Volume Vi Part 12 (2/2)

A writer of prose and poetry, Edward Polin was born at Paisley on the 29th December 1816. He originally followed the business of a pattern-setter in his native town. Fond of literary pursuits, he extensively contributed to the local journals. He subsequently became sub-editor of the _Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle_. In 1843 he accepted the editors.h.i.+p of the _Newcastle Courant_--a situation which, proving unsuitable, he retained only a few months. Resolved to adventure on the literary field of London, he sailed from Newcastle in August 1843. The vessel being at anchor off Yarmouth, he obtained leave from the captain to bathe. He had left the vessel only a few yards, when his hands were observed to fall into the water. One of the seamen promptly descended with a rope, and he was speedily raised upon the deck. Every effort to restore animation however proved fruitless. This closing event of a hopeful career took place on the 22d August 1843, when the poet had attained only his 27th year. His remains were interred in St George's churchyard, Cripplegate, London.

A young man of no inconsiderable genius, Polin afforded indication of speedily attaining a literary reputation. By those to whom he was intimately known his premature death was deeply lamented. Many of his MS. compositions are in the hands of friends, who may yet give them to the world.

A GOOD OLD SONG.

I have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies, And have revell'd amid their flowers; I have lived in the light of Italian eyes, And dream'd in Italian bowers, While the wondrous strains of their sunny clime Have been trill'd to enchant mine ears, But, oh, how I longed for the song and the time When my heart could respond with its tears.

Then sing me a song, a good old song-- Not the foreign, the learn'd, the grand-- But a simple song, a good old song Of my own dear fatherland.

I have heard, with the great, and the proud, and the gay All, all they would have me adore Of that music divine that, enraptured, they say Can be equall'd on earth never more.

And it may be their numbers indeed are divine, Though they move not my heart through mine ears, But a ballad old of the dear ”langsyne”

Can alone claim my tribute of tears.

I have come from a far and a foreign clime To mine own loved haunts once more, With a yearning for all of my childhood's time And the dear home-sounds of yore; And here, if there yet be love for me, Oh, away with those stranger lays, And now let my only welcome be An old song of my boyhood's days.

ALEXANDER BUCHANAN.

Alexander Buchanan was the son of a maltster at Bucklyvie, Stirlings.h.i.+re, where he was born in 1817. He attended a school in Glasgow, but was chiefly self-taught. In his youth he composed verses, and continued to produce respectable poetry. For a period he carried on business as a draper in Cowcaddens, Glasgow. Retiring from merchandise, he fixed his residence in the village of Govan. His death took place on the 8th February 1852, in his thirty-fifth year. Buchanan has been celebrated, with other local bards, in a small Glasgow publication, ent.i.tled, ”Lays of St Mungo.” Numerous poems from his pen remain in MS.

in the possession of his widow, who continues to reside at Govan.

I WANDER'D ALANE.

AIR--_”Lucy's Flittin'.”_

I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin', The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa'; The sun rose in glory, the gray hills adornin', A' glintin like gowd were their tappits o' snaw; Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin, While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green, An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin', Kennin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en.

I leant me against an auld mossy-clad palin', An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e, I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'-- Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me; I thought on my riches, yet f.e.c.kless the treasure, I tried to forget, but the labour was vain; My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure, An' they to the grave baith thegither had gane.

The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow, The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears, An', piercing my heart wi' the force o' an arrow, It open'd anew the saft channel o' tears.

I grat an' I sabb'd till I thocht life wad lea' me, An' happy I then could hae parted wi' life-- For naething on earth sic enjoyment could gie me As the glee o' my bairn an' smile o' my wife.

Oh, weary the day was when they were ta'en frae me, Leavin' me lane, the last leaf on the tree; Nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gie me-- I 'm wae, and they a' look as waefu' on me.

I wander me aften to break melancholy, On ilk thing that 's leevin' the maxim I see, Not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly; Sae, burden'd wi' grief, I maun gang till I die.

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