ALEXANDER JAMIESON.
Reading edition
Alexander Jamieson was born in the village of Dalmellington, Ayrshire, on the 29th January 1789. After a course of study at the University of Edinburgh, he obtained licence as a medical practitioner. In 1819, he settled as a surgeon and apothecary in the town of Alloa. A skilful mechanician, he constructed a small printing-press for his own use; he was likewise ardently devoted to the study of botany. He composed verses with remarkable facility, many of which he contributed to the Stirling Journal newspaper. His death was peculiarly melancholy: he had formed one of a pic-nic party, on a fine summer day, to the summit of Bencleugh, one of the Ochils, and descending by a shorter route to visit a patient at Tillicoultry, he missed his footing, and was precipitated about two hundred feet into one of the ravines. He was early next morning discovered by a shepherd, but only survived a few hours afterwards. His death took place on the 26th July 1826. Possessed of varied talents, and excellent dispositions, Jamieson was deeply regretted by his friends. He left a widow, who died lately in Dunfermline. His songs, of which two specimens are adduced, afford evidence of power.
THE MAID WHO WOVE.[11]
"Russian Air."
The maid who wove the rosy wreath With every flower—hath wrought a spell, And though her chaplets fragrance breathe And balmy sweets—I know full well, 'Neath every bud, or blossom gay, There lurks a chain—Love's tyranny. Though round her ruby lips, enshrin'd, Sits stillness, soft as evening skies— Though crimson'd cheek you seldom find, Or glances from her downcast eyes— There lurks, unseen, a world of charms, Which ne'er betray young Love's alarms. O trust not to her silent tongue; Her settled calm, or absent smile; Nor dream that nymph, so fair and young, May not enchain in Love's soft guile; For where Love is—or what's Love's spell— No mortal knows—no tongue can tell.
A SIGH AND A SMILE.
Welsh Air—"Sir William Watkin Wynne."
From Beauty's soft lip, like the balm of its roses, Or breath of the morning, a sigh took its flight; Nor far had it stray'd forth, when Pity proposes The wanderer should lodge in this bosom a night. But scarce had the guest, in that peaceful seclusion, His lodging secured, when a conflict arose, Each feeling was changed, every thought was delusion, Nor longer my breast knew the calm of repose. They say that young Love is a rosy-cheek'd bowyer, At random the shafts from his silken string fly, But surely the urchin of peace is destroyer, Whose arrows are dipp'd in the balm of a sigh. O yes! for he whisper'd, "To Beauty's shrine hie thee; There worship to Cupid, and wait yet awhile; A cure she can give, with the balm can supply thee, The wound from a sigh can be cured by a smile."