The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume V Part 14

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Here printed for the first time.

ARCHIBALD MACKAY.

Archibald Mackay was born at Kilmarnock in 1801. Receiving a common school education, he was apprenticed to a handloom weaver. Abandoning the loom, he subsequently acquired a knowledge of bookbinding, and has continued to prosecute that trade. From his youth devoted to the Muse, he produced in 1828 a metrical tale, ent.i.tled "Drouthy Tam," which, pa.s.sing through numerous editions, brought a local reputation to the writer. In 1830 he published a small volume of poems, and in 1832 a little work in prose and verse, ent.i.tled "Recreations of Leisure Hours."

In 1848 appeared from his pen a "History of Kilmarnock," in a well-written octavo volume. A collection of his best songs was published in 1855, under the t.i.tle of "Ingleside Lilts." Mackay has contributed extensively to the local journals, and has established a circulating library for the benefit of his fellow-townsmen.

OUR AULD SCOTS SANGS.

AIR--_"Traveller's Return."_

Oh, weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs, The mournfu' and the gay; They charm'd me by a mither's knee, In bairnhood's happy day: And even yet, though owre my pow The snaws of age are flung, The bluid loups joyfu' in my veins Whene'er I hear them sung.

They bring the fond smile to the cheek, Or tear-drap to the e'e; They bring to mind auld cronies kind, Wha sung them aft wi' glee.

We seem again to hear the voice Of mony a lang-lost frien'; We seem again to grip the hand That lang in dust has been.

And, oh, how true our auld Scots sangs When nature they portray!

We think we hear the wee bit burn Gaun bickering doun the brae; We see the spot, though far awa', Where first life's breath we drew, And a' the gowden scenes of youth Seem rising to the view.

And dear I lo'e the wild war strains Our langsyne minstrels sung-- They rouse wi' patriotic fires The hearts of auld and young; And even the dowie dirge that wails Some brave but ruin'd band, Inspires us wi' a warmer love For hame and fatherland.

Yes, leese me on our auld Scots sangs-- The sangs of love and glee, The sangs that tell of glorious deeds That made auld Scotland free.

What though they sprung frae simple bards, Wha kent nae rules of art?

They ever, ever yield a charm That lingers round the heart.

MY LADDIE LIES LOW.

Alas! how true the boding voice That whisper'd aft to me, "Thy bonnie lad will ne'er return To Scotland or to thee!"

Oh! true it spoke, though hope the while Shed forth its brightest beam; For low in death my laddie lies By Alma's b.l.o.o.d.y stream.

I heard the village bells proclaim That glorious deeds were done; I heard wi' joy the gladsome shout, "The field, the field is won!"

And I thought my lad, wi' glory crown'd, Might come to me again; But vain the thought! cold, cold he lies On Alma's gory plain.

Oh! woe to him whose thirst for power Has roll'd the bolts of war, And made my laddie bleed and die Frae hame and friends afar.

Alas! his form I ne'er shall see, Except in fancy's dream; For low he lies, where brave he fought, By Alma's b.l.o.o.d.y stream.

JOUK AND LET THE JAW GAE BY.

AIR--_"Jockie's Gray Breeks."_

Oh! say not life is ever drear, For midst its scenes of toil and care There 's aye some joy the heart to cheer-- There 's aye some spot that 's green and fair.

To gain that spot the aim be ours, For nocht we 'll get unless we try; And when misfortune round us lours, We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.

The wee bit flow'ret in the glen Maun bend beneath the surly blast; The birdie seeks some leafy den, And shelters till the storm is past: The "owrie sheep," when winds blaw snell, To some lowne spot for refuge hie; And sae, frae ills we canna quell, We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.

Yet there are ills we a' should brave-- The ills that man on man would throw; For oh! he 's but a thowless slave, That patient bears Oppression's woe.

But if 'tis but the taunts of pride, Of envy's tongue that would annoy, 'Tis n.o.bler far to turn aside, And jouk and let the jaw gae by.

In worldly gear we may be bare, We may hae mony a dreary hour; But never, never nurse despair, For ilka ane maun taste the sour: Even kings themsels, wi' a' their power, Wi' a' their pomp and honours high, 'Neath adverse blasts are forced to cower, And jouk to let the jaw gae by.

But mark this truth--the ills that blight Are aft the fruits that folly brings; Then shun the wrong, pursue the right-- Frae this the truest pleasure springs; And fret not though dark clouds should spread At times across life's troubled sky; Sweet sunshine will the gloom succeed-- Sae jouk and let the jaw gae by.

VICTORIOUS BE AGAIN, BOYS.

Hurrah! hurrah! we 've glory won, And brighter blazes freedom's sun; But daring deeds must yet be done To curb Oppression's reign, boys.

Like wintry clouds in ma.s.ses roll'd, Our foes are thick'ning on the wold; Then up! then up! be firm--be bold-- Victorious be again, boys.

The hearts--the blessings of the brave-- Of those who scorn the name of slave, Are with you on the ocean's wave, And on the battle-plain, boys: Then rouse ye, rouse ye, every one, And gird your brightest armour on; Complete the work so well begun-- Victorious be again, boys!

Though red with gore your path may be, It leads to glorious liberty; Remember, G.o.d is with the free, The brave He will sustain, boys: The tyrant fears the coming fight, He fears the power of Truth and Right; Then up! then up! in all your might-- Victorious be again, boys.

WILLIAM AIR FOSTER.

The author of some spirited effusions in Scottish verse, William Air Foster, was born at Coldstream on the 16th June 1801. He has followed the occupation of a bootmaker, first in his native town, and latterly in Glasgow. Devoted to the Border sports, in which he was formerly an active performer, he has celebrated them in animated verse. To "Whistle Binkie" he has contributed a number of sporting and angling songs, and he has composed some volumes of poetry which are still in ma.n.u.script.

FAREWEEL TO SCOTIA.

Fareweel to ilk hill whar the red heather grows, To ilk bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows, To the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din, To the graves o' my sires, and the hearths o' my kin.