Robert White, an indefatigable antiquary, and pleasing writer of lyric poetry, is a native of Roxburghshire. His youth and early manhood were spent at Otterburn, in Redesdale, where his father rented a farm. Possessed of an ardent love of reading, he early became familiar with the English poets, and himself tried metrical composition. While still a young man, he ranked among the poetical contributors to the Newcastle Magazine. In 1825 he accepted a situation as clerk to a respectable tradesman in Newcastle, which he retained upwards of twenty years. Latterly he has occupied a post of respectable emolument, and with sufficient leisure for the improvement of his literary tastes.
Besides contributing both in prose and verse to the local journals, and some of the periodicals, Mr White is the author of several publications. In 1829 appeared from his pen "The Tynemouth Nun," an elegantly versified tale; in 1853, "The Wind," a poem; and in 1856, "England," a poem. He has contributed songs to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song." At present he has in the press a "History of the Battle of Otterburn," prepared from original sources of information.
MY NATIVE LAND.
Fair Scotland! dear as life to me
Are thy majestic hills;
And sweet as purest melody
The music of thy rills.
The wildest cairn, the darkest dell,
Within thy rocky strand,
Possess o'er me a living spell—
Thou art my native land.
Loved country, when I muse upon
Thy dauntless men of old,
Whose swords in battle foremost shone—
Thy Wallace brave and bold;
And Bruce who, for our liberty,
Did England's sway withstand;
I glory I was born in thee,
Mine own ennobled land!
Nor less thy martyrs I revere,
Who spent their latest breath
To seal the cause they held so dear,
And conquer'd even in death.
Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain,
No bigot's stern command
Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain,
My dear devoted land.
And thou hast ties around my heart,
Attraction deeper still—
The gifted poet's sacred art,
The minstrel's matchless skill.
Yea; every scene that Burns and Scott
Have touch'd with magic hand
Is in my sight a hallow'd spot,
Mine own distinguish'd land!
Oh! when I wander'd far from thee,
I saw thee in my dreams;
I mark'd thy forests waving free,
I heard thy rushing streams.
Thy mighty dead in life came forth,
I knew the honour'd band;
We spoke of thee—thy fame—thy worth—
My high exalted land!
Now if the lonely home be mine
In which my fathers dwelt,
And I can worship at the shrine
Where they in fervour knelt;
No glare of wealth, or honour high,
Shall lure me from thy strand;
Oh, I would yield my parting sigh
In thee, my native land!
A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.
Eliza fair, the mirth of May
Resounds from glen and tree;
Yet thy mild voice, I need not say,
Is dearer far to me.
And while I thus a garland cull,
To grace that brow of thine,
My cup of pure delight is full—
A shepherd's life be mine!
Believe me, maid, the means of wealth,
Howe'er profuse they be,
Produce not pleasure that in health
Is shared by you and me!
'Tis when elate with thoughts of joy
We find a heart like thine,
That objects grateful glad the eye—
A shepherd's life be mine!
O mark, Eliza, how the flowers
Around us sweetly spring;
And list how in these woodland bowers
The birds with rapture sing;
Behold that vale whose streamlet clear
Flows on in waving line;
Can Paradise more bright appear?
A shepherd's life be mine!
Now, dearest, not the morning bright,
That dawns o'er hill and lea,
Nor eve, with all its golden light,
Can charm me without thee.
To feel the magic of thy smile—
To catch that glance of thine—
To talk to thee of love the while,
A shepherd's life be mine!
HER I LOVE BEST.
Thou morn full of beauty
That chases the night,
And wakens all Nature
With gladness and light,
When warbles the linnet
Aloof from its nest,
O scatter thy fragrance
Round her I love best!
Ye hills, dark and lofty,
That near her ascend,
If she in her pastime
Across thee shall wend,
Let every lone pathway
In wild flowers be drest,
To welcome the footsteps
Of her I love best!
Thou sun, proudly sailing
O'er depths of the sky,
Dispensing beneath thee
Profusion and joy,
Until in thy splendour
Thou sink'st to the west,
Oh, gaze not too boldly
On her I love best!
Ye wild roving breezes,
I charge you, forbear
To wantonly tangle
The braids of her hair;
Breathe not o'er her rudely,
Nor sigh on her breast,
Nor kiss you the sweet lip
Of her I love best!
Thou evening, that gently
Steals after the day,
To robe with thy shadow
The landscape in gray,
O fan with soft pinion
My dearest to rest!
And calm be the slumber
Of her I love best!
Ye angels of goodness,
That shield us from ill,
The purest of pleasures
Awarding us still,
As near her you hover,
Oh, hear my request!
Pour blessings unnumber'd
On her I love best!
THE KNIGHT'S RETURN.
Fair Ellen, here again I stand—
All dangers now are o'er;
No sigh to reach my native land
Shall rend my bosom more.
Ah! oft, beyond the heaving main,
I mourn'd at Fate's decree;
I wish'd but to be back again
To Scotland and to thee.
O Ellen, how I prized thy love
In foreign lands afar!
Upon my helm I bore thy glove
Through thickest ranks of war:
And as a pledge, in battle-field,
Recall'd thy charms to me;
I breath'd a prayer behind my shield
For Scotland and for thee.
I scarce can tell how eagerly
My eyes were hither cast,
When, faintly rising o'er the sea,
These hills appear'd at last.
My very breast, as on the shore
I bounded light and free,
Declared by throbs the love I bore
To Scotland and to thee.
Oh, long, long has the doom been mine
In other climes to roam;
Yet have I seen no form like thine,
No sweeter spot than home;
Nor ask'd I e'er another heart
To feel alone for me:
O Ellen, never more I'll part
From Scotland and from thee!
THE BONNIE REDESDALE LASSIE.
The breath o' spring is gratefu',
As mild it sweeps alang,
Awakening bud an' blossom
The broomy braes amang,
And wafting notes o' gladness
Frae ilka bower and tree;
Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is sweeter still to me.
How bright is summer's beauty!
When, smilin' far an' near,
The wildest spots o' nature
Their gayest livery wear;
And yellow cups an' daisies
Are spread on ilka lea;
But the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Mair charming is to me.
Oh! sweet is mellow autumn!
When, wide oure a' the plain,
Slow waves in rustlin' motion
The heavy-headed grain;
Or in the sunshine glancin',
And rowin' like the sea;
Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is dearer far to me!
As heaven itsel', her bosom
Is free o' fraud or guile;
What hope o' future pleasure
Is centred in her smile!
I wadna lose for kingdoms
The love-glance o' her e'e;
Oh! the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is life and a' to me!
THE MOUNTAINEER'S DEATH.
