The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Vi Part 23

The Highland hills! there are songs of mirth, And joy, and love on the gladsome earth; For Spring, in her queenly robes, hath smiled In the forest glade and the woodland wild.

Then come with me from the haunts of men To the gla.s.sy lake in the mountain glen, Where suns.h.i.+ne sleeps on the dancing rills That chainless leap from the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! when the sparkling rays Of the silver dews greet the orient blaze, When noon comes forth with her gorgeous glow, While the fountains leap and the rivers flow, Thou wilt roam with me where the waterfalls Bid echo wake in the rocky halls, Till the grandeur wild to thy heart instils A deep delight 'mid the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! when the noonday smiles On the slumbering lakes and their fairy isles, We 'll clamber high where the heather waves By the warrior's cairn and the foemen's graves; And I 'll sing to thee, in "the bright day's prime,"

Of the days of old and of ancient time, And thy heart, unknown to the care that chills, Shall gladly joy in the Highland hills.

The Highland hills! in the twilight dim To their heath-clad crests shall thy footsteps climb, And there shalt thou gaze o'er the ocean far, Till the beacon blaze of the evening star, And the lamp of night, with its virgin beams, Look down on the deep and the s.h.i.+ning streams, Till beauty's spell on thy spirit thrills With joy and love in the Highland hills.

MY NATIVE LAND.

Sublime is Scotia's mountain land, And beautiful and wild; By tyranny's unhallow'd hand Unsullied, undefiled.

The free and fearless are her sons, The good and brave her sires; And, oh! her every spirit glows With freedom's festal fires!

When dark oppression far and wide Its gory deluge spread, While nations, ere they pa.s.s'd away, For hope and vengeance bled, She from her rocky bulwarks high The banner'd eagle hurl'd, And trampled on triumphant Rome, The empress of the world.

She gave the Danish wolf a grave Deep in her darkest glens, And chased the vaunting Norman hound Back to his lowland dens; And though the craven Saxon strove Her regal lord to be, Her hills were homes to nurse the brave, The fetterless, and free.

Peace to the spirits of the dead, The n.o.ble, and the brave; Peace to the mighty who have bled Our Fatherland to save!

We revel in the pure delight Of deeds achieved by them, To crown their worth and valour bright With glory's diadem.

JAMES MACLARDY.

The writer of several good songs, James Maclardy was born in Glasgow on the 22d August 1824. His father, who afterwards removed to Paisley, was a journeyman shoemaker in humble circ.u.mstances. With the scanty rudiments of education, young Maclardy was early cast upon the world.

For a course of years he led a sort of rambling life, repeatedly betaking himself to the occupation of a pedlar, and sometimes being dependent for subsistence on his skill as a ballad singer. Adopting his father's profession, he became more fortunate, and now took delight in improving himself in learning, and especially in perusing the works of the poets. After practising his craft in various localities, he has latterly settled in Glasgow, where he holds a situation of respectable emolument.

THE SUNNY DAYS ARE COME, MY LOVE.

The sunny days are come, my love, The gowan 's on the lea, And fragrant flow'rs wi' hiney'd lips, Invite the early bee; The scented winds are whisp'ring by, The lav'rock 's on the wing, The lintie on the dewy spray Gars glen and woodland ring.

The sunny days are come, my love, The primrose decks the brae, The vi'let in its rainbow robe Bends to the noontide ray; The cuckoo in her trackless bower Has waken'd from her dream; The shadows o' the new-born leaves Are waving in the stream.

The sunny days are come, my love, The swallow skims the lake, As o'er its gla.s.sy bosom clear The insect cloudlets shake.

The heart of nature throbs with joy At love and beauty's sway; The meanest creeping thing of earth Shares in her ecstasy.

Then come wi' me my bonny Bell, And rove Gleniffer o'er, And ye shall lend a brighter tint To suns.h.i.+ne and to flower; And ye shall tell the heart ye 've won A blessing or a wae-- Awake a summer in my breast, Or bid hope's flowers decay.

For spring may spread her mantle green, O'er mountain, dell, and lea, And summer burst in every hue Wi' smiles and melody, To me the sun were beamless, love, And scentless ilka flower, Gin ye were no this heart's bright sun, Its music and its bower.

OH, MY LOVE WAS FAIR.

Oh, my love was fair as the siller clud That sleeps in the smile o' dawn; An' her een were bricht as the crystal bells That spangle the blossom'd lawn: An' warm as the sun was her kind, kind heart, That glow'd 'neath a faemy sea; But I fear'd, by the tones o' her sweet, sweet voice, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was gay as the summer time, When the earth is bricht an' gled, An' fresh as the spring when the young buds blaw, In their sparkling pearl-draps cled: An' her hair was like chains o' the sunset sheen That hangs 'tween the lift an' sea; But I fear'd, by the licht that halo'd her face, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was sweet as the violet flower That waves by the moss-grown stane, An' her lips were rich as the rowans red That hang in forest lane; An' her broo was a dreamy hill o' licht, That struck ane dumb to see; But I fear'd, by signs that canna be named, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was mild as the autumn gale That fans the temples o' toil, An' the sweets o' a thousand summers cam'

On her breath an' sunny smile: An' spotless she gaed on the tainted earth, O' a mortal blemish free, While my heart forgot, in its feast o' joy, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was leal, an' my cup o' bliss Was reaming to the brim, When, ae gloaming chill, to her sacred bower Cam' a grisly carl fu' grim, Wha dash'd the cup frae my raptured lips Wi' a wild, unearthly glee; Sae the ghaistly thought was then confirm'd, That my love was nae for me.

Oh, my love was young, an' the grim auld carl Held her fast in his cauld embrace, An' suck'd the red frae her hiney'd mou', An' the blush frae her peachy face: He stifled the sound o' her charm'd throat, An' quench'd the fires o' her e'e; But fairer she blooms in her heavenly bower, For my love was nae for me.

Sae I tyned my love an' I tyned my heart, An' I tyned baith wealth an' fame; Syne I turn'd a sad, weary minstrel wicht, Wi' the cauld warld for my hame.

Yet my minstrelsy 's but a lanely lay, My wealth my aumous fee; Oh, wad that I were wi' the grim auld carl, For this warld is nae for me.

ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.

The author of "Harebell Chimes," a volume of interesting verses, Andrew James Symington, was born at Paisley, on the 27th of July 1825. His father was a scion of the n.o.ble house of Douglas, and his mother claimed descent from the old Highland family of Macalister. On the completion of his education at the grammar school, the subject of this sketch entered the warehouse of his father, who carried on business as a muslin manufacturer. By the death of his father in 1841, he succeeded, along with an elder brother, to the full management of the concern. In 1848 the establishment was removed from Paisley to Glasgow, where it continues to be prosperously carried on.

Eminently devoted to literary and artistic studies, Mr Symington has cultivated the personal intercourse of artists and men of letters. He has contributed to some of the leading periodicals. His volume of "Harebell Chimes," published in 1849, contains poetry of a high order; it was especially commended by the late Samuel Rogers, with whom the author had the privilege of corresponding. In 1855, a small volume ent.i.tled "Genivieve, and other Poems," was printed by Mr Symington for circulation among his friends.

DAY DREAM.

Close by the marge of Leman's lake, Upon a thymy plot, In blissful rev'rie, half awake, Earth's follies all forgot, I conjured up a faery isle Where sorrow enter'd not, Withouten shade of sin or guile-- A lovely Eden spot.

With trellis'd vines, in cool arcade, And leaves of tender green, All trembling in the light and shade, As sunbeams glanced between: The mossy turf, bespangled gay With fragrant flowery sheen-- Bell, primrose, pink, and showers of May-- The fairest ever seen.

Near where a crystal river ran Into the rich, warm light, A domed palace fair began To rise in marble white.

'Twas fill'd, as if by amulet, With mirrors dazzling bright-- With antique vase and statuette, A palace of delight.

And "Mignon" in a snow-white dress, With circlet on her hair, Appear'd in all her loveliness, Like angel standing there.

She struck the cithern in her hand, And sang with 'witching air Her own sweet song, "Know'st thou the land?"

To music wild and rare.