But gie to me my Julia dear,
Ye powers wha row this yirthen ba', And oh, sae blithe through life I'll steer Amang the hills o' Galiowa'
Whan gloamin' dauners up the hill,
And our gudeman ca's hame the yowes,
Wi' her I'll trace the mossy rill
That ower the muir meandering rows;
Or, tint amang the scroggy knowes,
My birkin pipe I'll sweetly blaw,
And sing the streams, the straths, and
howes,
The hills and dales o' Gallowa'!
And when auld Scotland's heathy hills,
Her rural nymphs and joyous swains,
Her flowery wilds and wimpling rills,
Awake nae mair my canty strains,
Whare friendship dwells and freedom
reigns,
Whare heather blooms and muircocks
craw,
Oh, dig my grave, and hide my banes
Amang the hills o' Gallowa'!
Lucy's Flittin'.-By WILLIAM LAIDLAW.
William Laidlaw was son of the Ettrick Shepherd's master at Blackhonse. All who have read Lockhart's Life of Scott, know how closely Mr Laidlaw was connected with the illustrious baronet of Abbotsford. He was his companion in some of his early wanderings, his friend and land-steward iu advanced years, his amanuensis in the composition of some of his novels, and he was one of the few who watched over his last sad and painful moments. Lucy's Flittin' is deservedly popular for its unaffected tenderness and simplicity. Mr Laidlaw died at Contin, in Ross-shire, May 18, 1845.
'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in,
And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year,
That Lucy rowed up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't,
And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear:
For Lucy had served i' the Glen a' the simmer;
She cam there afore the bloom cam on the pea;
An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her;
Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee.
She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin';
Richt sair was his kind heart her flittin' to see;
Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!' quo' Jamie, and ran in;
The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her ee.
As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' her flittin',
Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!' was ilka bird's sang;
She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin',
And Robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang.
'Oh, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?
And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee?
If I wasna ettled to be ony better,
Then what gars me wish ony better to be?
I'm just like a lammic that loses its mither;
Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see;
I fear I hae tint my puir heart a' thegither,
Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee.
'Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae rowed up the ribbon,
The bonny blue ribbon that Jamie gae me;
Yestreen, when he gae me 't, and saw I was sabbin',
I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee.
Though now he said naething but "Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!"
It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see:
He couldna say mair but just "Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!"
Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.
"The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's droukit;
The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea;
But Lucy likes Jamic ;'--she turned and she lookit,
She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see.
Ah, weel my young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless!
And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn!
For bonny sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,
Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return!*
By WILLIAM NICHOLSON, known as the Galloway Poet,' who, after an irregular, dissipated life, died a pauper in 1849.
There cam a strange wight to our town-en',
An' the fient a body did him ken;
He tirled na lang, but he glided ben
Wi' a dreary, dreary hum.
His face did glow like the glow o' the west,
When the drumly cloud has it half o'ercast;
Or the struggling moon when she's sair distrest.
O sirs, 'twas Aiken-drum.
I trow the bauldest stood aback,
Wi' a gape an' a glower till their lugs did crack,
As the shapeless phantom mum'ling spak-
'Hae ye wark for Aiken-drum ?'
Oh, had ye seen the bairns's fright,
As they stared at this wild and unyirthly wight;
As they skulkit in 'tween the dark and the light,
And graned out, Aiken-drum!'
The black dog growling cowered his tail,
The lassie swarfed, loot fa' the pail;
Rob's lingle brak as he mendit the flail,
At the sight o' Aiken-drum.
His matted head on his breast did rest,
A lang blue beard wan'ered down like a vest;
But the glare o' his ee hath nae bard exprest,
Nor the skimes o' Aiken-drum.
Roun' his hairy form there was naething seen
But a philabeg o' the rashes green,
An' his knotted knees played aye knoit between
What a sight was Aiken-drum!
On his wauchie arms three claws did meet,
As they trailed on the grun' by his taeless feet;
E'en the auld gudeman himsel' did sweat,
To look at Aiken-drum.
But he drew a score, himsel' did sain;
The auld wife tried, but her tongue was gane;
While the young ane closer clasped her wean,
And turned frae Aiken-drum.
But the canty auld wife cam till her breath,
And she thocht the Bible might ward aff scaith,
Be it benshee, bogle, ghaist, or wraith-
But it feared na Aiken-drum.
The last four lines were added by Hogg to complete the story,' though in reality it was complete with the account of the flitting.
His presence protect us!' quoth the auld gudeman;
What wad ye, whare won ye, by sea or by lan'?
I conjure ye-speak-by the beuk in my han'!'
What a grane gae Aiken-drum!
'I lived in a lan' where we saw nae sky,
I dwait in a spot where a burn rins na by;
But I 'se dwall now wi' you if ye like to try-
Hae ye wark for Aiken-drum ?
'I'll shiel a' your sheep i' the mornin' sune,
I'll berry your crap by the light o' the moon,
An' ba the bairns wi' an unkenned tune,
If ye'll keep puir Aiken-drum.
'I'll loup the linn when ye canna wade,
I'll kirn the kirn, an' I'll turn the bread;
An' the wildest filly that ever rau rede,
I'se tame 't,' quoth Aiken-drum.
To wear the tod frae the flock on the fell,
To gather the dew frae the heather-bell,
An' to look at my face in your clear crystal well,
Might gie pleasure to Aiken-drum.
'I'se seek nae guids, gear, bond, nor mark
I use nae beddin,' shoon, nor sark;
But a cogfu' o' brose 'tween the light an' the dark,
Is the wage o' Aiken-drum."
Quoth the wylie auld wife; The thing speaks weel;
Our workers are scant-we hae routh o' meal;
Gif he'll do as he says-be he man, be he deil-
Wow! we'll try this Aiken-drum.'
But the wenches skirled: 'He's no be here!
His eldritch look gars us swarf wi' fear;
An' the feint a ane will the house come near,
If they think but o' Aiken-drum.'
'Puir clipmalabors! ye hae little wit;
Is'tna Hallowmas now, an' the crap out yet?'
Sae she silenced them a' wi' a stamp o' her fit-
'Sit yer wa's down, Aiken-drum.'
Roun' a' that side what wark was dune
By the streamer's gleam, or the glance o' the moon
A word, or a wish, an' the brownie cam sune,
Sae helpfu' was Aiken-drum. . . .
On Blednoch banks, an' on crystal Cree,
For mony a day a toiled wight was he;
While the bairns played harmless roun' his knee,
Sae social was Aiken-drum.
But a new-made wife, fu' o' rippish freaks,
Fond o' a' things feat for the first five weeks,
Laid a mouldy pair o' her ain man's breeks
By the brose o' Aiken-drum.
Let the learned decide when they convene,
What spell was him an' the breeks between;
For frac that day forth he was nae mair seen,
An' sair missed was Aiken-drum.
He was heard by a herd gaan by the Thrieve.
Crying: ·Lang, ang Low may I get an' grieve;
Fur, das! Ivie gutun haith fe an' leave-
Oh, luckless Aiken-drum"
Aws: re wrangling scentis tribe.
W your pres an" your cons and ye decide
"Gail the "sponsible voine n'a ball country-side,
On the facts out Alken-drum!
Though the Brown le o' Bladnoch "lang be game,
The mark of his foot's left on mely a stane;
An' mony a wife an' mony a wean
Tell the feats o' Aiket-drum.
Een now. Hight loons that be an' sneer
At spiritual rests an" a' sie gear.
At the Glasnoch till hie swat wi' fear,
An' looked roun" for Aiken-drum.
An' guidly folks be gotten a fright.
When the moon was set, and the stars gied tae light,
At the roaring lion, in the bowe o' the night,
Wi' sughs Like Aiken-drum.
The Cameronian's Dream-By JAMES HISLOP.
James HiShp was him of halle parents in the parish of Kirkcounel, in the mar, nor the Some of the Nith, in July 1796. He was em ployed as a sheprend y in the vicinity of Alrismic ss, wiere at the grave-stone of
Le composed the following striking peni. He afteris po-rical einstons having attmetni tie favorne er elt ut lit rury characters, ema, tor.cgh the'r first er board the Deris, and subsequently the 1.24th December 1997, fra fever canest by serpe apen then dot St. Jame His compositions display then a vigorous imagination. Luch chasteness of thought, and a
Gustunud tütze 'mong the heath-'els and mountain flowers bine.
And far up in by aven, near the white sny cloud.
Pat. oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings
Ifumed by the light of prophetic revealings,
Who grank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.
"Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying,
Concealed 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl was crying,
For the horseman of Earlshall around them were hovering,
And their bridie reins rung through the thin misty covering.
Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed,
But the vengeance that darkened their brows was unbreathed;
With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of Salvation.
The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,
As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.
Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded
Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded.
Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and unbending,
They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending.
The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming.
The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming,
The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling,
When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.)
When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended,
A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended;
Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness.
A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining,
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation,
Have mounted the chariots and steeds of salvation.
On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding,
Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding;
Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye,
A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!
Song.-By JOSEPH TRAIN.
Mr. Train will be memorable in our literary history for the assistance he rendered to Sir Walter Scott in the contribution of some of the stories ou which the Waverley novels were founded. He served for some time as a private soldier, but obtaining an appointment in the Excise, he rose to be a supervisor. He was a zealous and able antiquary, and author of a History of the Isle of Man,' and an account of a religious sect well known in the south of Scotland as The Buchanites.' Mr. Train died at Lochvale, Castle-Douglas, in 1852, aged seventy-three.
Wi' drums and pipes the clachan rang;
I left my goats to wander wide;
And e'en as fast as I could bang,
I bickered down the mountain-side.
My hazel rung and haslock plain
Awa' I flang wi' cauld disdain,
Resolved I would nae langer bide
To do the auld thing o'er again,
Ye barons bold, whose turrets rise
Aboon the wild woods white wi' snaw,
I trow the laddies ye may prize,
Wha fight your battles far awa'
Wi' them to stan', wi' them to fa'
Courageously I crossed the main;
To see, for Caledonia,
The auld thing weel done o'e: again.
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