The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iii Part 30

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, As ye hae been to me!

Oh, tell me gin their music fills Thine heart, as it does mine; Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west, I 've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart, Still travels on its way; And channels deeper as it rins, The luve o' life's young day.

Oh, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sinder'd young, I 've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I die, Did I but ken your heart still dream'd O' bygane days and me!

[48] The heroine of this song, Miss Jane Morrison, now Mrs Murdoch, still survives. Her father, Mr Ebenezer Morrison, was a respectable brewer and corn-merchant in Alloa. In the autumn of 1807, when in her seventh year, she became a pupil of Mr Lennie, and for several months occupied the same cla.s.s-room with young Motherwell. Of the flame which she had excited in the susceptible heart of her boy-lover, she was totally unconscious. Mr Lennie, however, in a statement published by the editor of Motherwell's poems, refers to the strong impression which she made on the young poet; he describes her as "a pretty girl, and of good capacity." "Her hair," he adds, "was of a lightish brown, approaching to fair; her eyes were dark, and had a sweet and gentle expression; her temper was mild, and her manners una.s.suming." In 1823, Miss Morrison became the wife of Mr John Murdoch, commission-agent in Glasgow, who died in 1829. She has since resided in different places, but has now (Whitsunday 1856) fixed her abode in the vicinity of Stirling. She never met the poet in after-life, and has only an imperfect recollection of his appearance as a boy. The ballad of "Jeanie Morrison" had been published for several years before she became aware that she was the heroine. It remains to be added, somewhat in justification of the poet's juvenile pa.s.sion, that Mrs Murdoch is a person of the most gentle and amiable manners, and retains, in a very remarkable degree, that personal beauty for which she was celebrated in youth.

WEARIE'S WELL.

In a saft simmer gloamin', In yon dowie dell, It was there we twa first met, By Wearie's cauld well.

We sat on the broom bank, And look'd in the burn, But sidelang we look'd on Ilk ither in turn.

The corncraik was chirming His sad eerie cry, And the wee stars were dreaming Their path through the sky; The burn babbled freely Its love to ilk flower, But we heard and we saw nought In that blessed hour.

We heard and we saw nought, Above or around; We felt that our luve lived, And loathed idle sound.

I gazed on your sweet face Till tears fill'd my e'e, And they drapt on your wee loof-- A warld's wealth to me.

Now the winter snaw 's fa'ing On bare holm and lea, And the cauld wind is strippin'

Ilk leaf aff the tree.

But the snaw fa's not faster, Nor leaf disna part Sae sune frae the bough, as Faith fades in your heart.

You 've waled out anither Your bridegroom to be; But can his heart luve sae As mine luvit thee?

Ye 'll get biggings and mailins, And mony braw claes; But they a' winna buy back The peace o' past days.

Fareweel, and for ever, My first luve and last; May thy joys be to come-- Mine live in the past.

In sorrow and sadness This hour fa's on me; But light, as thy luve, may It fleet over thee!

WAE BE TO THE ORDERS.

Oh! wae be to the orders that march'd my luve awa', And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears down fa', Oh! wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie, For they hae ta'en my luve, and left a broken heart to me.

The drums beat in the mornin', afore the screich o' day, And the wee, wee fifes play'd loud and shrill, while yet the morn was gray; The bonnie flags were a' unfurl'd, a gallant sight to see, But waes me for my sodger lad that march'd to Germanie.

Oh! lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith, Oh! dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw drift in the teeth!

And oh, the cauld wind froze the tear that gather'd in my e'e, When I gaed there to see my luve embark for Germanie.

I look'd owre the braid blue sea, sae lang as could be seen A wee bit sail upon the s.h.i.+p that my sodger lad was in; But the wind was blawin' sair an' snell, and the s.h.i.+p sail'd speedilie, And the waves and cruel wars hae twinn'd my winsome luve frae me.

I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing, But a' the day I speir what news kind neibour bodies bring; I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be, Syne for every loop that I cast on, I 'm sure to let doun three.

My father says I 'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me, And bans me for a daut.i.t wean, in dorts for aye to be; But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae my e'e, Oh! they hae nae winsome love like mine, in the wars o' Germanie.

THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet plaintive melody Of ages long gone by: It speaks a tale of other years-- Of hopes that bloom'd to die-- Of sunny smiles that set in tears, And loves that mouldering lie.

Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth moan; It stirs some chord of memory, In each dull heavy tone: The voices of the much-loved dead Seem floating thereupon-- All, all my fond heart cherished, Ere death hath made it lone.

Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth swell, With its quaint pensive minstrelsy, Hope's pa.s.sionate farewell.

To the dreamy joys of early years, Ere yet grief's canker fell On the heart's bloom--ay, well may tears Start at that parting knell!

HE IS GONE! HE IS GONE!

He is gone! he is gone!

Like the leaf from the tree, Or the down that is blown By the wind o'er the lea.

He is fled--the light-hearted!

Yet a tear must have started To his eye when he parted From love-stricken me!

He is fled! he is fled!

Like a gallant so free-- Plumed cap on his head, And sharp sword by his knee; While his gay feathers flutter'd, Surely something he mutter'd-- He at least must have utter'd A farewell to me!

He 's away! he 's away!

To far lands o'er the sea, And long is the day Ere home he can be; But where'er his steed prances Amid thronging lances, Sure he 'll think of the glances That love stole from me!

He is gone! he is gone!

Like the leaf from the tree, But his heart is of stone If it ne'er dream of me; For I dream of him ever-- His buff-coat and beaver, And long sword, oh! never Are absent from me!

DAVID MACBETH MOIR.

David Macbeth Moir was born at Musselburgh on the 5th January 1798. His elementary education was conducted at a private seminary and the Grammar-school of that town. He subsequently attended the medical cla.s.ses in the University of Edinburgh, and in his eighteenth year obtained a surgeon's diploma. In partners.h.i.+p with Dr Brown, a respectable physician of long standing, he entered on medical practice in his native place. He wrote good poetry in his fifteenth year, and about the same age contributed some prose essays to the _Cheap Magazine_, a small periodical published in Haddington. In 1816 he published a poem ent.i.tled "The Bombardment of Algiers." For a succession of years after its commencement in 1817, he wrote numerous articles for _Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_. Soon after the establishment of _Blackwood's Magazine_, he became one of its more conspicuous contributors; and his poetical contributions, which were generally subscribed by his literary _nom de guerre_, the Greek letter Delta (?), long continued a source of much interest to the readers of that periodical. In 1824 he published a collection of his poetical pieces, under the t.i.tle of "Legend of Genevieve, with other Tales and Poems." "The Autobiography of Mansie Wauch," originally supplied in a series of chapters to _Blackwood_, and afterwards published in a separate form, much increased his reputation as an author. In 1831 appeared his "Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine;" a work which was followed, in 1832, by a pamphlet ent.i.tled, "Practical Observations on Malignant Cholera;" and a further publication, with the t.i.tle, "Proofs of the Contagion of Malignant Cholera." A third volume of poems from his pen, ent.i.tled "Domestic Verses," was published in 1843. In the early part of 1851 he delivered, at the Philosophical Inst.i.tution of Edinburgh, a course of six lectures on the "Poetical Literature of the Past Half-century," which, afterwards published in an elegant volume by the Messrs Blackwood, commanded a large share of public attention. In a state of somewhat impaired health, he proceeded to Dumfries on the 1st day of July 1851, hoping to derive benefit from a change of scene and climate. But his end was approaching; he died at Dumfries on the 6th of the same month, having reached only his 53d year. His remains were interred, at a public funeral, in the burying-ground of Musselburgh, where a monument has been erected to his memory. Indefatigable in the discharge of his professional duties, Moir regularly devoted a portion of his time to the gratification of his literary tastes. A pleasant prose writer, he will be remembered for his inimitable drollery in the adventures of "Mansie Wauch." As a poet, his style is perspicuous and simple; and his characteristics are tenderness, dignity, and grace. He is occasionally humorous, but he excels in the plaintive and elegiac. Much of his poetry breathes the odour of a genuine piety. He was personally of an agreeable presence. Tall in stature, his countenance, which was of sanguine hue, wore a serious aspect, unless kindled up by the recital of some humorous tale. His mode of utterance was singularly pleasing, and his dispositions were pervaded by a generous benignity. He loved society, but experienced his chief happiness in the social intercourse of his own family circle. He had married in 1829; and his amiable widow, with eight children, still survive. A collected edition of his best poems, in two duodecimo volumes, has been published since his death, by the Messrs Blackwood, under the editorial superintendence of Thomas Aird, who has prefixed an interesting memoir.

CASA WAPPY.[49]