John Imlah, one of the sweetest and most patriotic of Scottish song-writers, was born in North Street, Aberdeen, about the close of the year 1799. His progenitors were farmers in the parish of Fyvie, but his father followed the profession of an innkeeper. Of seven sons, born in succession to his parents, the poet was the youngest. On completing an ordinary education at the grammar-school, he was apprenticed to a pianoforte maker in Aberdeen. Excelling as a piano-tuner he, in this capacity, sought employment in London, and was fortunate in procuring an engagement from the Messrs Broadwood. For the first six months of the year he performed the duties of a tuner in the metropolis, and during the remaining six months prosecuted his vocation in Scotland. Attached to his native country, he took delight in celebrating her strains. He composed songs from his boyhood. In 1827, he published "May Flowers," a duodecimo volume of lyrics, chiefly in the Scottish dialect, which he followed by a second volume of "Poems and Songs" in 1841. He contributed to Macleod's "National Melodies" and the Edinburgh Literary Journal. On the 9th January 1846, his death took place at Jamaica, whither he had gone on a visit to one of his brothers.
Imlah was a person of amiable dispositions and agreeable manners. Of his numerous lyrics, each is distinguished by a rich fancy, and several of his songs will maintain a lasting place in the national minstrelsy.
KATHLEEN.
Air—"The Humours of Glen."
O distant but dear is that sweet island, wherein
My hopes with my Kathleen and kindred abide;
And far though I wander from thee, emerald Erin!
No space can the links of my love-chain divide.
Fairest spot of the earth! brightest gem of the ocean!
How oft have I waken'd my wild harp in thee!
While, with eye of expression, and heart of emotion,
Listen'd, Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!
The bloom of the moss-rose, the blush of the morning,
The soft cheek of Kathleen discloses their dye;
What ruby can rival the lip of mavourneen?
What sight-dazzling diamond can equal her eye?
Her silken hair vies with the sunbeam in brightness,
And white is her brow as the surf of the sea;
Thy footstep is like to the fairy's in lightness,
Of Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!
Fair muse of the minstrel! beloved of my bosom!
As the song of thy praise and my passion I breathed,
Thy fair fingers oft, with the triad leaf'd blossom,
Sweet Erin's green emblem, my wild harp have wreathed;
While with soft melting murmurs the bright river ran on,
That by thy bower follows the sun to the sea;
And oh! soon dawn the day I review the sweet Shannon
And Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!
HIELAN' HEATHER.
Air—"O'er the Muir amang the Heather."
Hey for the Hielan' heather!
Hey for the Hielan' heather!
Dear to me, an' aye shall be,
The bonnie braes o' Hielan' heather!
The moss-muir black an' mountain blue,
Whare mists at morn an' gloamin' gather;
The craigs an' cairns o' hoary hue,
Whare blooms the bonnie Hielan' heather!
Hey for the Hielan' heather!
Whare monie a wild bird wags its wing,
Baith sweet o' sang an' fair o' feather;
While cavern'd cliffs wi' echo ring,
Amang the hills o' Hielan' heather!
Hey for the Hielan' heather!
Whare, light o' heart an' light o' heel,
Young lads and lasses trip thegither;
The native Norlan rant and reel
Amang the halesome Hielan' heather!
Hey for the Hielan' heather!
The broom an' whin, by loch an' lin,
Are tipp'd wi' gowd in simmer weather;
How sweet an' fair! but meikle mair
The purple bells o' Hielan' heather!
Hey for the Hielan' heather!
Whare'er I rest, whare'er I range,
My fancy fondly travels thither;
Nae countrie charms, nae customs change
My feelings frae the Hielan' heather!
Hey, for the Hielan' heather!
FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND.
Air—"Kinloch."
Loved land of my kindred, farewell—and for ever!
Oh! what can relief to the bosom impart;
When fated with each fond endearment to sever,
And hope its sweet sunshine withholds from the heart!
Farewell, thou fair land! which, till life's pulse shall perish,
Though doom'd to forego, I shall never forget,
Wherever I wander, for thee will I cherish
The dearest regard and the deepest regret.
Farewell, ye great Grampians, cloud-robed and crested!
Like your mists in the sunbeam ye melt in my sight;
Your peaks are the king-eagle's thrones—where have rested
The snow-falls of ages—eternally white.
Ah! never again shall the falls of your fountains
Their wild murmur'd music awake on mine ear;
No more the lake's lustre, that mirrors your mountains,
I'll pore on with pleasure—deep, lonely, yet dear.
Yet—yet Caledonia! when slumber comes o'er me,
Oh! oft will I dream of thee, far, far, away;
But vain are the visions that rapture restore me,
To waken and weep at the dawn of the day.
Ere gone the last glimpse, faint and far o'er the ocean,
Where yet my heart dwells—where it ever shall dwell,
While tongue, sigh and tear, speak my spirit's emotion,
My country—my kindred—farewell, oh farewell!
THE ROSE OF SEATON VALE.
A bonnie Rose bloom'd wild and fair,
As sweet a bud I trow
As ever breathed the morning air,
Or drank the evening dew.
A Zephyr loved the blushing flower,
With sigh and fond love tale;
It woo'd within its briery bower
The rose of Seaton Vale.
With wakening kiss the Zephyr press'd
This bud at morning light;
At noon it fann'd its glowing breast,
And nestled there at night.
But other flowers sprung up thereby,
And lured the roving gale;
The Zephyr left to droop and die
The Rose of Seaton Vale.
A matchless maiden dwelt by Don,
Loved by as fair a youth;
Long had their young hearts throbb'd as one
Wi' tenderness and truth.
Thy warmest tear, soft Pity, pour—
For Ellen's type and tale
Are in that sweet, ill-fated flower,
The Rose of Seaton Vale.
KATHERINE AND DONALD.
Young Donald dearer loved than life
The proud Dunallan's daughter;
But, barr'd by feudal hate and strife,
In vain he loved and sought her.
She loved the Lord of Garry's glen,
The chieftain of Clanronald;
A thousand plaided Highlandmen
Clasp'd the claymore for Donald.
On Scotland rush'd the Danish hordes,
Dunallan met his foemen;
Beneath him bared ten thousand swords
Of vassal, serf, and yeomen.
The fray was fierce—and at its height
Was seen a visor'd stranger,
With red lance foremost in the fight,
Unfearing Dane and danger.
"Be praised—brave knight! thy steel hath striven
The sharpest in the slaughter;
Crave what thou wilt of me—though even
My fair—my darling daughter!"
He lifts the visor from his face—
The chieftain of Clanronald!
And foes enclasp in friends' embrace,
Dunallan and young Donald.
Dunallan's halls ring loud with glee—
The feast-cup glads Glengarry;
The joy that should for ever be
When mutual lovers marry.
The shout and shell the revellers raise,
Dunallan and Clanronald;
And minstrel measures pour to praise
Fair Kath'rine and brave Donald!
GUID NIGHT, AN' JOY BE WI' YOU A'.
Guid night, and joy be wi' you a'!
Since it is sae that I maun gang;
Short seem'd the gate to come, but ah!
To gang again as wearie lang.
Sic joyous nights come nae sae thrang
That I sae sune sou'd haste awa';
But since it's sae that I maun gae,
Guid night, and joy be wi' ye a'!
This night I ween we've had the heart
To gar auld Time tak' to his feet;
That makes us a' fu' laith to part,
But aye mair fain again to meet!
To dree the winter's drift and weet
For sic a night is nocht ava,
For hours the sweetest o' the sweet;
Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
Our bald-pow'd daddies here we've seen,
In younker revels fidgin' fain;
Our gray-hair'd grannies here hae been,
Like daffin hizzies, young again!
To mony a merrie auld Scot's strain
We've deftly danced the time awa':
We met in mirth—we part wi' pain,
Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
My nimble gray neighs at the yett,
My shouthers roun' the plaid I throw;
I've clapt the spur upon my buit,
The guid braid bonnet on my brow!
Then night is wearing late I trow—
My hame lies mony a mile awa';
The mair's my need to mount and go,
Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
THE GATHERING.[12]
Rise, rise! Lowland and Highlandman,
Bald sire to beardless son, each come and early;
Rise, rise! mainland and islandmen,
Belt on your broad claymores—fight for Prince Charlie;
Down from the mountain steep,
Up from the valley deep,
Out from the clachan, the bothie, and shieling,
Bugle and battle-drum
Bid chief and vassal come,
Bravely our bagpipes the pibroch is pealing.
Men of the mountains—descendants of heroes!
Heirs of the fame as the hills of your fathers;
Say, shall the Southern—the Sassenach fear us
When to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers?
Too long on the trophied walls
Of your ancestral halls,
Red rust hath blunted the armour of Albin;
Seize then, ye mountain Macs,
Buckler and battle-axe,
Lads of Lochaber, Braemar, and Breadalbin!
When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward?
When did the blue bonnet crest the disloyal?
Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart,
Follow your leader—the rightful—the royal!
Chief of Clanronald,
Donald Macdonald!
Lovat! Lochiel! with the Grant and the Gordon!
Rouse every kilted clan,
Rouse every loyal man,
Gun on the shoulder, and thigh the good sword on!
MARY.
Air—"The Dawtie."
There lives a young lassie
Far down yon lang glen,
How I lo'e that lassie
There's nae ane can ken!
Oh! a saint's faith may vary,
But faithfu' I'll be—
For weel I lo'e Mary,
And Mary lo'es me.
Red, red as the rowan
Her smiling wee mou,
An' white as the gowan
Her breast and her brow;
Wi' the foot o' a fairy
She links o'er the lea—
Oh! weel I lo'e Mary,
An' Mary lo'es me.
Where yon tall forest timmer,
An' lowly broom bower,
To the sunshine o' simmer,
Spread verdure an' flower;
There, when night clouds the cary,
Beside her I'll be—
For weel I lo'e Mary,
An' Mary lo'es me!
OH! GIN I WERE WHERE GADIE RINS.[13]
Oh! gin I were where Gadie rins,
Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins—
Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins
By the foot o' Bennachie.
I've roam'd by Tweed, I've roam'd by Tay,
By Border Nith, and Highland Spey,
But dearer far to me than they
The braes o' Bennachie.
When blade and blossoms sprout in spring,
And bid the burdies wag the wing,
They blithely bob, and soar, and sing
By the foot o' Bennachie.
When simmer cleeds the varied scene
Wi' licht o' gowd and leaves o' green,
I fain would be where aft I've been
At the foot o' Bennachie.
When autumn's yellow sheaf is shorn,
And barn-yards stored wi' stooks o' corn,
'Tis blithe to toom the clyack horn
At the foot o' Bennachie.
When winter winds blaw sharp and shrill
O'er icy burn and sheeted hill,
The ingle neuk is gleesome still
At the foot o' Bennachie.
Though few to welcome me remain,
Though a' I loved be dead and gane,
I'll back, though I should live alane,
To the foot o' Bennachie.
Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins,
Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins—
Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins
By the foot o' Bennachie.
