Volume Iv Part 24 (1/2)
Smibert died at Edinburgh on the 16th January 1854, in his forty-fourth year. With pleasing manners, he was possessed of kindly dispositions, and was much cherished for his intelligent and interesting conversation.
In person he was strong built, and his complexion was fair and ruddy. He was not undesirous of reputation both as a poet and prose-writer, and has recorded his regret that he had devoted so much time to evanescent periodical literature. His poetry is replete with patriotic sentiment, and his strain is forcible and occasionally brilliant. His songs indicate a fine fancy and deep pathos.
THE SCOTTISH WIDOW'S LAMENT.
Afore the Lammas tide Had dun'd the birken-tree, In a' our water side Nae wife was bless'd like me.
A kind gudeman, and twa Sweet bairns were 'round me here, But they're a' ta'en awa'
Sin' the fa' o' the year.
Sair trouble cam' our gate, And made me, when it cam', A bird without a mate, A ewe without a lamb.
Our hay was yet to maw, And our corn was to shear, When they a' dwined awa'
In the fa' o' the year.
I downa look a-field, For aye I trow I see The form that was a bield To my wee bairns and me; But wind, and weet, and snaw, They never mair can fear, Sin' they a' got the ca'
In the fa' o' the year.
Aft on the hill at e'ens, I see him 'mang the ferns-- The lover o' my teens, The faither o' my bairns; For there his plaid I saw, As gloamin' aye drew near, But my a's now awa'
Sin' the fa' o' the year.
Our bonnie rigs theirsel', Reca' my waes to mind; Our puir dumb beasties tell O' a' that I hae tyned; For wha our wheat will saw, And wha our sheep will shear, Sin' my a' gaed awa'
In the fa' o' the year?
My hearth is growing cauld, And will be caulder still, And sair, sair in the fauld Will be the winter's chill; For peats were yet to ca', Our sheep they were to smear, When my a' pa.s.sed awa'
In the fa' o' the year.
I ettle whiles to spin, But wee, wee patterin' feet Come rinnin' out and in, And then I just maun greet; I ken it 's fancy a', And faster rows the tear, That my a' dwined awa'
In the fa' o' the year.
Be kind, O Heaven abune!
To ane sae wae and lane, And tak' her hamewards sune In pity o' her maen.
Lang ere the March winds blaw, May she, far far frae here, Meet them a' that's awa Sin' the fa' o' the year!
THE HERO OF ST JOHN D'ACRE.[25]
Once more on the broad-bosom'd ocean appearing The banner of England is spread to the breeze, And loud is the cheering that hails the uprearing Of glory's loved emblem, the pride of the seas.
No tempest shall daunt her, No victor-foe taunt her, What manhood can do in her cause shall be done-- Britannia's best seaman, The boast of her freemen, Will conquer or die by his colours and gun.
On Acre's proud turrets an ensign is flying, Which stout hearts are banded till death to uphold; And bold is their crying, and fierce their defying, When trench'd in their ramparts, unconquer'd of old.