MARGARET CRAWFORD.
Reading edition
The author of "Rustic Lays," an interesting volume of lyric poetry, Margaret Crawford was born on the 4th February 1833, at Gilmerton, in the parish of Liberton, Mid-Lothian. With limited opportunities of attending school, she was chiefly indebted for her elementary training to occasional instructions communicated by her mother. Her father, an operative gardener, removed in 1842 to Torwoodlee, Roxburghshire. It was while living there, under her parents' roof, that, so early as her thirteenth year, she first essayed to write verses. Through the beneficence of Mrs Meiklam of Torwoodlee, whose husband her father served, she was taught dress-making. She subsequently accepted the situation of nurse-maid at Craignish Castle, Argyllshire. In 1852, her parents removed to the village of Stow, in the upper district of Mid-Lothian. An inmate of their humble cottage, she has for some years been employed as a dress-maker. Her "Rustic Lays" appeared in 1855, in an elegant little volume. Of its contents she thus remarks in the preface: "Many of these pieces were composed by the authoress on the banks of the Gala, whose sweet, soft music, mingling with the melodies of the woodland, has often charmed her into forgetfulness of the rough realities of life. Others were composed at the fireside, in her father's cottage, at the hours of the gloamin', when, after the bustle of the day had ceased, the clouds and cares of the present were chased away by the bright dreams of the past, and the happy hopes of the future, till she found that her musings had twined themselves into numbers, and assumed the form in which they now appear."
MY NATIVE LAND.
My native land! my native land! Where liberty shall firmly stand, Where men are brave in heart and hand, In ancient Caledonia! How dear to me those gurgling rills That wander free amang the hills! How sweet to me the sang that fills The groves o' Caledonia! They tell me o' a distant isle Where summer suns for ever smile; But frae my heart they 'll never wile My love for Caledonia! And what are a' their flowery plains, If fill'd with weeping slav'ry's chains? Nae foot o' slavery ever stains My native Caledonia! Though cauld 's the sun that shed's his rays O'er Scotland's bonnie woods and braes, Oh, let me spend my latest days In ancient Caledonia! My native land! my native land! Where liberty shall firmly stand, Where men are brave in heart and hand— True sons of Caledonia!
THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL.
Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness— Far from my dear native country I roam; Fondly I cling to the bright scenes of gladness That shone o'er my heart in my dear happy home. Far from the home of my childhood I wander, Far from the friends I may never meet more; Oft on those visions of bliss I shall ponder— Visions that memory alone can restore. Friends of my youth I shall love you for ever— Closer and firmer ye twine round my heart; Though now the wide sea our lot may dissever, Affection and friendship can never depart. Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness— Dear to my heart thou shalt ever remain! Oh, when shall I gaze on those bright scenes of gladness? When shall I visit my country again?
THE STREAM OF LIFE.
Down by a crystal stream Musing I stray'd, As 'neath the summer beam Lightly it play'd, Winding by field and fen, Mountain and meadow, then Stealing through wood and glen, Soft'ning the shade. Thus, then, methought, is life; Onward it flows— Now mingling peace with strife, Toil with repose— Now sparkling joyously Under the glare of day, Drinking each sunny ray, Purely it flows. Now gliding peacefully, Calm and serene, Smoothly it takes its way, Softly I ween Murmur its waters past— Oh, will that stillness last? See, rocks are nearing fast, Changing the scene. Wildly it dashes now, Loudly it roars, Over the craggy brow Fiercely it pours. All in commotion lost, Wave over wave is toss'd; Spray, white as winter's frost, Up from it soars. Yet where the conflict 's worst Brightest it gleams; Rays long in silence nursed Shoot forth in streams: Beauties before unknown Out from its breast are thrown; Light, like a golden zone, Brilliantly beams. Thus in the Christian's breast Pure faith may lie, Hid in the day of rest Deep from the eye; But when life's shadows lower Faith lights the darkest hour, Driving, by heavenly power, Gloom from the sky.
DAY-DREAMS OF OTHER YEARS.
There are moments when my spirit wanders back to other years, And time long, long departed, like the present still appears; And I revel in the sunshine of those happy, happy hours, When the sky of youth was cloudless, and its path was strewn with flowers. O those days of dreamy sweetness! O those visions of delight! Weaving garlands for the future, making all of earth too bright; They come creeping through my memory like messengers of peace, Telling tales of bygone blessings, bidding present sorrows cease. Long-lost friends are gath'ring round me, smiling faces, gentle forms, All unconscious of earth's struggles, all unmindful of its storms— Beaming radiantly and beautiful, as in the days of youth, When friendship was no mockery, when every thought was truth. Joy, illuming every bosom, made fair nature fairer still— Mirth sported on each summer breeze, and sung in every rill; Beauty gleaming all around us, bright as dreams of fairy land— Oh, faded now that lustre, scatter'd far that happy band! Now deeply traced with sorrow is the once unclouded brow, And eyes that sparkled joyously are dim with weeping now; We are tasting life in earnest—all its vain illusions gone— And the stars that glisten'd o'er our path are falling one by one. Some are sleeping with their kindred—summer blossoms o'er them wave; Some, lonely and unfriended, with the stranger found a grave; While others now are wand'ring on a far and foreign shore, And that happy, loving company shall meet—ah! never more. But afar in mem'ry's garden, like a consecrated spot, The heart's first hopes are hidden, and can never be forgot; And the light that cheer'd us onward, in our airy early days— Oft we linger in the distance to look back upon its rays. Old Time, with hand relentless, may shed ruins o'er the earth, May strew our path with sorrow, make a desert of our hearth— Change may blight our fairest blossoms, shroud our clearest light in gloom; But the flow'ry fields of early years shall never lose their bloom.
AFFECTION'S FAITH.
Away on the breast of the ocean, Far away o'er the billowy brine, 'Mid the strife of the boiling commotion, Where the storm and the tempest combine, Roams my heart, of its wand'ring ne'er weary; While Hope, with her heavenly smile, Cheers the bosom that else would be dreary, And points me to blessings the while. Of the far-hidden future still dreaming, On the wild wings of fancy I fly, And the star of affection, bright beaming, Is piercing the gloom of our sky; And my home is away o'er the ocean, Afar o'er the wide swelling sea, Where a heart, in its purest devotion, Is breathing fond blessings on me.