the hail dance to the whirr of a May shower! Oh! the days of childhood! Voyage thereafter as we may, on smooth or on broken water, these are the landmarks that will never fade. The blue of our native hills may be lost to the eye for long, long years, yet once again we press their heathy belts; but you, ye sunny scenes of infancy, though ye glimmer through every darkness, and at every distance, we meet never again. "Old Father Frost" was the result of a sportive contest in rhyming between the author and Mr. A. whose verses are subjoined, as well for their native prettiness, as their giving interest and character to the whole. OLD Father Frost hath children twain, Begotten 'twixt him and his Lady Rain; Though he is harsh, yet mild is she, And this is seen in their family, Old Father Frost and his family. Yes, Father Frost is a hard old churl, On his upper lip there's a bitter curl; And his black ill-favoured visage throws A sombre shade o'er his pale blue nose. Old Father Frost and his family. When the summer heat hath passed away, And gentle Rain gives up her sway, Old Father Frost, with his iron hand, Seizes and binds each northern land. Old Father Frost and his family. And hard it were for the creatures of earth, Were it not that Lady Rain gives birth To her chaste and kindly daughter, Snow, Who throws her mantle o'er all below. Old Father Frost and his family. For stern is the fiat of Father Frost, He chains the waters though tempest tost; And he freezes up the very ground Till it yields a ringing metal sound. Old Father Frost and his family. But like the Paynim maid in the Minstrel tale, Who released the knight from her father's jail, Sweet sister Snow sets prisoners free, And mitigates Frost's severity. Old Father Frost and his family. Not so kind by half is brother Hail, Who rattles about in his coat of mail, And bends and shatters both shrub and flower, In the wanton display of his father's power. Old Father Frost and his family. But Frost, and Rain, and Hail, and Snow, Come at your time when you come below; And we'll welcome you all with a cheerful smile, And drink and laugh and sing the while. Old Father Frost and his family. See p.55 — D. O Mary, when you think of me! FOR a period of seventeen years, I was employed in a great weaving factory in Aberdeen. It contained upwards of three hundred looms, worked by as many male and female weavers. 'Twas a sad place, indeed, and many a curiosity sort of man and woman entered that blue gate. Amongst the rest, that little, sly fellow Cupid would steal past "Willie, the porter" (who never dreamed of such a being) — steal in amongst us, and make a very harvest of it. Upon the remembrance of one of his rather graver doings, the song of "Mary" is composed. One of our shopmates, a virtuous young woman, fairly, though unconsciously, carried away the whole bulk and value of a poor weaver's heart. He became restless and miserable, but could never muster spirit to speak his flame. "He never told his love to any" — yes, he told it to me. At his request, I told it to Mary, and she laughed. Five weeks passed away, and I saw him to the churchyard. For many days ere he died, Mary watched by his bedside, a sorrowful woman, indeed. Never did widow's tears fall more burningly. 'Tis twenty years since then. She is now a wife and a mother; but the remembrance of that, their last meeting, still haunts her sensitive nature, as if she had done a deed of blood. See p.62 — E. For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea, Than I forget yon lowly grave, and all it hides from me. THREE mountain streamlets brawl separately down their break-neck journey, and tumble in peace together at the woods of Newton, just by Old Rayne, Aberdeenshire. This quiet confluence is the Ury. Like worn-out racers, these boisterous burns take breath, gliding along in harmonious languor some two miles or so, when the peaceful Ury is, as it were, cut through by the Gadie, a desperately crabbed-looking rivulet, raging and rumbling from Benachie. From this last annoyance, Ury moves onward in noiseless sweetness, winding and winding, as if aware of its own brief course, and all unwilling to leave the braes that hap the heroes of Harlaw. By and by, it creeps mournfully past the sequestered graveyard of Inverury, kisses the "Bass," and is swallowed up in the blue waters of the Don, its whole extent being only ten miles. Close by the graveyard, stands the Bass of Inverury — a conical-shaped hill, thickly studded with trees. The gloomy legends told of its origin and subsequent uses, would make one readily own its fitting neighbourhood to a place of skulls. One will tell you that, once upon a time, the Plague came upon Scotland, and Inverury had its share — that a deserted house stood then on the banks of the Ury — thither was carried the infected till the number of patients outran the skill and resources of their friends, who assembled to deliberate on "ways and means." It was then settled upon, that, to shorten present suffering, and to secure future safety, the best way was to bury them forthwith, house and all. It was done then. Hence the "Bass." The "Donside Guide" has the following notice of this beautiful mound: — "Some maintain that the Bass has been used for judicial purposes. By others, it is supposed to be of a sepulchral character; and then the question comes, Whose remains does it contain? Mr. Pinkerton says of the Picts, when the bodies of the chiefs were burnt, 'a barrow of earth, in proportion to their rank, was thrown up. That of a beloved king was sometimes like a little hill.' Chalmers, in his 'Caledonia,' describing the short reign of Eth (in the list of Pictish kings called 'Aoth'), surnamed the Swift-foot, says, 'It was his misfortune to reign while Grig was Maormer (ruler or earl) of the extensive country between the Don and the Spey. This artful chieftain found no great difficulty to raise up a competitor, with a faction, to oppose the king. The contending parties met at Strathullan (or the bloody field), where Eth was wounded, and, being carried to Inverurin, died two months after this fatal conflict, and one year after his sad accession, during wretched times, in 881.' 'On the whole,' says the author of the Statistical Account, 'looking to the sepulchral character of the Bass, and to the high probability that Eth finished his days here, I am inclined to believe that this barrow holds the remains of that unfortunate Pictish monarch.' The old rhyme, When Dee and Don shall run in one, And Tweed shall run in Tay, The bonnie water of Ury Shall bear the Bass away. is in every one's mouth in this district." See p.80 — F. A Chieftain unknown to the Queen. ON reconsidering the note prepared for this poem, I fear it comes within the heap of forbidden matter — neither politics nor polemics being permitted to make carping residence of my humble page. How can one eschew these stinging topics, while speaking of a royal visit and knowing of the Paisley weavers? PRINTED AT THE ABERDEEN HERALD OFFICE, BY JOHN FINLAYSON.