JAMES BALLANTINE.
Reading edition
James Ballantine, one of the most successful of living Scottish song writers, was born in 1808 at the West Port of Edinburgh. Of this locality, now considerably changed in its character, but still endeared to him by the associations of his boyhood, he has given a graphic description in a poem, in which he records some of the cherished recollections of the days when amid its "howffs," and "laigh" half-doored shops he "gat schulin' and sport." He lost his father, who was a brewer, when he was only ten years old, and, being the youngest of the family, which consisted of three daughters and himself, his early training devolved upon his mother, who contrived to obtain for her children the advantage of an ordinary education. James Ballantine must, however, be considered as a self-taught man. Beyond the training which he received in early life, he owes his present position to his own indefatigable exertions.
By his father's death, the poet was necessitated, while yet a mere boy, to exert himself for his own support and the assistance of the family. He was, accordingly, apprenticed to a house-painter in the city, and very soon attained to considerable proficiency in his trade. On growing up to manhood, he made strenuous exertions to obtain the educational advantages which were not within his reach at an earlier period of life, and about his twentieth year he attended the University of Edinburgh for the study of anatomy, with a view to his professional improvement. At a subsequent period he turned his attention to the art of painting on glass, and he has long been well-known as one of the most distinguished of British artists in that department. At the period Mr Ballantine began his career as a glass-painter, the art had greatly degenerated in character; and the position to which it has of late years attained is chiefly owing to his good taste and archæological researches. When the designs and specimens of glass-painting for the windows of the House of Lords were publicly competed for, the Royal Commissioners of the Fine Arts adjudged those produced by Mr Ballantine as the best which were exhibited, and the execution of the work was intrusted to him. A few years ago he published a work on stained glass, which has been translated and published in Germany, where it retains its popularity. Mr Ballantine has thus never allowed his literary pursuits to interfere with the exercise of his chosen avocations; "he has," in the words of Lord Cockburn, "made the business feed the Muses, and the Muses grace the business."
Although Mr Ballantine began at a very early age to woo the Muse, some of his most popular pieces having been produced about his sixteenth year, he made his first appearance in print in the pages of "Whistle Binkie." In 1843 his well-known work, "The Gaberlunzie's Wallet," was published in monthly numbers, illustrated by the late Alexander Ritchie. This production was enriched with some of his best lyrics. His second work, "The Miller of Deanhaugh," likewise contains a number of songs and ballads. In 1856 Messrs Constable & Co., of Edinburgh, published an edition of his poems, including many of those which had been previously given to the world. This volume contains the happiest effusions of his genius, and will procure him a prominent place in his country's literature. Mr Ballantine is the poet of the affections, a lover of the beautiful and tender among the humbler walks of life, and an exponent of the lessons to be drawn from familiar customs, common sayings, and simple character.
NAEBODY'S BAIRN.
She was Naebody's bairn, she was Naebody's bairn, She had mickle to thole, she had mickle to learn, Afore a kind word or kind look she could earn, For naebody cared about Naebody's bairn. Though faither or mither ne'er own'd her ava, Though rear'd by the fremmit for fee unco sma', She grew in the shade like a young lady-fern, For Nature was bounteous to Naebody's bairn. Though toited by some, and though lightlied by mair, She never compleened, though her young heart was sair, And warm virgin tears that might melted cauld airn Whiles glist in the blue e'e o' Naebody's bairn. Though nane cheer'd her childhood, an' nane hail'd her birth, Heaven sent her an angel to gladden the earth; And when the earth doom'd her in laigh nook to dern, Heaven couldna but tak again Naebody's bairn. She cam smiling sweetly as young mornin' daw, Like lown simmer gloamin' she faded awa, And lo! how serenely that lone e'ening starn Shines on the greensward that haps Naebody's bairn!
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
The bonnie, bonnie bairn sits pokin' in the ase, Glowerin' in the fire wi' his wee round face; Laughin' at the fuffin low—what sees he there? Ha! the young dreamer 's biggin' castles in the air! His wee chubby face, an' his towzy curly pow, Are laughin' an noddin' to the dancin' lowe, He 'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair, Glowerin' at the imps wi' their castles in the air. He sees muckle castles towerin' to the moon, He sees little sodgers puin' them a' doun; Warlds whomlin' up an' doun, blazin' wi' a flare, Losh! how he loups, as they glimmer in the air. For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken? He 's thinkin' upon naething, like mony mighty men, A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,— There are mair folks than him biggin' castles in the air. Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld; His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld; His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that Daddy Care Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air. He 'll glower at the fire, an' he 'll keek at the light; But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night; Aulder e'en than his are glamour'd by a glare, Hearts are broken—heads are turn'd—wi' castles in the air.
ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.
Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind, Though press'd an' hemm'd on every side, hae faith an' ye 'll win through, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. Gin reft frae friends, or crost in love, as whiles nae doubt ye 've been, Grief lies deep-hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your e'en, Believe it for the best, and trow there 's good in store for you, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. In lang, lang days o' simmer when the clear and cludless sky Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to Nature parch'd and dry, The genial night, wi balmy breath, gaurs verdure spring anew, An' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel ower proud an' hie, An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e, Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo, But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.
WIFIE, COME HAME.
Wifie, come hame, My couthie wee dame! Oh, but ye 're far awa, Wifie, come hame! Come wi' the young bloom o' morn on thy broo, Come wi' the lown star o' love in thine e'e, Come wi' the red cherries ripe on thy mou', A' glist wi' balm, like the dew on the lea. Come wi' the gowd tassels fringin' thy hair, Come wi' thy rose cheeks a' dimpled wi' glee, Come wi' thy wee step, and wifie-like air, Oh, quickly come, and shed blessings on me! Wifie, come hame, My couthie wee dame! Oh, my heart wearies sair, Wifie, come hame! Come wi' our love pledge, our dear little dawtie, Clasping my neck round, an' clamb'rin' my knee; Come let me nestle and press the wee pettie, Gazing on ilka sweet feature o' thee. Oh, but the house is a cauld hame without ye, Lanely and eerie 's the life that I dree; Oh, come awa', an' I 'll dance round about ye, Ye 'll ne'er again win frae my arms till I dee.
THE BIRDIE SURE TO SING IS AYE THE GORBEL O' THE NEST.
Oh, dinna look ye pridefu' doon on a' aneath your ken, For he wha seems the farthest but aft wins the farthest ben; And whiles the doubie o' the school tak's lead o' a' the rest, The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest. The cauld gray misty morn aft brings a sultry sunny day, The trees wha's buds are latest are the langest to decay; The heart sair tried wi' sorrow aye endures the sternest test— The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest. The wee, wee stern that glints in heaven, may be a lowin' sun, Though like a speck o' light, scarce seen amid the welkin dun; The humblest sodger on the field may win the warrior's crest— The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest. Then dinna be impatient wi' your bairnie when he 's slow, And dinna scorn the humble, though the world deem them low; The hindmost and the feeblest aft become the first and best— The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.
CREEP AFORE YE GANG.
Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang; Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld grannie's sang; Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang, Creep awa', my bairnie—creep afore ye gang. Creep awa', my bairnie, ye 're ower young to learn To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn; Better creepin' cannie, as fa'in' wi' a bang, Duntin' a' your wee brow—creep afore ye gang. Ye 'll creep, an' ye 'll hotch, an' ye 'll nod to your mither, Watchin' ilka stap o' your wee donsy brither; Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang, An' ye 'll be a braw cheil' yet—creep afore ye gang. The wee burdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee; Folks are sure to tumble when they climb ower hie; They wha dinna walk right are sure to come to wrang— Creep awa', my bairnie—creep afore ye gang.
AE GUDE TURN DESERVES ANITHER.
Ye mauna be proud, although ye be great, The puirest bodie is still your brither; The king may come in the cadger's gate— Ae gude turn deserves anither. The hale o' us rise frae the same cauld clay, Ae hour we bloom, ae hour we wither; Let ilk help ither to climb the brae— Ae gude turn deserves anither. The highest among us are unco wee, Frae Heaven we get a' our gifts thegither; Hoard na, man, what ye get sae free!— Ae gude turn deserves anither. Life is a weary journey alane, Blithe 's the road when we wend wi' ither; Mutual gi'ing is mutual gain— Ae gude turn deserves anither.
THE NAMELESS LASSIE.
There 's nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie lassie's name, There 's nane may ken the humble cot my lassie ca's her hame; Yet though my lassie's nameless, an' her kin o' low degree, Her heart is warm, her thochts are pure, and, oh! she 's dear to me. She 's gentle as she 's bonnie, an' she 's modest as she 's fair, Her virtues, like her beauties a', are varied as they 're rare; While she is light an' merry as the lammie on the lea— For happiness an' innocence thegither aye maun be! Whene'er she shews her blooming face, the flowers may cease to blaw, An' when she opes her hinnied lips, the air is music a'; But when wi' ither's sorrows touch'd, the tear starts to her e'e, Oh! that 's the gem in beauty's crown, the priceless pearl to me. Within my soul her form 's enshrined, her heart is a' my ain, An' richer prize or purer bliss nae mortal e'er can gain; The darkest paths o' life I tread wi' steps o' bounding glee, Cheer'd onward by the love that lichts my nameless lassie's e'e.
BONNIE BONALY.
Bonnie Bonaly's wee fairy-led stream, Murmurs and sobs like a child in a dream; Falling where silver light gleams on its breast, Gliding through nooks where the dark shadows rest, Flooding with music its own tiny valley, Dances in gladness the stream o' Bonaly. Proudly Bonaly's gray-brow'd castle towers, Bounded by mountains, and bedded in flowers; Here hangs the blue bell, and there waves the broom; Nurtured by art, rarest garden sweets bloom; Heather and thyme scent the breezes that dally, Playing amang the green knolls o' Bonaly. Pentland's high hills raise their heather-crown'd crest, Peerless Edina expands her white breast, Beauty and grandeur are blent in the scene, Bonnie Bonaly lies smiling between; Nature and Art, like fair twins, wander gaily; Friendship and love dwell in bonnie Bonaly.
SAFT IS THE BLINK O' THINE E'E, LASSIE.
Oh, saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie, Saft is the blink o' thine e'e; An' a bonnie wee sun glimmers in its blue orb, As kindly it glints upon me. The ringlets that twine round thy brow, lassie, Are gowden, as gowden may be; Like the wee curly cluds that play round the sun, When he 's just going to drap in the sea. Thou hast a bonnie wee mou', lassie, As sweet as a body may pree; And fondly I 'll pree that wee hinny mou', E'en though thou shouldst frown upon me. Thou hast a lily-white hand, lassie, As fair as a body may see; An' saft is the touch o' that wee genty hand, At e'en when thou partest wi' me. Thy thoughts are sae haly and pure, lassie, Thy heart is sae kind and sae free; My bosom is flooded wi' sunshine an' joy, Wi' ilka blithe blink o' thine e'e.
THE MAIR THAT YE WORK, AYE THE MAIR WILL YE WIN.
Be eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on, Be eident, be eident, bricht day will be gone; To stand idle by is a profitless sin: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. The earth gathers fragrance while nursing the flower, The wave waxes stronger while feeding the shower, The stream gains in speed as it sweeps o'er the linn: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. There 's nought got by idling, there 's nought got for nought, Health, wealth, and contentment, by labour are bought; In raising yoursel', ye may help up your kin: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. Let every man aim in his heart to excel, Let every man ettle to fend for himsel'; Aye nourish ye stern independence within: The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.
THE WIDOW.
The widow is feckless, the widow 's alane, Yet nae ane e'er hears the puir widow complain; For, ah! there 's a Friend that the world wots na o', Wha brightens her ken, and wha lightens her wo. She looks a' around her, and what sees she there But quarrels and cavils, but sorrow and care? She looks in within, and she feels in her breast A dawning o' glory, a foretaste o' rest. The hope o' hereafter her lane bosom cheers, She langs sair to meet him wha left her in tears; And life's flickerin' licht, as it wanes fast awa', But fades to gie place to a far brichter daw. The God o' high heaven is her comfort and guide, When earthly friends leave her, He stands by her side; He soothes a' her sorrows, an' hushes her fears, An' fountains o' joy rise frae well-springs o' tears. Then, oh! shew the widow the smile on your face, She 's aft puir in gear, but she 's aft rich in grace; Be kind to the widow, her Friend is on high, You 'll meet wi' the widow again in the sky.