The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume V Part 8

GEORGE WILSON.

George Wilson was born on the 20th June 1784, in the parish of Libberton, and county of Lanark. Deprived of both his parents early in life, he was brought to the house of his paternal uncle, who rented a sheep-farm in the vicinity of Peebles. At the burgh school of that place he received an ordinary education, and in his thirteenth year hired himself as a cow-herd. Pa.s.sing through the various stages of rural employment at Tweedside, he resolved to adopt a trade, and in his eighteenth year became apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a cabinetmaker in Edinburgh. On fulfilling his indenture, he accepted employment as a journeyman cabinetmaker; he subsequently conducted business on his own account. In 1831 he removed from Edinburgh to the village of Corstorphine, in the vicinity; where he continues to reside. He published "The Laverock," a volume of poems and songs, in 1829. The following lyrics from his pen evince no inconsiderable vigour, and seem worthy of preservation.

MILD AS THE MORNING.

AIR--_'Bonnie Dundee.'_

Mild as the morning, a rose-bud of beauty, Young Mary, all lovely, had come from afar, With tear-streaming eyes, and a grief-burden'd bosom, To view with sad horror the carnage of war.

She sought her brave brother with sighing and sorrow; Her loud lamentations she pour'd out in vain; The hero had fallen, with kinsmen surrounded, And deep he lay buried 'mong heaps of the slain.

"Oh! Donald, my brother, in death art thou sleeping?

Or groan'st thou in chains of some barbarous foe?

Are none of thy kindred in life now remaining, To tell a sad tale of destruction and woe?"

A hero who struggled in death's cold embraces, Whose bosom, deep gash'd, was all clotted with gore-- "Alas! Lady Mary, the mighty M'Donald, Will lead his brave heroes to battle no more."

She turn'd, and she gazed all around, much confounded; The tidings of sorrow sunk deep in her heart; She saw her brave kinsman laid low, deadly wounded, He wanted that succour, she could not impart-- "Oh! Murdoch, my kinsman," with hands raised to heaven, "Thy strength, bloom, and beauty, alas! all are o'er; And oh, my brave brother, my brave gallant brother, Lies sleeping beside thee, to waken no more."

THE BEACONS BLAZED.

AIR--_'Cope sent a letter frae Dunbar.'_

The beacons blazed, the banners flew, The war-pipes loud their pibrochs blew, The trusty clans their claymores drew, To s.h.i.+eld their Royal Charlie.

Come a' ye chiefs, bring a' your clans, Frae a' your mountains, muirs, and glens, Bring a' your spears, swords, dirks, and guns, To s.h.i.+eld and save Prince Charlie.

They, like their fathers, bold and brave, Came at a call, wi' dirk and glaive; Of danger fearless, sworn to save Or fa' for Royal Charlie.

Famed Scotia's chiefs, intrepid still, Led forth their tribes frae strath and hill, And boldly dared, wi' right guid will, To s.h.i.+eld their Royal Charlie.

The forests and the rocks replied To shouts which rung both far and wide: Our prince is come, his people's pride-- Oh, welcome hame, Prince Charlie!

Thee, Scotia's rightful prince we own; We'll die, or seat thee on the throne, Where many a Scottish king has shone; The sires o' Royal Charlie.

No faithful Scot now makes a pause; Plain truth and justice plead thy cause; Each fearlessly his weapon draws, To s.h.i.+eld and save Prince Charlie.

Now, lead us on against thy foes; Thy rightful claim all Europe knows; We'll scatter death with all our blows, To s.h.i.+eld and save Prince Charlie.

Now, chiefs and clans, your faith display, By deathless deeds in battle day, To stretch them pale on beds of clay, The foes of Royal Charlie.

THE RENDEZVOUS.

Warlike chieftains now a.s.sembled, Fame your daring deeds shall tell, Fiercest foes have fear'd and trembled, When you raised your warlike yell.

Bards shall sing when battle rages, Scotia's sons shall victors be; Bards shall sing in after ages, Caledonians aye were free.

Blest be every bold avenger, Cheer'd the heart that fears no wound; Dreadful in the day of danger Be each chieftain ever found.

Let the hills our swords have s.h.i.+elded, Ring to every hero's praise; And the tribes who never yielded, Their immortal trophies raise.

Heroes brave, be ever ready, At your king and country's call; When your dauntless chiefs shall lead you, Let the foe that dares you fall.

Let the harp to strains resounding, Ring to cheer the dauntless brave; Let the brave like roes come bounding On to glory or a grave.

Let your laurels never-fading, Gleam like your unconquer'd glaive; Where your thistle springs triumphant, There let freedom's banner wave.

JOHN YOUNGER.

John Younger, the shoemaker of St Boswells, and author of the Prize Essay on the Sabbath, has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of his country. He was born on the 5th July 1785, at Longnewton village, in the parish of Ancrum, and county of Roxburgh. So early as his ninth year, he began to work at his father's trade of a shoemaker. In 1810 he married, and commenced shoemaking in the village of St Boswells, where he has continued to reside. Expert in his original profession, he has long been reputed for his skill in dressing hooks for Tweed angling; the latter qualification producing some addition to his emoluments. He holds the office of village postmaster.

A man of superior intellect and varied information, John Younger enjoys the respect of a wide circle of friends. His cottage is the resort of anglers of every rank; and among his correspondents he enumerates the most noted characters of the age. Letter writing is his favourite mode of recreation, and he has preserved copies of his letters in several interesting volumes. He has published a poetical _brochure_ with the t.i.tle, "Thoughts as they Rise;" also a "Treatise on River Angling." His Prize Essay on the Sabbath, ent.i.tled, "The Light of the Week," was published in 1849, and has commanded a wide circulation. Of his lyrical effusions we have selected the following from his MS. collection.

ILKA BLADE O' GRa.s.s GETS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.

Oh, dinna be sae sair cast down, My ain sweet bairnies dear, Whatever storms in life may blaw, Take nae sic heart o' fear.

Though life's been aye a checker'd scene Since Eve's first apple grew, Nae blade o' gra.s.s has been forgot O' its ain drap o' dew.

The bonnie flowers o' Paradise, And a' that 's bloom'd sinsyne, By bank an' brae an' lover's bower, Adown the course o' time, Or 'neath the gardener's fostering hand,-- Their annual bloom renew, Ilk blade o' gra.s.s has had as weel Its ain sweet drap o' dew.

The oaks and cedars of the earth May toss their arms in air, Or bend beneath the sweeping blast That strips the forest bare; The flower enfolds while storms o'erpa.s.s, Till suns.h.i.+ne spreads anew, And sips, as does ilk blade o' gra.s.s, Its lucent drap o' dew.

The great may loll in world's wealth And a' the pomp o' state, While labour, bent wi' eident cares, Maun toil baith ear and late.

The poor may gae to bed distrest, With nae relief in view, And rising, like ilk blade o' gra.s.s, s.h.i.+ne wi' the pearl o' dew.

Oh, what a gentle hand is His That cleeds the lilies fair, And o' the meanest thing in life Takes mair than mother's care!

Can ye no put your trust in Him, With heart resign'd and true, Wha ne'er forgets to gie the gra.s.s, Ilk blade its drap o' dew.