Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament, Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent; But give to the living thy pa.s.sion of tears Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears, Who are press'd by the combat, in darkness are lost, By the tempest are beat, on the billows are toss'd.

Oh, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more, Whose warfare is ended, whose combat is o'er; Let the song be exalted, be triumphant the chord, And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord.

[68] These stanzas are printed for the first time. The MS. is not in Lady Nairn's handwriting, but there is every reason to a.s.sign to her the authorship.

JAMES NICOL.

James Nicol, the son of Michael Nicol and Marion Hope, was born at Innerleithen, in the county of Peebles, on the 28th of September 1769.

Having acquired the elements of cla.s.sical knowledge under Mr Tate, the parochial schoolmaster, he was sent to the University of Edinburgh, where he pursued study with unflinching a.s.siduity and success. On completing his academical studies, he was licensed as a probationer by the Presbytery of Peebles. His first professional employment was as an a.s.sistant to the minister of Traquair, a parish bordering on that of Innerleithen; and on the death of the inc.u.mbent, Mr Nicol succeeded to the living. On the 4th of November 1802, he was ordained to the ministerial office; and on the 25th of the same month and year, he espoused Agnes Walker, a native of Glasgow, and the sister of his immediate predecessor, who had for a considerable period possessed a warm place in his affections, and been the heroine of his poetical reveries. He had for some time been in the habit of communicating verses to the _Edinburgh Magazine_; and he afterwards published a collection of "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," Edinburgh, 1805, 2 vols. 12mo.

This publication, which was well received, contains some lyrical effusions that ent.i.tle the author to a respectable rank among the modern cultivators of national poetry; yet it is to be regretted that a deep admiration of Burns has led him into an imitation, somewhat servile, of that immortal bard.

At Traquair Mr Nicol continued to devote himself to mental improvement.

He read extensively; and writing upon the subject of his studies was his daily habit. He was never robust, being affected with a chronic disorder of the stomach; and when sickness prevented him, as occasionally happened, from writing in a sitting posture, he would for hours together have devoted himself to composition in a standing position. Of his prose writings, which were numerous, the greater number still remain in MS., in the possession of his elder son. During his lifetime, he contributed a number of articles to the _Edinburgh Encyclopaedia_, among which are "Baptism," "Baptistry," "Baptists," "Bithynia," and "Cranmer." His posthumous work, "An Essay on the Nature and Design of Scripture Sacrifices," was published in an octavo volume in the year 1823.

Mr Nicol was much respected for his sound discernment in matters of business, as well as for his benevolent disposition. Every dispute in the vicinity was submitted to his adjudication, and his counsel checked all differences in the district. He was regularly consulted as a physician, for he had studied medicine at the University. From his own medicine chest he dispensed gratuitously to the indigent sick; and without fee he vaccinated all the children of the neighbourhood who were brought to him. After a short illness, he died on the 5th of November 1819. Of a family of three sons and three daughters, the eldest son predeceased him; two sons and two daughters still survive. The elder son, who bears his father's Christian name, is Professor of Civil and Natural History in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and is well known as a geologist. Mrs Nicol survived her husband till the 19th of March 1845.

BLAW SAFTLY, YE BREEZES.

Blaw saftly, ye breezes, ye streams, smoothly murmur, Ye sweet-scented blossoms, deck every green tree; 'Mong your wild scatter'd flow'rets aft wanders my charmer, The sweet lovely la.s.s wi' the black rollin' e'e.

For pensive I ponder, and languishin' wander, Far frae the sweet rosebud on Quair's windin' stream!

Why, Heaven, wring my heart wi' the hard heart o' anguish?

Why torture my bosom 'tween hope and despair?

When absent frae Nancy, I ever maun languish!-- That dear angel smile, shall it charm me nae mair?

Since here life 's a desert, an' pleasure 's a dream, Bear me swift to those banks which are ever my theme, Where, mild as the mornin' at simmer's returnin', Blooms the sweet lovely rosebud on Quair's windin' stream.

BY YON HOa.r.s.e MURMURIN' STREAM.

By yon hoa.r.s.e murmurin' stream, 'neath the moon's chilly beam, Sadly musin' I wander, an' the tear fills my e'e; Recollection, pensive power, brings back the mournfu' hour, When the laddie gaed awa' that is dear, dear to me.

The tender words he said, and the faithfu' vows he made, When we parted, to my bosom a mournfu' pleasure gie; An' I lo'e to pa.s.s the day where we fondly used to stray, An' repeat the laddie's name that is dear, dear to me.

Though the flow'rets gem the vales, an' scent the whisperin' gales, An' the birds fill wi' music the sweetly-bloomin' tree; Though nature bid rejoice, yet sorrow tunes my voice, For the laddie 's far awa' that is dear, dear to me!

When the gloamin' brings alang the time o' mirth an' sang, An' the dance kindles joy in ilka youthfu' e'e, My neebours aften speir, why fa's the hidden tear?

But they kenna he's awa' that is dear, dear to me.

Oh, for the happy hour, when I shall hae the power, To the darlin' o' my soul, on wings o' love, to flee!

Or that the day wad come, when fortune shall bring home, The laddie to my arms that is dear, dear to me.

But if--for much I fear--that day will ne'er appear, Frae me conceal in darkness the cruel stern decree; For life wad a' be vain, were I ne'er to meet again, Wi' the laddie far awa' that is dear, dear to me.

HALUCKIT MEG.

Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre, Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang; Ilk daud o' the scartle strake fire, While loud as a lavrock she sang.

Her Geordie had promised to marry, An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair, Not dreamin' the job could miscarry, Already seem'd mistress an' mair.

"My neebours," she sang, "aften jeer me, An' ca' me daft haluckit Meg, An' say they expect soon to hear me, I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg.

An' now, 'bout my marriage they 'll clatter, An' Geordie, puir fallow, they ca'

An auld doited hav'rel,--nae matter, He 'll keep me aye brankin an' braw.

"I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle, That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out, That his black beard is rough as a heckle, That his mou' to his lug 's rax'd about; But they needna let on that he 's crazie, His pikestaff will ne'er let him fa'; Nor that his hair 's white as a daisy, For fient a hair has he ava'.

"But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie, An' routh o' gude gowd in his kist, An' if siller comes at my wordie, His beauty I never will miss 't.

Daft gowks, wha catch fire like tinder, Think love-raptures ever will burn?

But wi' poort.i.th, hearts het as a cinder, Will cauld as an iceshugle turn.

"There 'll just be ae bar to my pleasures, A bar that 's aft fill'd me wi' fear, He 's sic a hard near-be-gawn miser, He likes his saul less than his gear.

But though I now flatter his failin', An' swear nought wi' gowd can compare, Gude sooth! it shall soon get a scailin', His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!

"I dreamt that I rode in a chariot, A flunkie ahint me in green; While Geordie cried out he was harriet, An' the saut tear was blindin' his een.

But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye, I'll hae frae him what ser's my turn; Let him slip awa' whan he grows wearie; Shame fa' me, gin lang I wad mourn!"

But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin', Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks; An' whan a' his failin's she brang in, His strang hazel pikestaff he taks, Designin' to rax her a lounder, He chanced on the lather to shift, An' down frae the bauks, flat 's a flounder, Flew like a shot starn frae the lift!

MY DEAR LITTLE La.s.sIE.

My dear little la.s.sie, why, what 's a' the matter?

My heart it gangs pittypat--winna lie still; I 've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better, Yet, la.s.sie, believe me, I 'm aye growin' ill!

My head 's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft, when I 'm speakin', I sigh, an' am breathless, and fearfu' to speak; I gaze aye for something I fain would be seekin', Yet, la.s.sie, I kenna weel what I would seek.

Thy praise, bonnie la.s.sie, I ever could hear of, And yet, when to ruse ye the neebour lads try-- Though it 's a' true they tell ye--yet never sae far off I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why.

When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't, And never grew weary the lang simmer day; The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit, And I fand sweeter scented around ye the hay.

In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak us cheerie, 'Mang the lave o' the la.s.ses I preed yer sweet mou'; Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye-- My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how.

When we dance at the gloamin', it 's you I aye pitch on; And gin ye gang by me, how dowie I be!

There 's something, dear la.s.sie, about ye bewitching, That tells me my happiness centres in thee.