Volume 6 / Part 2 — THOMAS LYLE.
Reading edition
Thomas Lyle, author of the highly popular song, "Kelvin Grove," is a native of Paisley. Attending the philosophical and medical classes in the University of Glasgow, he obtained the diploma of surgeon in the year 1816. He commenced medical practice in Glasgow, where he remained till 1826, when he removed to the parish of Airth in Stirlingshire. The latter locality afforded him abundant opportunities for prosecuting his favourite study of botany; and he frequently proceeded at early dawn to great distances in quest of curious or rare plants, so as to gratify his peculiar tastes without interfering with the duties of his profession, or the conveniences of his patients. At an earlier period of life, having cherished a love for the ancient national music, he was in the habit of collecting and noting such of the older airs as were rapidly passing into oblivion. He was particularly struck with one of these airs, which he deemed worthy of more suitable words than those to which it was commonly sung.[31] At this period he often resorted, in his botanical rambles, to the wooded and sequestered banks of the Kelvin, about two miles north-west of Glasgow;[32] and in consequence, he was led to compose for his favourite tune the words of his beautiful song, "Kelvin Grove." "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was now in the course of being published, in sixpence numbers, under the editorship of his college friend and professional brother, John Sim, and to this work he contributed his new song. In a future number of the work, the song appeared without his name, as was requested, but with some unauthorised alterations. Of these he complained to Mr Sim, who laid the blame on Mr John Murdoch, who had succeeded him in the editorship, and Mr Lyle did not further prosecute inquiry on the subject. On the retirement of Mr Murdoch, the editorship of "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was intrusted to the poet Motherwell, who incautiously ascribed the song to Mr Sim in the index of the work. Sim died in the West Indies before this period;[33] and, in the belief that the song had been composed by him, Mr Purdie, music-seller in Edinburgh, made purchase of the copyright from his representatives, and published the words, with music arranged for the piano by Robert Archibald Smith. Mr Lyle now asserted his title to the authorship, and on Mr Sim's letter regarding the alterations being submitted to Messrs Motherwell and Smith, a decision in favour of his claim was pronounced by these gentlemen. Mr Lyle was shortly after invited by Mr Smith to contribute songs for the "Irish Minstrel," one of his numerous musical publications.
In 1827 Mr Lyle published the results of his researches into the song literature of his country, in a duodecimo volume, entitled "Ancient Ballads and Songs, chiefly from Tradition, Manuscripts, and scarce Works, with Biographical and Illustrative Notices." Of this work, the more interesting portion consists of "Miscellaneous Poems, by Sir William Mure, Knight of Rowallan," together with several songs of various merit by the editor.
Having acted as medical practitioner at Airth during the period of twenty-eight years, Mr Lyle, in the close of 1853, returned to Glasgow, where he soon found himself actively employed by the medical boards of the city during the prevalence of the Asiatic Cholera. At the present time he is one of the city district surgeons. A man of the most retiring dispositions, he has hitherto avoided public reputation, and has written verses, as he has studied botany, solely for his amusement. He will, however, be remembered as the writer of some exquisitely sweet and simple lyrics.
KELVIN GROVE.
Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O! Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O! Where the rose in all her pride, Paints the hollow dingle side, Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O! Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O! To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O! Where the glens rebound the call Of the roaring water's fall, Through the mountains rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O! O Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, O! When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, O! There the May pink's crimson plume Throws a soft but sweet perfume Round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie, O! Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, O! As the smile of fortune 's thine, bonnie lassie, O! Yet with fortune on my side, I could stay thy father's pride, And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, O! But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O! On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O! Ere yon golden orb of day Wake the warblers on the spray, From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O! Then farewell to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O! And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, O! To the river winding clear, To the fragrant-scented breer, Even to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O! When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, O! Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O! Then, Helen! shouldst thou hear Of thy lover on his bier, To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, O!
THE TRYSTING HOUR.
The night-wind's Eolian breezes, Chase melody over the grove, The fleecy clouds wreathing in tresses, Float rosy the woodlands above; Then tarry no longer, my true love, The stars hang their lamps in the sky, 'Tis lovely the landscape to view, love, When each bloom has a tear in its eye. So stilly the evening is closing, Bright dew-drops are heard as they fall, Eolian whispers reposing Breathe softly, I hear my love call; Yes, the light fairy step of my true love The night breeze is wafting to me; Over heathbell and violet blue, love, Perfuming the shadowy lea.
HARVEST SONG.[34]
The harvest morning breaks Breathing balm, and the lawn Through the mist in rosy streaks Gilds the dawn, While fairy troops descend, With the rolling clouds that bend O'er the forest as they wend Fast away, when the day Chases cloudy wreaths away From the land. The harvest breezes swell, And the song pours along, From the reapers in the dell, Joyous throng! The tiny gleaners come, Picking up their harvest home, As they o'er the stubble roam, Dancing here, sporting there, All the balmy sunny air Is full of song. The harvest evening falls, While each flower round the bower, Breathing odour, now recalls The lover's hour. The moon enthroned in blue Lights the rippling lake anew, And the wailing owls' whoo! whoo! From the glen again, again, Wakes the stillness of the scene On my adieu.