Alexander Jamieson was born in the village of Dalmellington, Ayrshire, on the 29th January 1789. After a course of study at the University of Edinburgh, he obtained licence as a medical practitioner. In 1819, he settled as a surgeon and apothecary in the town of Alloa. A skilful mechanician, he constructed a small printing-press for his own use; he was likewise ardently devoted to the study of botany. He composed verses with remarkable facility, many of which he contributed to the Stirling Journal newspaper. His death was peculiarly melancholy: he had formed one of a pic-nic party, on a fine summer day, to the summit of Bencleugh, one of the Ochils, and descending by a shorter route to visit a patient at Tillicoultry, he missed his footing, and was precipitated about two hundred feet into one of the ravines. He was early next morning discovered by a shepherd, but only survived a few hours afterwards. His death took place on the 26th July 1826. Possessed of varied talents, and excellent dispositions, Jamieson was deeply regretted by his friends. He left a widow, who died lately in Dunfermline. His songs, of which two specimens are adduced, afford evidence of power.
THE MAID WHO WOVE.[11]
"Russian Air."
The maid who wove the rosy wreath
With every flower—hath wrought a spell,
And though her chaplets fragrance breathe
And balmy sweets—I know full well,
'Neath every bud, or blossom gay,
There lurks a chain—Love's tyranny.
Though round her ruby lips, enshrin'd,
Sits stillness, soft as evening skies—
Though crimson'd cheek you seldom find,
Or glances from her downcast eyes—
There lurks, unseen, a world of charms,
Which ne'er betray young Love's alarms.
O trust not to her silent tongue;
Her settled calm, or absent smile;
Nor dream that nymph, so fair and young,
May not enchain in Love's soft guile;
For where Love is—or what's Love's spell—
No mortal knows—no tongue can tell.
A SIGH AND A SMILE.
Welsh Air—"Sir William Watkin Wynne."
From Beauty's soft lip, like the balm of its roses,
Or breath of the morning, a sigh took its flight;
Nor far had it stray'd forth, when Pity proposes
The wanderer should lodge in this bosom a night.
But scarce had the guest, in that peaceful seclusion,
His lodging secured, when a conflict arose,
Each feeling was changed, every thought was delusion,
Nor longer my breast knew the calm of repose.
They say that young Love is a rosy-cheek'd bowyer,
At random the shafts from his silken string fly,
But surely the urchin of peace is destroyer,
Whose arrows are dipp'd in the balm of a sigh.
O yes! for he whisper'd, "To Beauty's shrine hie thee;
There worship to Cupid, and wait yet awhile;
A cure she can give, with the balm can supply thee,
The wound from a sigh can be cured by a smile."
