Obrazy na stronie
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In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the violets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,

The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

The merry plough-boy cheers his team, Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks; But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And everything is blessed but I.

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorland whistles shrill;
Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step,

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blithe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,

And raging bend the naked tree:
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!

Ae Fond Kiss.

['These exquisitely affecting stanzas contain the essence of a thousand love-tales.'-Scott.]

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas! for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met-or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest !
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas! for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

My Bonny Mary.

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
And fill it in a silver tassie;
That I may drink, before I go,

A service to my bonny lassie;
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,
Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry;
The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun leave my bonny Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are ranked ready;
The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody;

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A favourite walk of Burns during his residence in Dumfries was one along the right bank of the river above the town, terminating at the ruins of Lincluden Abbey and Church, which occupy a romantic situation on a piece of rising ground in the angle at the junction of the Cluden Water with the Nith. These ruins include many fine fragments of ancient decorative architecture, and are enshrined in a natural scene of the utmost beauty. Burns, according to his eldest son, often mused amidst the Lincluden ruins. There is one position on a little mount, to the south of the church, where a couple of landscapes of witching loveliness are obtained, set, as it were, in two of the windows of the ancient building. It was probably the Calvary' of the ancient church precinct. This the younger Burns remembered to have been a favourite resting-place of the poet.

Such is the locality of the grand and thrilling ode, entitled A Vision, in which he hints-for more than a hint could not be ventured upon-his sense of the degradation of the ancient manly spirit of his country under the conservative terrors of the passing era.-Chambers's Burns.

By heedless chance I turned mine eyes, And, by the moonbeam, shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attired as minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o' stane,

His darin' look had daunted me; And on his bonnet graved was plain, The sacred posy-Libertie!'

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,
Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear;
But oh! it was a tale of woe,

As ever met a Briton's ear.

He sang wi' joy the former day,

He weeping wailed his latter times; But what he said it was nae playI winna ventur't in my rhymes.

Man was Made to Mourn-a Dirge.

When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?' Began the reverend sage:

'Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage!
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man.

'The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride:
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return,
And every time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.
'O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time;
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force gives nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.
'Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn;

Then age and want-O ill-matched pair!Shew man was made to mourn.

'A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure's lap carest;

Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.

But, oh! what crowds in every land,
All wretched and forlorn!
Through weary life this lesson learn-
That man was made to mourn.
'Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame !
More pointed still we make ourselves
Regret, remorse, and shame;

And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

'See yonder poor, o'erlaboured wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

'If I'm designed yon lordling's slave-
By Nature's law designed-
Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn?

Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?

'Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last?

The poor, oppressed, honest man,
Had never, sure, been born,

Had there not been some recompense

To comfort those that mourn!

'O Death! the poor man's dearest friend-
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour, my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn!
But, oh! a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn !'

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ALEXANDER WILSON.

ALEXANDER WILSON, a distinguished naturalist, was also a good Scottish poet. He was a native of Paisley, and born July 6, 1766. He was brought up to the trade of a weaver, but afterwards preferred

Alexander Wilson.

that of a pedler, selling muslin and other wares. In 1789, he added to his other commodities a prospectus of a volume of poems, trusting, as he said,

If the pedler should fail to be favoured with sale,
Then I hope you'll encourage the poet.

He did not succeed in either character; and after publishing his poems, he returned to the loom. In 1792, he issued anonymously his best poem, Watty and Meg, which was at first attributed to Burns.* A foolish personal satire, and a not very wise admiration of the principles of equality disseminated at the time of the French Revolution, drove Wilson to America in the year 1794. There he was once more a weaver and a pedler, and afterwards a schoolmaster. A love of ornithology gained upon him, and he wandered over America, collecting specimens of birds. In 1808, appeared his first volume of the American Ornithology, and he continued collecting and publishing, traversing swamps and forests in quest of rare birds, and undergoing the greatest privations and fatigues, till he had committed an eighth volume to the press. He sank under his severe labours on the 23d of August 1813, and was interred with public honours at Philadelphia. In the Ornithology of Wilson we see the fancy and descriptive powers of the poet. The following extract is part of his account of the bald eagle, and is extremely vivid and striking:

*As Burns was one day sitting at his desk by the side of the window, a well-known hawker, Andrew Bishop, went past

crying: Watty and Meg, a new ballad, by Robert Burns.' The poet looked out and said: "That's a lee, Andrew, but I would make your plack a bawbee if it were mine.' This we heard Mrs Burns, the poet's widow, relate.

[The Bald Eagle.]

The celebrated cataract of Niagara is a noted place of resort for the bald eagle, as well on account of the fish procured there, as for the numerous carcasses of squirrels, deer, bears, and various other animals that, in their attempts to cross the river above the falls, have been dragged into the current, and precipitated down that tremendous gulf, where, among the rocks that bound the rapids below, they furnish a rich repast for the vulture, the raven, and the bald eagle, the subject of the present account. He has been long known to naturalists, being common to both continents, and occasionally met with from a very high northern latitude to the borders of the torrid zone, but chiefly in the vicinity of the sea, and along the shores and cliffs of our lakes and large rivers. Formed by nature for braving the severest cold, feeding equally on the produce of the sea and of the land, possessing powers of flight capable of outstripping even the tempests themselves, unawed by anything but man, and, from the ethereal heights to which he soars, looking abroad at one glance on an immeasurable expanse of forests, fields, lakes, and ocean deep below him, he appears indifferent to the little localities of change of seasons, as in a few minutes he can pass from summer to winter, from the lower to the higher regions of the atmosphere, the abode of eternal cold, and from thence descend at will to the torrid or the arctic regions of the earth.

In procuring these, he displays, in a very singular manner, the genius and energy of his character, which is fierce, contemplative, daring, and tyrannical; attributes not exerted but on particular occasions, but when put forth, overpowering all opposition. Elevated on the high dead limb of some gigantic tree that commands a wide view of the neighbouring shore and ocean, he seems calmly to contemplate the motions of the various feathered tribes that pursue their busy avocations below; the snowwhite gulls slowly winnowing the air; the busy tringæ coursing along the sands; trains of ducks streaming over the surface; silent and watchful cranes intent and wading; clamorous crows; and all the winged multitudes that subsist by the bounty of this vast liquid magazine of nature. High over all these, hovers one whose action instantly arrests his whole attention. By his wide curvature of wing, and sudden suspension in air, he knows victim of the deep. His eye kindles at the sight, and him to be the fish-hawk, settling over some devoted balancing himself with half-opened wings on the branch, he watches the result. Down, rapid as an arrow from heaven, descends the distant object of his attention, the roar of its wings reaching the ear as it disappears in the deep, making the surges foam around. At this moment the eager looks of the eagle are all ardour; and, levelling his neck for flight, he sees the fish-hawk once more emerge, struggling with his prey, and mounting in the air with screams of exultation. These are the signal for our hero, who, launching into the air, instantly gives chase, and soon gains on the fish-hawk; each exerts his utmost to mount above the other, displaying in these rencontres the most elegant and sublime aërial evolutions. The unencumbered eagle rapidly advances, and is just on the point of reaching his opponent, when, with a sudden scream, probably of despair and honest execration, the latter drops his fish: the eagle, poising himself for a moment, as if to take a more certain aim, descends like a whirlwind, snatches it in his grasp ere it reaches the water, and bears his ill-gotten booty silently away to the woods.

By way of preface, 'to invoke the clemency of the reader,' Wilson relates the following exquisite trait of simplicity and nature:

'In one of my late visits to a friend in the country, I found their youngest son, a fine boy of

eight or nine years of age, who usually resides in town for his education, just returning from a ramble through the neighbouring woods and fields, where he had collected a large and very handsome bunch of wild-flowers, of a great many different colours; and, presenting them to his mother, said: "Look, my dear mamma, what beautiful flowers I have found growing on our place! Why, all the woods are full of them! red, orange, and blue, and 'most every colour. Oh! I can gather you a whole parcel of them, much handsomer than these, all growing in our own woods! Shall I, mamma? Shall I go and bring you more?" The good woman received the bunch of flowers with a smile of affectionate complacency; and, after admiring for some time the beautiful simplicity of nature, gave her willing consent, and the little fellow went off on the wings of ecstasy to execute his delightful commission.

'The similarity of this little boy's enthusiasm to my own struck me, and the reader will need no explanations of mine to make the application. Should my country receive with the same gracious indulgence the specimens which I here humbly present her; should she express a desire for me to go and bring her more, the highest wishes of my ambition will be gratified; for, in the language of my little friend, our whole woods are full of them, and I can collect hundreds more, much handsomer than these.'

The ambition of the poet-naturalist was amply gratified.

[A Village Scold.]

I the thrang o' stories tellin,

Shakin hands and jokin queer, Swith a chap comes on the hallan'Mungo! is our Watty here?'

Maggy's weel-kent tongue and hurry
Darted through him like a knife:
Up the door flew-like a fury
In came Watty's scoldin wife.

'Nasty, gude-for-naething being! O ye snuffy drucken sow! Bringin wife and weans to ruin, Drinkin here wi' sic a crew!

'Rise! ye drucken beast o' Bethel !
Drink's your night and day's desire;
Rise, this precious hour! or faith I'll
Fling your whisky i' the fire!'

Watty heard her tongue unhallowed,
Paid his groat wi' little din,
Left the house, while Maggy followed,
Flyting a' the road behin'.

Folk frae every door came lampin, Maggy curst them ane and a', Clapped wi' her hands, and stampin, Lost her bauchels1 i' the snaw.

Hame, at length, she turned the gavel, Wi' a face as white's a clout,

Ragin like a very devil,

Kickin stools and chairs about.

'Ye'll sit wi' your limmers round yeHang you, sir, I'll be your death! Little hauds my hands, confound you, But I cleave you to the teeth!'

1 Old shoes.

Watty, wha, 'midst this oration,
Eyed her whiles, but durst na speak,
Sat, like patient Resignation,
Trembling by the ingle-cheek.

Sad his wee drap brose he sippet-
Maggy's tongue gaed like a bell-
Quietly to his bed he slippet,
Sighin aften to himsel-

'Nane are free frae some vexation,
Ilk ane has his ills to dree;
But through a' the hale creation
Is nae mortal vexed like me.'

[A Pedler's Story.]

I wha stand here, in this bare scowry coat,
Was ance a packman, worth mony a groat;
I've carried packs as big's your meikle table;
I've scarted pats, and sleepit in a stable:
Sax pounds I wadna for my pack ance ta'en,
And I could bauldly brag 'twas a' mine ain.

Ay! thae were days indeed, that gared me hope,
Aiblins, through time to warsle up a shop;
And as a wife aye in my noddle ran,

I kenned my Kate wad grapple at me than.
Oh, Kate was past compare! sic cheeks! sic een!
Sic smiling looks! were never, never seen.
Dear, dear I lo'ed her, and whene'er we met,
Pleaded to have the bridal-day but set;
Stapped her pouches fu' o' preens and laces,

And thought mysel weel paid wi' twa three kisses:
Yet still she put it aff frae day to day,
And aften kindly in my lug would say:
'Ae half-year langer's no nae unco stop,
We'll marry then, and syne set up a shop.'

Oh, sir, but lasses' words are saft and fair,
They soothe our griefs and banish ilka care:
Wha wadna toil to please the lass he lo'es?
A lover true minds this in all he does.
Finding her mind was thus sae firmly bent,
And that I couldna get her to relent,
There was nought left but quietly to resign,
To heeze my pack for ae lang hard campaign;
And as the Highlands was the place for meat,
I ventured there in spite o' wind and weet.
Cauld now the winter blew, and deep the snaw
For three hale days incessantly did fa';
Far in a muir, amang the whirling drift,
Where nought was seen but mountains and the lift,
I lost my road, and wandered mony a mile,
Maist dead wi' hunger, cauld, and fright, and toil.
Thus wandering, east or west, I kenned na where,
My mind o'ercome wi' gloom and black despair,
Wi' a fell ringe I plunged at ance, forsooth,
Down through a wreath o' snaw up to my mouth-
Clean owre my head my precious wallet flew,
But whar it gaed, Lord kens-I never knew!
What great misfortunes are poured down on some!
I thought my fearfu' hinder-end was come!
Wi' grief and sorrow was my saul owercast,
Ilk breath I drew was like to be my last;
For aye the mair I warsled roun' and roun',
I fand mysel aye stick the deeper down;
Till ance, at length, wi' a prodigious pull,
I drew my puir cauld carcass frae the hole.
Lang, lang I sought and graped for my pack,
Till night and hunger forced me to come back.
For three lang hours I wandered up and down,
Till chance at last conveyed me to a town;
There, wi' a trembling hand, I wrote my Kate
A sad account of a' my luckless fate,
But bade her aye be kind, and no despair,
Since life was left, I soon would gather mair,

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