The author of a small volume of very meritorious poems and lyrics, Thomas Elliott is descended from a branch of the old Border family of that name, which settled in the north of Ireland subsequent to the Revolution. His father was a shoemaker at Bally-ho-bridge, a hamlet in county Fermanagh, province of Ulster, where the poet was born on the 22d December 1820. Entering school at the age of five years, he was not removed till he had acquired a considerable acquaintance with the ordinary branches of popular education. In his fifteenth year he apprenticed himself to his father. The family removed to Belfast in 1836, and there he had opportunities of occupying his leisure hours in extensive and varied reading. After a few years of somewhat desultory employment, he visited Glasgow in 1847, and there, following his original trade, he has continued to reside. Elliott assigns the commencement of his poetical efforts to the year 1842, when he was led to satirise a pedagogue teacher of music, who had given him offence. His poetical volume, entitled "Doric Lays and Attic Chimes," appeared in 1856, and has been well received. Several of his lyrics have been published with music in "The Lyric Gems of Scotland," a collection of songs published at Glasgow.
UP WITH THE DAWN. Up with the dawn, ye sons of toil,
And bare the brawny arm,
To drive the harness'd team afield,
And till the fruitful farm;
To dig the mine for hidden wealth,
Or make the woods to ring
With swinging axe and sturdy stroke,
To fell the forest king.
With ocean car and iron steed
Traverse the land and sea,
And spread our commerce round the globe
As winds that wander free.
Subdue the earth, and conquer fate,
Outspeed the flight of time;
Old earth is rich, and man is young,
Nor near his jocund prime.
Work, and the clouds of care will fly,
Pale want will pass away;
Work, and the leprosy of crime
And tyrants must decay.
Leave the dead ages in their urns;
The present time be ours,
To grapple bravely with our lot,
And strew our path with flowers.
CLYDE BOAT SONG. Music by A. Hume. Leave the city's busy throng—
Dip the oar, and wake the song,
While on Cathkin Braes the moon
Rises with a star aboon:
Hark! the boom of evening bells
Trembles through the dewy dells.
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
While the golden eventide
Lingers o'er the vale of Clyde,
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
O'er the tide, up the Clyde,
Row, lads, row.
Life 's a river, deep and old,
Stemm'd by rowers, brave and bold;
Now in shadow, then in light,
Onward aye, a thing of might;
Sons of Albyn's ancient land,
Row with strong and steady hand,
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row;
Gaily row, and cheery sing,
Till the woodland echoes ring;
Row, lads, row; row lads, row,
O'er the tide, up the Clyde,
Row, lads, row.
Hammers on the anvil rest,
Dews upon the gowan's breast;
Young hearts heave with tender thought,
Low winds sigh, with odours fraught,
Stars bedeck the blue above,
Earth is full of joy and love;
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row;
Let your oars in concert beat
Merry time, like dancers' feet;
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
With the tide, down the Clyde,
Row, lads, row.
DIMPLES AND A'. I love a sweet lassie, mair gentle and true
Than ony young, wood-loving, wild cushie doo;
Her cheeks they are dimpled, her jimp waist is sma',
She says she 's my ain lassie, dimples and a'—
Dimples and a', dimples and a'—
That bonnie wee lass wi' her dimples and a'.
Her brown wavy hair has a dark gowden tinge,
Her bonnie black e'e has a long jetty fringe,
Her footstep is light as the thistle doun's fa',
Her wee hand is lily-white, dimpled and a'—
Dimpled and a', dimpled and a'—
And I ken it 's my ain hand, dimples and a'.
I 'll wed my dear lassie, and gie her my name,
I 'll get a bit housie, and bring my love hame;
When winter is eerie, and stormy winds blaw,
She 'll mak' me fu' cheerie wi' dimples and a'—
Dimples and a', dimples and a'—
My ain bonnie wifie, wi' her dimples and a'.
When the day's wark is done, and stars blink above,
I 'll rest in her smile, and be bless'd wi' her love;
She 'll sing a' the cares o' this world awa'
Frae our cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.
Dimples and a', dimples and a'—
Our ain cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.
BUBBLES ON THE BLAST. A wee bit laddie sits wi' a bowl upon his knees,
And from a cutty pipe 's puffing bubbles on the breeze;
Oh, meikle is the mirth of the weans on our stair,
To see the bubbles sail like balloons alang the air.
Some burst before they rise, others mount the gentle wind,
And leave the little band in their dizzy joy behind;
And such are human pomp and ambition at the last—
The wonder of an hour, like thae bubbles on the blast.
How breathless is the watch of that merry little throng,
To mark the shining globes as they float in pride along!
'Tis thus life's bubbles come, ever flashing from afar—
Now a revolution, and again a woeful war;
A hero or a bard, in their glory or their might;
A bonnie bird of song, or a nightingale of light;
Or yellow golden age, with its speculations vast—
All wonders of an hour, like the bubbles on the blast.
Shout on, ye little folk, for your sport is quite as sage
As that of older men, e'en the leaders of the age;
This world 's a sapple bowl, and our life a pipe of clay—
Its brightest dreams and hopes are but bubbles blown away.
We 've had our bubbles too; some were dear and tender things,
That left us sad and lone as they fled on rapid wings;
And others yet may rise from the future, like the past,
The wonder of an hour, as the bubbles on the blast.
A SERENADE. The shadows of evening fall silent around,
The rose with a cor'net of dewdrops is crown'd;
While weary I wander in sorrow's eclipse,
With your love at my heart, your name on my lips;
Your name on my lips, like a melody rare—
Then come, for I 'm lonely in shady Kenmair.
The birds by the river sing plaintive and low,
They seem to be breathing a burden of woe;
They seem to be asking, why am I alone?
And why do you tarry, or where are you gone?
The flowers are sighing sweet breath on the air,
And stars watch thy coming to shady Kenmair.
The gush of the fountain, the roll of the tide,
Recall your sweet image again to my side—
Your low mellow voice, like the tones of a flute;
Your slight yielding form, and small fairy foot;
Your neck like the marble, dark flowing your hair,
And brow like the snowdrop of shady Kenmair.
Come love, to the bank where the violets blow,
Beside the calm waters that slumber below,
While the brier and beech, the hazel and broom,
Fling down from their branches a flood of perfume;
Oh! what is the world, with its splendours or care,
When you are beside me in shady Kenmair!
A SONG OF LITTLE THINGS. I 'm a very little man,
And I earn a little wage,
And I have a little wife,
In a little hermitage,
Up a quiet little stair,
Where the creeping ivy clings;
In a mansion near the stars
Is my home of little things.
I 've two bonnie little bairns,
Full of prattle and of glee,
And our little dwelling rings
With their laughter, wild and free.
Of the greenwoods, all the day,
I 've a little bird that sings;
It reminds me of my youth,
And the age of little things.
I 've no money in the funds,
And no steamers on the sea;
But my busy little hands
Are a treasure unto me.
I can work, and I can sing,
With a joy unknown to kings;
While peace and plenty smile
On my bonnie little things.
And when my work is done,
In my cosie ingle nook,
With my little ones around,
I can read a little book.
And I thank my lucky stars
For whatever fortune brings;
I 'm richer than a lord—
I 'm content with little things.
MY AIN MOUNTAIN LAND. Oh! wae 's me on gowd, wi' its glamour and fame,
It tint me my love, and it wiled me frae hame,
Syne dwindled awa' like a neivefu' o' sand,
And left me to mourn for my ain mountain land.
I long for the glens, and the brown heather fells,
The green birken shades, where the wild lintie dwells,
The dash o' the deep, on the gray rocky strand,
That gird the blue hills o' my ain mountain land.
I dream o' the dells where the clear burnies flow,
The bonnie green knowes where the wee gowans grow;
But I wake frae my sleep like a being that 's bann'd,
And shed a saut tear for my ain mountain land.
I ken there 's a lass that looks out on the sea,
Wi' tears in the een that are watchin' for me;
Lang, lang she may wait for the clasp o' my hand,
Or the fa' o' my foot in my ain mountain land.
WHEN I COME HAME AT E'EN.
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