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A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,

And white waves heaving high;

And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners,
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free-

While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

My Nanie O.

Red rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae,
Mirk is the night and rainie O,

Though heaven and earth should mix in storm,
I'll gang and see my Nanie O;
My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

My kind and winsome Nanie O,

She holds my heart in love's dear bands,
And naue can do't but Nanie O.

In preaching time sae meek she stands,
Sae saintly and sae bonnie O,
I cannot get ae glimpse of grace,
For thieving looks at Nanie O;
My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

The world's in love with Nanie 0;
That heart is hardly worth the wear
That wadna love my Nanie O.

My breast can scarce contain my heart,
When dancing she moves finely 0;

I guess what heaven is by her eyes,
They sparkle sae divinely 0;

My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie 0;

Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair,
And says, I dwell with Nanie O.
Tell not, thou star at gray daylight,
O'er Tinwald-top so bonnie O,
My footsteps 'mang the morning dew
When coming frae my Nanie 0;
My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

Nane ken o' me and Nanie 0;
The stars and moon may tell't aboon,
They winna wrang my Nanie O!

The Poet's Bridal-Day Song. O! my love's like the steadfast sun, Or streams that deepen as they run; Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, Nor moments between sighs and tearsNor nights of thought, nor days of pain, Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vainNor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows To sober joys and soften woes, Can make my heart or fancy flee One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit-
Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee
As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,

When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet

Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;

And time, and care, and birth-time woes

Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose;

To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
All that charms me of tale or song;

When words come down like dews unsought,

With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,

And fancy in her heaven flies free-
They come, my love, they come from thee.
O, when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold;
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er

What things should deck our humble bower!
"Twas sweet to pull in hope with thee
The golden fruit from Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for these locks of thine-
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow and woods are green.
At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought-
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like the rainbow through the shower,
O, then I see, while seated nigh,

A mother's heart shine in thine eye;
And proud resolve and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak :

I think the wedded wife of mine
The best of all that's not divine.

WILLIAM TENNANT.

In 1812 appeared a singular mock heroic poem, Anster Fair, written in the ottava rima stanza, since made so popular by Byron in his Beppo and Don Juan. The subject was the marriage of Maggie Lauder, the famous heroine of Scottish song, but the author wrote not for the multitude familiar with Maggie's rustic glory. He aimed at pleasing the admirers of that refined conventional poetry, half serious and sentimental, and half ludicrous and satirical, which was cultivated by Berni, Ariosto, and the lighter poets of Italy. There was classic imagery on familiar subjects-supernatural machinery (as in the Rape of the Lock) blended with the ordinary details of domestic life, and with lively and fanciful description. An exuberance of animal spirits seemed to carry the author over the most perilous ascents, and his wit and fancy were rarely at fault. Such a pleasant sparkling volume, in a style then unhackneyed, was sure of success. 'Anster Fair' sold rapidly, and has since been often republished. The author, WILLIAM TENNANT, is a native of Anstruther, or Anster, who, whilst filling the situation of clerk in a mercantile establishment, studied ancient and modern literature, and taught himself Hebrew. His attainments were rewarded in 1813 with an appointment as parish schoolmaster, to which was attached a salary of L.40 per annum -a reward not unlike that conferred on Mr Abraham Adams in Joseph Andrews, who being a scholar and man of virtue, was 'provided with a handsome in

It was

come of L.23 a-year, which, however, he could not make a great figure with, because he lived in a dear country, and was a little encumbered with a wife and six children.' The author of Anster Fair' has since been appointed to a more eligible and becoming situation-teacher of classical and oriental languages in Dollar Institution, and, more recently, a professor in St Mary's college, St Andrews. He has published some other poetical works-a tragedy on the story of Cardinal Beaton, and two poems, the Thane of Fife, and the Dinging Down of the Cathedral. said of Sir David Wilkie that he took most of the figures in his pictures from living characters in the county of Fife, familiar to him in his youth: it is more certain that Mr Tennant's poems are all on native subjects in the same district. Indeed, their strict locality has been against their popularity; but Anster Fair' is the most diversified and richly humorous of them all, and besides being an animated, witty, and agreeable poem, it has the merit of being the first work of the kind in our language. The Monks and Giants of Mr Frere (published under the assumed name of Whistlecraft), from which Byron avowedly drew his Beppo, did not appear till some time after Mr Tennant's poem. Of the higher and more poetical parts of Anster Fair,' we subjoin a specimen

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The saffron-elbowed Morning up the slope

Of heaven canaries in her jewelled shoes, And throws o'er Kelly-law's sheep-nibbled top Her golden apron dripping kindly dews; And never, since she first began to hop

Up heaven's blue causeway, of her beams profuse, Shone there a dawn so glorious and so gay, As shines the merry dawn of Anster market-day. Round through the vast circumference of sky One speck of small cloud cannot eye behold, Save in the east some fleeces bright of dye, That stripe the hem of heaven with woolly gold, Whereon are happy angels wont to lie

Lolling, in amaranthine flowers enrolled, That they may spy the precious light of God,

For when the first upsloping ray was flung
On Anster steeple's swallow-harbouring top,
Its bell and all the bells around were rung
Sonorous, jangling, loud, without a stop;
For, toilingly, each bitter beadle swung,
Even till he smoked with sweat, his greasy rope,
And almost broke his bell-wheel, ushering in
The morn of Anster Fair with tinkle-tankling din.
And, from our steeple's pinnacle outspread,

The town's long colours flare and flap on high,
Whose anchor, blazoned fair in green and red,
Curls, pliant to each breeze that whistles by;
Whilst on the boltsprit, stern, and topmast head
Of brig and sloop that in the harbour lie,
Streams the red gaudery of flags in air,
All to salute and grace the morn of Anster Fair.
The description of the heroine is equally passionate
and imaginative:-

Her form was as the Morning's blithesome star,
That, capped with lustrous coronet of beams,
Rides up the dawning orient in her car,
New-washed, and doubly fulgent from the streams
The Chaldee shepherd eyes her light afar,

And on his knees adores her as she gleams;
So shone the stately form of Maggie Lauder,
And so the admiring crowds pay homage and applaud
her.

Each little step her trampling palfrey took,
Shaked her majestic person into grace,
And as at times his glossy sides she strook
Endearingly with whip's green silken lace,
(The prancer seemed to court such kind rebuke,
By Jove, the very waving of her arm
Loitering with wilful tardiness of pace),

Had power a brutish lout to unbrutify and charm!
Her face was as the summer cloud, whereon

The dawning sun delights to rest his rays! Compared with it, old Sharon's vale, o'ergrown With flaunting roses, had resigned its praise; For why? Her face with heaven's own roses shone, Mocking the morn, and witching men to gaze; And he that gazed with cold unsmitten soul, That blockhead's heart was ice thrice baked beneath the Pole.

Her locks, apparent tufts of wiry gold,

Lay on her lily temples, fairly dangling, And on each hair, so harmless to behold,

A lover's soul hung mercilessly strangling; The piping silly zephyrs vied to unfold

The tresses in their arms so slim and tangling,

Flung from the blessed East o'er the fair Earth And thrid in sport these lover-noosing snares,

abroad.

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Up from their nests and fields of tender corn
Full merrily the little skylarks spring,
And on their dew-bedabbled pinions borne,
Mount to the heaven's blue key-stone flickering;
They turn their plume-soft bosoms to the morn,
And hail the genial light, and cheer'ly sing;
Echo the gladsome hills and valleys round,

And played at hide-and-seek amid the golden hairs.

Her eye was as an honoured palace, where

A choir of lightsome Graces frisk and dance; What object drew her gaze, how mean soe'er, Got dignity and honour from the glance; Wo to the man on whom she unaware

Did the dear witchery of her eye elance! 'Twas such a thrilling, killing, keen regardMay Heaven from such a look preserve each tender bard!

So on she rode in virgin majesty,

Charming the thin dead air to kiss her lips,
And with the light and grandeur of her eye
Shaming the proud sun into dim eclipse;
While round her presence clustering far and righ,
On horseback some, with silver spurs and whips,
And some afoot with shoes of dazzling buckles,

As half the bells of Fife ring loud and swell the Attended knights, and lairds, and clowns with horny

sound.

knuckles.

His humour and lively characteristic painting are well displayed in the account of the different parties who, gay and fantastic, flock to the fair, as Chaucer's pilgrims did to the shrine of Thomas-â-Becket. The following verses describe the men from the north :

Comes next from Ross-shire and from Sutherland
The horny-knuckled kilted Highlandman:
From where upon the rocky Caithness strand
Breaks the long wave that at the Pole began,
And where Lochfine from her prolific sand

Her herrings gives to feed each bordering clan,
Arrive the brogue-shod men of generous eye,
Plaided and breechless all, with Esau's hairy thigh.
They come not now to fire the Lowland stacks,
Or foray on the banks of Fortha's firth;
Claymore and broadsword, and Lochaber axe,
Are left to rust above the smoky hearth;
Their only arms are bagpipes now and sacks;

Their teeth are set most desperately for mirth; And at their broad and sturdy backs are hung Great wallets, crammed with cheese and bannocks and cold tongue.

Nor staid away the Islanders, that lie

To buffet of the Atlantic surge exposed; From Jura, Arran, Barra, Uist, and Skye, Piping they come, unshaved, unbreeched, unhosed; And from that Isle, whose abbey, structured high, Within its precincts holds dead kings enclosed, Where St Columba oft is seen to waddle

Gowned round with flaming fire upon the spire

astraddle.

Next from the far-famed ancient town of Ayr,

(Sweet Ayr! with crops of ruddy damsels blest, That, shooting up, and waxing fat and fair,

Shine on thy braes, the lilies of the west!) And from Dumfries, and from Kilmarnock (where Are night-caps made, the cheapest and the best) Blithely they ride on ass and mule, with sacks In lieu of saddles placed upon their asses' backs. Close at their heels, bestriding well-trapped nag, Or humbly riding asses' backbone bare, Come Glasgow's merchants, each with money-bag, To purchase Dutch lintseed at Anster FairSagacious fellows all, who well may brag

Of virtuous industry and talents rare ;

The accomplished men o' the counting-room confest,
And fit to crack a joke or argue with the best.
Nor keep their homes the Borderers, that stay
Where purls the Jed, and Esk, and little Liddel,
Men that can rarely on the bagpipe play,

And wake the unsober spirit of the fiddle;
Avowed freebooters, that have many a day
Stolen sheep and cow, yet never owned they did ill;
Great rogues, for sure that wight is but a rogue
That blots the eighth command from Moses' decalogue.

And some of them in sloop of tarry side,

Come from North-Berwick harbour sailing out; Others, abhorrent of the sickening tide,

Have ta'en the road by Stirling brig about, And eastward now from long Kirkaldy ride, Slugging on their slow-gaited asses stout, While dangling at their backs are bagpipes hung, And dangling hangs a tale on every rhymer's tongue.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL (1797-1835) was born in Glasgow, but, after his eleventh year, was brought up under the care of an uncle in Paisley. At the age of twenty-one, he was appointed deputy to the sheriff-clerk at that town. He early evinced a love

of poetry, and in 1819 became editor of a miscellany entitled the Harp of Renfrewshire. A taste for antiquarian research

Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools supposedivided with the muse the empire of Motherwell's genius, and he attained an unusually familiar acquaintance with the early history of our native literature, particularly in the department of traditionary poetry. The results of this erudition appeared in Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern (1827), a collection of Scottish ballads, prefaced by a historical introduction, which must be the basis of all future investigations into the subject. In the following year he became editor of a weekly journal in Paisley, and established a magazine there, to which he contributed some of his happiest poetical effusions. The talent and spirit which he evinced in his editorial duties, were the means of advancing him to the more important office of conducting the Glasgow Courier, in which situation he continued till his death. In 1832 he collected and published his poems in one volume. He also joined with Hogg in editing the works of Burns; and he was collecting materials for a life of Tannahill, when he was suddenly cut off by a fit of apoplexy at the early age of thirty-eight. The taste, enthusiasm, and social qualities of Motherwell, rendered him very popular among his townsmen and friends. As an antiquary, he was shrewd, indefatigable, and truthful. As a poet, he was happiest in pathetic or sentimental lyrics, though his own inclinations led him to prefer the chivalrous and martial style of the old minstrels.

Jeanie Morrison.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;

But never, never can forget

The luve of life's young day!
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en,
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows owre my path,
And blind my een wi' tears!
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,

As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part;

Sweet time!-sad time!-twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To lear ilk ither lear;

And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,
Remembered ever mair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent doun owre ae braid page,
Wi' ae buik on our knee,

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but

My lesson was in thee.

O mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said,
We cleeked thegither hame?

And mind ye o' the Saturdays

(The schule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braesThe broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,

As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' schule-time and o' thee.
Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve!
Oh, lichtsome days and lang,

When hinnied hopes around our hearts,
Like simmer blossoms, sprang!

O mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,

To wander by the green burnside,

And hear its water croon ?

The simmer leaves hung owre our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin' o' the wud
The throssil whusslit sweet.

The throssil whusslit in the wud,

The burn sung to the trees,
And we with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn,
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' vera gladness grat!

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled-unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As hae been to me?
ye

Oh! tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine;

Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart,
Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I dee,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygane days and me!

The Midnight Wind. Mournfully! oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet plaintive melody Of ages long gone by: It speaks a tale of other years

Of hopes that bloomed to dieOf sunny smiles that set in tears, And loves that mouldering lie!

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The smile of a maiden's eye soon may depart;
And light is the faith of fair woman's heart;
Changeful as light clouds, and wayward as wind,
Be the passions that govern weak woman's mind.
But thy metal's as true as its polish is bright:
When ills wax in number,
Thy love will not slumber;
But, starlike, burns fiercer the darker the night.
HEART GLADDENER! I kiss thee.

My kindred have perished by war or by wave;
Now, childless and sireless, I long for the grave.
When the path of our glory is shadowed in death,
With me thou wilt slumber below the brown heath;
Thou wilt rest on my bosom, and with it decay;
While harps shall be ringing,
And Scalds shall be singing

The deeds we have done in our old fearless day.
SONG GIVER! I kiss thee.

ROBERT NICOLL.

ROBERT NICOLL (1814-1837) was a young man of high promise and amiable dispositions, who cultivated literature amidst many discouragements. He was a native of Auchtergaven, in Perthshire. After passing through a series of humble employments, during which he steadily cultivated his mind by reading and writing, he assumed the editorship of the Leeds Times, a weekly paper representing the extreme of the liberal class of opinions. He wrote as one of the three hundred might be supposed to have fought at Thermopyla, animated by the pure love of his species, and zeal for what he thought their interests; but, amidst a struggle which scarcely admitted of a moment for reflection on his own position, the springs of a naturally weak constitution were rapidly giving way, and symptoms of consumption became gradually apparent.

The poet

died in his twenty-fourth year, deeply regretted by the numerous friends whom his talents and virtues had drawn around him. Nicoll's poems are short occasional pieces and songs-the latter much inferior to his serious poems, yet displaying happy rural imagery and fancy.

We are Brethren a’.

A happy bit hame this auld world would be,

If men, when they're here, could make shift to agrec,
An' ilk said to his neighbour, in cottage an' ha',
'Come, gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'

I ken na why ane wi' anither should fight,
When to 'gree would make a'body cosie an' right,
When man meets wi' man, 'tis the best way ava,
To say, 'Gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.'

My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine,
And I maun drink water, while you may drink wine;
But we baith ha'e a leal heart, unspotted to shaw:
Sae gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.

The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' deride;
Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth on your side;
Sae would I, an' nought else would I value a straw;
Then gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.

Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or man ;
I haud by the right aye, as weel as I can;
We are ane in our joys, our affections, an' a';
Come, gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.
Your mother has lo'ed you as mithers can lo'e;
An' mine has done for me what mithers can do;
We are ane high an' laigh, an' we shouldna be twa:
Sae gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.

We love the same simmer day, sunny and fair;
Hame! oh, how we love it, an' a' that are there!
Frae the pure air of heaven the same life we draw—
Come, gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'.
Frail shakin' auld age will soon come o'er us baith,
An' creeping alang at his back will be death;
Syne into the same mither-yird we will fa':
Come, gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.
Thoughts of Heaven.

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