  Alexander Carlile was born at Paisley in the year 1788. His progenitors are said to have been remarkable for their acquaintance with the arts, and relish for elegant literature. His eldest brother, the late Dr Carlile of Dublin attained much eminence as a profound thinker and an accomplished theologian. Having received a liberal education, first at the grammar-school of Paisley, and afterwards in the University of Glasgow, the subject of this sketch settled as a manufacturer in his native town. Apart from the avocations of business, much of his time has been devoted to the concerns of literature; he has contributed to the more esteemed periodicals, and composed verses for several works on the national minstrelsy. At an early period he composed the spirited and popular song, beginning "Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?" which has since obtained a place in all the collections. His only separate publication, a duodecimo volume of "Poems," appeared in 1855, and has been favourably received. Mr Carlile is much devoted to the interests of his native town, and has sedulously endeavoured to promote the moral and social welfare of his fellow-townsmen. His unobtrusive worth and elegant accomplishments have endeared him to a wide circle of friends. His latter poetical compositions have been largely pervaded by religious sentiment.
WHA'S AT THE WINDOW?[30] Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?
Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?
Wha but blithe Jamie Glen,
He 's come sax miles and ten,
To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa, awa,
To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa.
He has plighted his troth, and a', and a',
Leal love to gi'e, and a', and a',
And sae has she dune,
By a' that 's abune,
For he lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a', 'bune a',
He lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a'.
Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,
Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,
But the bride's modest e'e,
And warm cheek are to me
'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a', and a',
'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a'.
It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha',
It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha';
There 's quaffing and laughing,
There 's dancing and daffing,
And the bride's father 's blithest of a', of a',
The bride's father 's blithest of a'.
It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,
It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,
That my heart is sae eerie
When a' the lave 's cheerie,
But it 's just that she 'll aye be awa, awa,
It 's just that she 'll aye be awa.
MY BROTHERS ARE THE STATELY TREES. My brothers are the stately trees
That in the forests grow;
The simple flowers my sisters are,
That on the green bank blow.
With them, with them, I am a child
Whose heart with mirth is dancing wild.
The daisy, with its tear of joy,
Gay greets me as I stray;
How sweet a voice of welcome comes
From every trembling spray!
How light, how bright, the golden-wing'd hours
I spend among those songs and flowers!
I love the Spirit of the Wind,
His varied tones I know;
His voice of soothing majesty,
Of love and sobbing woe;
Whate'er his varied theme may be,
With his my spirit mingles free.
I love to tread the grass-green path,
Far up the winding stream;
For there in nature's loneliness,
The day is one bright dream.
And still the pilgrim waters tell
Of wanderings wild by wood and dell.
Or up the mountain's brow I toil
Beneath a wid'ning sky,
Seas, forests, lakes, and rivers wide,
Crowding the wondering eye.
Then, then, my soul on eagle's wings,
To cloudless regions upwards springs!
The stars—the stars! I know each one,
With all its soul of love,
They beckon me to come and live
In their tearless homes above;
And then I spurn earth's songs and flowers,
And pant to breathe in heaven's own bowers.
THE VALE OF KILLEAN. O yes, there 's a valley as calm and as sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
So bland in its beauty, so rich in its green,
'Mid Scotia's dark mountains—the Vale of Killean.
The flocks on its soft lap so peacefully roam,
The stream seeks the deep lake as the child seeks its home,
That has wander'd all day, to its lullaby close,
Singing blithe 'mid the wild-flowers, and fain would repose.
How solemn the broad hills that curtain around
This sanctuary of nature, 'mid a wilderness found,
Whose echoes low whisper, "Bid the world farewell,
And with lowly contentment here peacefully dwell!"
Then build me a cot by that lake's verdant shore,
'Mid the world's wild turmoil I 'll mingle no more,
And the tidings evoking the sigh and the tear,
Of man's crimes and his follies, no more shall I hear.
Young Morn, as on tiptoe he ushers the day,
Will teach fading Hope to rekindle her ray;
And pale Eve, with her rapture tear, soft will impart
To the soul her own meekness—a rich glow to the heart.
The heavings of passion all rocked to sweet rest,
As repose its still waters, so repose shall this breast;
And 'mid brightness and calmness my spirit shall rise,
Like the mist from the mountain to blend with the skies.
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