The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iv Part 20

II.--(M'CRIMMAN.)

Youth of the daring heart! bright be thy doom As the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now, But the fate of M'Crimman is closing in gloom, And the breath of the gray wraith hath pa.s.s'd o'er his brow; Victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to Benaer, And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there, But M'Crimman, M'Crimman, M'Crimman, never-- Never! Never! Never!

III.--(CLANSMEN.)

Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not, M'Crimman?

Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not?

If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know That the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when a foe Bared his blade in the land he had won not!

Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind, And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind, There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing, 'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing, Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray!

Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen; Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray, Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!

FOOTNOTES:

[21] In Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," this song is attributed to the Rev. George Allan, D.D. It is also inserted among the songs of the Ettrick Shepherd, published by the Messrs Blackie. The latter blunder is accounted for by the fact that a copy of the song, which was sent to the Shepherd by Mr H. S. Riddell, as a specimen of Mr Allan's poetical talents, had been found among his papers subsequent to his decease. This song, with the two immediately following, appeared in M'Leod's "National Melodies," but they are here transcribed from the author's MSS.

I WILL THINK OF THEE YET.

I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be, In the land of the stranger, deserted and lone, Though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd to me, And the hopes which once bloom'd in my bosom are gone, I will think of thee yet, and the vision of night Will oft bring thine image again to my sight, And the tokens will be, as the dream pa.s.ses by, A sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye.

I will think of thee yet, though misfortune fall chill O'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that lours on the lea, And I'll deem that this life is worth cheris.h.i.+ng still, While I know that one heart still beats warmly for me.

Yes! Grief and Despair may encompa.s.s me round, 'Till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found; But mine anguish will cease when my thoughts turn to you And the wild mountain land which my infancy knew.

I will think of thee; oh! if I e'er can forget The love that grew warm as all others grew cold, 'Twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set, Or memory fled from her care-haunted hold; But while life and its woes to bear on is my doom, Shall my love, like a flower in the wilderness, bloom; And thine still shall be, as so long it hath been, A light to my soul when no other is seen.

La.s.sIE, DEAR La.s.sIE.

La.s.sie, dear la.s.sie, the dew 's on the gowan, And the brier-bush is sweet whar the burnie is rowin', But the best buds of Nature may blaw till they weary, Ere they match the sweet e'e or the cheek o' my dearie!

I wander alane, when the gray gloamin' closes, And the lift is spread out like a garden o' roses; But there 's nought which the earth or the sky can discover Sae fair as thysell to thy fond-hearted lover!

The snaw-flake is pure frae the clud when it 's shaken, And melts into dew ere it fa's on the bracken, Oh sae pure is the heart I hae won to my keepin'!

But warm as the sun-blink that thaw'd it to weepin'!

Then come to my arms, and the bosom thou 'rt pressing Will tell by its throbs a' there's joy in confessing, For my lips could repeat it a thousand times over, And the tale still seem new to thy fond-hearted lover.

WHEN I LOOK FAR DOWN ON THE VALLEY BELOW ME.[22]

When I look far down on the valley below me, Where lowly the lot of the cottager's cast, While the hues of the evening seem ling'ring to shew me How calmly the sun of this life may be pa.s.s'd, How oft have I wish'd that kind Heaven had granted My hours in such spot to have peacefully run, Where, if pleasures were few, they were all that I wanted, And Contentment 's a blessing which wealth never won.

I have mingled with mankind, and far I have wander'd, Have shared all the joys youth so madly pursues; I have been where the bounties of Nature were squander'd Till man became thankless and learn'd to refuse!

Yet _there_ I still found that man's innocence perish'd, As the senses might sway or the pa.s.sions command; That the scenes where alone the soul's treasures were cherish'd, Were the peaceful abodes of my own native land.

Then why should I leave this dear vale of my choice And the friends of my bosom, so faithful and true, To mix in the great world, whose jarring and noise Must make my soul cheerless though sorrows were few?

Ah! too sweet would this life of probation be render'd, Our feelings ebb back from Eternity's strand, And the hopes of Elysium in vain would be tender'd, Could we have all we wish'd in our dear native land.

FOOTNOTES:

[22] Printed, for the first time, from the author's MS.

I WILL WAKE MY HARP WHEN THE SHADES OF EVEN.[23]

I will wake my harp when the shades of even Are closing around the dying day, When thoughts that wear the hues of Heaven Are weaning my heart from the world away; And my strain will tell of a land and home Which my wand'ring steps have left behind, Where the hearts that throb and the feet that roam Are free as the breath of their mountain wind.

I will wake my harp when the star of Vesper Hath open'd its eye on the peaceful earth, When not a leaf is heard to whisper That a dew-drop falls, or a breeze hath birth.

And you, dear friends of my youthful years, Will oft be the theme of my lonely lay, And a smile for the past will gild the tears That tell how my heart is far away.

I will wake my harp when the moon is holding Her star-tent court in the midnight sky, When the spirits of love, their wings unfolding, Bring down sweet dreams to each fond one's eye.

And well may I hail that blissful hour, For my spirit will then, from its thrall set free, Return to my own lov'd maiden's bower, And gather each sigh that she breathes for me.

Thus, still when those pensive hours are bringing The feelings and thoughts which no lips can tell, I will charm each cloud from my soul by singing Of all I have left and lov'd so well.

Oh! Fate may smile, and Sorrow may cease, But the dearest hope we on earth can gain Is to come, after long sad years, in peace, And be join'd with the friends of our love, again.

FOOTNOTES:

[23] Printed for the first time.

THOMAS BRYDSON.

Thomas Brydson was born in Glasgow in 1806. On completing the usual course of study at the Universities of Glasgow and Edinburgh, he became a licentiate of the Established Church. He a.s.sisted in the Middle Church, Greenock, and in the parish of Kilmalcolm, Renfrews.h.i.+re, and was, in 1839, ordained minister of Levern Chapel, near Paisley. In 1842, he was translated to the full charge of Kilmalcolm, where he continued to minister with much acceptance till his death, which took place suddenly on the 28th January 1855.

A man of fine fancy and correct taste, Mr Brydson was, in early life, much devoted to poetical composition. In 1829, he published a duodecimo volume of "Poems;" and a more matured collection of his poetical pieces in 1832, under the t.i.tle of "Pictures of the Past." He contributed, in prose and verse, to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; the _Republic of Letters_, a Glasgow publication; and some of the London annuals. Though fond of correspondence with his literary friends, and abundantly hospitable, he latterly avoided general society, and, in a great measure, confined himself to his secluded parish of Kilmalcolm. Among his paris.h.i.+oners he was highly esteemed for the unction and fervour which distinguished his public ministrations, as well as for the gentleness of his manners and the generosity of his heart. Of domestic animals he was devotedly fond. He took delight in pastoral scenery, and in solitary musings among the hills. His poetry is pervaded by elegance of sentiment and no inconsiderable vigour of expression.

ALL LOVELY AND BRIGHT.