The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume V Part 37

FAR, FAR AWAY.

TUNE--_"Long, long ago."_

Had I the wings of a dove, I would fly Far, far away; far, far away; Where not a cloud ever darkens the sky, Far, far away; far, far away; Fadeless the flowers in yon Eden that blow, Green, green the bowers where the still waters flow, Hearts, like their garments, are pure as the snow, Far, far away; far away.

There never trembles a sigh of regret, Far, far away; far, far away; Stars of the morning in glory ne'er set, Far, far away; far, far away; There I from sorrow for ever would rest, Leaning in joy on Immanuel's breast; Tears never fall in the homes of the blest, Far, far away; far away.

Friends, there united in glory, ne'er part, Far, far away; far, far away; One is their temple, their home, and their heart, Far, far away; far, far away; The river of crystal, the city of gold, The portals of pearl, such glory unfold, Thought cannot image, and tongue hath not told, Far, far away; far away.

List! what yon harpers on golden harps play; Come, come away; come, come away; Falling and frail is your cottage of clay; Come, come away; come, come away: Come to these mansions, there 's room yet for you, Dwell with the Friend ever faithful and true; Sing ye the song, ever old, ever new; Come, come away; come away.

WILLIAM SINCLAIR.

A pleasing lyric poet, William Sinclair, was born at Edinburgh in 1811.

His father was a trader in the city. Receiving an ordinary education, he became in his fourteenth year apprentice to a bookseller in Frederick Street. A large circulating library connected with the establishment enabled him to gratify an ardent love of reading, and brought him into contact with persons of strong literary tastes. Quitting the business of bookseller, he proceeded to Dundee, as clerk in a lawyer's office. He afterwards accepted a situation in the Customs at Liverpool. His official services were subsequently transferred to Leith, where he had the privilege of a.s.sociating with the poets Moir, Gilfillan, and Vedder.

Early devoted to song-writing, Mr Sinclair, while the bookseller's apprentice, contributed verses to the newspapers and popular periodicals. Some of his poetical compositions have appeared in _Blackwood's Magazine_. The poet Robert Nicoll submitted the first edition of his poems to his revision. In 1843 he published an octavo volume of poems and songs, with the t.i.tle "Poems of the Fancy and the Affections." To Major de Renzy's "Poetical Ill.u.s.trations of the Achievements of the Duke of Wellington," published in 1852, he was a conspicuous contributor. Several of his songs have been set to music. Mr Sinclair has latterly resided in Stirling, where he holds the situation of reporter to one of the local journals.

THE ROYAL BREADALBANE OAK.

Thy queenly hand, Victoria, By the mountain and the rock, Hath planted 'midst the Highland hills A Royal British Oak; Oh, thou guardian of the free!

Oh, thou mistress of the sea!

Trebly dear shall be the ties That shall bind us to thy name, Ere this Royal Oak shall rise To thy fame, to thy fame!

The oak hath scatter'd terror O'er our foemen from our s.h.i.+ps, They have given the voice of England's fame In thunders from their lips; 'Twill be mirror'd in the rills!

It shall wave among the hills!

And the rallying cry shall wake Nigh the planted of thy hand, That the loud acclaim may break O'er the land, o'er the land!

While it waves unto the tempest, It shall call thy name to mind, And the "Gathering" 'mong the hills shall be Like the rus.h.i.+ng of the wind!

Arise! ye Gaels, arise!

Let the echoes ring your cries, By our mountain's rocky throne, By Victoria's name adored-- We shall reap her enemies down With the sword, with the sword!

Oh, dear among the mountains Shall thy kindly blessing be; Though rough may be our mien we bear A loyal heart to thee!

'Neath its widely spreading shade Shall the gentle Highland maid Teach the youths, who stand around, Like brave slips from Freedom's tree, That thrice sacred is the ground Unto thee, unto thee!

In the bosom of the Highlands Thou hast left a glorious pledge, To the honour of our native land, In every coming age: By thy royal voice that spoke On the soil where springs the oak-- By the freedom of the land That can never bear a slave-- The Breadalbane Oak shall stand With the brave, with the brave!

EVENING.

Oh, how I love the evening hour, Its calm and tranquil sky, When the parting sun from a sea of gold Is pa.s.sing silently; And the western clouds--bright robes of heaven-- Rest gently on the breast of even!

How calm, how gorgeous, and how pure, How peaceful and serene!

There is a promise and a hope Enthroned o'er all the scene; While, blus.h.i.+ng, with resplendent pride, The bright sun lingers on the tide.

The zephyrs on the waveless sea Are wrapt in silent sleep, And there is not a breath to wake The slumbers of the deep-- Peace sits on her imperial throne, And sounds of sadness there are none!

Methinks I hear in distance harps By heavenly seraphs strung, And in the concave of the sky The holy vespers sung!

Oh, thou great Source of light and power, We bless thee for the evening hour!

MARY.

If there 's a word that whispers love In gentlest tones to hearts of woe, If there 's a name more prized above, And loved with deeper love below, 'Tis Mary.

If there 's a healing sound beneath To soothe the heart in sorrow's hour, If there 's a name that angels breathe In silence with a deeper power, 'Tis Mary.

It softly hangs on many a tongue In ladies' bower and sacred fane, The sweetest name by poets sung-- The high and consecrated strain-- Is Mary.

And Scotia's Bard--life's holiest dream Was his, the silent heavens above, When on the Bible o'er the stream He vowed his early vows of love To Mary.

Oh, with the sweet repose of even, By forest lone, by fragrant lea, And by thy beauties all, Loch Leven, How dear shall the remembrance be Of Mary!

Scotland and Mary are entwined With blooming wreath of fadeless green, And printed on the undying mind; For, oh! her fair, though fated Queen, Was Mary.

By the lone forest and the lea, When smiles the thoughtful evening star, Though other names may dearer be, The sweetest, gentlest, loveliest far, Is Mary.

ABSENCE.

The fields, the streams, the skies are fair, There 's freshness in the balmy air, A grandeur crowns thine ancient woods, And pleasure fills thy solitudes, And sweets are strewn where'er we rove-- But thou art not the land we love.

How glorious, from the eastern heaven, The fulness of the dawn is given!

How fair on ocean's glowing breast Sleeps the soft twilight of the west!

All radiant are thy stars above-- But thou art not the land we love.

Fair flowers, that kiss the morning beam, Hang their bright tresses o'er the stream; From morn to noon, from noon to even, Sweet songsters lift soft airs to heaven, From field and forest, vale and grove-- But thou art not the land we love.

To high and free imaginings Thy master minstrels swept the strings, The brave thy sons to triumph led, Thy turf enshrouds the glorious dead, And Liberty thy chaplet wove-- But thou art not the land we love.