A poet possessing, in an eminent degree, the lyrical simplicity and power of the Bard of Coila, John Crawford was, in the year 1816, born at Greenock, in the same apartment which, thirty years before, had witnessed the death of Burns' "Highland Mary," his mother's cousin. With only a few months' attendance at school, he was, in boyhood, thrown on his own resources for support. Selecting the profession of a house-painter, he left Greenock in his eighteenth year, and has since prosecuted his vocation in the town of Alloa. Of strong native genius, he early made himself acquainted with general literature, while he has sought recreation in the composition of verses. In 1850 he published a small duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled, "Doric Lays; being snatches of Song and Ballad." This little work was much commended by Lord Jeffrey, and received the strong approbation of the late amiable Miss Mitford. "There is," wrote the latter to a correspondent, "an originality in his writings very rare in a follower of Burns.... This is the true thing—a flower springing from the soil, not merely cut and stuck into the earth. Will you tell Mr Crawford how much pleasure he has given to a poor invalid?"
Crawford is an occasional contributor to the public journals. He is at present preparing an historical and descriptive work, to be entitled, "Memorials of the Town and Parish of Alloa." The following poetical epistle in tribute to his genius is from the pen of Mr Scott Riddell.
The days, when write wad minstrel men
To ane anither thus, are gone,
And days ha'e come upon us when
Bards praise nae anthems but their own:
But I will love the fashion old
While breath frae heaven this breast can draw,
And joy when I my tale have told
Anent the Bard of Alloa.
Thou, Crawford, sung hast mony a lay.
Far mair through nature's power than art's,
Pouring them frae thine ain, that they
Might reach and gladden other hearts;
Therefore our hearts shall honour thee,
And say't alike in cot and ha'—
Sublime thro' pure simplicity
Is he—the Bard of Alloa.
Though far o'er earth these lays shall roam,
And make to mankind their appeal;
'Tis not because they 'll lack a home,
While Scottish hearts, as wont, can feel:
The swains shall sing them on the hill,
The maidens in the greenwood-shaw,
And mothers bless, wi' warm guid-will,
The gifted Bard of Alloa.
E'en weans, wi' their shauchled shoon,
And clouted hose, and pinafores,
Will lilt, methinks, these lays, sae soon
As they can staucher 'boot the doors:
Sae shall they sing anent themsells
To nature true, as its ain law;
For minstrel nane on earth excels
In this the Bard of Alloa.
Fresh as the moorland's early dews,
And glowing as the woodland rose,
Of hearts, his thought gives forth the hues,
As richly bright as heaven's ain bow 's—
With me, my native land, rejoice,
And let the bard thy bosom thaw,
As Spring's sweet breathing comes the voice
Of him wha sings frae Alloa.
Then rest thee, Crawford, on the lawn,
And thus, if song thy soul shall sway,
I'll bless thee, while thy toil-worn han'
Pu's for itsel' a flower or twa;
'Tis idle—gowd-gear hearts will say—
But maist for whilk will tear-drops fa'
When death has come, and flowers shall bloom
Aboon the Bard of Alloa?
Oh, sing, ye bards, to nature true,
And glory shall your brows adorn,
And else than this, by none or few,
The poet's wreath will long be worn.
Cauld fa' the notes o' him wha sings
O' scenes whilk man yet never saw—
Pour then, frae nature's ain heart-strings,
Your strains like him of Alloa.
Possess maun he a poet's heart,
And he maun ha'e a poet's mind
Wha deftly plays the generous part
That warms the cauld, and charms the kind.
Nor scorn, ye frozen anes, the powers
Whilk hinder other hearts to fa'
Into a sordid sink—like yours—
But bless the Bard of Alloa.
Ah! little ye may trow or ken
The mony cares, and waes, and toils,
'Mang hearts and hames o' lowly men
Whilk nought save poetry beguiles;
It lifts fu' mony fortune 'boon,
When she begins her face to thraw,
That ne'er sae sweet a harp could tune
As his that sounds frae Alloa.
And as for me, ere this I'd lain
Where mark'd my head a mossy stane,
Had it not made the joys my ain
When a' life's other joys were gane.
If 'mang the mountains lone and gray,
Unknown, my early joys I sung,
When cares and woes wad life belay,
How could my harp away be flung?
The dearest power in life below,
Is life's ain native power of song,
As he alone can truly know,
To whom it truly may belong.
Lighten'd hath it fu' mony a step,
And lessen'd hath it mony a hill,
And lighted up the rays o' hope,
Ay, and it up shall light them still.
Lo! avarice cauld can gowd secure,
Ambition win the wreath o' fame,
Wealth gies reputed wit and power,
And crowns wi' joy the owner's aim.
But be my meed the generous heart,
For nought can charm this heart o' mine,
Like those who own the undying art
That gies a claim to Ossian's line.
Hale be thy heart, dear Crawford—hale
Be every heart belonging thee,—
The day whan fortune gies ye kale
Out through the reek, may ye ne'er see.
Ilk son o' song is dear to me;
And though thy face I never saw,
I'll honour till the day I dee
The gifted Bard o' Alloa.
MY AULD WIFIE JEAN.
Air—"There 'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame."
My couthie auld wifie, aye blythsome to see,
As years slip awa' aye the dearer to me;
For ferlies o' fashion I carena ae preen
When I cleek to the kirk wi' my auld wifie Jean.
The thoughts o' the past are aye pleasin' to me,
And mair sae when love lights my auld wifie's e'e;
For then I can speak o' the days I ha'e seen
When care found nae hame i' the heart o' my Jean.
A hantle we've borne since that moment o' bliss,
Frae thy lips, breathin' balm, when I stole the first kiss,
When I read a response to my vows in thy e'en.
An, blushin', I prest to my bosom my Jean.
Like a rose set in snaw was the bloom on thy cheek,
Thy hair, wi' its silken snood, glossy and sleek,
When the Laird o' Drumlochie, sae lithless and lean,
Wad ha'e gane a lang mile for ae glisk o' my Jean.
Thy mither was dead, and thy faither was fain
That the lang-luggit lairdie wad ca' thee his ain;
But auld age and frailty could ne'er gang atween
The vows I had niffer'd wi' bonnie young Jean.
I canna weel work, an' ye 're weary an' worn,
The gudes and the ills lang o' life we ha'e borne;
But we ha'e a hame, an' we 're cozie and bein,
And the thrift I've to thank o' my auld wifie Jean.
Baith beddin' an' cleadin' o' a' kind ha'e we,
A sowp for the needy we 've aye had to gie,
A bite and a drap for baith fremit an' frien',
Was aye the warst wish o' my auld wifie Jean.
The puir beildless body has scugg'd the cauld blast,
'Yont our hallan he 's houft till the gurl gaed past,
An' a bite aff our board, aye sae tidy an' clean,
He 's gat wi' gudewill frae my auld wifie Jean.
Our hopes we ha'e set where our bairnies ha'e gaen;
Though lyart we've grown since they frae us were ta'en;
The thoughts o' them yet brings the tears to our e'en,
And aft I 've to comfort my auld wifie Jean.
The paughty and proud ha'e been laid i' the dust,
Since the first hairst I shore, since the first clod I cuist;
And soon we'll lie laigh; but aboon we 've a Frien',
And bright days are comin' for me an' my Jean.
THE LAND O' THE BONNET AND PLAID.
Hurra! for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae,
The land o' the rowan, the haw, and the slae;
Where waves the blue harebell in dingle and glade—
The land o' the pibroch, the bonnet, and plaid.
Hurra! for the hills o' the cromlech and cairn,
Where blossoms the thistle by hillocks o' fern;
There Freedom in triumph an altar has made
For holiest rites in the land o' the plaid.
A coronal wreath, where the wild flowers bloom,
To garnish the martyr and patriot's tomb:
Shall their names ever perish—their fame ever fade
Who ennobled the land o' the bonnet and plaid?
Oh, hame o' my bairnhood, ye hills o' my love!
The haunt o' the freeman for aye may ye prove;
And honour'd forever be matron and maid
In the land o' the heather, the bonnet, and plaid.
Hurra! for the land o' the deer and the rae,
O' the gowany glen and the bracken-clad brae,
Where blooms our ain thistle, in sunshine and shade—
Dear badge o' the land o' the bonnet and plaid.
SING ON, FAIRY DEVON.[9]
Sing on, fairy Devon,
'Mong gardens and bowers,
Where love's feast lies spread
In an Eden o' flowers.
What visions o' beauty
My mind has possess'd,
In thy gowany dell
Where a seraph might rest.
Sing on, lovely river,
To hillock and tree
A lay o' the loves
O' my Jessie and me;
For nae angel lightin',
A posie to pu',
Can match the fair form
O' the lassie I lo'e.
Sweet river, dear river,
Sing on in your glee,
In thy pure breast the mind
O' my Jessie I see.
How aft ha'e I wander'd,
As gray gloamin' fell,
Rare dreamin's o' heaven
My lassie to tell.
Sing on, lovely Devon,
The sang that ye sung
When earth in her beauty
Frae night's bosom sprung,
For lanesome and eerie
This warld aye would be
Did clouds ever fa'
Atween Jessie and me.
ANN O' CORNYLEE.
Gaelic Air—"Soraiadh slan do'un Ailleagan."
I 'll twine a gowany garland
Wi' lilies frae the spring;
The fairest flowers by Clutha's side
In a' their bloom I 'll bring.
I 'll wreath a flowery wreath to shade
My lassie's scornfu' e'e—
For oh, I canna bide the frown
O' Ann o' Cornylee.
Nae gilded ha', nae downie bed
My lowly lot maun cheer,
A sheilin' on the banks o' Gryfe
Is a' my worldly gear;
A lanely cot, wi' moss o'ergrown,
Is a' I ha'e to gie;
A leal heart, sinking 'neath the scorn
O' Ann o' Cornylee.
The linty 'mang the yellow broom,
The laverock in the lift
Ha'e never sang the waes o' love
O' hope and joy bereft;
Nor has the mavis ever sang
The ills I ha'e to dree,
For lovin' o' a paughty maid,
Fair Ann o' Cornylee.
MY MARY DEAR.[10]
Tune—"Annie Laurie."
The gloamin' star was showerin'
Its siller glories doun,
And nestled in its mossy lair
The lintie sleepit soun';
The lintie sleepit soun',
And the starnies sparklet clear,
When on a gowany bank I sat
Aside my Mary dear.
The burnie wanders eerie
Roun' rock and ruin'd tower,
By mony a fairy hillock
And mony a lanely bower;
Roun' mony a lanely bower,
Love's tender tale to hear,
Where I in whisper'd vows ha'e woo'd
And won my Mary dear.
Oh, hallow'd hours o' happiness
Frae me for ever ta'en!
Wi' summer's flowery loveliness
Ye come na back again!
Ye come na back again,
The waefu' heart to cheer,
For lang the greedy grave has closed
Aboon my Mary dear.
THE WAES O' EILD.
(For an old Gaelic air.)
The cranreuch 's on my heid,
The mist 's now on my een,
A lanesome life I lead,
I'm no what I ha'e been.
Ther 're runkles on my broo,
Ther 're furrows on my cheek,
My wither'd heart fills fu'
Whan o' bygane days I speak.
For I 'm weary,
I 'm weary,
I 'm weary o' care—
Whare my bairnies ha'e gane,
Oh, let me gang there.
I ance was fu' o' glee,
And wha was then sae gay,
Whan dreamin' life wad be
But ae lang simmer day?
My feet, like lichtnin', flew
Roun' pleasure's dizzy ring,
They gimply staucher noo
Aneath a feckless thing.
For I 'm weary,
I 'm weary,
I 'm weary o' care—
Whare my first luve lies cauld,
Oh, let me lie there.
The ourie breath o' eild
Has blown ilk frien' frae me;
They comena near my beild
I ha'e dauted on my knee;
They hand awa their heids,
My frailties no to see;
My blessing on them, ane and a'—
I 've naething else to gie.
For I 'm weary,
I 'm weary,
I 'm weary and worn—
To the friens o' my youth
I maun soon, soon return.
