The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iv Part 14

"The air," communicates the reverend author of this song, "is undoubtedly old, from its resemblance to several Gaelic and Irish airs.

'Cuir's chiste moir me,' and several others, might be thought to have been originally the same _in the first part_. The second part of the air is, I think, modern." The Gadie is a rivulet, and Bennachie a mountain, in Aberdeenshire.

JOHN TWEEDIE.

John Tweedie was born in the year 1800, in the vicinity of Peebles, where his father was a shepherd. Obtaining a cla.s.sical education, he proceeded to the University of Edinburgh, to prosecute his studies for the Established Church. By acting as a tutor during the summer months, he was enabled to support himself at the university, and after the usual curriculum, he was licensed as a probationer. Though possessed of popular talents as a preacher, he was not successful in obtaining a living in the Church. During his probationary career, he was employed as a tutor in the family of the minister of Newbattle, a.s.sisted in the parish of Eddleston, and ultimately became missionary at Stockbridge, Edinburgh. He died at Linkfieldhall, Musselburgh, on the 29th February 1844. Tweedie was a person of amiable dispositions and unaffected piety; he did not much cultivate his gifts as a poet, but the following song from his pen, to the old air, "Saw ye my Maggie," has received a considerable measure of popularity.[14]

FOOTNOTES:

[14] In the "Cottagers of Glendale," Mr H. S. Riddell alludes to two of Tweedie's brothers, who perished among the snow in the manner described in that poem. The present memoir is prepared from materials chiefly supplied by Mr Riddell.

SAW YE MY ANNIE?

Saw ye my Annie, Saw ye my Annie, Saw ye my Annie, Wading 'mang the dew?

My Annie walks as light As shadow in the night Or downy cloudlet light Alang the fields o' blue.

What like is your Annie, What like is your Annie, What like is your Annie, That we may ken her be?

She's fair as nature's flush, Blithe as dawning's blush, And gentle as the hush When e'ening faulds her e'e.

Yonder comes my Annie, Yonder comes my Annie, Yonder comes my Annie, Bounding o'er the lea.

Lammies play before her, Birdies whistle o'er her, I mysell adore her, In heavenly ecstasy.

Come to my arms, my Annie, Come to my arms, my Annie, Come to my arms, my Annie, Speed, speed, like winged day.

My Annie's rosy cheek Smiled fair as morning's streak, We felt, but couldna speak, 'Neath love's enraptured sway.

THOMAS ATKINSON.

Thomas Atkinson, a respectable writer of prose and verse, was born at Glasgow about the year 1800. Having completed an apprenticeship to Mr Turnbull, bookseller, Trongate, he entered into copartnership with Mr David Robertson, subsequently King's publisher in the city. Of active business habits, he conducted, along with his partner, an extensive bookselling trade, yet found leisure for the pursuits of elegant literature. At an early age he published "The s.e.xtuple Alliance," a series of poems on the subject of Napoleon Bonaparte, which afforded considerable promise, and received the commendation of Sir Walter Scott.

In 1827, he published "The Ant," a work in two volumes, one of which consists of entirely original, and the other of selected matter. "The Chameleon," a publication of the nature of an annual, commenced in 1831, and extended to three octavo volumes. Of this work, a _melange_ of prose and poetry, the contents for the greater part were of his own composition. The last volume appeared in September 1833, shortly before his death.

Deeply interested in the public affairs, Atkinson was distinguished as a public speaker. At the general election, subsequent to the pa.s.sing of the Reform Bill, he was invited to become a candidate in the liberal interest for the parliamentary representation of the Stirling burghs, in opposition to Lord Dalmeny, who was returned. Naturally of a sound const.i.tution, the exertions of his political canva.s.s superinduced an illness, which terminated in pulmonary consumption. During a voyage he had undertaken to Barbadoes for the recovery of his health, he died at sea on the 10th October 1833. His remains, placed in an oaken coffin, which he had taken along with him, were buried in the deep. He bequeathed a sum, to be applied, after acc.u.mulation, in erecting a building in Glasgow for scientific purposes. A monument to his memory has been erected in the Glasgow Necropolis. The following stanzas were composed by the dying poet at the outset of his voyage, and less than three weeks prior to his decease; they are dated the "River Mersey,"

21st September 1833:--

I could not, as I gazed my last--there was on me a spell, In all its simple agony--breathe that lone word--"Farewell,"

Which hath no hope that clings to it, the closer as it dies, In song alone 'twould pa.s.s the lips that loved the dear disguise.

I go across a bluer wave than now girds round my bark, As forth the dove went trembling--but to my Father's ark Shall I return? I may not ask my doubting heart, but yet To hope and wish in one--how hard the lesson to forget.

But drooping head and feeble limbs--and, oh! a beating heart, Remind the vow'd to sing no more of all his weary part; Yet, with a voice that trembles as the sounds unloose the spell, In this, his last and rudest lay, he now can breathe--"Farewell."

In the "Chameleon" several of Mr Atkinson's songs are set to music, but, with the exception of "Mary Shearer," none of them are likely to obtain popularity.

MARY SHEARER.

She's aff and awa', like the lang summer-day, And our hearts and our hills are now lanesome and dreary; The sun-blinks o' June will come back ower the brae, But lang for blithe Mary fu' mony may weary.

For mair hearts than mine Kenn'd o' nane that were dearer; But nane mair will pine For the sweet Mary Shearer!

She cam' wi' the spring, just like ane o' its flowers, And the blue-bell and Mary baith blossom'd thegither; The bloom o' the mountain again will be ours, But the rose o' the valley nae mair will come hither.

Their sweet breath is fled-- Her kind looks still endear her; For the heart maun be dead That forgets Mary Shearer!

Than her brow ne'er a fairer wi' jewels was hung; An e'e that was brighter ne'er glanced on a lover; Sounds safter ne'er dropt frae an aye-saying tongue, Nor mair pure is the white o' her bridal-bed cover.

Oh! he maun be bless'd Wha's allow'd to be near her; For the fairest and best O' her kind 's Mary Shearer!

But farewell Glenlin, and Dunoon, and Loch Striven, My country and kin,--since I 've sae lov'd the stranger; Whare she 's been maun be either a pine or a heaven-- Sae across the braid warld for a while I'm a ranger.

Though I try to forget, In my heart still I 'll wear her, For mine may be yet-- Name and a'--Mary Shearer!

WILLIAM GARDINER.

William Gardiner, the author of "Scotland's Hills," was born at Perth about the year 1800. He established himself as a bookseller in Cupar-Fife. During a period of residence in Dundee, in acquiring a knowledge of his trade, he formed the acquaintance of the poet Vedder.

With the a.s.sistance of this gifted individual, he composed his popular song of "Scotland's Hills." Introduced at a theatre in Dundee, it was received with marked approbation. It was first printed, in January 1829, in the _Fife Herald_ newspaper, with a humorous preface by Vedder, and was afterwards copied into the _Edinburgh Literary Gazette_. It has since found a place in many of the collections of Scottish song, and has three different times been set to music.

Gardiner was unfortunate as a bookseller, and ultimately obtained employment in the publishing office of the _Fife Herald_. He died at Perth on the 4th July 1845. Some years before his death, he published a volume of original and selected compositions, under the t.i.tle of "Gardiner's Miscellany." He was a person of amiable dispositions; and to other good qualities of a personal character, added considerable skill in music.

O SCOTLAND'S HILLS FOR ME![15]

O these are not my country's hills, Though they seem bright and fair; Though flow'rets deck their verdant sides, The heather blooms not there.

Let me behold the mountain steep, And wild deer roaming free-- The heathy glen, the ravine deep-- O Scotland's hills for me!

The rose, through all this garden-land, May shed its rich perfume, But I would rather wander 'mong My country's bonnie broom.

There sings the shepherd on the hill, The ploughman on the lea; There lives my blithesome mountain maid, O Scotland's hills for me!

The throstle and the nightingale May warble sweeter strains Than thrills at lovely gloaming hour O'er Scotland's daisied plains; Give me the merle's mellow note, The linnet's liquid lay; The laverocks on the roseate cloud-- O Scotland's hills for me!