Volume 6 / Part 2 — JOHN MITCHELL.
Reading edition
John Mitchell, the Paisley bard, died in that place on the 12th August 1856, in his seventieth year. He was born at Paisley in 1786. The labour of weaving he early sought to relieve by the composition of verses. He contributed pieces, both in prose and verse, to the Moral and Literary Observer, a small Paisley periodical of the year 1823, and of which he was the publisher. In 1838, he appeared as the author of "A Night on the Banks of the Doon, and other Poems," a volume which was followed in 1840 by "The Wee Steeple's Ghaist, and other Poems and Songs," the latter being dedicated to Professor Wilson. In the year 1840, he likewise produced, jointly with a Mr Dickie, the "Philosophy of Witchcraft," a work which, published by Messrs Oliver and Boyd, was well received. His next publication appeared in 1845, with the title, "One Hundred Original Songs." His last work, "My Gray Goose Quill, and other Poems and Songs," was published in 1852.
Mitchell employed himself latterly in forwarding the sale of his publications, and succeeded by this course in securing a comfortable maintenance. He wrote verses with much readiness, and occasionally with considerable power. His songs, which we have selected for the present work, are distinguished by graceful simplicity and elegant pathos. Had Mitchell written less, and more carefully, he had reached a higher niche in the Temple of National Song. His manners were eccentric, and he was not unconscious of his poetical endowments.
BEAUTY.
What wakes the Poet's lyre? 'Tis Beauty; What kindles his poetic fire? 'Tis Beauty; What makes him seek, at evening's hour, The lonely glen, the leafy bower, When dew hangs on each little flower? Oh! it is Beauty. What melts the soldier's soul? 'Tis Beauty; What can his love of fame control? 'Tis Beauty; For oft, amid the battle's rage, Some lovely vision will engage His thoughts and war's rough ills assuage: Such power has Beauty. What tames the savage mood? 'Tis Beauty; What gives a polish to the rude? 'Tis Beauty; What gives the peasant's lowly state A charm which wealth cannot create, And on the good alone will wait? 'Tis faithful Beauty. Then let our favourite toast Be Beauty; Is it not king and peasant's boast? Yes, Beauty; Then let us guard with tender care The gentle, th' inspiring fair, And Love will a diviner air Impart to Beauty.
TO THE EVENING STAR.
Star of descending Night! Lovely and fair, Robed in thy mellow light, Subtle and rare; Whence are thy silvery beams, That o'er lone ocean gleams, And in our crystal streams Dip their bright hair? Far in yon liquid sky, Where streamers play And the red lightnings fly, Hold'st thou thy way; Clouds may envelop thee, Winds rave o'er land and sea, O'er them thy march is free As thine own ray.
OH! WAFT ME TO THE FAIRY CLIME.
Oh! waft me to the fairy clime Where Fancy loves to roam, Where Hope is ever in her prime, And Friendship has a home; There will I wander by the streams Where Song and Dance combine, Around my rosy waking dreams Ecstatic joys to twine. On Music's swell my thoughts will soar Above created things, And revel on the boundless shore Of rapt imaginings. The rolling spheres beyond earth's ken My fancy will explore, And seek, far from the haunts of men, The Poet's mystic lore. Love will add gladness to the scene, And strew my path with flowers; And Joy with Innocence will lean Amid my rosy bowers. Then waft me to the fairy clime Where Fancy loves to roam, Where Hope is ever in her prime, And Friendship has a home.
THE LOVE-SICK MAID.
The love-sick maid, the love-sick maid, Ah! who will comfort bring to the love-sick maid? Can the doctor cure her woe When she will not let him know Why the tears incessant flow From the love-sick maid? The flaunting day, the flaunting day, She cannot bear the glare of the flaunting day! For she sits and pines alone, And will comfort take from none; Nay, the very colour's gone From the love-sick maid. The secret 's out, the secret 's out, A doctor has been found, and the secret 's out! For she finds at e'ening's hour, In a rosy woodland bower, Charms worth a prince's dower To a love-sick maid.