The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iii Part 23

Join all in chorus, jolly boys, And let punch and tears be shed, For this prince of good old fellows That, alack-a-day! is dead; For this prince of worthy fellows-- And a pretty man also-- That has left the Saltmarket In sorrow, grief, and woe!

For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

[44] This humorous elegy was first published in _Blackwood's Magazine_ for September 1819. Captain Paton was a well-known character in Glasgow.

The son of Dr David Paton, a physician in that city, he obtained a commission in a regiment raised in Scotland for the Dutch service. He afterwards resided with his two maiden sisters, and an old servant Nelly, in a tenement opposite the Old Exchange at the Cross, which had been left him by his father. The following graphic account of the Captain, we transcribe from Dr Strang's interesting work, "Glasgow and its Clubs," recently published:--"Every sunshine day, and sometimes even amid shower and storm, about the close of the past and the commencement of the present century, was the worthy Captain in the Dutch service seen parading the _plainstanes_, opposite his own residence in the Trongate, donned in a suit of snuff-coloured brown or 'genty drab,' his long spare limbs encased in blue striped stockings, with shoes and buckles, and sporting ruffles of the finest cambric at his wrists, while adown his back hung a long queue, and on his head was perched a small three-c.o.c.ked hat, which, with a _politesse tout a fait Francais_, he invariably took off when saluting a friend. Captain Paton, while a denizen of the camp, had studied well the n.o.ble art of fence, and was looked upon as a most accomplished swordsman, which might easily be discovered from his happy but threatening manner of holding his cane, when sallying from his own domicile towards the coffee-room, which he usually entered about two o'clock, to study the news of the day in the pages of the _Courier_. The gallant Captain frequently indulged, like Oth.e.l.lo, in speaking--

'Of moving incidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach.'

And of his own brave doings on the tented field, 'at Minden and at Dettingen,' particularly when seated round a bowl of his favourite cold punch, made with limes from his own estate in Trinidad, and with water newly drawn from the Westport well." It remains to be added, that this "prince of worthy fellows" died in July 1807, at the age of sixty-eight.

CANADIAN BOAT-SONG.[45]

_From the Gaelic._

Listen to me, as when ye heard our father Sing, long ago, the song of other sh.o.r.es; Listen to me, and then in chorus gather All your deep voices, as ye pull your oars: Fair these broad meads--these h.o.a.ry woods are grand; But we are exiles from our fathers' land!

From the lone shieling of the misty island Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas; Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland, And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.

We ne'er shall tread the fancy-haunted valley, Where, 'tween the dark hills, creeps the small clear stream, In arms around the patriach-banner rally, Nor see the moon on royal tombstones gleam.

Come, foreign rage!--let discord burst in slaughter!

Oh then for clansman true, and stern claymore!

The hearts that would have given their blood like water Beat heavily beyond the Atlantic roar!

Fair these broad meads--these h.o.a.ry woods are grand; But we are exiles from our fathers' land!

[45] This simple and interesting lyric appears in No. XLVI. of the "Noctes Ambrosianae," and has, we believe, on sufficient grounds, been attributed to Lockhart.

THOMAS MATHERS.

Thomas Mathers, the fisherman poet, was born at St Monance, Fifeshire, in 1794. Receiving an education at school confined to the simplest branches, he chose the seafaring life, and connected himself with the merchant service. At Venice, he had a casual rencounter with Lord Byron,--a circ.u.mstance which he was in the habit of narrating with enthusiasm. Leaving the merchant service, he married, and became a fisherman and pilot, fixing his residence in his native village. His future life was a career of incessant toil and frequent penury, much alleviated, however, by the invocation of the muse. He contributed verses for a series of years to several of the public journals; and his compositions gained him a wide circle of admirers. He long cherished the ambition of publishing a volume of poems; and the desire at length was gratified through the subscriptions of his friends. In 1851, he printed a duodecimo volume, ent.i.tled, "Musings in Verse, by Sea and Sh.o.r.e,"

which, however, had only been put into shape when the author was called to his rest. He died of a short illness, at St Monance, on the 25th September 1851, leaving a widow and several young children. His poetry is chiefly remarkable for depth of feeling. Of his powers as a song-writer, the following lyric, ent.i.tled "Early Love," is a favourable specimen.

EARLY LOVE.

There 's nae love like early love, Sae lasting an' sae leal; It wins upon the youthfu' heart, An' sets its magic seal.

The die that 's cast in early life, Is nae vain airy dream; But makes thee still in after years The subject of my theme.

But years o' shade an' sunshine Have flung alternately Their fleeting shadows as they pa.s.s'd Athwart life's changing sky.

Like troubled waters, too, the mind 'S been ruffled an' distress'd; But with the placid calm return'd Thine image to my breast.

Still I hae seen a fairer face, Though fairer anes are few, An' I hae marked kinder smiles Than e'er I gat frae you.

But smiles, like blinks o' simmer sheen, Leave not a trace behind; While early love has forged chains The freest heart to bind.

The mind from tyrant fetters Is free as air to rove; But powerful are the links that chain The heart to early love.

Affections, like the ivy In nature's leafy screen, Entwine the boughs o' early love Wi' foliage "ever green."

JAMES BROWN.

James Brown was born at Libberton, a village in the upper ward of Lanarkshire, on the 1st of July 1796. His father, the miller of Libberton-mill, was a person of superior intelligence, and his mother, Grizzel Anderson, was esteemed for her amiable dispositions. Deprived of his father while only six years old, he was early apprenticed to a hand-loom weaver. On the completion of his indenture, he removed to Symington, a village situate at the base of Tintock hill. His leisure hours were devoted to reading and an extensive correspondence with his friends. He formed a club for literary discussion, which a.s.sembled periodically at his house. Enthusiastic in his love of nature, he rejoiced in solitary rambles on the heights of Tintock and Dungavel; he made a pilgrimage to the Border and Ettrick Forest. In 1823 he removed to Glasgow, where he was employed in the warehouse of a manufacturing firm; he afterwards became agent of the house at Biggar, where he died on the 12th September 1836. Though the writer of much poetry of merit, Brown was indifferent to literary reputation; and chiefly intrusted his compositions to the keeping of his friends. His songs in the present work have been recovered by his early friend, Mr Scott Riddell, who has supplied these particulars of his life. Austere in manner, he was possessed of genial and benevolent dispositions; he became ultimately impressed with earnest religious convictions.

MY PEGGY 'S FAR AWAY.

Yestreen as I stray'd on the banks o' the Clyde, A laddie beneath the gay greenwood I spied, Who sang o' his Peggy, and oh! he seem'd wae, For Peggy, sweet Peggy, was far, far away.

Though fair burns the taper in yon lofty ha', Yet nought now shines bright where her shade doesna fa'; My Peggy was pure as the dew-drops o' May, But Peggy, sweet Peggy, is far, far away.

Ye breezes that curve the blue waves o' the Clyde, And sigh 'mang the dark firs on yon mountain side, How dreary your murmurs throughout the lang day, Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

The sable-wing'd blackbird yon birk-trees amang, And mavis sing notes that accord wi' my sang, A' nature is dowie, by bank and by brae, Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

Ye dew-dripping daisies that bloom by the burn, Though scathed by rude winter in spring ye return; I mark'd, but I minded no whit your decay, Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

I mourn'd not the absence o' summer or spring, Nor aught o' the beauties the seasons may bring, E'en 'mid the dark winter this heart still was gay, Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

The bleak blawing winter, wi' a' its alarms, Might add to, but tak not away from her charms, The snaws seem'd as welcome as summer-won hay, Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

Our Henry lo'es Mary, Jock dotes upon Jean, And Willie ca's Nancy o' beauty the queen, But Peggy was mine, and far lovelier than they, Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

Oh, when will the days o' this sadness be o'er, And Heaven, in pity, my Peggie restore?

It kens she 's the loveliest it ere made o' clay, And ill I may thole that she 's far, far away.

LOVE BROUGHT ME A BOUGH.