Volume Iv Part 11 (1/2)
And can thy bosom bear the thought To part frae love and me, laddie?
Are all those plighted vows forgot, Sae fondly pledged by thee, laddie?
Canst thou forget the midnight hour, When in yon love-inspiring bower, You vow'd by every heavenly power You'd ne'er lo'e ane but me, laddie?
Wilt thou--wilt thou gang and leave me-- Win my heart and then deceive me?
Oh! that heart will break, believe me, Gin' ye part wi' me, laddie.
Aft ha'e ye roos'd my rosy cheek, Aft praised my sparkling e'e, laddie, Aft said nae bliss on earth ye'd seek, But love and live wi' me, laddie.
But soon those cheeks will lose their red, Those eyes in endless sleep be hid, And 'neath the turf the heart be laid That beats for love and thee, laddie.
Wilt thou--wilt thou gang and leave me-- Win my heart and then deceive me?
Oh! that heart will break, believe me, Gin ye part frae me, laddie.
You'll meet a form mair sweet and fair, Where rarer beauties s.h.i.+ne, laddie, But, oh! the heart can never bear A love sae true as mine, laddie.
But when that heart is laid at rest-- That heart that lo'ed ye last and best-- Oh! then the pangs that rend thy breast Will sharper be than mine, laddie.
Broken vows will vex and grieve me, Till a broken heart relieve me-- Yet its latest thought, believe me, Will be love an' thine, laddie.
SWEET'S THE DEW.
Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in June And lily fair to see, Annie, But there's ne'er a flower that blooms Is half so fair as thee, Annie.
Beside those blooming cheeks o' thine The opening rose its beauties tine, Thy lips the rubies far outs.h.i.+ne, Love sparkles in thine e'e, Annie.
The snaw that decks yon mountain top Nae purer is than thee, Annie; The haughty mien and pridefu' look Are banish'd far frae thee, Annie.
And in thy sweet angelic face Triumphant beams each modest grace; And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A form sae bright as thine, Annie.
Wha could behold thy rosy cheek And no feel love's sharp pang, Annie; What heart could view thy smiling looks, And plot to do thee wrang, Annie?
Thy name in ilka sang I'll weave, My heart, my soul, wi' thee I'll leave, And never, till I cease to breathe, I'll cease to think on thee, Annie.
ROBERT POLLOK.
Robert Pollok, author of the immortal poem, ”The Course of Time,” was the son of a small farmer in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrews.h.i.+re, where he was born on the 19th October 1798. With a short interval of employment in the workshop of a cabinetmaker, he was engaged till his seventeenth year in services about his father's farm. Resolving to prepare for the ministry in the Secession Church, he took lessons in cla.s.sical learning at the parish school of Fenwick, Ayrs.h.i.+re, and in twelve months fitted himself for the university. He attended the literary and philosophical cla.s.ses in Glasgow College, during five sessions, and subsequently studied in the Divinity Hall of the United Secession Church. He wrote verses in his boyhood, in his eighteenth year composed a poetical essay, and afterwards produced respectable translations from the Cla.s.sics as college exercises. His great poem, ”The Course of Time,” was commenced in December 1824, and finished within the s.p.a.ce of nineteen months. On the 24th March 1827, the poem was published by Mr Blackwood; and on the 2d of the following May the author received his license as a probationer. The extraordinary success of his poem had excited strong antic.i.p.ations in respect of his professional career, but these were destined to disappointment. Pollok only preached four times. His const.i.tution, originally robust, had suffered from over exertion in boyhood, and more recently from a course of sedulous application in preparing for license, and in the production of his poem. To recruit his wasted strength, a change of climate was necessary, and that of Italy was recommended. The afflicted poet only reached Southampton, where he died a few weeks after his arrival, on the 18th September 1827. In Millbrook churchyard, near Southampton, where his remains were interred, a monument has been erected to his memory.
Besides his remarkable poem, Pollok published three short tales relative to the sufferings of the Covenanters. He had projected a large work respecting the influences which Christianity had exercised upon literature. Since his death, several short poetical pieces from his pen have, along with a memoir, been published by his brother. In person he was of the ordinary height, and of symmetrical form. His complexion was pale brown; his features small, and his eyes dark and piercing. ”He was,” writes Mr Gabriel Neil, who enjoyed his friends.h.i.+p, ”of plain simple manners, with a well-cultivated mind; he loved debate, and took pleasure in good-humoured controversy.” The copyright of ”The Course of Time” continues to produce emolument to the family.
THE AFRICAN MAID.
On the fierce savage cliffs that look down on the flood, Where to ocean the dark waves of Gabia haste, All lonely, a maid of black Africa stood, Gazing sad on the deep and the wide roaring waste.
A bark for Columbia hung far on the tide, And still to that bark her dim wistful eye clave; Ah! well might she gaze--in the s.h.i.+p's hollow side, Moan'd her Zoopah in chains--in the chains of a slave.