The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iii Part 17

[31] To Mr James C. Roger, of Glasgow, we have to acknowledge our obligations for much diligent inquiry on the subject of this memoir.

[32] Alla.n.u.s Glen, _armiger_, is witness to an instrument conveying the fishing of Crockat-shot to the "Monks of Pasly," in 1452. James Glen, the successor of this person, obtained from Robert, abbot of Paisley, the lands of Bar, Bridge-end, and Lyntehels, within the Lordship of Paisley. James Glen of Bar joined the troops of Queen Mary at the battle of Langside, for which act he was forfeited by the Regent, but was restored in 1573 by the treaty of Perth. Archibald Glen, a younger son of the proprietor of Bar, was minister of Carmunnock, and died in February 1614. Of two sons, Robert, the eldest, succeeded him in the living of Carmunnock; the other, named Thomas, was a prosperous trader in the Saltmarket of Glasgow; he died in 1735. His son Alexander was the poet's father.

WAES ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE.[33]

TUNE--_"Johnnie Faa."_

A wee bird cam to our ha' door, He warbled sweet an' clearly, An' aye the owercome o' his sang Was, "Waes me for Prince Charlie."

Oh! whan I heard the bonnie soun', The tears cam drappin' rarely; I took my bannet aff my head, For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie.

Quoth I, "My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, Is that a sang ye borrow?

Are thae some words ye 've learnt by heart, Or a lilt o' dule an' sorrow?"

"Oh, no, no, no!" the wee bird sang, "I 've flown sin' mornin' early, But sic' a day o' wind and rain!-- Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie.

"On hills that are by right his ain, He roves a lanely stranger; On every side he 's press'd by want, On every side is danger.

Yestreen I saw him in a glen, My heart maist burst.i.t fairly, For sadly changed indeed was he-- Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie.

"Dark night cam on, the tempest roar'd Loud o'er the hills an' valleys; An' whare wast that your Prince lay down, Whase hame should been a palace?

He row'd him in a Highland plaid, Which cover'd him but sparely, An' slept beneath a bush o' broom-- Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie."

But now the bird saw some red-coats, An' he shook his wings wi' anger: "Oh! this is no a land for me, I 'll tarry here nae langer."

He hover'd on the wing a while, Ere he departed fairly; But weel I mind the farewell strain Was, "Waes me for Prince Charlie."

[33] This song is understood to be a favourite with her present Majesty.

MARY OF SWEET ABERFOYLE.[34]

The sun hadna peep'd frae behint the dark billow, The slow sinking moon half illumined the scene; As I lifted my head frae my care-haunted pillow, An' wander'd to muse on the days that were gane.

Sweet hope seem'd to smile o'er ideas romantic, An' gay were the dreams that my soul would beguile; But my eyes fill'd wi' tears as I view'd the Atlantic, An' thought on my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

Though far frae my hame in a tropical wildwood, Yet the fields o' my forefathers rose on my view; An' I wept when I thought on the days of my childhood, An' the vision was painful the brighter it grew.

Sweet days! when my bosom with rapture was swelling, Though I knew it not then, it was love made me smile; Oh! the snaw wreath is pure where the moonbeams are dwelling, Yet as pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

Now far in the east the sun slowly rising, Brightly gilded the top of the tall cabbage tree; And sweet was the scene such wild beauties comprising, As might have fill'd the sad mourner with rapture and glee.

But my heart felt nae rapture, nae pleasant emotion, The saft springs o' pleasure had lang, lang been seal'd; I thought on my home 'cross a wide stormy ocean, And wept for my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

The orange was bathed in the dews o' the morning, An' the bright draps bespangled the cl.u.s.tering vine; White were the blossoms the lime-tree adorning, An' brown was the apple that grew on the pine.

Were I as free as an Indian chieftain, Sic beautiful scenes might give pleasure the while; But the joy o' a slave is aye waverin' an' shiftin', An' a slave I 'm to Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

When the mirk cloud o' fortune aboon my head gathers, An' the golden shower fa's whare it ne'er fell before; Oh! then I 'll revisit the land of my fathers, An' clasp to this bosom the la.s.s I adore.

Hear me, ye angels, who watch o'er my maiden, (Like ane o' yoursels she is free frae a' guile), Pure as was love in the garden o' Eden, Sae pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

[34] This song was composed while the author resided in the West Indies.

It is here printed for the first time.

THE BATTLE-SONG.[35]

Raise high the battle-song To the heroes of our land; Strike the bold notes loud and long To Great Britain's warlike band.

Burst away like a whirlwind of flame, Wild as the lightning's wing; Strike the boldest, sweetest string, And deathless glory sing-- To their fame.

See Corunna's b.l.o.o.d.y bed!

'Tis a sad, yet glorious scene; There the imperial eagle fled, And there our chief was slain.

Green be the turf upon the warrior's breast, High honour seal'd his doom, And eternal laurels bloom Round the poor and lowly tomb Of his rest.

Strong was his arm of might, When the war-flag was unfurl'd; But his soul when peace shone bright, Beam'd love to all the world.

And his name, through endless ages shall endure; High deeds are written fair, In that scroll, which time must spare, And thy fame 's recorded there-- n.o.ble Moore.

Yonder 's Barossa's height Rising full upon my view, Where was fought the bloodiest fight That Iberia ever knew, Where Albion's bold sons to victory were led.

With bay'nets levell'd low, They rush'd upon the foe, Like an avalanche of snow From its bed.

Sons of the "Lonely Isle,"

Your native courage rose, When surrounded for a while By the thousands of your foes.

But dauntless was your chief, that meteor of war, He resistless led ye on, Till the b.l.o.o.d.y field was won, And the dying battle-groan Sunk afar.

Our song Balgowan share, Home of the chieftain's rest; For thou art a lily fair In Caledonia's breast.

Breathe, sweetly breathe, a soft love-soothing strain, For beauty there doth dwell, In the mountain, flood, or fell, And throws her witching spell O'er the scene.

But not Balgowan's charms Could hire the chief to stay; For the foe were up in arms, In a country far away.

He rush'd to battle, and he won his fame; Ages may pa.s.s by, Fleet as the summer's sigh, But thy name shall never die-- Gallant Graeme.[36]

Strike again the boldest strings, To our great commander's praise; Who to our memory brings "The deeds of other days."

Peal for a lofty spirit-stirring strain; The blaze of hope illumes Iberia's deepest glooms, And the eagle shakes his plumes There in vain.

High is the foemen's pride, For they are sons of war; But our chieftain rolls the tide, Of battle back afar.

A braver hero in the field ne'er shone; Let bards with loud acclaim, Heap laurels on his fame, "Singing glory" to the name Of Wellington.

Could I with soul of fire Guide my wild unsteady hand, I would strike the quivering wire, Till it rung throughout the land.

Of all its warlike heroes would I sing; Were powers to soar thus given, By the blast of genius driven, I would sweep the highest heaven With my wing.

Yet still this trembling flight May point a bolder way, Ere the lonely beam of night Steals on my setting day.

Till then, sweet harp, hang on the willow tree; And when I come again, Thou wilt not sound in vain, For I 'll strike thy highest strain-- Bold and free.

[35] Printed for the first time, from the author's MS. volume.