The author of some popular songs, and of four volumes of MS. poetry, John Dunlop is entitled to a place in the catalogue of Caledonian lyrists. The younger son of Colin Dunlop of Carmyle, he was born in November 1755, in the mansion of the paternal estate, in the parish of Old Monkland, and county of Lanark. Commencing his career as a merchant in Glasgow, he was in 1796 elevated to the Lord Provostship of the city. He afterwards accepted the office of Collector of Customs at Borrowstounness, and subsequently occupied the post of Collector at Port-Glasgow. His death took place at Port-Glasgow, in October 1820.
Possessed of fine poetic tastes and an elegant fancy, Dunlop composed verses on every variety of theme, with facility and power. His MS. volumes, which have been kindly submitted to our inspection by a descendant, and from which we have made some extracts, contain numerous poetical compositions worthy of being presented to the public. A vein of humour pervades the majority of his verses; in the elegiac strain he is eminently plaintive. He is remembered as a man of excellent dispositions and eminent social qualities: he sung with grace the songs of his country, and delighted in humorous conversation. His elder brother was proprietor of Garnkirk, and his son, who bore the same Christian name, became Sheriff of Renfrewshire. The latter is entitled to remembrance as the author of "The History of Fiction."
THE YEAR THAT'S AWA'.
Here's to the year that's awa'!
We will drink it in strong and in sma';
And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie we lo'ed,
While swift flew the year that's awa'.
And here's to ilk, &c.
Here's to the sodger who bled,
And the sailor who bravely did fa';
Their fame is alive, though their spirits are fled
On the wings of the year that's awa'.
Their fame is alive, &c.
Here's to the friends we can trust
When the storms of adversity blaw;
May they live in our song, and be nearest our hearts,
Nor depart like the year that's awa'.
May they live, &c.
OH, DINNA ASK ME.
Tune—'Comin' through the rye.'
Oh, dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee;
Troth, I daurna tell:
Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye;
Ask it o' yoursel'.
Oh, dinna look sae sair at me,
For weel ye ken me true;
Oh, gin ye look sae sair at me,
I daurna look at you.
When ye gang to yon braw, braw town,
And bonnie lassies see,
Oh, dinna, Jamie, look at them,
Lest you should mind na me.
For I could never bide the lass
That ye'd lo'e mair than me;
And oh, I'm sure, my heart would break,
Gin ye'd prove false to me.
LOVE FLIES THE HAUNTS OF POMP AND POWER[9]
Love flies the haunts of pomp and power,
To find the calm retreat;
Loathing he leaves the velvet couch,
To seek the moss-grown seat.
Splendid attire and gilded crowns
Can ne'er with love accord;
But russet robes, and rosy wreathes,
His purest joys afford.
From pride, from business, and from care,
His greatest sorrows flow;
When these usurp the heart of man,
That heart he ne'er can know.
WAR.
Tune—'Where they go, where they go.'
For twenty years and more,
Bloody war,
Bloody war;
For twenty years and more,
Bloody war.
For twenty years and more
We heard the cannons roar
To swell the tide of gore,
Bloody war!
A tyrant on a throne
We have seen,
We have seen;
A tyrant on a throne
Who thought the earth his own,
But now is hardly known
To have been.
Who rung the loud alarm
To be free,
To be free?
Who rung the loud alarm
To be free?
'Twas Britain broke the charm,
And with her red right arm
She rung the loud alarm
To be free.
The battle van she led
Of the brave,
Of the brave;
The battle van she led
Of the brave;
The battle van she led,
Till tyranny lay dead,
And glory crown'd the head
Of the brave.
Give honour to the brave
Where they lie,
Where they lie;
Give honour to the brave
Where they lie;
Give honour to the brave,
And sacred be the grave,
On land or in the wave,
Where they lie.
