David Macbeth Moir was born at Musselburgh on the 5th January 1798. His elementary education was conducted at a private seminary and the Grammar-school of that town. He subsequently attended the medical classes in the University of Edinburgh, and in his eighteenth year obtained a surgeon's diploma. In partnership with Dr Brown, a respectable physician of long standing, he entered on medical practice in his native place. He wrote good poetry in his fifteenth year, and about the same age contributed some prose essays to the Cheap Magazine, a small periodical published in Haddington. In 1816 he published a poem entitled "The Bombardment of Algiers." For a succession of years after its commencement in 1817, he wrote numerous articles for Constable's Edinburgh Magazine. Soon after the establishment of Blackwood's Magazine, he became one of its more conspicuous contributors; and his poetical contributions, which were generally subscribed by his literary nom de guerre, the Greek letter Delta (?), long continued a source of much interest to the readers of that periodical. In 1824 he published a collection of his poetical pieces, under the title of "Legend of Genevieve, with other Tales and Poems." "The Autobiography of Mansie Wauch," originally supplied in a series of chpters to Blackwood, and afterwards published in a separate form, much increased his reputation as an author. In 1831 appeared his "Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine;" a work which was followed, in 1832, by a pamphlet entitled, "Practical Observations on Malignant Cholera;" and a further publication, with the title, "Proofs of the Contagion of Malignant Cholera." A third volume of poems from his pen, entitled "Domestic Verses," was published in 1843. In the early part of 1851 he delivered, at the Philosophical Institution of Edinburgh, a course of six lectures on the "Poetical Literature of the Past Half-century," which, afterwards published in an elegant volume by the Messrs Blackwood, commanded a large share of public attention. In a state of somewhat impaired health, he proceeded to Dumfries on the 1st day of July 1851, hoping to derive benefit from a change of scene and climate. But his end was approaching; he died at Dumfries on the 6th of the same month, having reached only his 53d year. His remains were interred, at a public funeral, in the burying-ground of Musselburgh, where a monument has been erected to his memory. Indefatigable in the discharge of his professional duties, Moir regularly devoted a portion of his time to the gratification of his literary tastes. A pleasant prose writer, he will be remembered for his inimitable drollery in the adventures of "Mansie Wauch." As a poet, his style is perspicuous and simple; and his characteristics are tenderness, dignity, and grace. He is occasionally humorous, but he excels in the plaintive and elegiac. Much of his poetry breathes the odour of a genuine piety. He was personally of an agreeable presence. Tall in stature, his countenance, which was of sanguine hue, wore a serious aspect, unless kindled up by the recital of some humorous tale. His mode of utterance was singularly pleasing, and his dispositions were pervaded by a generous benignity. He loved society, but experienced his chief happiness in the social intercourse of his own family circle. He had married in 1829; and his amiable widow, with eight children, still survive. A collected edition of his best poems, in two duodecimo volumes, has been published since his death, by the Messrs Blackwood, under the editorial superintendence of Thomas Aird, who has prefixed an interesting memoir. CASA WAPPY.[49] And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, Our fond, dear boy— The realms where sorrow dare not come, Where life is joy? Pure at thy death as at thy birth, Thy spirit caught no taint from earth, Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, Casa Wappy!
Despair was in our last farewell, As closed thine eye; Tears of our anguish may not tell When thou didst die; Words may not paint our grief for thee, Sighs are but bubbles on the sea Of our unfathom'd agony, Casa Wappy!
Thou wert a vision of delight To bless us given; Beauty embodied to our sight, A type of heaven. So dear to us thou wert, thou art Even less thine own self than a part Of mine and of thy mother's heart, Casa Wappy!
Thy bright, brief day knew no decline— 'Twas cloudless joy; Sunrise and night alone were thine, Beloved boy! This morn beheld thee blithe and gay; That found thee prostrate in decay; And ere a third shone, clay was clay, Casa Wappy!
Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Earth's undefiled, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Our dear, sweet child! Humbly we bow to fate's decree; Yet had we hoped that time should see Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, Casa Wappy!
Do what I may, go where I will, Thou meet'st my sight; There dost thou glide before me still, A form of light. I feel thy breath upon my cheek, I see thee smile, I hear thee speak, Till, oh! my heart is like to break, Casa Wappy!
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The nursery shews thy pictured wall, Thy bat, thy bow, Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball; But where art thou? A corner holds thine empty chair; Thy playthings, idly scatter'd there, But speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy!
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We mourn for thee when blind, blank night The chamber fills; We pine for thee when morn's first light Reddens the hills; The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea— All—to the wallflower and wild pea— Are changed—we saw the world through thee, Casa Wappy!
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Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, In life's spring-bloom, Down to the appointed house below— The silent tomb. But now the green leaves of the tree, The cuckoo, and "the busy bee," Return, but with them bring not thee, Casa Wappy!
'Tis so! but can it be—(while flowers Revive again)— Man's doom in death—that we and ours For aye remain? Oh! can it be that o'er the grave The grass, renew'd, should yearly wave, Yet God forget our child to save? Casa Wappy!
It cannot be; for were it so Thus man could die, Life were a mockery—thought were woe, And truth a lie— Heaven were a coinage of the brain— Religion frenzy—virtue vain, And all our hopes to meet again, Casa Wappy!
Then be to us, O dear, lost child! With beam of love, A star—death's uncongenial wild— Smiling above! Soon, soon thy little feet have trod The skyward path, the seraph's road, That led thee back from man to God, Casa Wappy!
Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair, Fond, fairest boy, That heaven is God's, and thou art there With him in joy! There past are death and all its woes, There beauty's stream for ever flows, And pleasure's day no sunset knows, Casa Wappy!
Farewell, then—for a while farewell, Pride of my heart! It cannot be that long we dwell Thus torn apart— Time's shadows like the shuttle flee; And dark howe'er life's night may be, Beyond the grave I 'll meet with thee, Casa Wappy! FAREWELL, OUR FATHERS' LAND. Farewell, our fathers' land, Valley and fountain! Farewell, old Scotland's strand, Forest and mountain! Then hush the drum and hush the flute, And be the stirring bagpipe mute— Such sounds may not with sorrow suit— And fare thee well, Lochaber!
This plume and plaid no more will see, Nor philabeg, nor dirk at knee, Nor even the broadswords which Dundee Bade flash at Killiecrankie. Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
Now when of yore, on bank and brae, Our loyal clansmen marshall'd gay; Far downward scowls Bennevis gray, On sheep-walks spreading lonely. Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
For now we cross the stormy sea, Ah! never more to look on thee, Nor on thy dun deer, bounding free, From Etive glens to Morven. Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
Thy mountain air no more we 'll breathe; The household sword shall eat the sheath, While rave the wild winds o'er the heath Where our gray sires are sleeping. Then farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
HEIGH-HO! A pretty young maiden sat on the grass— Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!— And by a blithe young shepherd did pass, In the summer morning so early. Said he, "My lass, will you go with me, My cot to keep and my bride to be; Sorrow and want shall never touch thee, And I will love you rarely?"
"O! no, no, no!" the maiden said— Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!— And bashfully turn'd aside her head, On that summer morning so early. "My mother is old, my mother is frail, Our cottage it lies in yon green dale; I dare not list to any such tale, For I love my kind mother rarely."
The shepherd took her lily-white hand— Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!— And on her beauty did gazing stand, On that summer morning so early. "Thy mother I ask thee not to leave Alone in her frail old age to grieve; But my home can hold us all, believe— Will that not please thee fairly?"
"O! no, no, no! I am all too young"— Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!— "I dare not list to a young man's tongue, On a summer morning so early." But the shepherd to gain her heart was bent; Oft she strove to go, but she never went; And at length she fondly blush'd consent— Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly.
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