The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iii Part 27

In youthfu' prime, at fortune's ca', I braved the billows' roar; I 've now seen thirty simmer suns Blink on a distant sh.o.r.e; And I have stood where honour call'd, In the embattled line, And there left many gallant lads, The cronies o' langsyne.

I 've gather'd walth o' weel-won gear, Yet still I fortune blame; I lang wi' strangers pa.s.s'd my days, And now I 'm ane at hame.

I have nae friend but what my gowd Can draw to mammon's shrine; But how unlike the guileless hearts That wish'd me weel langsyne!

PETER ROGER.

Peter Roger, blacksmith, formerly at Glenormiston, and latterly at Peebles, though more the enthusiastic lover of, than a contributor to, the national minstrelsy, is ent.i.tled to remembrance. His numerous communications addressed to the editor of this work, have supplied much information, which has been found useful in the preparation of these volumes. Roger was born at Clovenford, in the parish of Stow, in 1792.

For thirty-seven years he wrought as blacksmith at Glenormiston, on the banks of the Tweed, near Innerleithen. In 1852, he removed to Peebles, where he had purchased a small cottage and garden. He died suddenly, at Peebles, on the 3d April 1856, in his 64th year. The following sketch of his character has been supplied, at our request, by his intimate acquaintance, the Rev. James Murray, minister of Old c.u.mnock:--

"Roger was in many respects a very remarkable man....

He possessed, in an eminent degree, an exquisite natural sympathy with all things beautiful and good. He was an excellent botanist, well-skilled in music, and pa.s.sionately fond of poetry. His conversation was very interesting; and his slight tendency to dogmatise in the presence of a stranger, entirely disappeared in the society of his friends. He might almost be said to revere any one possessed of intellectual gifts and accomplishments, whether natural or acquired; and as he lived many years in a cottage situated on the way-side between Peebles and Innerleithen, he was frequently visited by those who pa.s.sed by. Occasionally the Ettrick Shepherd would stop his gig to have a few minutes' _crack_ with his 'friend Peter,' as he called him. At another time it would be his minister, the Rev.

Mr Leckie, or some other worthy pastor, or some surgeon of the district upon his widely-extended rounds--Dr Craig, for example; or Mr Thomas Smibert; or Mr Adam d.i.c.kson, a young genius nipt in the bud--whose appearance would be the welcome signal for the 'tinkling' of Peter's hammer to know a brief respite.

And I could mention others of his acquaintance, almost self-taught like himself, whose intelligence might enable them 'to stand before kings.'

"My own intimacy with Peter extends back to the time of my boyhood; and I can honestly say, that an evening spent under his roof, in company with him and his pious and amiable sister Peggy, who survives him, was among the greatest treats I ever experienced. There, at his door, in paper cap and leather ap.r.o.n, his shirt sleeves turned up, and his bare, brawny arms crossed upon his chest, and 'his brow wet with honest sweat,' would the hard-headed and warm-hearted blacksmith await the coming of him whom he expected. And, first, whilst his sister was attending to the preparation of some creature-comforts--for he was a man of some substance, and hospitable withal--you would be conducted into his little garden, sloping down to the very brink of the Tweed, and embosomed amid natural hazel wood, the lingering remains of a once goodly forest, to see some favourite flower, or to hear him trill, with a skill and execution which would have done little dishonour to _Picus_ himself, some simple native melody upon his Scotch flute. The _in-door_ entertainment consisted of varied conversation, embracing the subjects of literature, politics, and theology, largely interspersed with the reading of MS. poems by his numerous poetical friends. But the best part of the treat came last. Gradually you would notice a serious shade, not gloomy but chastened, steal over his ma.s.sive features. His conversation would glide most naturally, and without any intentional effort that was apparent, into a serious strain; and then Peggy would bring down the family Bible, and, after having selected a suitable psalm, he would sing it to some plaintive air--and he could sing well; and the prayer which closed the usual exercises was such a manly, pathetic, and G.o.dly outpouring of a spirit chastened with the simplest and purest piety, as made the heart glad.

"Peter did nothing by halves, but everything with the energy of a man working at a forge. He embraced the temperance movement as soon as he heard of it, and continued to the end of his days a most rigid total abstainer from the use of all ardent spirits.

Altogether, he was one of those self-taught, large-hearted, pious, and intellectual men of whom Scotland may well be proud."

LOVELY JEAN.

AIR--_"Miss Forbes' Farewell."_

'Mang a' the la.s.sies young an' braw, An' fair as summer's rosy beam, There 's ane the bonniest o' them a', That dwells by Manor's mountain stream.

Oft hae I gazed on her sweet face, An' ilka time new beauties seen; For aye some new discover'd grace Endears to me my lovely Jean.

An' oh! to list her ev'ning sang, When a' alane she gently strays The yellow waving broom amang, That blooms on Manor's flow'ry braes-- Her voice sae saft, sae sweet and clear, Afar in yonder bower sae green, The mavis quits her lay to hear A bonnier sang frae lovely Jean.

But it 's no her peerless face nor form, It 's no her voice sae sweet and clear, That keeps my love to her sae warm, An' maks her every day mair dear; It 's just the beauties o' her mind, Her easy, winning, modest mien, Her truth and constancy, which bind My heart and soul to lovely Jean.

JOHN MALCOLM.

John Malcolm was the second son of the Rev. John Malcolm, minister of the parish of Firth and Stennis, Orkney, where he was born about 1795.

Through a personal application to the Duke of Kent, he was enabled to proceed as a volunteer to join the army in Spain. Arriving at the period when the army under General Graham (afterwards Lord Lynedoch) was besieging St Sebastian, he speedily obtained a lieutenancy in the 42d Regiment, in which he served to the close of the Pyrenees' campaign.

Wounded at the battle of Toulouse, by a musket-ball penetrating his right shoulder, and otherwise debilitated, he retired from active service on half-pay, and with a pension for his wound. He now fixed his abode in Edinburgh, and devoted himself to literary pursuits. He contributed to _Constable's Magazine_, and other periodicals. For one of the earlier volumes of "Constable's Miscellany," he wrote a narrative of the Peninsular War. As a poet, he became known by some stanzas on the death of Lord Byron, which appeared in the _Edinburgh Weekly Journal_.

In 1828, he published "Scenes of War, and other Poems;" and subsequently contributed numerous poetical pieces to the pages of the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_. A small volume of prose sketches also appeared from his pen, under the t.i.tle of "Tales of Field and Flood." In 1831 he undertook the editorship of the _Edinburgh Observer_ newspaper, which he held till the period of his death. He died at Edinburgh, of a pulmonary complaint, in September 1835.

Fond of conversation, and abounding in humorous anecdote, Malcolm was especially esteemed for his gentle and amiable deportment. His poetry, which is often vigorous, is uniformly characterised by sweetness of versification.

THE MUSIC OF THE NIGHT.

The music of the night, Upon its lonely flight Into the west, where sink its ebbing sands; That m.u.f.fled music seems Like voices heard in dreams, Sigh'd back from long-lost years and distant lands.

Amid the stillness round, As 'twere the shade of sound, Floats on the low sweet strain of lulling tones; Such as from trembling wire Of sweet aeolian lyre, With winds awake in murmurs and in moans.

Oh! melting on the ear, What solemn chords are there!

The torrent's thunder sunk into a sigh; And thine, majestic main!

Great Nature's organ strain, Deep pealing through the temple of the sky.

And songs unsung by day-- The nightingale's lone lay.

From lady's bower, the lover's serenade; And dirge of hermit-bird From haunts of ruin heard, The only voice that wails above the dead.

To them that sail the deep, When winds have sunk to sleep, The dreamy murmurs of the night steal on; Say, does their mystic hum, So vague and varied, come From distant sh.o.r.es unseen, and lands unknown?

In them might fancy's ear Earth's dying echoes hear, Our home's sweet voices swooning on the floods; Or songs of festal halls, Or sound of waterfalls, Or Indian's dismal war-whoop through the woods.

Joy breathes in morning song, And happy things among Her choral bowers wake matins of delight; But dearer unto me The dirge-like harmony Of vesper voices, and of wailing night.

THE SEA.

The sea--the deep, deep sea-- That awful mystery!

Was there a time of old ere it was born, Or e'er the dawn of light, Coeval with the night-- Say, slept it on, for ever and forlorn?

Till the Great Spirit's word Its sullen waters heard, And their wild voices, through the void profound, Gave deep responsive roar; But silent never more Shall be their solemn, drear, and dirge-like sound!

Earth's echoes faint and die; Sunk down into a sigh, Scamander's voice scarce whispers on its way; And desert silence reigns Upon the mighty plains Where battles' thunders peal'd--and where are they?

But still from age to age Upon its pilgrimage, When many a glorious strain the world hath flown; And while her echoes sleep In darkness, the great deep, Unwearied and unchanged, goes sounding on.

ERSKINE CONOLLY.

Erskine Conolly was born at Crail, Fifeshire, on the 12th of June 1796.

At the burgh school of his native town, he received an ordinary elementary education, and was afterwards apprenticed to Mr c.o.c.kburn, bookseller in Anstruther. He subsequently commenced business as a bookseller in the small town of Colinsburgh; but after a trial of several years, not having succeeded according to his expectations, he removed to Edinburgh, where he was employed as a clerk by Mr Thomas Megget, writer to the signet. At a future period, he entered into partnership with Mr James Gillon, writer and messenger in Edinburgh; and after his partner's death, carried on the business on his own account.

He died at Edinburgh on the 7th January 1843. Of highly sociable dispositions, and with talents of a superior order, Conolly was much beloved among a wide circle of friends. Unambitious of fame as a poet, though he frequently wrote verses, he never ventured on a publication.

His popular song of "Mary Macneil," appeared in the _Edinburgh Intelligencer_ of the 23d December 1840; it is much to be remarked for deep feeling and genuine tenderness.