The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iv Part 9

The lake is at rest, love, The sun's on its breast, love, How bright is its water, how pleasant to see; Its verdant banks shewing The richest flowers blowing, A picture of bliss and an emblem of thee!

Then, O fairest maiden!

When earth is array'd in The beauties of heaven o'er mountain and lea, Let me still delight in The glories that brighten, For they are, dear Anna, sweet emblems of thee.

But, Anna, why redden?

I would not, fair maiden, My tongue could p.r.o.nounce what might tend to betray; The traitor, the demon, That could deceive woman, His soul's all unfit for the glories of day.

Believe me then, fairest, To me thou art dearest; And though I in raptures view lake, stream, and tree, With flower blooming mountains, And crystalline fountains, I view them, fair maid, but as emblems of thee.

LIFE'S LIKE THE DEW.

AIR--_"Scott's Boat Song."_

No sound was heard o'er the broom-cover'd valley, Save the lone stream o'er the rock as it fell, Warm were the sunbeams, and glancing so gaily, That gold seem'd to dazzle along the flower'd vale.

At length from the hill I heard, Plaintively wild, a bard, Yet pleasant to me was his soul's ardent flow; "Remember what Morard says, Morard of many days, Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe.

"Son of the peaceful vale, keep from the battle plain, Sad is the song that the bugle-horns sing; Though lovely the standard it waves o'er the mangled slain, Widows' sighs stretching its broad gilded wing.

Hard are the laws that bind Poor foolish man and blind; But free thou may'st walk as the breezes that blow, Thy cheeks with health's roses spread, Till time clothes with snow thy head, Fairer than dew on the hill of the roe.

"Wouldst thou have peace in thy mind when thou'rt h.o.a.ry, Shun vice's paths in the days of thy bloom; Innocence leads to the summit of glory, Innocence gilds the dark shades of the tomb.

The tyrant, whose hands are red, Trembles alone in bed; But pure is the peasant's soul, pure as the snow, No horror fiends haunt his rest, Hope fills his placid breast, Hope bright as dew on the hill of the roe."

Ceased the soft voice, for gray mist was descending, Slow rose the bard and retired from the hill, The blackbird's mild notes with the thrush's were blending, Oft scream'd the plover her wild notes and shrill, Yet still from the h.o.a.ry bard, Methought the sweet song I heard, Mix'd with instruction and blended with woe; And oft as I pa.s.s along, Chimes in mine ear his song, "Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe."

ISOBEL PAGAN.

The author of a sweet pastoral lyric, which has been praised both by Robert Burns and Allan Cunningham, Isobel Pagan claims a biographical notice. She was born in the parish of New c.u.mnock, Ayrs.h.i.+re, about the year 1741. Deserted by her relations in youth, and possessing only an imperfect education, she was led into a course of irregularities which an early moral training would have probably prevented. She was lame and singularly ill-favoured, but her manners were spirited and amusing. Her chief employment was the composition of verses, and these she sung as a mode of subsistence. She published, in 1805, a volume of doggerel rhymes, and was in the habit of satirising in verse those who had offended her. Her one happy effort in song-making has preserved her name. She lived chiefly in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk. She died on the 3d November 1821, in her eightieth year, and her remains were interred in the churchyard of Muirkirk. A tombstone marks her grave.

CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES.[10]

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My bonnie dearie.

As I gaed down the water-side, There I met my shepherd lad, He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, An' he ca'd me his dearie.

"Will ye gang down the water-side, And see the waves sae sweetly glide Beneath the hazels spreading wide?

The moon it s.h.i.+nes fu' clearly.

"Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf-leather shoon to thy white feet, And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, And ye shall be my dearie."

"If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad, And ye may row me in your plaid, And I shall be your dearie."

"While water wimples to the sea, While day blinks in the lift sae hie, Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e, Ye shall be my dearie."

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Of this song a new version was composed by Burns, the original chorus being retained. Burns' version commences--"Hark the mavis'

evening sang."

JOHN MITCh.e.l.l.

John Mitch.e.l.l, the Paisley bard, died in that place on the 12th August 1856, in his seventieth year. He was born at Paisley in 1786. The labour of weaving he early sought to relieve by the composition of verses. He contributed pieces, both in prose and verse, to the _Moral and Literary Observer_, a small Paisley periodical of the year 1823, and of which he was the publisher. In 1838, he appeared as the author of "A Night on the Banks of the Doon, and other Poems," a volume which was followed in 1840 by "The Wee Steeple's Ghaist, and other Poems and Songs," the latter being dedicated to Professor Wilson. In the year 1840, he likewise produced, jointly with a Mr d.i.c.kie, the "Philosophy of Witchcraft," a work which, published by Messrs Oliver and Boyd, was well received. His next publication appeared in 1845, with the t.i.tle, "One Hundred Original Songs." His last work, "My Gray Goose Quill, and other Poems and Songs,"

was published in 1852.

Mitch.e.l.l employed himself latterly in forwarding the sale of his publications, and succeeded by this course in securing a comfortable maintenance. He wrote verses with much readiness, and occasionally with considerable power. His songs, which we have selected for the present work, are distinguished by graceful simplicity and elegant pathos. Had Mitch.e.l.l written less, and more carefully, he had reached a higher niche in the Temple of National Song. His manners were eccentric, and he was not unconscious of his poetical endowments.

BEAUTY.

What wakes the Poet's lyre?

'Tis Beauty; What kindles his poetic fire?

'Tis Beauty; What makes him seek, at evening's hour, The lonely glen, the leafy bower, When dew hangs on each little flower?

Oh! it is Beauty.

What melts the soldier's soul?

'Tis Beauty; What can his love of fame control?

'Tis Beauty; For oft, amid the battle's rage, Some lovely vision will engage His thoughts and war's rough ills a.s.suage: Such power has Beauty.

What tames the savage mood?

'Tis Beauty; What gives a polish to the rude?

'Tis Beauty; What gives the peasant's lowly state A charm which wealth cannot create, And on the good alone will wait?

'Tis faithful Beauty.

Then let our favourite toast Be Beauty; Is it not king and peasant's boast?

Yes, Beauty; Then let us guard with tender care The gentle, th' inspiring fair, And Love will a diviner air Impart to Beauty.