For her, each circling year new honour brings,
The seat of heroes and the haunt of kings.
Now Graces, Smiles, and Nymphs and Cupids move,
Trip o'er the lawn, and cheer the tufted grove.
Lur'd from her native isle, the Paphian Queen
Now leads the moonlight revels on the green;
Still as they move, the sod new fragrance yields,
And flowers, with countless tints, bestrew the fields.
And now spruce Beaus, and sparkling Belles unite,
With court-bred Valets, Grooms, and Squires polite,
In all the mystic maze of France to move,
And talk of Tiltings, Tournaments and love.
In 1795 Hector Macneill dedicated to Dr Doig his poem, "Scotland's Skaith," remarking, in gratitude for Dr Doig's friendly services, "On this opportunity I must confess, I am strongly tempted to speak out truths; but the recollection of a MODESTY as remarkable as the GENIUS and ERUDITION of its possessor, restrains the fervour of friendship, and withholds the just tribute of applause."
Dr Doig's death occurred at Stirling in 1800. His minor efforts are reflected in the following hymn, which many will be pleased to have the opportunity of perusing.
Behold the radiant pow'r of day
From tow'ring OCHILS darts his ray,
And gayly gilds, with orient fires,
Meads, landskips, villas, trees and spires.
Amain the drizzly vapours fly,
That low'ring bloat the western sky,
Fresh gales the dreary damps dispel,
That on the cloud-cap'd mountains dwell.
Far round, where'er I stretch my view,
With silver drops, the pearly dew
Bespangled, pours more vivid rays
Than Heaven's resplendent bow displays.
Wide o'er the dale, from bush to bush,
The Lark, the Linnet, Finch and Thrush,
With all the sons of song conspire
To hail with Hymns their heav'nly Sire.
Awake, my drowzy soul, awake,
Gay Nature's genial song partake,
With heartfelt raptures tune the lays
To him who fram❜d both sun and days.
Arise, O Sovereign source of light!
Chase the dim fogs that veil my sight.
Blest source of comfort, fill my heart,
Thy kind, reviving light impart.
O dwell for ever in my breast,
And calm my labouring soul to rest.
Blest be the Pow'r, who from the night
Has rais'd me safe to view the light;
Still may it shield me thro' the day,
From snares that Fiends and Falsehoods lay;
And when life's dreary scene is o'er,
And suns are set to rise no more,
Conduct me to the blest abodes,
To dwell with Seraphs, Saints, and Gods.
IT T was our privilege to have a personal knowledge of the late custodian of Arbroath's venerable Abbey, and it may therefore not be inappropriate to reproduce here these tributary verses, first published in the local press on the occasion of his death in 1891. They indicate the common experience of all who knew the genial old man, and the general esteem entertained for him among his fellows:
G. W. Donald was born at Westfield, the estate of George Webster, Esq., in the immediate vicinity of Forfar, in 1820; and spent his earlier years there, and at Dunnichen, where for some time his father had a small farm. The chief occupation of those years was herding, every leisure moment being given to self-improvement, and the study of Scottish lore and song; but, in course of time, he learned to weave, and his inherent ability asserting itself he became dominie first at Dunnichen, and afterwards at Kingsmuir. Passing through the Normal College course of training, he, in 1847, was appointed teacher of Tarfside School, Lochlee; and while there he gathered much information about Alexander Ross and his work, which served as a basis for numerous sketches and poems on this interesting subject. Subsequently he taught at Luthermuir, Forfar, St. Vigeans, etc., latterly securing the appoint
ment at Arbroath, which he filled as to the manner born. Mr Donald was lame through an accident sustained in childhood, but his infirmity laid no embargo on his geniality or intelligence. As a poet he ranks among our favourite county writers; no fewer than five editions of his poems have been published, and his name appears in several standard poetic works of reference. Our illustrations show his work in varied aspects, but it is difficult to represent fairly in this manner so varied and voluminous a muse.
'MANG OOR AIN FOLK AT HAME.
'Tis winter, the reaver, he's goulin' amain,
Wi' a cauld eerie sough an' a sowf o' his ain;
Nae birdie sings now 'mang the broom on the brae,
Where robin sits chirpin', the semblance o' wae.
Blithe summer has gane, wi' the saft mellow hum
That rose frae the loaning when gloamin' had come ;
E'en the crune o' the burnie that danced 'mang the faem
Is mute-yet there's joy 'mang our ain fouk at hame.
There's a lowe that blinks bonnie, an ingle that's warm,
Wi' the voice o' contentment to soothe like a charm,
Where the leal-hearted gather, sae couthie an' fain,
Wi' a smile that bids welcome for welcome again.
E'en the bairnies are toddlin', sae fou o' their glee-
They trowna that life has a canker to gie;
While care frae our hallan jouks backwards in shame,
To list the glad sound 'mang our ain fouk at hame.
That hame is our kingdom, while virtue's the crown
Nae tyrant may shatter or shake with a frown;
Fair freedom's our birthright- -our fathers were free-
Let us gather the fruit where they planted the tree.
Sae come, my auld cronies, sae trusty and true,
'Twill sweeten ilk pleasure to share it wi' you;
'Tis the dawn o' the year, an' there's nane who can blame,
Tho' we're happy ance mair 'mang our ain fouk at hame.
Tho' the lang mirky night an' the cauld sleety shower
Hae blighted the garden an' riff'd the bower,
Tho' nae star thro' the welkin in brightness appear,
The bright lamp o' friendship will lighten us here.
And fondly we 'll pledge the dear friends o' th' past,
Tho' mountains and billows between us are cast;
Their mem'ry, their worth, we'll aye cherish the same,
And they'll ever be dear to our ain fouk at hame.
To the land o' our birth let us drink with a will-
The land o' the mountain, the lake and the rill;
To the steep rocky glens, e'en the haunts o' th' free,
Where the eagles o' Rome in their might cudna flee ;
To the bairns she has nurtured in days o' langsyne-
The statesman, the hero, the bard, the divine,
Whase names are enrolled in the bright book o' fame,
And 'graved on the hearts o' our ain fouk at hame.
On our wa' there's a flicker, a shadowy gloom,
When we think on auld friends wha hae gaen to th' tomb;
Nae mair shall they come wi' their blithe looks to cheer,
An' speer for our weal at the change o' the year.
Some wan'd in th' morning, some withered at noon,
An' some frail an' hoary, life's gloamin' gaed doun ;
Like them, when the Master shall ca' on our name,
May we mingle in heaven 'mang our ain fouk at hame.
THE BONNIE LASS O' CAIRNIE.
'Twas on a sultry summer's day, When nature smiled in sunny May, I met a lassie, fair and gay,
Amang the braes o' Cairnie.
Her gracefu' mien an' modest air
Proclaimed her fairest o' the fair,
But lured my heart to love's fell snare,
Amang the braes o' Cairnie.
The gowden locks that screened her broo
Hung doon her cheeks o' rosy hue;
Her lips were wat wi' honey dew,
The bonnie Lass o' Cairnie.
Her een were bright as starnies twa,
Her bosom white as virgin snaw
When Winter wreathes St. Mary's Law,
An' haps the knowes o' Cairnie.
Frae sic a face, frae sic a form
I felt the power o' ilka charm,
An' langed to shield the fair frae harm, The bonnie Lass o' Cairnie.
I said, "My lass, gif sae it be
That ane sae fair could won wi' me,
I'll lo'e thee till the day I dee,
My bonnie Lass o' Cairnie."
She turned awa-she said nae mair
Than this, which gies me muckle care :
"Your love to me ye weel may spare,-
The lad I loe's in Cairnie."
An' now, while ithers, blithe an' free,
At e'enin' join the younkers' glee,
I saunter lanely owre the lea,
An' sigh, "The Lass o' Cairnie!"
Ye birds that round St. Vigeans sing
To welcome in the flowery spring,
Like you I've garred the echoes ring
Amang the braes o' Cairnie.
But now I cower to hide my pain
Frae ilka nymph an' ilka swain,
An' sigh an' sing this dowie strain,
"Fareweel! fareweel to Cairnie!”
Still at my gate I stand, I wait
To let another pass;
Another and another comes,
And still they come, alas!
The young, the old, the weak, the strong,
And he in manhood's bloom;
The timid and the brave alike
Are moving to the tomb.
The child that only saw the light
When Death came lingering nigh,-
The Giver lent him scarce an hour
To bless the mother's eye.
He tasted not life's bitter cup,
Nor heard youth's gladsome chime,
As if his soul had been too pure
For things of sense and time.
The blushing maiden, floweret sweet,
Of twenty summers mild :
The rose-lit deeper dyed her cheek
When fond ones round her smiled.
She comes! and now that cheek is pale,
And cold that lovely form;
The grave is made-her bridal bed!
Her bridegroom is the worm.
He comes who built him airy towers,
While fools applauded loud;
Oh! whisper not that all his dreams
- Are muffled in a shroud.
He boasted of his wealth and power,
And bade the world admire;
That little world that hung in scorn
Around his evening fire.
They quaffed his ale, and heard his tale,
And wondered at the man,
But never told that truth of old,-
That life is but a span.
And when at last misfortune's blast
Made all his dwelling groan,
They came not nigh-they let him die
Forsaken and alone.
He comes, who crawled about the earth,
And wept and cried for bread;
He comes to claim, what kings must share,
A turf to hide his head.
Yet he had friends, and some will miss
The beggar's downcast eye;
They gave a crust, that crust was all
Their goodness could supply.
He comes, who on the mighty deep
Saw dangers rise around,
Who through the surging billows cut
When all his mates were drowned.
His brow was tanned by summer suns,
And chilled by winter's hoar;
He trode on India's sultry plain
And Lapland's frozen shore.
Yet he was open, generous, kind,
Beloved by all his crew;
True as the needle to the pole,-
In love and friendship true.
But now his voyages are o'er;
'Mid bitter tears and sighs
He comes to where no tempests beat
Nor bounding billows rise.
And he who gave the poor man toil,
And gave the poor man bread;
Who lived and longed that all might live
To bless his hoary head.
While borne along, the mourning throng,
With silent step and slow,
E'en to the end cling to their friend
With anxious looks of woe.
And now a tender mother comes,
While weeping friends deplore ;
Her children saw her fall asleep
At noon, to wake no more.
And yet they thought she would awake
To smooth their brows at even;
But, ah! she slept Death's long, long sleep:
Her soul had gone to heaven.
Come, stranger, to that field of graves,
Where dust on dust is piled;
The father, and the father's friend,
The mother and the child:
There lonely meditate, and prone
Let proud ambition fall;
Then trust in Him, in life, in death,
Who keeps and cares for all.
ABOUT four years ago this typical worthy of the old Chartist school was taken from the familiar scene of his long and active labours. He was born at Kirriemuir in 1815, famous as the year in which Waterloo was fought ; and his record shows clearly that his acquirements in poetry, music, oratory, and politics were much in advance of those common to the humble occupation which he followed through life in his native town. Not many weavers, clever though many of them were in varied ways, bothered over contemporary English Literature, or the writings of the Lake poets; but to James Donald such mental fare grew easy of assimilation; and in the study of the intricacies of political and philosophical problems his was a master mind. A local leader in the Chartist agitation, his public appearances were frequent and influential, and his ability brought him into personal touch with the famous founders of that historical period. James was a notable precentor, band leader, and singer; and as a raconteur of the exciting scenes and curious experiences of his varied experiences he was inimitable. Many of his townsmen honour his memory as a man of outstanding characteristics, and esteem him as a poet of considerable power.
One night I awoke in wonder,
Startled at the cannon's thunder
And the drum tap-tapping under
All the sounds of deeper tone;
An idle thought me haunted.
That some demon dark I wanted
To show me where war vaunted
When the fear of God was gone.
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