Volume 6 / Part 2 — JOHN YOUNGER.
Reading edition
John Younger, the shoemaker of St Boswells, and author of the Prize Essay on the Sabbath, has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of his country. He was born on the 5th July 1785, at Longnewton village, in the parish of Ancrum, and county of Roxburgh. So early as his ninth year, he began to work at his father's trade of a shoemaker. In 1810 he married, and commenced shoemaking in the village of St Boswells, where he has continued to reside. Expert in his original profession, he has long been reputed for his skill in dressing hooks for Tweed angling; the latter qualification producing some addition to his emoluments. He holds the office of village postmaster.
A man of superior intellect and varied information, John Younger enjoys the respect of a wide circle of friends. His cottage is the resort of anglers of every rank; and among his correspondents he enumerates the most noted characters of the age. Letter writing is his favourite mode of recreation, and he has preserved copies of his letters in several interesting volumes. He has published a poetical brochure with the title, "Thoughts as they Rise;" also a "Treatise on River Angling." His Prize Essay on the Sabbath, entitled, "The Light of the Week," was published in 1849, and has commanded a wide circulation. Of his lyrical effusions we have selected the following from his MS. collection.
ILKA BLADE O' GRASS GETS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.
Oh, dinna be sae sair cast down, My ain sweet bairnies dear, Whatever storms in life may blaw, Take nae sic heart o' fear. Though life's been aye a checker'd scene Since Eve's first apple grew, Nae blade o' grass has been forgot O' its ain drap o' dew. The bonnie flowers o' Paradise, And a' that 's bloom'd sinsyne, By bank an' brae an' lover's bower, Adown the course o' time, Or 'neath the gardener's fostering hand,— Their annual bloom renew, Ilk blade o' grass has had as weel Its ain sweet drap o' dew. The oaks and cedars of the earth May toss their arms in air, Or bend beneath the sweeping blast That strips the forest bare; The flower enfolds while storms o'erpass, Till sunshine spreads anew, And sips, as does ilk blade o' grass, Its lucent drap o' dew. The great may loll in world's wealth And a' the pomp o' state, While labour, bent wi' eident cares, Maun toil baith ear and late. The poor may gae to bed distrest, With nae relief in view, And rising, like ilk blade o' grass, Shine wi' the pearl o' dew. Oh, what a gentle hand is His That cleeds the lilies fair, And o' the meanest thing in life Takes mair than mother's care! Can ye no put your trust in Him, With heart resign'd and true, Wha ne'er forgets to gie the grass, Ilk blade its drap o' dew.
THE MONTH OF JUNE.
O June, ye spring the loveliest flowers That a' our seasons yield; Ye deck sae flush the greenwood bowers, The garden, and the field; The pathway verge by hedge and tree, So fresh, so green, and gay, Where every lovely blue flower's e'e Is opening to the day. The river banks and craggy peaks In wilding blossoms drest; With ivy o'er their jutting nooks Ye screen the ouzel's nest; From precipice, abrupt and bold, Your tendrils flaunt in air, With craw-flowers dangling living gold Ye tuft the steep brown scaur. Your foliage shades the wild bird's nest From every prying e'e, With fairy fingers ye invest In woven flowers the lea; Around the lover's blissful hour Ye draw your leafy screen, And shade those in your rosy bower, Who love to muse unseen.