The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iii Part 26

Why does the deer, when wounded, fly To the lone vale, where night-clouds low'r?

Their time was past--they lived to die-- It was their dying hour!

Why does the dolphin change its hues, Like that aerial child of light?

Why does the cloud of night refuse To meet the morn with beams so bright?

Why does the man we saw to-day, To-morrow fade like some sweet flow'r?

All earth can give must pa.s.s away-- It was their dying hour!

THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, Which seem'd, to fancy's ear, The mournful music of the mind, The echo of a tear; And still methought the hollow sound Which, melting, swept along, The voice of other days had found, With all the powers of song.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And thought of friends untrue-- Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined, That nought could e'er undo; Of cherish'd hopes, once fondly bright-- Of joys which fancy gave-- Of youthful eyes, whose lovely light Were darken'd in the grave.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind When all was still as death; When nought was heard before, behind-- Not e'en the sleeper's breath.

And I have sat at such an hour And heard the sick man's sigh; Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r, At that lone moment die.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And wept for others' woe; Nor could the heart such music find To bid its tear-drops flow.

The melting voice of one we loved, Whose voice was heard no more, Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved, Still breathing as before.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And sat beside the dead, And felt those movings of the mind Which own a secret dread.

The ticking clock, which told the hour, Had then a sadder chime; And these winds seem'd an unseen pow'r, Which sung the dirge of time.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, When, o'er the new-made grave Of one whose heart was true and kind, Its rudest blasts did rave.

Oh! there was something in the sound-- A mournful, melting tone-- Which led the thoughts to that dark ground Where he was left alone.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And courted sleep in vain, While thoughts like these have oft combined To rack the wearied brain.

And even when slumber, soft and deep, Has seen the eyelid close, The restless soul, which cannot sleep, Has stray'd till morning rose.

ROBERT DAVIDSON.

Robert Davidson was born in the parish of Morebattle, Roxburghshire, in 1779. The son of humble parents, he was sent to tend cattle in his tenth year. He had received at the parish school a limited education; and he devoted his leisure time on the hills to miscellaneous reading. Learning sc.r.a.ps of old ballads from the cottage matrons, as they sung them at their distaffs, he early began to essay imitations of these olden ditties. As a farm-servant and an agricultural labourer, he continued through life to seek repose from toil in the perusal of poetry and the composition of verses. "My simple muse," he afterwards wrote, "oft visited me at the plough, and made the labour to seem lighter and the day shorter." In 1811, and in 1824, he published small collections of verses. At the recommendation of some influential friends, he published, in 1848, a compact little volume of his best pieces, under the t.i.tle, "Leaves from a Peasant's Cottage-Drawer;" and to which was prefixed a well-written autobiographical sketch. He was often oppressed by poverty; and, latterly, was the recipient of parochial relief. He died in the parish of Hounam, on the 6th April 1855; and his remains rest in the church-yard of his native parish. Many of his poems are powerful, both in expression and sentiment; and several of his songs are worthy of a place in the national minstrelsy. In private life he was sober, prudent, and industrious.

FAREWELL TO CALEDONIA.

Adieu! a lang and last adieu, My native Caledonia!

For while your sh.o.r.es were in my view, I steadfast gazed upon ye, O!

Your sh.o.r.es sae lofty, steep, an' bold, Fit emblem of your sons of old, Whose valour, more than mines of gold, Has honour'd Caledonia.

I think how happy I could be, To live and die upon ye, O!

Though distant many miles from thee, My heart still hovers o'er ye, O!

My fancy haunts your mountains steep, Your forests fair, an' valleys deep, Your plains, where rapid rivers sweep To gladden Caledonia.

Still mem'ry turns to where I spent Life's cheerfu' morn sae bonnie, O!

Though by misfortune from it rent, It 's dearer still than ony, O!

In vain I 'm told our vessel hies To fertile fields an' kindly skies; But still they want the charm that ties My heart to Caledonia.

My breast had early learn'd to glow At name of Caledonia; Though torn an' toss'd wi' many a foe, She never bow'd to ony, O!

A land of heroes, famed an' brave-- A land our fathers bled to save, Whom foreign foes could ne'er enslave-- Adieu to Caledonia!

ON VISITING THE SCENES OF EARLY DAYS.

Ye daisied glens and briery braes, Haunts of my happy early days, Where oft I 've pu'd the blossom'd slaes And flow'rets fair, Before my heart was scathed wi' waes Or worldly care.

Now recollection's airy train Shoots through my heart with pleasing pain, And streamlet, mountain, rock, or plain, Like friends appear, That, lang, lang lost, now found again, Are doubly dear.

But many a dauted object 's fled; Low lies my once paternal shed; Rank hemlocks wild, and weeds, o'erspread The ruin'd heap; Unstirr'd by cheerful tongue or tread, The echoes sleep.

Yon bonnie burn, whose limpid streams, When warm'd with summer's glowing beams, Have often laved my tender limbs, When my employ Was chasing childhood's airy whims From joy to joy.

Upon yon green, at gloamin' gray, I 've often join'd in cheerful play, Wi' comrades guileless, blithe, and gay, Whose magic art, Remember'd at this distant day, Still warms the heart.

Ah, cronies dear! for ever lost!

Abroad on life's rough ocean toss'd, By adverse winds and currents cross'd, By watching worn, Some landed on that silent coast, Ne'er to return!

Howe'er the path of life may lie, If poorly low, or proudly high, When scenes of childhood meet our eye, Their charms we own, And yield the tribute of a sigh To days long gone.

TO WANDER LANG IN FOREIGN LANDS.

AIR--_"Auld Langsyne."_

To wander lang in foreign lands, It was my destinie; I joyful was at my return, My native hills to see.

My step grew light, my heart grew fain, I thought my cares to tine, Until I fand ilk weel-kenn'd spot Sae alter'd sin' langsyne.

I sigh'd to see the flow'ry green Skaith'd by the ruthless pleugh; Likewise the bank aboon the burn, Where broom and hawthorns grew.

A lonely tree, whose aged trunk The ivy did entwine, Still mark'd the spot where youngsters met, In cheerful sports langsyne.

I mixed with the village train, Yet still I seem'd alane; Nae kindly hand did welcome me, For a' my friends were gane.

Those friends who oft in foreign lands Did haunt this heart o' mine, And brought to mind the happy days I spent wi' them langsyne.