James Little was born at Glasgow, on the 24th May 1821. His father, a respectable shoemaker, was a claimant, through his maternal grandmother, of the title and estates of the last Marquis of Annandale. With a very limited elementary education, the subject of this notice, at an early age, was called on to work with his father; but soon afterwards he enlisted as a private soldier. After eight years of military life, chiefly passed in North America and the West Indies, he purchased his discharge, and resumed shoemaking in his native city. In 1852 he proceeded to the United States, but subsequently returned to Glasgow. In 1856 he published a small duodecimo volume of meritorious verses, with the title, "Sparks from Nature's Fire." Several songs from his pen have been published, with music, in the "Lyric Gems of Scotland."
OUR NATIVE HILLS AGAIN.
Oh, swiftly bounds our gallant bark
Across the ocean drear,
While manly cheeks are pale wi' grief,
And wet wi' sorrow's tear.
The flowers that spring upon the Clyde
Will bloom for us in vain;
Nae mair wi' lightsome step we 'll climb
Our native hills again.
Amang their glens our fathers sleep,
Where mony a thistle waves;
And roses fair and gowans meek
Bloom owre their lowly graves.
But we maun dree a sadder fate
Far owre the stormy main;
We lang may look, but never see
Our native hills again.
Yet, 'mid the forests o' the west,
When starnies light the sky,
We'll gather round the ingle's side,
And sing o' days gane by;
And sunny blinks o' joy will come
To soothe us when alane,
And aft, in nightly dreams, we'll climb
Our native hills again.
HERE 'S A HEALTH TO SCOTIA'S SHORE.
Music by Alexander Hume.
Sing not to me of sunny shores
Or verdant climes where olives bloom,
Where, still and calm, the river pours
Its flood, 'mid groves of rich perfume;
Give me the land where torrents flash,
Where loud the angry cat'racts roar,
As wildly on their course they dash—
Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.
Sing not to me of sunny isles,
Though there eternal summers reign,
Where many a dark-eyed maiden smiles,
And gaudy flow'rets deck the plain;
Give me the land of mountains steep,
Where wild and free the eagles soar,
The dizzy crags, where tempests sweep—
Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.
Sing not to me of sunny lands,
For there full often tyrants sway
Who climb to power with blood-stain'd hands,
While crouching, trembling slaves obey;
Give me the land unconquer'd still,
Though often tried in days of yore,
Where freedom reigns from plain to hill—
Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.
THE DAYS WHEN WE WERE YOUNG.
The happy days of yore!
Will they ever come again,
To shed a gleam of joy on us,
And win the heart from pain?
Or will they only come in dreams,
When nicht's black curtain 's hung?
Yet even then 'tis sweet to mind
The days when we were young.
Fond mem'ry, wi' its mystic power,
Brings early scenes to view—
Again we roam among the hills,
Sae wat wi' morning dew—
Again we climb the broomy knowes,
And sing wi' prattlin' tongue,
For we had nae cares to fash us
In the days when we were young.
How aft, when we were callants,
Hae we sought the ocean's shore,
And launch'd wi' glee our tiny boats,
And heard the billows roar?
And aft amang the glancin' waves
In daring sport we 've sprung,
And swam till we were wearied,
In the days when we were young.
In winter, round the ingle side,
We 've read wi' kindling e'e,
How Wallace Wight, and Bruce the Bold,
Aft made the southrons flee;
Or listen'd to some bonnie sang,
By bonnie lassie sung:
Oh! love and happiness were ours,
In days when we were young.
Oh! his maun be a waefu' heart
That has nae sunny gleams
Of by-gane joys in early days,
Though it be but in dreams:
Wha thinks nae o' his mither's arms,
Sae aft around him flung,
To shield him safe frae earthly harms,
In days when he was young:
Wha thinks nae o' his sisters fair,
That toddled out and in,
And ran about the braes wi' him,
And play'd wi' meikle din;
And his maun be a barren heart,
Where love has never sprung,
Wha thinks nae o' the days gane by
The days when he was young.
LIZZIE FREW.
'Twas a balmy summer gloamin',
When the sun had gane to rest,
And his gowden beams were glintin'
Owre the hills far in the west;
And upon the snawy gowan
Saftly fell the pearly dew,
When I met my heart's best treasure,
Gentle, winsome Lizzy Frew.
Light she tripp'd amang the bracken,
While her glossy waving hair
Play'd around her gentle bosom,
Dancing in the summer air.
Love laugh'd in her een sae paukie,
Smiles play'd round her rosy mou',
And my heart was led a captive
By the charms o' Lizzie Frew.
Thochts o' her can mak' me cheerie,
As I toil the lee-lang day;
And at nicht, though e'er sae wearie,
Gladly out wi' her I stray.
I ask nae for a greater pleasure,
Than to ken her heart is true—
I ask nae for a greater treasure,
Than my gentle Lizzie Frew.
