صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

A lawyer neist, wi' bletherin' gab,
Wha speeches wove like ony wab,
In ilk ane's corn aye took a dab,
And a' for a fee:

Accounts he had through a' the town,

And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown;
Haith now he thought to clout his gown
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

A norland laird neist trotted up,
Wi' bawsen'd naig and siller whup,

Cried "There's my beast, lad, haud the grup,
Or tie 't till a tree.

"What's gowd to me?-I've walth o' lan';
Bestow on ane o' worth your han';"
He thought to pay what he was awn
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

A' spruce frae ban'boxes and tubs,
A Thing cam neist-but life has rubs-
Foul were the roads, and fou the dubs,
Ah! waes me!

A' clatty, squintin' through a glass,
He girned, "I' faith, a bonny lass!"
He thought to win, wi' front o' brass,
Jenny's bawbee.

She bade the laird gang comb his wig,
The sodger no to strut so big,
The lawyer no to be a prig,

The fool cried "Tehee,

I kent that I could never fail!"-
She preen'd the dish-clout till his tail,
And cooled him wi' a water-pail,

And kept her bawbee.

Richard Gall.

Born 1776.

Died 1801.

A PRINTER in Edinburgh, who wrote some very beautiful Scottish songs.

MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE O.

THY cheek is o' the rose's hue,

My only jo and dearie O;
Thy neck is like the siller-dew
Upon the banks sae briery 0;
Thy teeth are o' the ivory,

O sweet's the twinkle o' thine e'e!
Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me,
My only jo and dearie O.

The birdie sings upon the thorn,
It sang o' joy, fu cheerie O,
Rejoicing in the summer morn,
Nae care to mak it eerie O;
But little kens the sangster sweet
Aught o' the cares I hae to meet,
That gar my restless bosom beat,
My only jo and dearie O.

When we were bairnies on yon brae,
And youth was blinking bonny O,
Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day,

Our joys fu' sweet and mony 0;
Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea,
And round about the thorny tree,
Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee,
My only jo and dearie O.

I hae a wish I canna tine,

'Mang a' the cares that grieve me 0;
I wish thou wert for ever mine,
And never mair to leave me 0:
Then I wad daut thee night and day,
Nor ither warldly care wad hae,
Till life's warm stream forgot to play,
My only jo and dearie O.

Thomas Campbell.

CAMPBELL was born in Glasgow, on 27th July 1777.

Born 1777.

Died 1844.

He was of an

old Highland family, the Campbells of Kirnan; his father was a Virginia merchant in Glasgow, and gave his family, of whom Thomas was the tenth child, a good education. Thomas was distinguished at the University of Glasgow for his Greek translations; and in his fourteenth year he appears to have written English poetry, especially lyrical, with much taste and beauty. When still young, he removed to Edinburgh, where he took lodgings in Alison's Square. Here, in his twentysecond year, he composed "The Pleasures of Hope," which were published in April 1799; this work met with great success, and went through four editions in a year. He was enabled by the proceeds to take a tour on the Continent, where he wrote "Hohenlinden," "Ye Mariners," "The Exile of Erin," &c. On his return to Leith he was thought to be a spy, and a box containing papers was especially examined for proofs of his treason. The first paper they found contained "Ye Mariners of England," which, when published, spread his name like wildfire over the country. In 1803, the poet repaired to London, and devoted himself to literature as a profession, and for many years he was engaged in most severe literary labours; amid which, however, he found time to write, besides smaller pieces, "Theodric," published in 1824, and the "Pilgrim of Glencoe," published in 1842. The Government had, in 1806, given him a pension of L.200 a-year, and this, combined with the large sums derived from his poems and literary work, and a legacy left him in 1815, placed him in quite comfortable circumstances. In 1826, he received what he considered his crowning honour, in having been chosen Lord Rector of Glasgow University. In 1843, to restore his failing health, he settled in Boulogne, but his strength never rallied, and he died there on 15th June 1844. His remains were brought to London and interred in Westminster Abbey. The Polish Colonel Szyrma cast some earth from Kosciusko's grave upon the bier, as a tribute of his countrymen to the friend of Poland.

FROM "THE PLEASURES OF HOPE."
Ar summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below.
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky?
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ?—
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way;
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene

More pleasing seems than all the past hath been,
And every form, that Fancy can repair
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there.

Primeval HOPE, the Aonian muses say,

When Man and Nature mourn'd their first decay;
When every form of death, and every woe,
Shot from malignant stars to earth below;
When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War
Yoked the red dragons of her iron car;

When Peace and Mercy banish'd from the plain,
Sprung on the viewless winds to heaven again;
All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind,
But HOPE, the charmer, linger'd still behind.

Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare
From Carmel's heights to sweep the fields of air.
The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began,
Dropt on the world—a sacred gift to man.

Auspicious HOPE! in thy sweet garden grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe; Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower; There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring! What viewless forms the Eolian organ play,

And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious thought away.

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

Lo! at the couch, where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy"Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy; No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine, No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine; Bright as his manly sire the son shall be In form and soul; but, ah! more blest than he! Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last, Shall soothe his aching heart for all the pastWith many a smile my solitude repay,

And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.

[blocks in formation]

Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,—
"Oh! Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country save!
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high !
And swear for her to live!—with her to die!"

He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge, or Death,-the watchword and reply;
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!-

:

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew :-
Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arm, nor mercy in her woe!

Dropt from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career ;-
HOPE, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shriek'd-as KOSCIUSKO fell!

FROM "LOCHIEL'S WARNING."

Lochiel. False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshall'd my clan,
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one!
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death.
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock!
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ?
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws;
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array-
Wizard. Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day;
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
But man cannot cover what God would reveal;

« السابقةمتابعة »