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'Twas morning; and summer's young Their faces grew pale, and their swords sun from the east

were unsheathed, Lay in loving repose on the green moun- But the vengeance that darkened their tain's breast;

brow was unbreathed ; On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear With eyes turned to heaven in calm reshining dew,

signation, Glistened there 'mong the heath bells and They sung their last song to the God of mountain flowers blue.


And far up in heaven, near the white sunny | The hills with the deep mournful music cloud,

were ringing, The song of the lark was melodious and The curlew and plover in concert were loud,

singing ; And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, length- But the melody died 'mid derision and ened and deep,

laughter, Were the whistling of plovers and bleat- As the host of th' ungodly rushed on to ing of sheep.

the slaughter.

And Wellwood's sweet valleys breathed Though in mist and in darkness and fir music and gladness,

they were shrouded, The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and redness;

and unclouded ; Its daughters were happy to hail the re- Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm turning,

and unbending, And drink the delights of July's sweet They stood like the rock which the morning.

thunder is rending.

But, oh! there were hearts cherished far The muskets were flashing, the blue other feelings,

swords were gleaming, Illumed by the light of prophetic reveal- | The helmets were cleft, and the red blood ings,

was streaming ; Who drank from the scen'ry of beauty The heavens grew dark, and the thunder but sorrow,

was rolling, For they knew that their blood would be- When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the dew it to-morrow.

mighty were falling.

'Twas the few faithful ones who with When the righteous had fallen, and the Cameron were lying,

combat was ended, Concealed 'mong the mist where the A chariot of fire through the dark cloud heath fowl was crying,

descended ; For the horsemen of Earlshall around Its drivers were angels on horses of whitethem were hovering,

ness, And their bridle reins rung through the And its burning wheels turned on axles of thin misty covering.


A seraph unfolded its doors bright and on the arch of the rainbow the chariot is shining,

gliding, All dazzling like gold of the seventh re- Through the path of the thunder the fining.

horsemen are riding; And the souls that came forth out of great Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is

tribulation, Have mounted the chariots and steeds of A crown never fading, a kingdom of salvation.


before ye,



THE sweet and plaintive lyric which | The palm-tree waveth high, and fair the preserves the name of Gilfillan takes its nyrtle springs, place among our standard songs as one

And to the Indian maid the bulbul sweetly of the best, if not the best of its kind.

sings ; Its author was born in Dunfermline, in But I dinna see the broom wi' its tassels

on the lea, 1798, in very humble circumstances.

Nor hear the lintie's sang o' my ain After learning the trade of a cooper in

countrie. Leith, he became a clerk in a winemerchant's office, and in 1837, was Oh ! here no Sabbath bell awakes the appointed collector of poor-rates for the

Sabbath morn, burgh of Leith. He held this appoint. Nor song of reapers heard among the ment till his death, which took place in

yellow corn: 1850. Two editions of his poems have For the tyrant's voice is here, and the wail

of slaverie ; been published; but though some others But the sun of freedom shines in my ain of them, are well written, none comes

countrie. up to the standard of “Why left I my Hame ?

There's a hope for every woe, and a balm

for ev'ry pain,

But the first joys of our youth come never O, WHY LEFT I MY HAME?

back again ;

There's a track upon the deep, and a path Oh, why left I my hame? Why did I cross

across the sea, the deep?

But the iweary ne'er return to their ain Oh, why left I the land where my fore

countrie. fathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore, and I gaze across

the sea,

But I canna get a blink o' my ain countrie.

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The Course of Time is a poem in THE LOVE OF FAME. blank verse, about the same length as Paradise Lost; but the verse and the Of all the phantoms fleeting in the mist length are perhaps the only resem- Of time though meagre all, and ghostly blances which it bears to that great thin, poem. Though possessing many elo. Most unsubstantial, unessential shade, quent passages, and giving decided Was earthly Fame. She was a voice proof of lofty and sustained capa. And dwelt upon the noisy tongues of

alone, city, it is on the whole heavy and uninteresting ; but that it has circu. She never thought, but gabbled ever on, lated to the extent of upwards of Applauding most what least deserved twenty editions in this country, and

applause. many more in America, is evidence The motive, the result, was naught to her. that it has been acceptable to a large The deed alone, though dyed in human number of readers, who prefer poetry gore, more for the profit than the enjoyment And steeped in widow's tears, if it stood which it yields.

Its author, Robert Pollok, was born at To prominent display, she taked of much, Muirhouse, in Renfrewshire, in 1799, and And roared around it with a thousand

tongues. was educated at Glasgow University, for the ministry of the Secession Church. As changed the wind her organ, so she

changed His first book, published anonymously, Perpetually; and whom she praised towas Tales of the Covenanters. The Course

day, of Time was published in 1827, and the Vexing his ear with acclamations loud, same year its author was licensed to To-morrow blamed, and hissed him out preach ; but his devotion to his profes. of sight. sional and poetical studies, either originated or developed a consumption,

Such was her nature and her practice

such. for which he sought the benefit of a milder climate in vain. He died on

But, oh! her voice was sweet to mortal 17th of September 1827, in his 28th And touched so pleasantly the strings of year, after a few weeks' residence in

pride The South of England, and was buried And vanity, which in the heart of man at Millbrook, near Southampton, A Were ever strung harmonious to her note granite obelisk marks his grave, and a | That many thought, to live without her memoir of him was written in 1843.



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order, but are in every way like his lite, a And a'gade wrang, and nought gade right; credit to himself and his country. “A He danced with rage, and grat. Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea," is a

Then up he ran to the head o' the knowe piece of genuine inspiration, and no less

Wi' mony a wave and shoutremarkable as the production of one

She heard him as she heard him not,

And steered the stots about. who can have had little or no acquaintance with the sea. His four sons in- John Grumlie's wife cam hame at e'en, herited their father's literary tastes. An A weary wife and sad, extended life of him was published in And burst into a laughter loud, 1875.

And laughed as she'd been mad :
While John Grumlie swore by the light o'

the moon,

And the green leaves on the tree,

If my wife should na win a penny a day, (Based upon the Wife of Auchtermuchty."]

She's aye have her will for me. John Grumlie swore by the light o' the

moon, And the green leaves on the tree,

A WET SHEET. That he could do more work in a day A wet sheet and a flowing sea, Than his wife could do in three.

A wind that follows fast, His wife rose up in the morning

That fills the white and swelling sail, Wi' cares and troubles enow

And bends the gallant mast: John Grumlie, bide at hame, John, And bends the gallant mast, my boys, And I'll go haud the plow.

While like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
First ye maun dress your children fair,

Old England on the lee.
And put them a' in their gear ;
And ye maun turn the malt, John, O for a soft and gentle wind !
Or else ye'll spoil the beer ;

I heard a fair one cry ;
And ye maun reel the tweel, John, But give to me the snoring breeze,
That I span yesterday ;

And white waves heaving high :
And ye maun ca' in the hens, John, The white waves heaving high, my boys,
Else they'll all lay away.

The good ship tight and free-. O he did dress his children fair,

The world of waters is our home, And put them a' in their gear ;

And merry men are we. But he forgot to turn the malt,

There's tempest in yon hornéd moon, And so he spoil'd the beer : And he sang loud as he reeled the tweel

And lightning in yon cloud ; That his wife span yesterday ;

And hark the music, mariners !

The wind is piping loud.
But he forgot to put up the hens,
And the hens all layed away.

The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashes free-
The hawket crummie loot down nae milk; / While the hollow oak our palace is,
He kirned, nor butter gat;

Our heritage the sea.

Of curious workmanship and marvellous Many the roads they took, the plans twist.

they tried ; In strength some sought it, and in beauty And awful oft the wickedness they more.

wrought. Long, long the fair one laboured at the To be observed, some scrambled up to glass,

thrones, And, being tired, called in auxiliar skill And sat in vestures dripping wet with gore. To have her sails, before she went abroad, The warrior dipped his sword in blood, Full spread and nicely set, to catch the and wrote gale

His name on lands and cities desolate. Of praise. And 'much she caught, and The rich bought fields, and houses built, much deserved,

and raised When outward loveliness was index fair The monumental piles up to the clouds, Of purity within : but oft, alas !

And called them by their names : and, The bloom was on the skin alone; and strange to tell ! when

Rather than be unknown, and pass away She saw, sad sight! the roses on her Obscurely to the grave, some, small of cheek

soul, Wither, and heard the voice of fame re- That else had perished unobserved, actire

quired And die away, she heaved most piteous

Considerable renown by oaths profane ; sighs,

By jesting boldly with all sacred things ; And wept most lamentable tears; and And uttering fearlessly whate'er occurred ; whiles,

Wild, blasphemous, perditionable In wild delirium, made rash attempt

thoughts, Unholy mimicry of Nature's work !- That Satan in them moved ; by wiser men To re-create, with frail and mortal things, Suppressed and quickly banished from Her withered face. Attempt how fond the mind.

and vain ! Her frame itself soon mouldered down to Many the roads they took, the plans they dust ;

tried : And in the land of deep forgetfulness,

But all in vain. Who grasped at earthly Her beauty and her name were laid beside

Fame, Eternal silence and the loathsome worm ;

Grasped wind : nay, worse, a serpent Into whose darkness flattery ventured grasped, that through not ;

His hand slid smoothly, and was gone ; Where none had ears to hear the voice of but left Fame.

A sting behind, which wrought him end

less pain.

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