The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Vi Part 19

The weel lo'ed form o' his ain auld wife, Wha sooth'd the cares o' a lang bleak life, Has gane to rest wi' her weans frae strife, An' heeds na her lane auld man.

Owre the turf on their breast he lo'ed to weep, And sair he lang'd wi' the lost to meet, Till death did close, in his ain calm sleep, The een o' the lane auld man.

Whar yew-trees bend owre the dark kirk-yard, An' gowans peep frae the lang green-sward, The moss-clad stanes o' the cauld grave guard The last o' the lane auld man.

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

Shadows of glory the twilight is parting, The day-star is seeking its home in the west, The herd from the field to the fold is departing, As, Lochwinnoch, sad on thy summits I rest.

And far o'er the scene, while the evening is veiling Thy waters that spread their still breast on the lea, On his broad truant wing the lone heron is sailing, To rest with his mate by the rock on the sea.

But, houseless and homeless, around thee I wander, The faces are gone I have panted to see, And cold is the hearth to the feet of the stranger, Which once had a seat in its circle for me.

Here youth's golden hours of my being were number'd, When joy in my bosom was breathing its lay; If care on the light of my happiness linger'd, Hope hasted the heartless intruder away.

Then sweetly the brow of the beaming-eyed future Was smiling my welcome to life's rosy way, And fondly I sigh'd in her Eden to meet her, And bask in the bowers where her happiness lay.

While fancy on light airy pinion was mounting, I strain'd my young vision in rapture to see The land of my dreams, with its love-mirror'd fountains, And breath'd in the balm of the south's sunny sea.

Then, far on the track of ambition, I follow'd The footsteps of fortune through perilous climes, And trod the bright scenes which my childhood had hallow'd But found not the charms which fond fancy enshrines.

The gold I have won, can it purchase the treasure Of hearts' warm affections left bleeding behind, Restore me the ties which are parted for ever, And gild the dark gloom of my desolate mind?

The gold I have won! but, unblest and beguiling, It came like the sun when unclouded and gay; Its light on the cold face of winter is smiling, But cheers not the earth with the warmth of its ray.

Again fare-thee-well, for the heart-broken rover Now bids thee a long and a lasting adieu; Yet o'er thee the dreams of my spirit will hover, And burn as it broods on life's dismal review.

THOMAS ELLIOTT.

The author of a small volume of very meritorious poems and lyrics, Thomas Elliott is descended from a branch of the old Border family of that name, which settled in the north of Ireland subsequent to the Revolution. His father was a shoemaker at Bally-ho-bridge, a hamlet in county Fermanagh, province of Ulster, where the poet was born on the 22d December 1820. Entering school at the age of five years, he was not removed till he had acquired a considerable acquaintance with the ordinary branches of popular education. In his fifteenth year he apprenticed himself to his father. The family removed to Belfast in 1836, and there he had opportunities of occupying his leisure hours in extensive and varied reading. After a few years of somewhat desultory employment, he visited Glasgow in 1847, and there, following his original trade, he has continued to reside.

Elliott a.s.signs the commencement of his poetical efforts to the year 1842, when he was led to satirise a pedagogue teacher of music, who had given him offence. His poetical volume, ent.i.tled "Doric Lays and Attic Chimes," appeared in 1856, and has been well received. Several of his lyrics have been published with music in "The Lyric Gems of Scotland," a collection of songs published at Glasgow.

UP WITH THE DAWN.

Up with the dawn, ye sons of toil, And bare the brawny arm, To drive the harness'd team afield, And till the fruitful farm; To dig the mine for hidden wealth, Or make the woods to ring With swinging axe and st.u.r.dy stroke, To fell the forest king.

With ocean car and iron steed Traverse the land and sea, And spread our commerce round the globe As winds that wander free.

Subdue the earth, and conquer fate, Outspeed the flight of time; Old earth is rich, and man is young, Nor near his jocund prime.

Work, and the clouds of care will fly, Pale want will pa.s.s away; Work, and the leprosy of crime And tyrants must decay.

Leave the dead ages in their urns; The present time be ours, To grapple bravely with our lot, And strew our path with flowers.

CLYDE BOAT SONG.

_Music by A. Hume._

Leave the city's busy throng-- Dip the oar, and wake the song, While on Cathkin Braes the moon Rises with a star aboon: Hark! the boom of evening bells Trembles through the dewy dells.

Row, lads, row; row, lads, row, While the golden eventide Lingers o'er the vale of Clyde, Row, lads, row; row, lads, row, O'er the tide, up the Clyde, Row, lads, row.

Life 's a river, deep and old, Stemm'd by rowers, brave and bold; Now in shadow, then in light, Onward aye, a thing of might; Sons of Albyn's ancient land, Row with strong and steady hand, Row, lads, row; row, lads, row; Gaily row, and cheery sing, Till the woodland echoes ring; Row, lads, row; row lads, row, O'er the tide, up the Clyde, Row, lads, row.

Hammers on the anvil rest, Dews upon the gowan's breast; Young hearts heave with tender thought, Low winds sigh, with odours fraught, Stars bedeck the blue above, Earth is full of joy and love; Row, lads, row; row, lads, row; Let your oars in concert beat Merry time, like dancers' feet; Row, lads, row; row, lads, row, With the tide, down the Clyde, Row, lads, row.

DIMPLES AND A'.

I love a sweet la.s.sie, mair gentle and true Than ony young, wood-loving, wild cus.h.i.+e doo; Her cheeks they are dimpled, her jimp waist is sma', She says she 's my ain la.s.sie, dimples and a'-- Dimples and a', dimples and a'-- That bonnie wee la.s.s wi' her dimples and a'.

Her brown wavy hair has a dark gowden tinge, Her bonnie black e'e has a long jetty fringe, Her footstep is light as the thistle doun's fa', Her wee hand is lily-white, dimpled and a'-- Dimpled and a', dimpled and a'-- And I ken it 's my ain hand, dimples and a'.

I 'll wed my dear la.s.sie, and gie her my name, I 'll get a bit housie, and bring my love hame; When winter is eerie, and stormy winds blaw, She 'll mak' me fu' cheerie wi' dimples and a'-- Dimples and a', dimples and a'-- My ain bonnie wifie, wi' her dimples and a'.

When the day's wark is done, and stars blink above, I 'll rest in her smile, and be bless'd wi' her love; She 'll sing a' the cares o' this world awa'

Frae our cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.

Dimples and a', dimples and a'-- Our ain cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.

BUBBLES ON THE BLAST.

A wee bit laddie sits wi' a bowl upon his knees, And from a cutty pipe 's puffing bubbles on the breeze; Oh, meikle is the mirth of the weans on our stair, To see the bubbles sail like balloons alang the air.

Some burst before they rise, others mount the gentle wind, And leave the little band in their dizzy joy behind; And such are human pomp and ambition at the last-- The wonder of an hour, like thae bubbles on the blast.

How breathless is the watch of that merry little throng, To mark the s.h.i.+ning globes as they float in pride along!

'Tis thus life's bubbles come, ever flas.h.i.+ng from afar-- Now a revolution, and again a woeful war; A hero or a bard, in their glory or their might; A bonnie bird of song, or a nightingale of light; Or yellow golden age, with its speculations vast-- All wonders of an hour, like the bubbles on the blast.

Shout on, ye little folk, for your sport is quite as sage As that of older men, e'en the leaders of the age; This world 's a sapple bowl, and our life a pipe of clay-- Its brightest dreams and hopes are but bubbles blown away.

We 've had our bubbles too; some were dear and tender things, That left us sad and lone as they fled on rapid wings; And others yet may rise from the future, like the past, The wonder of an hour, as the bubbles on the blast.