John Finlay was born at Glasgow in 1808, and is one of the partners in the respectable firm of R. G. Finlay & Co., manufacturers in that city. Amidst due attention to the active prosecution of business, he has long been keenly devoted to the principal national games—curling, angling, bowling, quoiting, and archery—in all of which he has frequently carried off prizes at the various competitions throughout the country. To impart humorous sociality to the friendly meetings of the different societies of which he is a member, Mr Finlay was led to become a song-writer. There is scarcely a characteristic of any of his favourite games which he has not celebrated in racy verse. Some of his songs have obtained celebrity in certain counties where the national sports are peculiarly cultivated.
THE NOBLE SCOTTISH GAME.
Air—"Castles in the Air."
The King is on the throne wi' his sceptre an' his croon,
The elements o' cauld are the courtiers staunin' roun';
He lifts his icy haun', an' he speaks wi' awe profound,
He chills the balmy air, and he binds the yielding ground;
He calms the raging winds when they moan and loudly rave,
He stops the rinnin' stream, and he stills the dancin' wave;
He calls the curlers on to the field of hope and fame,
An' the spreading lake resounds wi' the noble Scottish game!
The hedges an' the trees are a' hung wi' pearls braw,
An' the rinks are glancing clear 'mang the heaps o' shinin' snaw;
The wee birds in the blast are a' tremblin' wi' the cauld;
The sheep are lyin' close in the safely guarded fauld;
The farmer leaves the plough, an' the weaver leaves the loom,
Auld age gangs totterin' by wi' the youth in manhood's bloom;
The miseries o' life are a' banish'd far frae hame,
When the curlers meet to play at the brave old Scottish game!
It makes the auld folk young, an' the crimson tide to flow,
It gars the pale face shine wi' a fresh and ruddy glow;
The rich forget their state and the charms o' wealth and power,
When the bosom swells wi' joy in the bright triumphant hour.
The wise may laugh an' sneer, and the unco guid may gloom
At the happy, happy man, wi' his curlin' stanes and broom;
The melody to charm is the sport we love to name,
Ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old Scottish game!
The warm and glowin' clime will subdue the manly form;
The curler's happy hame is the land o' mist an' storm,
Where the dreary winter reigns wi' a wide extended sway,
An' the heathy moors are clad in a robe o' white array,
Till the gentle breath o' spring blaws the icy fields awa',
To woo the springin' flowers, and to melt the frozen snaw.
When the curlin' days are o'er, a' the joys o' life are tame—
There 's naething warms the heart like the noble Scottish game!
THE MERRY BOWLING-GREEN.
Air—"Castles in the Air."
The gloomy days are gone
With the blasts o' winter keen;
The flowers are blooming fair,
And the trees are budding green;
The lark is in the sky,
With his music ringing loud,
Raining notes of joy
From the sunny Summer cloud—
Springing at the dawn
With the blushing light of day,
And quivering with delight
In the morning's golden ray;
But there 's rapture dearer far
In the warm and social power
Of the merry bowling-green,
In the happy evening hour!
The lights and shades of life,
Like an April day, are seen,
'Mid the melting sunny showers,
On the lively bowling-green.
The Spring and Autumn meet
When the old and young are there,
And mirth and wisdom chase
From the heart the thoughts of care.
When the creaking wheels of life
Are revolving weak and slow,
And the dashing tide of hope
May be ebbing dark and low,
The sons of wealth and toil
Feel the sweet and soothing power
Of the merry bowling-green,
In the charming leisure hour!
The streams of life run on
Till they fall into the sea;
And the flowers are left behind,
With their fragrance on the lea.
The circling flight of time
Will soon make the young folk old;
And pleasure dances on
Till the springs of life grow cold.
We 'll taste the joys of life
As the hours are gliding fast,
And learn to live and love
From the follies of the past;
And remember with delight,
When misfortunes intervene,
The happy days we 've spent
On the merry bowling-green.
