The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iii Part 28

MARY MACNEIL.

AIR--_"Kinloch of Kinloch."_

The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin', Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fareweel; An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin', As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil.

A' glowin' wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover, Her een-tellin' secrets she thought to conceal; And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discover The tryst o' young Ronald an' Mary Macneil.

Oh! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily, That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal; Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil.

She moved, and the graces play'd sportive around her; She smiled, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill; She sang, and the mavis cam listenin' in wonder, To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil.

But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin', Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal; An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in', Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal.

The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hiein'; The autumn, his corse on the red battle fiel'; The winter, the maiden found heartbroken, dyin'; An' spring spread the green turf owre Mary Macneil!

THERE 'S A THRILL OF EMOTION.

There 's a thrill of emotion, half-painful, half-sweet, When the object of untold affection we meet, But the pleasure remains, though the pang is as brief, As the touch and recoil of the sensitive leaf.

There 's a thrill of distress, between anger and dread, When a frown o'er the fair face of beauty is spread; But she smiles, and away the disturber is borne, Like sunbeams dispelling the vapours of morn.

There 's a thrill of endearment, all raptures above, When the pure lip imprints the first fond kiss of love, Which, like songs of our childhood, to memory clings, The longest, the last of terrestrial things.

GEORGE MENZIES.

George Menzies was born in the parish of Arbuthnot, Kincardineshire, on the 21st January 1797. His father was an agricultural labourer. On completing his education at a country school, he became, in his fourteenth year, apprentice to a gardener. He prosecuted his vocation in different districts; acted some time as clerk to the contractors of the Forth and Clyde Ca.n.a.l; laboured as a weaver in several towns in the counties of Forfar and Kincardine; and conducted unendowed schools in various localities. In 1833, he emigrated to Canada, where he taught in different seminaries, and afterwards formed a connexion with a succession of public journals. He ultimately became proprietor and editor of the _Woodstock Herald_ newspaper. After a short illness, he died at Woodstock, Canada West, on the 4th March 1847, in his fifty-first year.

Menzies was possessed of good talents and indomitable energy. He wrote respectable verses, though not marked by any decided originality. In 1822, he published, at Forfar, a small volume of poems, ent.i.tled, "Poetical Trifles," of which a second and enlarged edition appeared five years afterwards. The whole of his poems, with an account of his life, in a duodecimo volume, were published at Montrose in 1854.

THE BRAES OF AUCHINBLAE.

As clear is Luther's wave, I ween, As gay the grove, the vale as green; But, oh! the days that we have seen Are fled, and fled for aye, Mary!

Oh! we have often fondly stray'd In Fordoun's green embow'ring glade, And mark'd the moonbeam as it play'd On Luther's bonnie wave, Mary!

Since then, full many a year and day With me have slowly pa.s.s'd away, Far from the braes of Auchinblae, And far from love and thee, Mary!

And we must part again, my dear, It is not mine to linger here; Yes, we must part--and, oh! I fear, We meet not here again, Mary!

For on Culloden's b.l.o.o.d.y field, Our hapless Prince's fate is seal'd-- Last night to me it was reveal'd Sooth as the word of heaven, Mary!

And ere to-morrow's sun shall shine Upon the heights of Galloquhine, A thousand victims at the shrine Of tyranny shall bleed, Mary!

Hark! hark! they come--the foemen come-- I go; but wheresoe'er I roam, With thee my heart remains at home-- Adieu, adieu for aye, Mary!

FARE THEE WEEL.

Fare thee weel, my bonnie la.s.sie; Fare thee weel for ever, Jessie!

Though I ne'er again may meet thee, Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.

By yon starry heavens I vow it!

By my love!--(I mayna rue it)-- By this hour in which we sever!

I will love but thee for ever.

Should the hand of death arrest me, Think my latest prayer hath blest thee; As the parting pang draws nearer, I will love thee aye the dearer.

Still my bosom's love I 'll cherish-- 'Tis a spark that winna perish; Though I ne'er again may meet thee, Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.

JOHN SIM.

John Sim was born in Paisley, on the 6th of April 1797. His father, James Sim, was engineer in the factory of James Carlile and Sons, and was highly valued by his employers. In the Grammar-school, John made rapid progress in cla.s.sical learning; and in 1814 entered the University of Glasgow, with a view to the medical profession. He obtained his diploma as surgeon on the 6th of April 1818. He commenced the practice of medicine in the village of Auchinleck, Ayrshire; but removed in a few months to his native town. His professional success was not commensurate with his expectations; and in the hope of bettering his circ.u.mstances, he proceeded to the West Indies. He sailed from Greenock on the 19th January 1819, for Trinidad; but had only been resident in that island about eight months when he was seized with a fatal illness. The precise date of his death is unknown.

Sim was a young man of high promise. Early wedded to the muse, he was selected as the original editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire." He published a small volume of poems and songs. His songs are somewhat imitative, but are remarkable for sweetness of expression, and are pervaded by genial sentiment.

NAE MAIR WE 'LL MEET.

AIR--_"We 'll meet beside the dusky glen."_

Nae mair we 'll meet again, my love, by yon burn side-- Nae mair we 'll wander through the grove, by yon burn side-- Ne'er again the mavis lay will we hail at close o' day, Nor ne'er again we 'll stray down by yon burn side.

Yet mem'ry oft will fondly brood on yon burn side, O'er haunts which we sae saft hae trod, by yon burn side; Still the walk wi' me thou 'lt share, though thy foot can never mair Bend to earth the gowan fair, down by yon burn side.

Now far removed from every care, 'boon yon burn side, Thou bloom'st, my love, an angel fair, 'boon yon burn side; And if angels pity know, sure the tear for me will flow, Who must linger here below, down by yon burn side.