  William Bennet was born on the 29th September, 1802, in the parish of Glencairn, and county of Dumfries. He first wrote verses while apprenticed to a mechanic in a neighbouring parish. In his nineteenth year he published a volume of poems, which excited some attention, and led to his connexion with the newspaper press. He became a regular contributor to the Dumfries Courier, edited by the ingenious John M'Diarmid; and in 1825 and the following year conducted the Dumfries Magazine, in which appeared many interesting articles from his pen. In December 1826, he became editor of the Glasgow Free Press, which supported the liberal cause during the whole of the Reform Bill struggle. Along with Sir Daniel Sandford, he afterwards withdrew from the Whig party, and established the Glasgow Constitutional, the editorship of which he resigned in 1836. In 1832-3, he published a periodical, entitled, "Bennet's Glasgow Magazine." Continuing to write verses, he afterwards published a poetical volume, with the title, "Songs of Solitude." His other separate works are, "Pictures of Scottish Scenes and Character," in three volumes; "Sketches of the Isle of Man;" and "The Chief of Glen-Orchay," a poem in five cantos, illustrative of Highland manners and mythology in the middle ages. Mr Bennet, subsequent to leaving Glasgow, resided successively in Ireland, and London. He afterwards lived several years in Galloway, and has latterly fixed his abode at Greenmount, near Burntisland. He is understood to be engaged in a new translation of the Scriptures.
BLEST BE THE HOUR OF NIGHT. Blest be the hour of night,
When, his toils over,
The swain, with a heart so light,
Meets with his lover!
Sweet the moon gilds their path,
Arm in arm straying;
Clouds never rise in wrath,
Chiding their staying.
Gently they whisper low:
Unseen beside them,
Good angels watch, that no
Ill may betide them.
Silence is everywhere,
Save when the sighing
Is heard, of the breeze's fall,
Fitfully dying.
How the maid's bosom glows,
While her swain 's telling
The love, that 's been long, she knows,
In his heart swelling!
How, when his arms are thrown
Tenderly round her,
Fears she, in words to own
What he hath found her!
When the first peep of dawn
Warns them of parting,
And from each dewy lawn
Blythe birds are starting,
Fondly she hears her swain
Vow, though they sever,
Soon they shall meet again,
Mated for ever.
THE ROSE OF BEAUTY. Amang the breezy heights and howes
Where winds the Milk[6] sae clearly,
A Rose o' beauty sweetly grows,
A Rose I lo'e most dearly.
Wi' spring's saft rain and simmer's sun
How blooms my Rose divinely!
And lang ere blaws the winter wun',
This breast shall nurse it kin'ly.
May heaven's dew aye freshly weet
My Rose at ilka gloamin',
And oh, may nae unhallow'd feet
Be near it ever roamin'!
I soon shall buy a snug wee cot,
And hae my Rose brought thither;
And then, in that lowne sunny spot,
We'll bloom and fade thegither.
I 'LL THINK ON THEE, LOVE. I 'll think on thee, Love, when thy bark
Hath borne thee far across the deep;
And, as the sky is bright or dark,
'Twill be my fate to smile or weep;
For oh, when winds and waters keep
In trust so dear a charge as thee,
My anxious fears can never sleep
Till thou again art safe with me!
I 'll think on thee, Love, when each hour
Of twilight comes, with pensive mood,
And silence, like a spell of power,
Rests, in its depth, on field and wood;
And as the mingling shadows brood
Still closer o'er the lonely sea,
Here, on the beach where first we woo'd,
I 'll pour to heaven my prayers for thee.
Then haply on the breeze's wing,
That to me steals across the wave,
Some angel's voice may answer bring
That list'ning heaven consents to save.
And oh, the further boon I crave
Perchance may also granted be,
That thou, return'd, no more shalt brave
The wanderer's perils on the sea!
THERE 'S MUSIC IN A MOTHER'S VOICE. There 's music in a mother's voice,
More sweet than breezes sighing;
There 's kindness in a mother's glance,
Too pure for ever dying.
There 's love within a mother's breast,
So deep, 'tis still o'erflowing,
And for her own a tender care,
That 's ever, ever growing.
And when a mother kneels to heaven,
And for her child is praying,
Oh, who shall half the fervour tell
That burns in all she 's saying!
A mother, when she, like a star,
Sets into heaven before us,
From that bright home of love, all pure,
Still minds and watches o'er us.
THE BRIG OF ALLAN. Come, memory, paint, though far away,
The wimpling stream, the broomy brae,
The upland wood, the hill-top gray,
Whereon the sky seems fallin';
Paint me each cheery, glist'ning row
Of shelter'd cots, the woods below,
Where Airthrie's healing waters flow
By bonny Brig of Allan.
Paint yonder Grampian heights sublime,
The Roman eagles could not climb,
And Stirling, crown'd in after time
With Royalty's proud dwallin';
These, with the Ochils, sentry keep,
Where Forth, that fain in view would sleep,
Tries, from his Links, oft back to peep
At bonny Brig of Allan.
Oh, lovely, when the rising sun
Greets Stirling towers, so steep and dun,
And silver Forth's calm breast upon
The golden beams are fallin'!
Then, trotting down to join his flood,
Through rocky steeps, besprent with wood,
How bright, in morning's joyous mood,
Appears the stream of Allan!
Upon its banks how sweet to stray,
With rod and line, the livelong day,
Or trace each rural charm, away
From cark of every callin'!
There dove-like, o'er my path would brood
The spirit pure of solitude;
For native each rapt, genial mood
Is to the beauteous Allan.
Oh, witching as its scenes, and bright
As is its cloudless summer light,
Be still its maids, the soul's delight
Of every truthful callan'!
Be health around it ever spread,
To light the eye, to lift the head,
And joy on every heart be shed
That beats by Brig of Allan!
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