his pen, entitled Scottish Songs, Ballads, and | tish Song, and other collections of the lyric Poems, appeared in 1855. A new edition of his poetical writings is now in preparation for the press. Many of Ainslie's compositions are to be found in Whistle Binkie, Gems of Scot poetry of his native land. They well deserve the reputation they acquired half a century ago, and which they still retain in the New and | Old Worlds. "STANDS SCOTLAND WHERE IT DID?" Hoo's dear auld mither Scotland, lads, I meikle dread the iron steed, Ha'e touns ta'en a' our bonnie burns Or damm'd them up in timmer troughs Do Southern loons infest your touns Ha'e "John and Robert" ta'en the place In sooth, I dread a foreign breed Or place whare I was born. They're houkin sae in bank an' brae, I tremble for the bonny broom, I fear the dear auld "Deligence" An' Flies" ha'e flown the track, An' cadgers braw, pocks, creels an' a', Gane i' the ruthless wrack. Are souple kimmers kirkward boun, Do wanters try the yarrow leaf Are there touslings on the hairst rig, Are winkings 'tween the preachings rife Are there cleekings i' the kirk gates, Gang loving sauls in plaids for shawls A courtin' to the bent? Has gude braid lawlins left the land? Ah! weel I min', in dear langsyne, Oh bootless queries, vanish'd scenes; E'en noo my day gangs doun the brae, THE ROVER O' LOCHRYAN. The Rover o' Lochryan he's gane, It's no when the loch lies dead in its trough, But the rack an' the ride o' the restless tide, It's no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawl Owre the breast o' the siller sea, That I look to the west for the bark I lo'e best, An' the Rover that's dear to me. But when that the clud lays its cheeks to the flud, An' the sea lays its shouther to the shore; When the wind sings high, and the sca-whaups cry, As they rise frae the deafening roar. It's then that I look thro' the thickening rook, Merrily he stands 'mang his jovial crew, "When landsmen drouse, or trembling rouse, To the tempest's angry moan, We dash thro' the drift, and sing to the lift "It's braw, boys, to see, the morn's blythe e'e, When the night's been dark an' drear; But it's better far to lie, wi' our storm-locks dry, In the bosom o' her that is dear. "Gi'e her sail, gi'e her sail, till she buries her wale, Gi'e her sail, boys, while it may sit; She has roar'd thro' a heavier sea afore, An' she'll roar thro' a heavier yet!" THE SWEETEST O' THEM A'. When springtime gi'es the heart a lift Out ower cauld winter's snaw and drift, An' April's showers begin to sift Fair flowers on field an' shaw, When pleasant primrose days are doon— Then, sheltered frae the sun an' win', When flowers hae ripened into fruitWhen plantings wear their Sabbath suit When win's grow loud, and birdies mute, Tho' black December bin's the pool ON WI' THE TARTAN. Do ye like, my dear lassie, Or the steep rocky glens, Where the wild falcons bide? Then on wi' the tartan, An' fy let us ride! Do ye like the knowes, lassie, An' fy let us ride. Do ye like the burn, lassie, That loups amang linns, Or the bonny green holmes Where it cannily rins; Wi' a cantie bit housie, Sae snug by its side; Then on wi' the tartan, An' fy let us ride. THE LAST LOOK OF HOME. Our sail has ta'en the blast, Our pennant's to the sea, And the waters widen fast "Twixt the fatherland and me. Then, Scotland, fare thee wellThere's a sorrow in that word 128 This aching heart could tell, But words shall ne'er record. The heart should make us veil From the heart's elected few, Our sorrows when we ail Would we have them suffer too? No, the parting hour is past; There's a brighter land ahead. There are wailings on the wind, There are murmurs on the sea, But the fates ne'er proved unkind Till they parted home and me. THE INGLE SIDE. It's rare to see the morning bleeze, The lip o' the flowery lea; Is the ingle side to me. Glens may be gilt wi' gowans rare, But the cantie hearth where cronies meet, An' the darling o' our e'e; That makes to us a warld complete- A HAMEWARD SANG. Each whirl o' the wheel, The trees on that green; Losh! they glour in my face, Like some kindly auld frien'. E'en the brutes they look social As gif they would crack; An' the sang o' the bird Seems to welcome me back. O! dear to the heart Is the hand that first fed us; An' dear is the land, An' the cottage that bred us. An' dear are the comrades, Wi' whom we once sported; But dearer the maiden, Whose love we first courted. Joy's image may perish, E'en grief die away; SIGHINGS FOR THE SEASIDE. At the stent o' my string, And waters as bright And surrounded wi' a' That the heart or the head, The body or the mou' O' mortal could need. I hae paused in sic plenty, Look back to auld hills In their red heather bloom, To glens wi' their burnies, And hillocks o' broom, To some loop in our lock, Whar the wave gaes to sleep, Or the black craggy headlands That bulwark the deep; Wi' the sea lashing in Wi' the wind and the tideAye, 'twas then that I sicken'd, 'Twas then that I cried O! gie me a sough o' the auld saut sea, A scent o' his brine again, To stiffen the wilt that this wilderness Has brought on this breast and brain. A Let me hear his roar on the rocky shore, His thud on the shelly sand; For my spirit's bow'd and my heart is dow'd Your sweeping floods an' your waving woods, But the breath o' the swamp brews a sickly damp, And there's death in the dark lagoon. To stiffen the wilt that this wilderness THOMAS LYLE. BORN 1792-DIED 1859. DR. THOMAS LYLE, like his friend John Wilson, a native of Paisley, was born in that town, September 10, 1792. He received a liberal education, and afterwards studied at the University of Glasgow, where in 1816 he obtained his diploma as a surgeon, and entered upon the practice of his profession. Cherishing as he did a love for the old minstrelsy of his native land, he was zealous in collecting such ancient airs as he met with, and to one of these he composed his exceedingly popular song of | success in his new field of labour; for, as in Glasgow, he was regarded as a man more devoted to the muse and to the gathering of rare plants than to the practice of his profession. In the following year he appeared as the author of a volume entitled "Ancient Ballads and Songs, chiefly from Tradition, Manuscripts, and scarce Works, with Biographical and Illustrative Notices." This entertaining work, the result of long investigation into the popular poetry of Scotland, contained numerous compositions of Lyle's; but much the most valuable portion of it to antiquarians consists of the miscellaneous poems of Sir William Mure, Knight of Rowallan. After a residence at Airth for above a quarter of a century, he returned in 1853 to Glasgow, and resumed his profession. Two years later the Editor found him living there in obscurity, with little practice, and apparently as much forgotten as the spot celebrated in his most popular song. Lyle died in Glasgow, April "Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O." It was written in the year 1819, when he was in the habit of resorting, in his botanical excursions, to the then wooded and sequestered banks of the Kelvin, about two miles from Glasgow. Since that date the huge city has swallowed up Lyle's rural retreat of Kelvin Grove. Not meeting with the success in his profession that he anticipated, he removed in 1826 to Airth, a few miles from Falkirk. But it does not appear that he met with any greater | 19, 1859. KELVIN GROVE.1 Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O, Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O, Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O. Thro' the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O. It is worthy of mention that this song, on which Lyle's poetical reputation chiefly rests, was originally attributed to another writer. Macdonald, in his Rombles round Glasgow, says-"The song was first published VOL. II.-I in 1820 in the Harp of Renfrewshire, a collection of poetical pieces to which an introductory essay on the poets of the district was contributed by William Motherwell. In the index to that work the name of John Sim O! Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, O, Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, O, I could stay thy father's pride, But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O, Ere yon golden orb of day Wake the warblers on the spray, Then farewell to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O, To the river winding clear, To the fragrant scented breer, E'en to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O. When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, O, Of thy lover on his bier, To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, O. She was mine when the snaw-draps hung white on the lea, Ere the broom bloom'd bonnie, an' grew sae fair; Till May-day, anither wysed Phebe frae me, So I ne'er will gae down to the broom ony mair. Sing, love, thy fond promises melt like the snaw, When broom waves lonely, an' bleak blaws the air; For Phebe to me now is naething ava', If my heart could say, "Gang to the broom nae mair." Durst I trow that my dreams in the night hover o'er, Where broom blooms bonnie, an' grows sae fair; The swain (who, while waking, thou thinks of no more,) Whisp'ring, "Love, will ye gang to the broom ony mair?" No! fare thee well, Phebe; I'm owre wae to weep, Or to think o' the broom growing bonnie an' fair; Since thy heart is anither's, in death I maun sleep, 'Neath the broom on the lea, an' the bawm sunny air. I ANCE KNEW CONTENT. Iance knew content, but its smiles are awa', How light was my step, and my heart, O how gay! The broom blooms bonnie, the broom blooms fair; Till Phebe was crowned our Queen of the May, When the bloom o' the broom strew'd its sweets on the air. DARK DUNOON. See the glow-worm lits her fairy lamp, From the dew-clad, moorland flower, When the distant beacon's revolving light published anonymously in the Harp of Renfrewshire. In the meantime Mr. Sim, who had transcribed both the pieces, was called abroad; and after his death his executors, finding the two songs among his papers and in his handwriting, naturally concluded that they were is given as that of the author of 'Kelvin Grove.' Mr. Sim, who had contributed largely to the work, and for a time had even acted as its editor, left Paisley before its completion for the West Indies, where he shortly afterward died. In the meantime the song became a general favourite, when Mr. Lyle laid claim to it as his own production, and brought forward evidence of the most convincing nature to that effect. So clearly, indeed, did he establish the fact of his authorship that a music-productions of his own genius, and published them seller in Edinburgh, who had previously purchased the song from the executors of Mr. Sim, at once entered into a new arrangement with him for the copyright. Mr. Lyle, it seems, was in the habit of corresponding with Mr. Sim on literary matters, and on one occasion sent him 'Kelvin Grove,' with another song, to be accordingly." Dr. Lyle, when upwards of threescore years of age, and his authorship to the piece in question admitted by all, still alluded with considerable acrimony to the wrong and injustice which he had been subjected to in being compelled to prove his just claim to his own property.-ED. |