The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iii Part 12

Ill.u.s.trious as a man of letters, and esteemed as a poet, the private life of Professor Wilson was for many years as dest.i.tute of particular incident, as his youth had been remarkable for singular and stirring adventure. Till within a few years of his death, he resided during the summer months at Elleray, where he was in the habit of sumptuously entertaining his literary friends. His splendid regattas on the lake Windermere, from which he derived his t.i.tle of "Admiral of the Lake,"

have been celebrated in various periodical papers. He made frequent pedestrian tours to the Highlands, in which Mrs Wilson, who was of kindred tastes, sometimes accompanied him. On the death of this excellent woman, which took place in March 1837, he suffered a severe shock, from which he never recovered. In 1850 he was elected first president of the Edinburgh Philosophical Inst.i.tution; and in the following year a civil-list pension of 300 was, on the recommendation of the premier, Lord John Russell, conferred on him by the Queen. In 1852 he felt necessitated, from a continuance of impaired health, to resign his professors.h.i.+p in the University. He died in his house in Gloucester Place, Edinburgh, on the 3d of April 1854. His remains, at a public funeral, were consigned to the Dean Cemetery, and upwards of a thousand pounds have been raised to erect a suitable monument to his memory.

Besides the works already enumerated, Professor Wilson contributed an admirable essay on the genius of Burns for Blackie's edition of his works, and an elegant dissertation on Highland scenery, preliminary to the "Caledonia Ill.u.s.trata." Of his whole works, a complete edition is in the course of publication, under the editorial care of his distinguished son-in-law, Professor Ferrier, of St Andrews. Than Professor Wilson no Scotsman, Scott and Jeffrey not excepted, has exercised a wider and deeper influence upon the general intellect of his countrymen. With a vast and comprehensive genius, he has gathered from every department of nature the deep and genial suggestions of wisdom; he has found philosophy in the wilds, and imbibed knowledge by the mountain stream.

Under canvas, in his sporting-jacket, or with the angler's rod, he is still the eloquent "old Christopher;" his contemplations are always lofty, and his descriptions gorgeous. As a poet, he is chiefly to be remarked for meek serenity and gentle pathos. His tales somewhat lack incident, and are deficient in plot; but his other writings, whether critical or philosophical, are marked by correctness of taste, boldness of imagery, and dignity of sentiment. Lion-hearted in the exposure of absolute error, or vain pretext, he is gentle in judging human frailty; and irresistible in humour, is overpowering in tenderness. As a contributor to periodical literature, he will find admirers while the English language is understood.

MARY GRAY'S SONG.

I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' Yarrow, When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was dress'd; But the sang o' the bonnie burn sounded like sorrow, Round ilka house cauld as a last-simmer's nest.

I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning, But never a wee cloud o' mist could I see, On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning, Hanging white owre the green o' its sheltering tree.

By the outside I kenn'd that the inn was forsaken, That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor; Oh, loud craw'd the c.o.c.k whare was nane to awaken, And the wild raven croak'd on the seat by the door!

Sic silence--sic lonesomeness, oh, were bewildering!

I heard nae la.s.s singing when herding her sheep; I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children, Dancing onto the school-house, just waken'd frae sleep.

I pa.s.s'd by the school-house, when strangers were coming, Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive; Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming, For a night o' dark vapour can silence the hive.

I pa.s.s'd by the pool where the la.s.ses at daw'ing, Used to bleach their white garments wi' daffin and din; But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing, And nae laughing rose loud through the roar of the linn.

I gaed into a small town, when sick o' my roaming, Whare ance play'd the viol, the tabor, and flute; 'Twas the hour loved by labour, the saft smiling gloaming, Yet the green round the cross-stane was empty and mute.

To the yellow-flower'd meadow, and scant rigs o' tillage, The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen; The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village, And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men!

Sweet Denholm! not thus when I lived in thy bosom Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the week; Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him, And grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his cheek.

Sic thoughts wet my een, as the moons.h.i.+ne was beaming On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and white; The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming, But the still finger tauld not the hour of the night.

The mirk-time pa.s.s'd slowly in siching and weeping, I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth; Owre a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping, And heaven in beauty came down on the earth.

The morning smiled on--but nae kirk-bell was ringing, Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill; The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm tune was singing, And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill.

I look'd owre the quiet o' death's empty dwelling, The laverock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene, And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swelling Owre the kirkyard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green.

The infant had died at the breast o' its mither; The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed; At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither; At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.

Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over, And birds should be glinting owre forest and lea, When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover, And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree.

But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices, And laughs back to heaven with grat.i.tude bright, To hearken, and naewhere hear sweet human voices When man's soul is dark in the season o' light!

THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.

With laughter swimming in thine eye, That told youth's heart-felt revelry; And motion changeful as the wing Of swallow waken'd by the spring; With accents blithe as voice of May, Chanting glad Nature's roundelay; Circled by joy like planet bright That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light, Thy image such, in former time, When thou, just entering on thy prime, And woman's sense in thee combined Gently with childhood's simplest mind, First taught'st my sighing soul to move With hope towards the heaven of love!

Now years have given my Mary's face A thoughtful and a quiet grace: Though happy still, yet chance distress Hath left a pensive loveliness; Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams, And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams!

Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild, Shower blessings on a darling child; Thy motion slow and soft thy tread, As if round thy hush'd infant's bed!

And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone, That tells thy heart is all my own, Sounds sweeter from the lapse of years, With the wife's love, the mother's fears!

By thy glad youth and tranquil prime a.s.sured, I smile at h.o.a.ry Time; For thou art doom'd in age to know The calm that wisdom steals from woe; The holy pride of high intent, The glory of a life well spent.

When, earth's affections nearly o'er, With Peace behind and Faith before, Thou render'st up again to G.o.d, Untarnish'd by its frail abode, Thy l.u.s.trous soul, then harp and hymn From bands of sister seraphim, Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye Open in immortality.

PRAYER TO SLEEP.

O gentle Sleep! wilt thou lay thy head For one little hour on thy lover's bed, And none but the silent stars of night Shall witness be to our delight?

Alas! 'tis said that the couch must be Of the eider-down that is spread for thee, So I in my sorrow must lie alone, For mine, sweet Sleep! is a couch of stone.

Music to thee I know is dear; Then the saddest of music is ever here, For Grief sits with me in my cell, And she is a syren who singeth well.

But thou, glad Sleep! lov'st gladsome airs, And wilt only come to thy lover's prayers, When the bells of merriment are ringing, And bliss with liquid voice is singing.

Fair Sleep! so long in thy beauty woo'd, No rival hast thou in my solitude, Be mine, my love! and we two will lie Embraced for ever, or awake to die!

Dear Sleep, farewell! hour, hour, hour, hour, Will slowly bring on the gleam of morrow; But thou art Joy's faithful paramour, And lie wilt thou not in the arms of Sorrow.

DAVID WEBSTER.

David Webster was born in Dunblane, on the 25th September 1787. He was the second of a family of eight children born to his parents, who occupied the humbler condition of life. By his father, he was destined for the Church, but the early death of this parent put a check on his juvenile aspirations. He was apprenticed to a weaver in Paisley, and continued, with occasional intermissions, to prosecute the labours of the loom. His life was much chequered by misfortune. Fond of society, he was led to a.s.sociate with some dissolute persons, who professed to be admirers of his genius, and was enticed by their example to neglect the concerns of business, and the duties of the family-hearth, for the delusive pleasures of the tavern. From his youth he composed verses. In 1835, he published, in numbers, a volume of poems and songs, with the t.i.tle, "Original Scottish Rhymes." His style is flowing and graceful, and many of his pieces are marked by keen satire and happy humour. The songs inserted in the present work are favourable specimens of his manner. He died on the 22d January 1837, in his fiftieth year.[26]

[26] The present memoir is condensed from a well written biographical sketch of Webster, obligingly prepared for our use by Mr Charles Fleming, of Paisley.

TAK IT, MAN, TAK IT.

TUNE--_"Brose and b.u.t.ter."_

When I was a miller in Fife, Los.h.!.+ I thought that the sound o' the happer Said, Tak hame a wee flow to your wife, To help to be brose to your supper.

Then my conscience was narrow and pure, But someway by random it racket; For I lifted twa neivefu' or mair, While the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey for the mill and the kill, The garland and gear for my cogie, Hey for the whisky and yill, That washes the dust frae my craigie.