Oh! bonnie are the howes
And sunny are the knowes
That feed the kye and yowes
Where my life's morn dawn'd;
And brightly glance the rills
That spring amang the hills
And ca' the merry mills
In my ain dear land.
But now I canna see
The lammies on the lea,
Nor hear the heather bee
On this far, far strand.
I see nae father's ha',
Nae burnie's waterfa',
But wander far awa'
Frae my ain dear land.
My heart was free and light,
My ingle burning bright,
When ruin cam' by night
Through a foe's fell hand.
I left my native air,
I gaed to come nae mair;
And now I sorrow sair
For my ain dear land.
But blithely will I bide
Whate'er may yet betide
When ane is by my side
On this far, far strand.
My Jean will soon be here
This waefu' heart to cheer,
And dry the fa'ing tear
For my ain dear land.
OH! SAY NA YOU MAUN GANG AWA'.
Oh! say na you maun gang awa',
Oh! say na you maun leave me;
The dreaded hour that parts us twa
Of peace and hope will reave me.
When you to distant shores are gane
How could I bear to tarry,
Where ilka tree and ilka stane
Would mind me o' my Mary?
I couldna wander near yon woods
That saw us oft caressing,
And on our heads let fa' their buds
In earnest o' their blessing.
Ilk stane wad mind me how we press'd
Its half-o'erspreading heather,
And how we lo'ed the least the best
That made us creep thegither.
I couldna bide, when you are gane,
My ain, my winsome dearie,
I couldna stay to pine my lane—
I live but when I 'm near ye.
Then say na you maun gang awa',
Oh! say na you maun leave me;
For ah! the hour that parts us twa
Of life itself will reave me.
JOHN BETHUNE.
The younger of two remarkable brothers, whose names are justly entitled
to remembrance, John Bethune, was born at the Mount, in the parish of
Monimail, Fifeshire, during the summer of 1810. The poverty of his
parents did not permit his attendance at a public school; he was taught
reading by his mother, and writing and arithmetic by his brother
Alexander,[26] who was considerably his senior. After some years'
employment as a cow-herd, he was necessitated, in his twelfth year, to
break stones on the turnpike-road. At the recommendation of a comrade,
he apprenticed himself, early in 1824, to a weaver in a neighbouring
village. In his new profession he rapidly acquired dexterity, so that,
at the end of one year, he could earn the respectable weekly wages of
fifteen shillings. Desirous of assisting his aged parents, he now
purchased a loom and settled as a weaver on his own account, with his
elder brother as his apprentice. A period of mercantile embarrassments
which followed, severely affecting the manufacturing classes, pressed
heavily on the subject of this notice; his earnings became reduced to
six shillings weekly, and he was obliged to exchange the labours of the
shuttle for those of the implements of husbandry. During the period of
his apprenticeship, his thoughts had been turned to poetical
composition, but it was subsequent to the commercial disasters of 1825
that he began earnestly to direct his attention towards the concerns of
literature. Successive periods of bad health unfitting him for continued
labour in the fields, were improved by extensive reading and
composition. Before he had completed his nineteenth year he had produced
upwards of twenty poetical compositions, each of considerable length,
and the whole replete with power, both of sentiment and expression. Till
considerably afterwards, however, his literary productions were only
known to his brother Alexander, or at furthest to his parents. "Up to
the latter part of 1835," writes his brother in a biographical sketch,
"the whole of his writing had been prosecuted as stealthily as if it had
been a crime punishable by law. There being but one apartment in the
house, it was his custom to write by the fire, with an old copy-book,
upon which his paper lay, resting on his knee, and this, through life,
was his only writing-desk. On the table, which was within reach, an old
newspaper was kept constantly lying, and as soon as the footsteps of any
one were heard approaching the door, copy-book, pens, and ink-stand
were thrust under this covering, and before the visitor came in, he had,
in general, a book in his hand, and appeared to have been reading."
For a number of years Bethune had wrought as a day-labourer in the
grounds of Inchrye, in the vicinity of his birthplace. On the death of
the overseer on that property he was appointed his successor, entering
on the duties at the term of Martinmas 1835, his brother accompanying
him as his assistant. The appointment yielded £26 yearly, with the right
of a cow's pasturage—emoluments which considerably exceeded the average
of his previous earnings. To the duties of his new situation he applied
himself with his wonted industry, still continuing to dedicate only his
evenings and the intervals of toil to literary occupation. But his
comparative prosperity was of short duration. During the summer
following his appointment at Inchrye the estate changed owners, and the
new proprietor dispensed with his services at the next term. In another
year the landlord required the little cottage at Lochend, occupied by
his parents. Undaunted by these reverses, John Bethune and his brother
summoned stout courage; they erected a cottage at Mount Pleasant, near
Newburgh, the walls being mostly reared by their own hands. The future
career of Bethune was chiefly occupied in literary composition. He
became a contributor to the Scottish Christian Herald, Wilson's Tales
of the Borders, and other serial publications. In 1838 appeared "Tales
and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," the mutual production of the
poet and his brother—a work which, published in Edinburgh, was well
received. A work on "Practical Economy," on which the brothers had
bestowed much pains, and which had received the favourable opinion of
persons of literary eminence, was published in May 1839, but failed to
attract general interest. This unhappy result deeply affected the health
of the poet, whose constitution had already been much shattered by
repeated attacks of illness. He was seized with a complaint which proved
the harbinger of pulmonary consumption. He died at Mount Pleasant on the
1st September 1839, in his thirtieth year.
With a more lengthened career, John Bethune would have attained a high
reputation, both as an interesting poet and an elegant prose-writer. His
genius was versatile and brilliant; of human nature, in all its
important aspects, he possessed an intuitive perception, and he was
practically familiar with the character and habits of the sons of
industry. His tales are touching and simple; his verses lofty and
contemplative. In sentiment eminently devotional, his life was a model
of genuine piety. His Poems, prefaced by an interesting Memoir, were
published by his surviving brother in 1840; and from the profits of a
second edition, published in the following year, a monument has been
erected over his grave in the churchyard of Abdie.
WITHER'D FLOWERS.
Adieu! ye wither'd flow'rets!
Your day of glory's past;
But your latest smile was loveliest,
For we knew it was your last.
No more the sweet aroma
Of your golden cups shall rise,
To scent the morning's stilly breath,
Or gloaming's zephyr-sighs.
Ye were the sweetest offerings
Which Friendship could bestow—
A token of devoted love
In pleasure or in woe!
Ye graced the head of infancy,
By soft affection twined
Into a fairy coronal
Its sunny brows to bind.
* * * * *
But ah! a dreary blast hath blown
Athwart you in your bloom,
And, pale and sickly, now your leaves
The hues of death assume.
We mourn your vanish'd loveliness,
Ye sweet departed flowers;
For ah! the fate which blighted you
An emblem is of ours.
And though, like you, sweet flowers of earth,
We wither and depart,
And leave behind, to mourn our loss,
Full many an aching heart;
Yet when the winter of the grave
Is past, we hope to rise,
Warm'd by the Sun of Righteousness,
To blossom in the skies.
A SPRING SONG.
There is a concert in the trees,
There is a concert on the hill,
There 's melody in every breeze,
And music in the murmuring rill.
The shower is past, the winds are still,
The fields are green, the flow'rets spring,
The birds, and bees, and beetles fill
The air with harmony, and fling
The rosied moisture of the leaves
In frolic flight from wing to wing,
Fretting the spider as he weaves
His airy web from bough to bough;
In vain the little artist grieves
Their joy in his destruction now.
Alas! that, in a scene so fair,
The meanest being e'er should feel
The gloomy shadow of despair
Or sorrow o'er his bosom steal.
But in a world where woe is real,
Each rank in life, and every day,
Must pain and suffering reveal,
And wretched mourners in decay—
When nations smile o'er battles won,
When banners wave and streamers play,
The lonely mother mourns her son
Left lifeless on the bloody clay;
And the poor widow, all undone,
Sees the wild revel with dismay.
Even in the happiest scenes of earth,
When swell'd the bridal-song on high,
When every voice was tuned to mirth,
And joy was shot from eye to eye,
I 've heard a sadly-stifled sigh;
And, 'mid the garlands rich and fair,
I 've seen a cheek, which once could vie
In beauty with the fairest there,
Grown deadly pale, although a smile
Was worn above to cloak despair.
Poor maid! it was a hapless wile
Of long-conceal'd and hopeless love
To hide a heart, which broke the while
With pangs no lighter heart could prove.
The joyous spring and summer gay
With perfumed gifts together meet,
And from the rosy lips of May
Breathe music soft and odours sweet;
And still my eyes delay my feet
To gaze upon the earth and heaven,
And hear the happy birds repeat
Their anthems to the coming even;
Yet is my pleasure incomplete;
I grieve to think how few are given
To feel the pleasures I possess,
While thousand hearts, by sorrow riven,
Must pine in utter loneliness,
Or be to desperation driven.
Oh! could we find some happy land,
Some Eden of the deep blue sea,
By gentle breezes only fann'd,
Upon whose soil, from sorrow free,
Grew only pure felicity!
Who would not brave the stormiest main
Within that blissful isle to be,
Exempt from sight or sense of pain?
There is a land we cannot see,
Whose joys no pen can e'er portray;
And yet, so narrow is the road,
From it our spirits ever stray—
Shed light upon that path, O God!
And lead us in the appointed way.
There only joy shall be complete,
More high than mortal thoughts can reach,
For there the just and good shall meet,
Pure in affection, thought, and speech;
No jealousy shall make a breach,
Nor pain their pleasure e'er alloy;
There sunny streams of gladness stretch,
And there the very air is joy.
There shall the faithful, who relied
On faithless love till life would cloy,
And those who sorrow'd till they died
O'er earthly pain and earthly woe,
See Pleasure, like a whelming tide,
From an unbounded ocean flow.
ALLAN STEWART.
Allan Stewart, a short-lived poet of no inconsiderable merit, was born
in the village of Houston, Renfrewshire, on the 30th January 1812. His
father prosecuted the humble vocation of a sawyer. Deprived of his
mother in early life, the loss was in some degree repaired by the kind
attentions of his maternal aunt, Martha Muir, whose letters on religious
subjects have been published. Receiving an ordinary education at school,
he followed the trade of a weaver in Paisley. His leisure hours were
employed in reading, and in the composition of verses. He died of typhus
fever, at Paisley, on the 12th November 1837, in his twenty-sixth year.
His "Poetical Remains" were published in 1838, in a thin duodecimo
volume, with a well-written biographical sketch from the pen of his
friend, Mr Charles Fleming.
Stewart was a person of modest demeanour, and of a thoughtful and
somewhat melancholy cast. His verses are generally of a superior order;
his songs abound in sweetness of expression and elegance of sentiment.
THE SEA-BOY.
Air—"The Soldier's Tear."
The storm grew faint as daylight tinged
The lofty billows' crest;
And love-lit hopes, with fears yet fringed,
Danced in the sea-boy's breast.
And perch'd aloft, he cheer'ly sung
To the billows' less'ning roar—
"O Ellen, so fair, so free, and young,
I 'll see thee yet once more!"
And O what joy beam'd in his eye,
When, o'er the dusky foam,
He saw, beneath the northern sky,
The hills that mark'd his home!
His heart with double ardour strung,
He sung this ditty o'er—
"O Ellen, so fair, so free, and young,
I 'll see thee yet once more!"
Now towers and trees rise on his sight,
And many a dear-loved spot;
And, smiling o'er the blue waves bright,
He saw young Ellen's cot.
The scenes on which his memory hung
A cheerful aspect wore;
He then, with joyous feeling, sung,
"I 'll see her yet once more!"
The land they near'd, and on the beach
Stood many a female form;
But ah! his eye it could not reach
His hope in many a storm.
He through the spray impatient sprung,
And gain'd the wish'd-for shore;
But Ellen, so fair, so sweet, and young,
Was gone for evermore!
MENIE LORN.
While beaus and belles parade the streets
On summer gloamings gay,
And barter'd smiles and borrow'd sweets,
And all such vain display;
My walks are where the bean-field's breath
On evening's breeze is borne,
With her, the angel of my heart—
My lovely Menie Lorn.
Love's ambuscades her auburn hair,
Love's throne her azure eye,
Where peerless charms and virtues rare
In blended beauty lie.
The rose is fair at break of day,
And sweet the blushing thorn,
But sweeter, fairer far than they,
The smile of Menie Lorn.
O tell me not of olive groves,
Where gold and gems abound;
Of deep blue eyes and maiden loves,
With every virtue crown'd.
I ask no other ray of joy
Life's desert to adorn,
Than that sweet bliss, which ne'er can cloy—
The love of Menie Lorn.
THE YOUNG SOLDIER.
Air—"The Banks of the Devon."
O say not o' war the young soldier is weary,
Ye wha in battle ha'e witness'd his flame;
Remember his daring when danger was near ye,
Forgive ye the sigh that he heaves for his hame.
Past perils he heeds not, nor dangers yet coming,
Frae dark-brooding terror his young heart is free;
But it pants for the place whar in youth he was roaming;
He turns to the north wi' the tear in his e'e.
'Tis remembrance that saftens what war never daunted,
'Tis the hame o' his birth that gives birth to the tear;
The warm fondled hopes his first love had implanted,
He langs now to reap in his Jeanie sae dear.
An' aften he thinks on the bonnie clear burnie,
Whar oft in love's fondness they daff'd their young day;
Nae tear then was shedded, for short was the journey
'Tween Jeanie's broom bower and the blaeberry brae.
An' weel does he mind o' that morning, when dressing,
In green Highland garb, to cross the wide sea;
His auld mither grat when she gi'ed him her blessing—
'Twas a' that the puir body then had to gi'e.
The black downy plume on his bonnie cheek babbit,
As he stood at the door an' shook hands wi' them a';
But sair was his heart, an' sair Jeanie sabbit,
Whan down the burn-side she convoy'd him awa'.
Now high-headed Alps an' dark seas divide them,
Wilds ne'er imagined in love's early dream;
Their Alps then the knowes, whare the lambs lay beside them,
Their seas then the hazel an' saugh-shaded stream.
An' wha couldna sigh when memory 's revealing
The scenes that surrounded our life's early hame?
The hero whose heart is cauld to that feeling
His nature is harsh, and not worthy the name.
THE LAND I LOVE.
The land I lo'e, the land I lo'e,
Is the land of the plaid and bonnet blue,
Of the gallant heart, the firm and true,
The land of the hardy thistle.
Isle of the freeborn, honour'd and blest,
Isle of beauty, in innocence dress'd,
The loveliest star on ocean's breast
Is the land of the hardy thistle.
Fair are those isles of Indian bloom,
Whose flowers perpetual breathe perfume;
But dearer far are the braes o' broom
Where blooms the hardy thistle.
No luscious fig-tree blossoms there,
No slaves the scented shrubb'ry rear;
Her sons are free as the mountain air
That shakes the hardy thistle.
Lovely 's the tint o' an eastern sky,
And lovely the lands that 'neath it lie;
But I wish to live, and I wish to die
In the land of the hardy thistle!
ROBERT L. MALONE.
Robert L. Malone was a native of Anstruther, in Fife, where he was born
in 1812. His father was a captain in the navy, and afterwards was
employed in the Coast Guard. He ultimately settled at Rothesay, in Bute.
Receiving a common school education, Robert entered the navy in his
fourteenth year. He served on board the gun-brig Marshall, which
attended the Fisheries department in the west; next in the Mediterranean
ocean; and latterly in South America. Compelled, from impaired health,
to renounce the seafaring life, after a service of ten years, he
returned to his family at Rothesay, but afterwards settled in the town
of Greenock. In 1845, he became a clerk in the Long-room of the Customs
at Greenock, an appointment which he retained till nigh the period of
his death. A lover of poetry from his youth, he solaced the hours of
sickness by the composition of verses. He published, in 1845, a
duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled, "The Sailor's Dream, and other
Poems," a work which was well received. His death took place at Greenock
on the 6th of July 1850, in his thirty-eighth year. Of modest and
retiring dispositions, Malone was unambitious of distinction as a poet.
His style is bold and animated, and some of his pieces evince
considerable power.
THE THISTLE OF SCOTLAND.
Air—"Humours o' Glen."
Though fair blooms the rose in gay Anglia's bowers,
And green be thy emblem, thou gem of the sea,
The greenest, the sweetest, the fairest of flowers,
Is the thistle—the thistle of Scotland, for me!
Far lovelier flowers glow, the woodlands adorning,
And breathing perfume over moorland and lea,
But there breathes not a bud on the freshness of morning
Like the thistle—the thistle of Scotland, for me!
What scenes o' langsyne even thy name can awaken,
Thou badge of the fearless, the fair, and the free,
And the tenderest chords of the spirit are shaken;
The thistle—the thistle of Scotland, for thee!
Still'd be my harp, and forgotten its numbers,
And cold as the grave my affections must be,
Ere thy name fail to waken my soul from her slumbers;
The thistle—the thistle of Scotland, for me!
On the fields of their fame, while proud laurels she gathers,
Caledonia plants, wi' the tear in her e'e,
Thy soft downy seeds on the graves of our fathers;
The thistle—the thistle of Scotland, for me!
HAME IS AYE HAMELY.
Air—"Love's Young Dream."
Oh! hame is aye hamely still, though poor at times it be,
An' ye winna find a place like hame in lands beyond the sea;
Though ye may wander east an' west, in quest o' wealth or fame,
There 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame,
Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.
There 's gowd in gowpens got, they say, on India's sunny strand,
Then wha would bear to linger here in this bleak, barren land?
I 'll hie me ower the heaving wave, and win myself a name,
And in a palace or a grave forget my Hieland hame.
'Twas thus resolved the peasant boy, and left his native stream,
And Fortune crown'd his every wish, beyond his fondest dream;
His good sword won him wealth and power and long and loud acclaim,
But could not banish from his thoughts his dear-loved mountain hame.
No! The peasant's heart within the peer beat true to nature still,
For on his vision oft would rise the cottage on the hill;
And young companions, long forgot, would join him in the game,
As erst in life's young morning, around his Hieland hame.
Oh! in the Brahmin, mild and gray, his father's face he saw;
He thought upon his mother's tears the day he gaed awa';
And her he loved—his Hieland girl—there 's magic in the name—
They a' combine to wile him back to his far Hieland hame.
He sigh'd for kindred hearts again, and left the sunny lands,
And where his father's cottage stood a stately palace stands;
And with his grandchild on his knee—the old man's heart on flame—
'Tis thus he trains his darling boy to cherish thoughts of hame.
Oh! hame is aye hamely, dear, though poor at times it be,
Ye winna find a spot like hame in lands beyond the sea;
Oh! ye may wander east or west, in quest o' wealth or fame,
But there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame,
Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.
PETER STILL.
Peter Still was born in the parish of Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, on the
1st day of January 1814. At the time of his birth his father rented a
farm, but, being unfortunate, he was compelled to seek the support of
his family by manual labour. With a limited education at the
parish-school of Longside, whither his parents had removed, the subject
of this memoir was sent, in his eleventh year, to tend cattle. When
somewhat older, he found employment as a farm-servant; but having
married in his twentieth year, he afterwards followed the more
precarious occupation of a day-labourer. Of a delicate constitution, he
suffered much from impaired health, being frequently, for months
together, confined to the sick-chamber. During the periods of
convalescence from illness, he composed verses, which he gave to the
world in three separate publications. His last work—"The Cottar's
Sunday, and other Poems"—appeared in 1845, in a handsome duodecimo
volume. He closed a life of much privation and suffering at Peterhead,
on the 21st March 1848.
Of sound religious principles and devoted Christian feeling, Still
meekly submitted to the bitterness of his lot in life. He was fortunate
in arresting the attention of some, who occasionally administered to his
wants, and contributed, by their patronage, to the increase of his
reputation. His verses are largely pervaded with poetical fervour and
religious sentiment, while his songs are generally true to nature. In
person he was tall and slender, of a long thin countenance, large dark
blue eyes, and curling black hair.
JEANIE'S LAMENT.
Air—"Lord Gregory."
I never thocht to thole the waes
It 's been my lot to dree;
I never thocht to sigh sae sad
Whan first I sigh'd for thee.
I thocht your heart was like mine ain,
As true as true could be;
I couldna think there was a stain
In ane sae dear to me.
Whan first amang the dewy flowers,
Aside yon siller stream,
My lowin' heart was press'd to yours,
Nae purer did they seem;
Nae purer seem'd the draps o' dew,
The flowers on whilk they hung,
Than seem'd the heart I felt in you
As to that heart I clung.
But I was young an' thochtless then,
An' easy to beguile;
My mither's warnin's had nae weight
'Bout man's deceitfu' smile.
But noo, alas! whan she is dead,
I 've shed the sad, saut tear,
And hung my heavy, heavy head
Aboon my father's bier!
They saw their earthly hope betray'd,
They saw their Jeanie fade;
They couldna thole the heavy stroke,
An' baith are lowly laid!
Oh, Jamie! but thy name again
Shall ne'er be breathed by me,
For, speechless through yon gow'ny glen,
I 'll wander till I die.
YE NEEDNA' BE COURTIN' AT ME.
Air—"John Todd."
"Ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man,
Ye needna' be courtin' at me;
Ye 're threescore an' three, an' ye 're blin' o' an e'e,
Sae ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man,
Ye needna' be courtin' at me.
"Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be, auld man,
Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be;
Ye 're auld an' ye 're cauld, an' ye 're blin' an' ye 're bald,
An' ye 're nae for a lassie like me, auld man,
Ye 're nae for a lassie like me."
"Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee, sweet lass,
Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee;
I 've gowpens o' gowd, an' an aumry weel stow'd,
An' a heart that lo'es nane but thee, sweet lass,
A heart that lo'es nane but thee.
"I 'll busk you as braw as a queen, sweet lass,
I 'll busk you as braw as a queen;
I 've guineas to spare, an', hark ye, what 's mair,
I 'm only twa score an' fifteen, sweet lass,
Only twa score an' fifteen."
"Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear, auld man,
Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear;
There 's a laddie I ken has a heart like mine ain,
An' to me he shall ever be dear, auld man,
To me he shall ever be dear.
"Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair, auld man,
Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair;
There 's a something in love that your gowd canna move—
I 'll be Johnie's although I gang bare, auld man,
I 'll be Johnie's although I gang bare."
THE BUCKET FOR ME.
The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me!
Awa' wi' your bickers o' barley bree;
Though good ye may think it, I 'll never mair drink it—
The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me!
There 's health in the bucket, there 's wealth in the bucket,
There 's mair i' the bucket than mony can see;
An' aye whan I leuk in 't, I find there 's a beuk in 't
That teaches the essence o' wisdom to me.
Whan whisky I swiggit, my wifie aye beggit,
An' aft did she sit wi' the tear in her e'e;
But noo—wad you think it?—whan water I drink it
Right blithesome she smiles on the bucket an' me.
The bucket 's a treasure nae mortal can measure,
It 's happit my wee bits o' bairnies an' me;
An' noo roun' my ingle, whare sorrows did mingle,
I 've pleasure, an' plenty, an' glances o' glee.
The bucket 's the bicker that keeps a man sicker,
The bucket 's a shield an' a buckler to me;
In pool or in gutter nae langer I 'll splutter,
But walk like a freeman wha feels he is free.
Ye drunkards, be wise noo, an' alter your choice noo—
Come cling to the bucket, an' prosper like me;
Ye 'll find it is better to swig "caller water,"
Than groan in a gutter without a bawbee!
ROBERT NICOLL.
One of the most gifted and hopeful of modern Scottish song writers,
Robert Nicoll, was born at Little Tulliebeltane, in the parish of
Auchtergaven, Perthshire, on the 7th January 1814. Of a family of nine
children, he was the second son. His father, who bore the same Christian
name, rented a farm at the period of his birth and for five years
afterwards, when, involved in an affair of cautionary, he was reduced to
the condition of an agricultural labourer. Young Nicoll received the
rudiments of his education from his mother, a woman of superior
shrewdness and information; subsequently to his seventh year he tended
cattle in the summer months, to procure the means of attending the
parish school during the other portion of the year. From his childhood
fond of reading, books were his constant companions—in the field, on
the highway, and during the intervals of leisure in his father's
cottage. In his thirteenth year, he wrote verses and became the
correspondent of a newspaper. Apprenticed to a grocer and wine-merchant
in Perth, and occupied in business from seven o'clock morning till nine
o'clock evening, he prosecuted mental culture by abridging the usual
hours of rest. At the age of nineteen he communicated a tale to
Johnstone's Magazine, an Edinburgh periodical, which was inserted, and
attracted towards him the notice of Mr Johnstone, the ingenious
proprietor. By this gentleman he was introduced, during a visit he made
to the capital, to some men of letters, who subsequently evinced a warm
interest in his career.
In 1834, Nicoll opened a small circulating library in Dundee, occupying
his spare time in reading and composition, and likewise taking part in
public meetings convened for the support of Radical or extreme liberal
opinions. To the liberal journals of the town he became a frequent
contributor both in prose and verse, and in 1835 appeared as the author
of a volume of "Poems and Lyrics." This publication was highly esteemed
by his friends, and most favourably received by the press. Abandoning
business in Dundee, which had never been prosperous, he meditated
proceeding as a literary adventurer to London, but was induced by Mr
Tait, his friendly publisher, and some other well-wishers, to remain in
Edinburgh till a suitable opening should occur. In the summer of 1836 he
was appointed editor of the Leeds Times newspaper, with a salary of
£100. The politics of this journal were Radical, and to the exposition
and advocacy of these opinions he devoted himself with equal ardour and
success. But the unremitting labour of conducting a public journal soon
began materially to undermine the energies of a constitution which,
never robust, had been already impaired by a course of untiring literary
occupation. The excitement of a political contest at Leeds, during a
general parliamentary election, completed the physical prostration of
the poet; he removed from Leeds to Knaresborough, and from thence to
Laverock Bank, near Edinburgh, the residence of his friend Mr Johnstone.
His case was hopeless; after lingering a short period in a state of
entire prostration, he departed this life in December 1837, in his
twenty-fourth year. His remains, attended by a numerous assemblage, were
consigned to the churchyard of North Leith.
Possessed of strong poetical genius, Robert Nicoll has attained a
conspicuous and honoured niche in the temple of the national minstrelsy.
Several of his songs, especially "Bonnie Bessie Lee" and "Ordé Braes,"
have obtained an equal popularity with the best songs of Burns. Since
the period of his death, four different editions of his "Poems" have
been called for. The work has latterly been published by the Messrs
Blackie of Glasgow in a handsome form, prefaced by an interesting
memoir. Nicoll's strain is eminently smooth and simple; and, though many
of his lyrics published after his decease had not the benefit of his
revision, he never falls into mediocrity. Of extensive sympathies, he
portrays the loves, hopes, and fears of the human heart; while he
depicts nature only in her loveliness. His sentiments breathe a devoted
and simple piety, the index of an unblemished life. In person Nicoll was
rather above the middle height, with a slight stoop. His countenance,
which was of a sanguine complexion, was thoughtful and pleasing; his
eyes were of a deep blue, and his hair dark brown. In society he was
modest and unobtrusive, but was firm and uncompromising in the
maintenance of his opinions. His political views were founded on the
belief that the industrial classes had suffered oppression from the
aristocracy. The solace of his hours of leisure were the songs and music
of his country. He married shortly prior to his decease, but was not
long survived by his widow. A monument to his memory, towards which
nearly £100 has lately been subscribed, is about to be erected on the
Ordé Braes, in his native parish.
ORDÉ BRAES.