John Grieve, whose name is especially worthy of commemoration as the generous friend of men of genius, was born at Dunfermline on the 12th September 1781. He was the eldest son of the Rev. Walter Grieve, minister of the Cameronian or Reformed Presbyterian church in that place; his mother, Jane Ballantyne, was the daughter of Mr George Ballantyne, tenant at Craig, in the vale of Yarrow. While he was very young, his father retired from the ministerial office, and fixed his residence at the villa of Cacrabank, in Ettrick. After an ordinary education at school, young Grieve became clerk to Mr Virtue, shipowner and wood-merchant in Alloa: and, early in 1801, obtained a situation in a bank at Greenock. He soon returned to Alloa, as the partner of his friend Mr Francis Bald, who had succeeded Mr Virtue in his business as a wood-merchant. On the death of Mr Bald, in 1804, he proceeded to Edinburgh to enter into copartnership with Mr Chalmers Izzet, hat-manufacturer on the North Bridge. The firm subsequently assumed, as a third partner, Mr Henry Scott, a native of Ettrick.
Eminently successful in business, Mr Grieve found considerable leisure for the cultivation of strong literary tastes. Though without pretension as a man of letters, he became reputed as a contributor to some of the more respectable periodicals.[16] In his youth he had been a votary of the Muse, and some of his early lyrics he was prevailed on to publish anonymously in Hogg's "Forest Minstrel." The songs marked C., in the contents of that work, are from his pen. In the encouragement of men of genius he evinced a deep interest, affording them entertainment at his table, and privately contributing to the support of those whose circumstances were less fortunate. Towards the Ettrick Shepherd his beneficence was munificent. Along with his partner, Mr Scott, a man of kindred tastes and of ample generosity, he enabled Hogg to surmount the numerous difficulties which impeded his entrance into the world of letters. In different portions of his works, the Shepherd has gracefully recorded his gratitude to his benefactors. In his "Autobiography," after expressing the steadfast friendship he had experienced from Mr Grieve, he adds, "During the first six months that I resided in Edinburgh, I lived with him and his partner Mr Scott, who, on a longer acquaintance, became as firmly attached to me as Mr Grieve; and I believe as much so as to any other man alive.... In short, they would not suffer me to be obliged to any one but themselves for the value of a farthing; and without this sure support, I could never have fought my way in Edinburgh. I was fairly starved into it, and if it had not been for Messrs Grieve and Scott, would, in a very short time, have been starved out of it again." To Mr Grieve, Hogg afterwards dedicated his poem "Mador of the Moor;" and in the character of one of the competing bards in the "Queen's Wake," he has thus depicted him:—
"The bard that night who foremost came
Was not enroll'd, nor known his name;
A youth he was of manly mould,
Gentle as lamb, as lion bold;
But his fair face, and forehead high,
Glow'd with intrusive modesty.
'Twas said by bank of southland stream
Glided his youth in soothing dream;
The harp he loved, and wont to stray
Far to the wilds and woods away,
And sing to brooks that gurgled by
Of maiden's form and maiden's eye;
That when this dream of youth was past,
Deep in the shade his harp he cast;
In busy life his cares beguiled,
His heart was true, and fortune smiled."
Affected with a disorder in the spine, Mr Grieve became incapacitated for business in his thirty-seventh year. In this condition he found an appropriate solace in literature; he made himself familiar with the modern languages, that he might form an acquaintance with the more esteemed continental authors. Retaining his usual cheerfulness, he still experienced satisfaction in intercourse with his friends; and to the close of his life, his pleasant cottage at Newington was the daily resort of the savans of the capital. Mr Grieve died unmarried on the 4th April 1836, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. His remains were interred in the sequestered cemetery of St Mary's, in Yarrow. The few songs which he has written are composed in a vigorous style, and entitle him to rank among those whom he delighted to honour.[17]
CULLODEN; OR, LOCHIEL'S FAREWELL.
Air—"Fingal's Lament."
Culloden, on thy swarthy brow
Spring no wild flowers nor verdure fair;
Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow,
More than the freezing wintry air.
For once thou drank'st the hero's blood,
And war's unhallow'd footsteps bore;
Thy deeds unholy, nature view'd,
Then fled, and cursed thee evermore.
From Beauly's wild and woodland glens,
How proudly Lovat's banners soar!
How fierce the plaided Highland clans
Rush onward with the broad claymore!
Those hearts that high with honour heave,
The volleying thunder there laid low;
Or scatter'd like the forest leaves,
When wintry winds begin to blow!
Where now thy honours, brave Lochiel?
The braided plumes torn from thy brow,
What must thy haughty spirit feel,
When skulking like the mountain roe!
While wild birds chant from Locky's bowers,
On April eve, their loves and joys,
The Lord of Locky's loftiest towers
To foreign lands an exile flies.
To his blue hills that rose in view,
As o'er the deep his galley bore,
He often look'd and cried, "Adieu!
I 'll never see Lochaber more!
Though now thy wounds I cannot feel,
My dear, my injured native land,
In other climes thy foe shall feel
The weight of Cameron's deadly brand.
"Land of proud hearts and mountains gray,
Where Fingal fought, and Ossian sung!
Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day,
That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung.
Where once they ruled and roam'd at will,
Free as their own dark mountain game,
Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feel
A longing for their father's fame.
"Shades of the mighty and the brave,
Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell!
No trophies mark your common grave,
Nor dirges to your memory swell.
But generous hearts will weep your fate,
When far has roll'd the tide of time;
And bards unborn shall renovate
Your fading fame in loftiest rhyme."
LOVELY MARY.[18]
Air—"Gowd in gowpens."
I 've seen the lily of the wold,
I 've seen the opening marigold,
Their fairest hues at morn unfold,
But fairer is my Mary.
How sweet the fringe of mountain burn,
With opening flowers at spring's return!
How sweet the scent of flowery thorn!
But sweeter is my Mary.
Her heart is gentle, warm, and kind;
Her form 's not fairer than her mind;
Two sister beauties rarely join'd,
But join'd in lovely Mary.
As music from the distant steep,
As starlight on the silent deep,
So are my passions lull'd asleep
By love for bonnie Mary.
HER BLUE ROLLIN' E'E.
Air—"Banks of the Devon."
My lassie is lovely, as May day adorning
Wi' gowans an' primroses ilka green lee;
Though sweet is the violet, new blown i' the morning,
As tender an' sweet is her blue rollin' e'e.
O, say what is whiter than snaw on the mountain?
Or what wi' the red rose in beauty can vie?
Yes, whiter her bosom than snaw on the mountain,
An' bonnie her face as the red rose can be.
See yon lowly cottage that stands by the wild-wood,
Hedged round wi' the sweetbriar and green willow-tree,
'Twas yonder I spent the sweet hours of my childhood,
An' first felt the power of a love-rollin' e'e.
Though soon frae my hame an' my lassie I wander'd;
Though lang I 've been tossing on fortune's rough sea;
Aye dear was the valley where Ettrick meander'd;
Aye dear was the blink o' her blue-rollin' e'e.
Oh! for the evening, and oh! for the hour,
When down by yon greenwood she promised to be;
When quick as the summer-dew dries on the flower,
A' earthly affections and wishes wad flee.
Let Art and let Nature display their proud treasures;
Let Paradise boast o' what ance it could gie;
As high is my bliss, an' as sweet are my pleasures,
In the heart-melting blink o' my lassie's blue e'e.
