  The author of numerous poetical works, Andrew Park was born at Renfrew, on the 7th March 1811. After an ordinary education at the parish school, he attended during two sessions the University of Glasgow. In his fifteenth year he entered a commission warehouse in Paisley, and while resident in that town, published his first poem, entitled the "Vision of Mankind." About the age of twenty he went to Glasgow, as salesman in a hat manufactory; and shortly after, he commenced business on his own account. At this period he published several additional volumes of poems. His business falling off in consequence of a visitation of cholera in the city, he disposed of his stock and proceeded to London, to follow the career of a man of letters. After some years' residence in the metropolis, he returned to Glasgow in 1841; and having purchased the stock of the poet Dugald Moore, recently deceased, he became a bookseller in Ingram Street. The speculation proved unfortunate, and he finally retired from the concerns of business. He has since lived principally in Glasgow, but occasionally in London. In 1856 he visited Egypt and other Eastern countries, and the following year published a narrative of his travels in a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Egypt and the East." Of the twelve volumes of poems which Mr Park has given to the public, that entitled "Silent Love" has been the most popular. It has appeared in a handsome form, with illustrations by J. Noel Paton, R.S.A. In one of his poems, entitled "Veritas," published in 1849, he has supplied a narrative of the principal events of his life up to that period. Of his numerous songs, several have obtained a wide popularity. The whole of his poetical works were published in 1854, by Bogue of London, in a handsome volume, royal octavo.
HURRAH FOR THE HIGHLANDS. Hurrah for the Highlands! the stern Scottish Highlands,
The home of the clansmen, the brave and the free;
Where the clouds love to rest, on the mountain's rough breast
Ere they journey afar o'er the islandless sea.
'Tis there where the cataract sings to the breeze,
As it dashes in foam like a spirit of light;
And 'tis there the bold fisherman bounds o'er the seas,
In his fleet tiny bark, through the perilous night.
'Tis the land of deep shadow, of sunshine, and shower,
Where the hurricane revels in madness on high;
For there it has might that can war with its power,
In the wild dizzy cliffs that are cleaving the sky.
I have trod merry England, and dwelt on its charms;
I have wander'd through Erin, that gem of the sea;
But the Highlands alone the true Scottish heart warms—
Her heather is blooming, her eagles are free!
OLD SCOTLAND, I LOVE THEE! Old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!
Thy cloud-cover'd hills that look up from the seas,
Wave sternly their wild woods aloft in the breeze;
Where flies the bold eagle in freedom on high,
Through regions of cloud in its wild native sky!
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!
O name not the land where the olive-tree grows,
Nor the land of the shamrock, nor land of the rose;
But shew me the thistle that waves its proud head,
O'er heroes whose blood for their country was shed.
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!
Then tell me of bards and of warriors bold,
Who wielded their brands in the battles of old,
Who conquer'd and died for their loved native land,
With its maidens so fair, and its mountains so grand!
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!
FLOWERS OF SUMMER. Flowers of summer, sweetly springing,
Deck the dewy lap of earth;
Birds of love are fondly singing
In their gay and jocund mirth:
Streams are pouring from their fountains,
Echoing through each rugged dell;
Heather bells adorn the mountains,
Bid the city, love! farewell.
See the boughs are rich in blossom,
Through each sunlit, silent grove;
Cast all sorrow from thy bosom—
Freedom is the soul of love!
Let us o'er the valleys wander,
Nor a frown within us dwell,
And in joy see Nature's grandeur—
Bid the city, love! farewell.
Morning's sun shall then invite us
By the ever sparkling streams;
Evening's fall again delight us
With its crimson-coloured beams.
Flowers of summer sweetly springing,
Deck the dewy lap of earth;
Birds of love are loudly singing,
In their gay and jocund mirth.
HOME OF MY FATHERS. Home of my fathers, though far from thy grandeur,
In joy or in sorrow, my heart turns to thee;
In visions of night o'er thy loved scenes I wander,
And dwell with those friends that are dearest to me!
I see thy blue hills, where the thunders are leaping,
Where springs the loud cascade to caverns below;
The clouds round their summits their dark watch are keeping,
Thy ravines are streak'd with the purest of snow.
Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow—
Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!
Warm are thy hearts, though thy breezes be chilly;
Rosy thy maidens, and artless and gay!
Cradled on high lie thy lakes pure and stilly,
Surrounded by mountains gigantic and gray!
Thy stern thistle still shoots aloft in its glory,
And sheds its bright dew tears o'er old heroes' graves,
Thy rudely rear'd cairns echo many a story,
Of those who fell bravely, who scorn'd to be slaves!
Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow—
Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!
Land of the pibroch, the plaid, and the heather,
The lake and the mountain, the streamlet and glen,
The green thoughts of youth do not easily wither,
But dwell on thy charms, and thy bravest of men!
Both genius and love have in raptures hung o'er thee,
And wafted thy name in sweet sounds o'er the sea—
Till nations afar have bent low to adore thee,
Home of my fathers! my heart turns to thee!
Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow—
Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!
WHAT AILS MY HEART? What ails my heart—what dims my e'e?
What maks you seem sae wae, Jamie?
Ye werena aye sae cauld to me;
Ye ance were blythe and gay, Jamie.
I 'm wae to see you, like a flower
Kill'd by the winter's snaw, Jamie,
Droop farer down frae hour to hour,
An' waste sae fast awa, Jamie.
I 'm sure your Jeanie's kind and true,
She loves nae ane but thee, Jamie;
She ne'er has gien thee cause to rue;
If sae—ye still are free, Jamie.
I winna tak your hand and heart,
If there is ane mair dear, Jamie;
I 'd sooner far for ever part
With thee—though wi' a tear, Jamie.
Then tell me your doubts and your fears,
Keep naething hid frae me, Jamie;
Are ye afraid o' coming years,
O' darker days to me, Jamie?
I 'll share your grief, I 'll share your joy,
They 'll come alike to me, Jamie;
Misfortune's hand may all destroy,
Except my love for thee, Jamie.
AWAY TO THE HIGHLANDS. Away to the Highlands, where Lomond is flowing,
Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!
Though scenes of the fairest are Windsor adorning,
Though England's proud structures enrapture the view;
Yet Nature's wild grandeur, all artifice scorning,
Is seen 'mong our mountains so bonnie and blue.
Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing,
Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!
Benlomond is seen in his monarch-like glory,
His foot in the sea and his head in the sky;
His broad lofty brow is majestic and hoary,
And round him, and round him the elements fly.
The winds are his music, the clouds are his clothing,
The sun is his shield, as he wheels blazing by;
When once on his summit you 'd think you were soaring
'Mong bright beaming stars, they are rolling so nigh!
Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing,
Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!
I 'M AWAY. Tune—"Come under my plaidie." Once more in the Highlands I wander alone,
Where the thistle and heather are bonnie and blown;
By mountain and streamlet, by cavern and glen,
Where echo repeats the sweet wood-notes again.
Give courtiers their gay-gilded halls and their grandeur,
Give misers their gold, all the bliss they can know;
But let me meet Flora, while pensive I wander—
Fair Flora, dear Flora! the maid of Glencoe!
Oh, first when we met, being handsome and gay,
I felt she had stole my affections away;
The mavis sang loud on the sweet hawthorn tree,
But her voice was more sweet and endearing to me.
The sun spread his rays of bright gold o'er the fountain,
The hours glided by without languor or woe,
As we pull'd the sweet flowers from the steep rocky mountains—
My blessings attend thee, sweet maid of Glencoe!
The glen is more rugged, the scene more sublime,
Now hallow'd by love, and by absence, and time!
And fondly resemble the thoughts of my heart,
Untouch'd by the cold soothing fingers of art.
And lo! as I gaze on the charms of my childhood,
Where bright in the heath-bell the dew-drops still glow,
A fairy-like form ushers forth from the wild wood—
'Tis Flora, fair Flora! the maid of Glencoe.
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