Erskine Conolly was born at Crail, Fifeshire, on the 12th of June 1796. At the burgh school of his native town, he received an ordinary elementary education, and was afterwards apprenticed to Mr Cockburn, bookseller in Anstruther. He subsequently commenced business as a bookseller in the small town of Colinsburgh; but after a trial of several years, not having succeeded according to his expectations, he removed to Edinburgh, where he was employed as a clerk by Mr Thomas Megget, writer to the signet. At a future period, he entered into partnership with Mr James Gillon, writer and messenger in Edinburgh; and after his partner's death, carried on the business on his own account. He died at Edinburgh on the 7th January 1843. Of highly sociable dispositions, and with talents of a superior order, Conolly was much beloved among a wide circle of friends. Unambitious of fame as a poet, though he frequently wrote verses, he never ventured on a publication. His popular song of "Mary Macneil," appeared in the Edinburgh Intelligencer of the 23d December 1840; it is much to be remarked for deep feeling and genuine tenderness.
MARY MACNEIL.
Air—"Kinloch of Kinloch."
The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin',
Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fareweel;
An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin',
As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil.
A' glowin' wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover,
Her een-tellin' secrets she thought to conceal;
And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discover
The tryst o' young Ronald an' Mary Macneil.
Oh! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily,
That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal;
Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley
Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil.
She moved, and the graces play'd sportive around her;
She smiled, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill;
She sang, and the mavis cam listenin' in wonder,
To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil.
But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin',
Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal;
An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in',
Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal.
The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hiein';
The autumn, his corse on the red battle fiel';
The winter, the maiden found heartbroken, dyin';
An' spring spread the green turf owre Mary Macneil!
THERE 'S A THRILL OF EMOTION.
There 's a thrill of emotion, half-painful, half-sweet,
When the object of untold affection we meet,
But the pleasure remains, though the pang is as brief,
As the touch and recoil of the sensitive leaf.
There 's a thrill of distress, between anger and dread,
When a frown o'er the fair face of beauty is spread;
But she smiles, and away the disturber is borne,
Like sunbeams dispelling the vapours of morn.
There 's a thrill of endearment, all raptures above,
When the pure lip imprints the first fond kiss of love,
Which, like songs of our childhood, to memory clings,
The longest, the last of terrestrial things.
