The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume V Part 18

THE MISSIONARY.

He left his native land, and, far away Across the waters sought a world unknown, Though well he knew that he in vain might stray In search of one so lovely as his own.

He left his home, around whose humble hearth His parents, kindred, all he valued, smil'd-- Friends who had known and loved him from his birth, And who still loved him as a fav'rite child.

He left the scenes by youthful hopes endear'd, The woods, the streams, that sooth'd his infant ear; The plants, the trees that he himself had rear'd, And every charm to love and fancy dear.

All these he left, with sad but willing heart, Though unallur'd by honours, wealth, or fame; In them not even his wishes claim'd a part, And the world knew not of his very name.

Canst thou not guess what taught his steps to stray?

'Twas love, but not such love as worldlings own, That often smiles its sweetest to betray, And stabs the breast that offered it a throne!

'Twas love to G.o.d, and love to all mankind!

His Master bade the obedient servant go, And try if he in distant realms could find Some who His name and saving grace would know.

'Twas this that nerved him when he saw the tears His aged mother at their parting shed; 'Twas this that taught her how to calm her fears, And beg a heavenly blessing on his head.

'Twas this that made his father calmly bear A G.o.dly sorrow, deep, but undismay'd, And bade him humbly ask of G.o.d in prayer, His virtuous son to counsel, guide, and aid.

And when he rose to bless, and wish him well, And bent a head with age and sorrow gray-- E'en when he breath'd a fond and last farewell, Half sad, half joyful, dashed his tears away.

"And go," he said, "though I with mortal eyes Shall ne'er behold thy filial reverence more; But when from earth to heaven our spirits rise, The Hand that gave him shall my child restore.

"I bid thee go, though human tears will steal From eyes that see the course thou hast to run; And G.o.d forgive me if I wrongly feel, Like Abraham call'd to sacrifice his son!"

And he is gone, with ardent steps he prest Across the hills to where the vessel lay, And soon I ween upon the ocean's breast They saw the white sails bearing him away.

And did he go unfriended, poor, alone?

Did none of those who, in a favour'd land The shelter of the gospel tree had known, Desire to see its peaceful shade expand?

'Tis not for me to answer questions here-- Let ev'ry heart its own responses give, And those to whom their fellow-men are dear, Bestow the bread by which their souls may live!

JOHN RAMSAY.

The author of "Woodnotes of a Wanderer," John Ramsay, was born at Kilmarnock in 1802. With a limited school education, he was early apprenticed in a carpet manufactory in his native place. He afterwards traded for some years as a retail grocer. During his connexion with the carpet factory, he composed some spirited verses, which were inserted in the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; and having subsequently suffered misfortune in business, he resolved to repair his losses by publis.h.i.+ng a collected edition of his poetical writings, and personally pus.h.i.+ng the sale. For the long period of fifteen years, he travelled over the country, vending his volume of "Woodnotes." This creditable enterprise has been rewarded by his appointment to the agency of a benevolent society in Edinburgh.

FAREWELL TO CRAUFURDLAND.

Thou dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way, By foliage oft hid from the bright eye of day, I 've view'd thee with pleasure, but now must with pain, Farewell! for I never may see you again.

Ye woods, whence fond fancy a spirit would bring, That trimm'd the bright pinions of thought's hallow'd wing, Your beauties will gladden some happier swain; Farewell! for I never may see you again.

I 've roam'd you, unknown to care's life-sapping sigh, When prospects seem'd fair and my young hopes were high; These prospects were false, and those hopes have proved vain; Farewell! for I never may see you again.

Soon distance shall bid my reft heart undergo Those pangs that alone the poor exile can know-- Away! like a craven why should I complain?

Farewell! for I never may see you again.

JAMES PARKER.

James Parker, author of a duodecimo volume of poetry, ent.i.tled "Poems of Past Years," was born in Glasgow, and originally followed the trade of a master baker. He now holds a respectable appointment in the navy. He has contributed verses to the periodicals.

THE MARINER'S SONG.

Oh merrily and gallantly We sweep across the seas, Like the wild ocean birds which ply Their pinions on the breeze; We quail not at the tempest's voice When the billow dashes o'er us, Firm as a rock, we bear the shock, And join its dreadful chorus.

Across the foaming surge we glide With bosoms true and brave, It is our home--our throne of pride-- It soon may be our grave; Yet fearlessly we rush to meet The foe that comes before us; The fight begun, we man the gun, And join its thundering chorus.

Our lives may be as fierce and free As the waves o'er which we roam, But let not landsmen think that we Forget our native home; And when the winds shall waft us back To the sh.o.r.es from which they bore us, Amid the throng of mirth and song, We'll join the jovial chorus.

HER LIP IS O' THE ROSE'S HUE.

Her lip is o' the rose's hue, Like links o' goud her hair, Her e'e is o' the azure blue, An' love beams ever there; Her step is like the mountain goat's That climbs the stately Ben, Her voice sweet as the mavis' notes That haunt her native glen.

There is a sweet wee hazel bower Where woodbine blossoms twine, There Jeanie, ae auspicious hour, Consented to be mine; An' there we meet whene'er we hae An idle hour to spen', An' Jeanie ne'er has rued the day She met me in the glen.

Oh bricht, bricht are the evenin' beams, An' sweet the pearly dew, An' lovely is the star that gleams In gloamin's dusky brow; But brichter, sweeter, lovelier far, Aboon a' human ken, Is my sweet pearl--my lovely star-- My Jeanie o' the glen.

JOHN HUNTER.

The following compositions are, with permission, transcribed from a small volume of juvenile poems, with the t.i.tle "Miscellanies, by N. R.,"

which was printed many years ago, for private circulation only, by Mr John Hunter, now auditor of the Court of Session.