Volume Iv Part 9 (2/2)
”While water wimples to the sea, While day blinks in the lift sae hie, Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e, Ye shall be my dearie.”
FOOTNOTES:
[10] Of this song a new version was composed by Burns, the original chorus being retained. Burns' version commences--”Hark the mavis'
evening sang.”
JOHN MITCh.e.l.l.
John Mitch.e.l.l, the Paisley bard, died in that place on the 12th August 1856, in his seventieth year. He was born at Paisley in 1786. The labour of weaving he early sought to relieve by the composition of verses. He contributed pieces, both in prose and verse, to the _Moral and Literary Observer_, a small Paisley periodical of the year 1823, and of which he was the publisher. In 1838, he appeared as the author of ”A Night on the Banks of the Doon, and other Poems,” a volume which was followed in 1840 by ”The Wee Steeple's Ghaist, and other Poems and Songs,” the latter being dedicated to Professor Wilson. In the year 1840, he likewise produced, jointly with a Mr d.i.c.kie, the ”Philosophy of Witchcraft,” a work which, published by Messrs Oliver and Boyd, was well received. His next publication appeared in 1845, with the t.i.tle, ”One Hundred Original Songs.” His last work, ”My Gray Goose Quill, and other Poems and Songs,”
was published in 1852.
Mitch.e.l.l employed himself latterly in forwarding the sale of his publications, and succeeded by this course in securing a comfortable maintenance. He wrote verses with much readiness, and occasionally with considerable power. His songs, which we have selected for the present work, are distinguished by graceful simplicity and elegant pathos. Had Mitch.e.l.l written less, and more carefully, he had reached a higher niche in the Temple of National Song. His manners were eccentric, and he was not unconscious of his poetical endowments.
BEAUTY.
What wakes the Poet's lyre?
'Tis Beauty; What kindles his poetic fire?
'Tis Beauty; What makes him seek, at evening's hour, The lonely glen, the leafy bower, When dew hangs on each little flower?
Oh! it is Beauty.
What melts the soldier's soul?
'Tis Beauty; What can his love of fame control?
'Tis Beauty; For oft, amid the battle's rage, Some lovely vision will engage His thoughts and war's rough ills a.s.suage: Such power has Beauty.
What tames the savage mood?
'Tis Beauty; What gives a polish to the rude?
'Tis Beauty; What gives the peasant's lowly state A charm which wealth cannot create, And on the good alone will wait?
'Tis faithful Beauty.
Then let our favourite toast Be Beauty; Is it not king and peasant's boast?
Yes, Beauty; Then let us guard with tender care The gentle, th' inspiring fair, And Love will a diviner air Impart to Beauty.
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