The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume V Part 30

Thy thoughts are sae haly and pure, la.s.sie, Thy heart is sae kind and sae free; My bosom is flooded wi' sunshine an' joy, Wi' ilka blithe blink o' thine e'e.

THE MAIR THAT YE WORK, AYE THE MAIR WILL YE WIN.

Be eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on, Be eident, be eident, bricht day will be gone; To stand idle by is a profitless sin: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

The earth gathers fragrance while nursing the flower, The wave waxes stronger while feeding the shower, The stream gains in speed as it sweeps o'er the linn: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

There 's nought got by idling, there 's nought got for nought, Health, wealth, and contentment, by labour are bought; In raising yoursel', ye may help up your kin: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

Let every man aim in his heart to excel, Let every man ettle to fend for himsel'; Aye nourish ye stern independence within: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

THE WIDOW.

The widow is f.e.c.kless, the widow 's alane, Yet nae ane e'er hears the puir widow complain; For, ah! there 's a Friend that the world wots na o', Wha brightens her ken, and wha lightens her wo.

She looks a' around her, and what sees she there But quarrels and cavils, but sorrow and care?

She looks in within, and she feels in her breast A dawning o' glory, a foretaste o' rest.

The hope o' hereafter her lane bosom cheers, She langs sair to meet him wha left her in tears; And life's flickerin' licht, as it wanes fast awa', But fades to gie place to a far brichter daw.

The G.o.d o' high heaven is her comfort and guide, When earthly friends leave her, He stands by her side; He soothes a' her sorrows, an' hushes her fears, An' fountains o' joy rise frae well-springs o' tears.

Then, oh! shew the widow the smile on your face, She 's aft puir in gear, but she 's aft rich in grace; Be kind to the widow, her Friend is on high, You 'll meet wi' the widow again in the sky.

MRS ELIZA A. H. OGILVY.

The accomplished author of some poetical works, Mrs Eliza A. H. Ogilvy, is the daughter of Abercromby d.i.c.k, Esq., who for many years held an appointment in the civil service of the Honourable East India Company.

Her childhood was pa.s.sed in Scotland, under the care of her paternal uncle, Sir Robert d.i.c.k of Tullymett, who, at the head of his division, fell at the battle of Sobraon. After a period of residence in India, to which she had gone in early youth, she returned to Britain. In 1843, she was united in marriage to David Ogilvy, Esq., a cadet of the old Scottish family of Inverquharity. Several years of her married life have been spent in Italy; at present she resides with her husband and children at Sydenham, Kent. "A Book of Scottish Minstrelsy," being a series of ballads founded on legendary tales of the Scottish Highlands, appeared from her pen in 1846, and was well received by the press. She has since published "Traditions of Tuscany," and "Poems of Ten Years."

CRAIG ELACHIE.

Blue are the hills above the Spey, The rocks are red that line his way; Green is the strath his waters lave, And fresh the turf upon the grave Where sleep my sire and sisters three, Where none are left to mourn for me: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

The roofs that shelter'd me and mine Hold strangers of a Sa.s.senach line; Our hamlet thresholds ne'er can shew The friendly forms of long ago; The rooks upon the old yew-tree Would e'en have stranger notes to me: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

The cattle feeding on the hills, We tended once o'er moors and rills, Like us have gone; the silly sheep Now fleck the brown sides of the steep, And southern eyes their watchers be, And Gael and Sa.s.senach ne'er agree: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Where are the elders of our glen, Wise arbiters for meaner men?

Where are the sportsmen, keen of eye, Who track'd the roe against the sky; The quick of hand, of spirit free?

Pa.s.s'd, like a harper's melody: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Where are the maidens of our vale, Those fair, frank daughters of the Gael?

Changed are they all, and changed the wife, Who dared, for love, the Indian's life; The little child she bore to me Sunk in the vast Atlantic sea: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Bare are the moors of broad Strathspey, s.h.a.ggy the western forests gray; Wild is the corri's autumn roar, Wilder the floods of this far sh.o.r.e; Dark are the crags of rushing Dee, Darker the shades of Tennessee: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Great rock, by which the Grant hath sworn, Since first amid the mountains born; Great rock, whose sterile granite heart Knows not, like us, misfortune's smart, The river sporting at thy knee, On thy stern brow no change can see: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Stand fast on thine own Scottish ground, By Scottish mountains flank'd around, Though we uprooted, cast away From the warm bosom of Strathspey, Flung pining by this western sea, The exile's hopeless lot must dree: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Yet strong as thou the Grant shall rise, Cleft from his clansmen's sympathies; In these grim wastes new homes we 'll rear, New scenes shall wear old names so dear; And while our axes fell the tree, Resound old Scotia's minstrelsy: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

Here can no treacherous chief betray For sordid gain our new Strathspey; No fearful king, no statesmen pale, Wrench the strong claymore from the Gael.

With arm'd wrist and kilted knee, No prairie Indian half so free: Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

JOHN FINLAY.

John Finlay was born at Glasgow in 1808, and is one of the partners in the respectable firm of R. G. Finlay & Co., manufacturers in that city.

Amidst due attention to the active prosecution of business, he has long been keenly devoted to the princ.i.p.al national games--curling, angling, bowling, quoiting, and archery--in all of which he has frequently carried off prizes at the various compet.i.tions throughout the country.

To impart humorous sociality to the friendly meetings of the different societies of which he is a member, Mr Finlay was led to become a song-writer. There is scarcely a characteristic of any of his favourite games which he has not celebrated in racy verse. Some of his songs have obtained celebrity in certain counties where the national sports are peculiarly cultivated.

THE n.o.bLE SCOTTISH GAME.

AIR--_"Castles in the Air."_

The King is on the throne wi' his sceptre an' his croon, The elements o' cauld are the courtiers staunin' roun'; He lifts his icy haun', an' he speaks wi' awe profound, He chills the balmy air, and he binds the yielding ground; He calms the raging winds when they moan and loudly rave, He stops the rinnin' stream, and he stills the dancin' wave; He calls the curlers on to the field of hope and fame, An' the spreading lake resounds wi' the n.o.ble Scottish game!

The hedges an' the trees are a' hung wi' pearls braw, An' the rinks are glancing clear 'mang the heaps o' shinin' snaw; The wee birds in the blast are a' tremblin' wi' the cauld; The sheep are lyin' close in the safely guarded fauld; The farmer leaves the plough, an' the weaver leaves the loom, Auld age gangs totterin' by wi' the youth in manhood's bloom; The miseries o' life are a' banish'd far frae hame, When the curlers meet to play at the brave old Scottish game!

It makes the auld folk young, an' the crimson tide to flow, It gars the pale face shine wi' a fresh and ruddy glow; The rich forget their state and the charms o' wealth and power, When the bosom swells wi' joy in the bright triumphant hour.

The wise may laugh an' sneer, and the unco guid may gloom At the happy, happy man, wi' his curlin' stanes and broom; The melody to charm is the sport we love to name, Ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old Scottish game!

The warm and glowin' clime will subdue the manly form; The curler's happy hame is the land o' mist an' storm, Where the dreary winter reigns wi' a wide extended sway, An' the heathy moors are clad in a robe o' white array, Till the gentle breath o' spring blaws the icy fields awa', To woo the springin' flowers, and to melt the frozen snaw.

When the curlin' days are o'er, a' the joys o' life are tame-- There 's naething warms the heart like the n.o.ble Scottish game!