William Nicholson, known as the Galloway poet, was born at Tannymaus, in the parish of Borgue, on the 15th August 1782. His father followed the occupation of a carrier; he subsequently took a farm, and finally kept a tavern. Of a family of eight children, William was the youngest; he inherited a love of poetry from his mother, a woman of much intelligence. Early sent to school, impaired eyesight interfered with his progress in learning. Disqualified by his imperfect vision from engaging in manual labour, he chose the business of pedlar or travelling merchant. In the course of his wanderings he composed verses, which, sung at the various homesteads he visited with his wares, became popular. Having submitted some of his poetical compositions to Dr Duncan of Ruthwell, and Dr Alexander Murray, the famous philologist, these gentlemen commended his attempting a publication. In the course of a personal canvass, he procured 1500 subscribers; and in 1814 appeared as the author of "Tales in Verse, and Miscellaneous Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Manners," Edinburgh, 12mo. By the publication he realised £100, but this sum was diminished by certain imprudent excesses. With the balance, he republished some tracts on the subject of Universal Redemption, which exhausted the remainder of his profits. In 1826 he proceeded to London, where he was kindly entertained by Allan Cunningham and other distinguished countrymen. On his return to Galloway, he was engaged for a short time as assistant to a cattle-driver. In 1828, he published a second edition of his poems, which was dedicated to Henry, now Lord Brougham, and to which was prefixed a humorous narrative of his life by Mr Macdiarmid. Latterly, Nicholson assumed the character of a gaberlunzie; he played at merrymakings on his bagpipes, for snuff and whisky. For sometime his head-quarters were at Howford, in the parish of Tongland; he ultimately was kept by the Poors' Board at Kirk-Andrews, in his native parish. He died at Brigend of Borgue, on the 16th May 1849. He was rather above the middle size, and well formed. His countenance was peculiarly marked, and his eyes were concealed by his bushy eye-brows and long brown hair. As a poet and song-writer he claims a place in the national minstrelsy, which the irregular habits of his life will not forfeit. The longest poem in his published volume, entitled "The Country Lass," in the same measure as the "Queen's Wake," contains much simple and graphic delineation of life; while the ballad of "The Brownie of Blednoch," has passages of singular power. His songs are true to nature.
THE BRAES OF GALLOWAY.
Tune—"White Cockade."
O lassie, wilt thou gang wi' me,
And leave thy friens i' th' south countrie—
Thy former friens and sweethearts a',
And gang wi' me to Gallowa'?
O Gallowa' braes they wave wi' broom,
And heather-bells in bonnie bloom;
There 's lordly seats, and livins braw,
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'!
There 's stately woods on mony a brae,
Where burns and birds in concert play;
The waukrife echo answers a',
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.
O Gallowa' braes, &c.
The simmer shiel I 'll build for thee
Alang the bonnie banks o' Dee,
Half circlin' roun' my father's ha',
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.
O Gallowa' braes, &c.
When autumn waves her flowin' horn,
And fields o' gowden grain are shorn,
I 'll busk thee fine, in pearlins braw,
To join the dance in Gallowa'.
O Gallowa' braes, &c.
At e'en, whan darkness shrouds the sight,
And lanely, langsome is the night,
Wi' tentie care my pipes I 'll thraw,
Play "A' the way to Gallowa'."
O Gallowa' braes, &c.
Should fickle fortune on us frown,
Nae lack o' gear our love should drown;
Content should shield our haddin' sma',
Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.
Come while the blossom 's on the broom,
And heather bells sae bonnie bloom;
Come let us be the happiest twa
On a' the braes o' Gallowa'!
THE HILLS OF THE HIGHLANDS.
Tune—"Ewe Bughts, Marion."
Will ye go to the Highlan's, my Mary,
And visit our haughs and our glens?
There 's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlan's,
That lassie i' th' Lowlands ne'er kens.
'Tis true we 've few cowslips or roses,
Nae lilies grow wild on the lea;
But the heather its sweet scent discloses,
And the daisy 's as sweet to the e'e.
See yon far heathy hills, whare they 're risin',
Whose summits are shaded wi' blue;
There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin',
Or feedin' their fawns, love, for you.
Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin',
Whan shepherds return frae the hill,
Aroun' by the banks o' Loch Lomon',
While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill.
Right sweet is the low-setting sunbeams,
That points owre the quivering stream;
But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary,
And kinder the blinks o' her een.
THE BANKS OF TARF.
Tune—"Sin' my Uncle 's dead."
Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowes
Wi' siller waves to saut sea rows;
And mony a greenwood cluster grows,
And harebells bloomin' bonnie, O!
Below a spreadin' hazle lea,
Fu' snugly hid whare nane could see,
While blinkin' love beam'd frae her e'e,
I met my bonnie Annie, O!
Her neck was o' the snaw-drap hue,
Her lips like roses wet wi' dew;
But O! her e'e, o' azure blue,
Was past expression bonnie, O!
Like threads o' gowd her flowin' hair,
That lightly wanton'd wi' the air;
But vain were a' my rhymin' ware
To tell the charms o' Annie, O!
While smilin' in my arms she lay,
She whisperin' in my ear did say,
"Oh, how could I survive the day,
Should you prove fause, my Tammie, O?"
"While spangled fish glide to the main,
While Scotlan's braes shall wave wi' grain,
Till this fond heart shall break wi' pain,
I 'll aye be true to Annie, O!"
The Beltan winds blew loud and lang,
And ripplin' raised the spray alang;
We cheerfu' sat, and cheerfu' sang,
The banks of Tarf are bonnie, O!
Though sweet is spring, whan young and gay,
And blithe the blinks o' summer day;
I fear nae winter cauld and blae,
If blest wi' love and Annie, O!
O! WILL YE GO TO YON BURN SIDE.
Tune—"Will ye walk the woods with me?"
O! will ye go to yon burn side,
Amang the new-made hay;
And sport upon the flowery swaird,
My ain dear May?
The sun blinks blithe on yon burn side,
Whar lambkins lightly play,
The wild bird whistles to his mate,
My ain dear May.
The waving woods, wi' mantle green,
Shall shield us in the bower,
Whare I 'll pu' a posy for my May,
O' mony a bonnie flower.
My father maws ayont the burn,
My mammy spins at hame;
And should they see thee here wi' me,
I 'd better been my lane.
The lightsome lammie little kens
What troubles it await—
Whan ance the flush o' spring is o'er,
The fause bird lea'es its mate.
The flowers will fade, the woods decay,
And lose their bonnie green;
The sun wi' clouds may be o'ercast,
Before that it be e'en.
Ilk thing is in its season sweet;
So love is in its noon:
But cankering time may soil the flower,
And spoil its bonnie bloom.
Oh, come then, while the summer shines,
And love is young and gay;
Ere age his withering, wintry blast
Blaws o'er me and my May.
For thee I 'll tend the fleecy flocks,
Or haud the halesome plough;
And nightly clasp thee to my breast,
And prove aye leal and true.
The blush o'erspread her bonnie face,
She had nae mair to say,
But gae her hand and walk'd alang,
The youthfu', bloomin' May.
