The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iii Part 13

Although it 's been lang in repute For rogues to mak rich by deceiving, Yet I see that it does not weel suit Honest men to begin to the thieving; For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt, Oh! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it; Sae I flang frae my neive what was in 't, Still the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey for the mill, &c.

A man that 's been bred to the plough, Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper; Yet there 's few but would suffer the sough After kenning what 's said by the happer.

I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn, Saying, Shame, is your conscience no checkit?

But when I grew dry for a horn, It changed aye to Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey for the mill, &c.

The smugglers whiles cam wi' their pocks, Cause they kent that I liked a bicker; Sae I bartered whiles wi' the gowks, Gaed them grain for a soup o' their liquor.

I had lang been accustom'd to drink, And aye when I purposed to quat it, That thing wi' its clappertie clink Said aye to me, Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey for the mill, &c.

But the warst thing I did in my life, Nae doubt but ye 'll think I was wrang o 't, Od! I tauld a bit bodie in Fife A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o 't; I have aye had a voice a' my days, But for singing I ne'er got the knack o 't; Yet I tried whiles, just thinking to please The greedy wi' Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey the mill, &c.

Now, miller and a' as I am, This far I can see through the matter, There 's men mair notorious to fame, Mair greedy than me or the muter; For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men, Or wi' safety the half we may mak it, Had some speaking happer within, That said to them, Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey for the mill, &c.

OH, SWEET WERE THE HOURS.

AIR--_"Gregor Arora."_

Oh, sweet were the hours That I spent wi' my Flora, In yon gay shady bowers, Roun' the linn o' the Cora!

Her breath was the zephyrs That waft frae the roses, And skim o'er the heath As the summer day closes.

I told her my love-tale, Which seem'd to her cheering; Then she breathed on the soft gale Her song so endearing.

The rock echoes ringing Seem'd charm'd wi' my story; And the birds, sweetly singing, Replied to my Flora.

The sweet zephyr her breath As it wafts frae the roses, And skims o'er the heath As the summer day closes.

PATE BIRNIE.[27]

Our minstrels a', frae south to north, To Edin cam to try their worth, And ane cam frae the banks o' Forth, Whase name was Patie Birnie.

This Patie, wi' superior art, Made notes to ring through head and heart, Till citizens a' set apart Their praise to Patie Birnie.

Tell auld Kinghorn, o' Picish birth, Where, noddin', she looks o'er the Firth, Aye when she would enhance her worth, To sing o' Patie Birnie.

His merits mak _Auld Reekie_[28] ring, Mak rustic poets o' him sing; For nane can touch the fiddle-string Sae weel as Patie Birnie.

He cheers the sage, the sour, the sad, Maks youngsters a rin louping mad, Heads grow giddy, hearts grow glad, Enchanted wi' Pate Birnie.

The witching tones o' Patie's therm, Mak farmer chiels forget their farm, Sailors forget the howling storm, When dancing to Pate Birnie.

Pate maks the fool forget his freaks, Maks baxter bodies burn their bakes, And gowkies gie their hame the glaiks, And follow Patie Birnie.

When Patie taks his strolling rounds, To feasts or fairs in ither towns, Wark bodies fling their trantlooms doun, To hear the famous Birnie.

The crabbit carles forget to snarl, The canker'd cuiffs forget to quarrel, And gilphies forget the stock and horle, And dance to Patie Birnie.

[27] Pate Birnie was a celebrated fiddler or violinist who resided in Kinghorn, Fifeshire.

[28] An old designation for the city of Edinburgh, often used by the Scottish poets.

WILLIAM PARK.

William Park was not born in lawful wedlock. His grandfather, Andrew Park, occupied for many years the farm of Efgill, in the parish of Westerkirk, and county of Dumfries. He had two sons, William and James, who were both men of superior intelligence, and both of them writers of verses. William, the poet's father, having for a brief period served as a midshipman, emigrated to the island of Grenada, where he first acted as the overseer of an estate, but was afterwards appointed to a situation in the Customs at St George's, and became the proprietor and editor of a newspaper, called the _St George's Chronicle_. In the year 1795, he was slain when bravely heading an encounter with a body of French insurgents. His son, the subject of this memoir, was born at Crooks, in the parish of Westerkirk, on the 22d of February 1788, and was brought up under the care of his grandfather. He received an ordinary training at the parochial school; and when his grandfather relinquished his farm to a higher bidder, he was necessitated to seek employment as a cow-herd. In 1805, he proceeded as a farm-servant to the farm of Ca.s.sock, in the parish of Eskdalemuir. In 1809, he entered the service of the Rev. Dr Brown,[29] minister of Eskdalemuir, and continued to occupy the position of _minister's man_ till the death of that clergyman, many years afterwards.

From his early years, Park had cultivated a taste for literature. The parishioners of Westerkirk have long been commended for their inquisitive turn of mind; many years ago they established a subscription library, to which Mr Telford, the celebrated engineer, who was a native of the parish, bequeathed a legacy of a thousand pounds. The rustic poet suddenly emerged from his obscurity, when he was encouraged to publish a volume ent.i.tled "The Vale of Esk, and other Poems," Edin., 1833, 12mo.

About the same period he became a contributor of poetry to _Blackwood's Magazine_, and a writer of prose articles in the provincial newspapers.

On the death of Dr Brown, in 1837, he took, in conjunction with a son-in-law, a lease of the farm of Holmains, in the parish of Dalton, and now enjoyed greater leisure for the prosecution of his literary tastes. In May 1843, he undertook the editorship of the _Dumfries Standard_ newspaper; but had just commenced his duties, when he was seized with an illness which proved fatal. He died at Holmains on the 5th June 1843. His widow still lives in Eskdalemuir; and of their numerous family, some have emigrated to America.

Park's compositions were not strictly lyrical, but "The Patriot's Song,"

which we have selected from his volume, seems worthy of a place in the national minstrelsy. His style is smooth and flowing, and he evinces a pa.s.sionate admiration of the beautiful in nature.

[29] William Brown, D.D., author of "Antiquities of the Jews." Lond., 1825, 2 vols. 8vo.

THE PATRIOT'S SONG.

Shall I leave thee, thou land to my infancy dear, Ere I know aught of toil or of woe, For the clime of the stranger, the solitude drear, And a thousand endearments forego?

Shall I give my lone bosom a prey to its strife?

Must I friendship's just claims disallow?

No; her breathings can cool the hot fever of life, As the breeze fans the sea-beaten brow.

'Tis said that the comforts of plenty abound In the wide-spreading plains of the west; That there an asylum of peace shall be found Where the care-stricken wanderer may rest.

That nature uncheck'd there displays all her pride In the forest unfading and deep; That the river rolls onward its ocean-like tide, Encircling broad realms in its sweep.

But is there a spot in that far distant land Where fancy or feeling may dwell?

Or how shall the heart of the exile expand, Untouch'd by Society's spell?

Though thy children, old Albyn! adversity bear, As forlorn o'er thy mountains they roam, Yet I 've found, what in vain I should seek for elsewhere-- I have found 'mong these mountains a home.