  The writer of spirited and elegant poetry, Mrs Margaret Maxwell Inglis was the youngest daughter of Alexander Murray, a medical practitioner, who latterly accepted a small government situation in the town of Sanquhar, Dumfriesshire. She was born at Sanquhar on the 27th October 1774, and at an early age became the wife of a Mr Finlay, who held a subordinate post in the navy. On the death of her husband, which took place in the West Indies, she resided with the other members of her family in Dumfries; and in 1803, she married Mr John Inglis, only son of John Inglis, D.D., minister of Kirkmabreck, in Galloway. By the death of Mr Inglis in 1826, she became dependent, with three children by her second marriage, on a small annuity arising from an appointment which her late husband had held in the Excise. She relieved the sadness of her widowhood by a course of extensive reading, and of composition both in prose and verse. In 1838 she published, at the solicitation of friends, a duodecimo volume, entitled "Miscellaneous Collection of Poems, chiefly Scriptural Pieces." Of the compositions in this volume, there are several of very superior merit, while the whole are marked by a vein of elegant fancy. Mrs Inglis died in Edinburgh on the 21st December 1843. Eminently gifted as a musician, she could boast of having been complimented by the poet Burns on the grace with which she had, in his presence, sung his own songs. Of retiring and unobtrusive habits, she mixed sparingly in general society; but among her intimate friends, she was held in estimation for the extent of her information and the unclouded cheerfulness of her disposition. She has left some MSS. of poems and songs, from which we have been privileged to make selections for the present work.
SWEET BARD OF ETTRICK'S GLEN.[8] Air—"Banks of the Devon." Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen!
Where art thou wandering?
Miss'd is thy foot on the mountain and lea.
Why round yon craggy rocks
Wander thy heedless flocks,
While lambies are list'ning and bleating for thee?
Cold as the mountain stream,
Pale as the moonlight beam,
Still is thy bosom, and closed is thine e'e.
Wild may the tempest's wave
Sweep o'er thy lonely grave;
Thou art deaf to the storm—it is harmless to thee.
Like a meteor's brief light,
Like the breath of the morning,
Thy life's dream hath pass'd as a shadow gone by;
Till thy soft numbers stealing
O'er mem'ry's warm feeling,
Each line is embalm'd with a tear or a sigh.
Sweet was thy melody,
Rich as the rose's dye,
Shedding its odours o'er sorrow or glee;
Love laugh'd on golden wing,
Pleasure's hand touch'd the string,
All taught the strain to sing, Shepherd, by thee.
Cold on Benlomond's brow
Flickers the drifted snow,
While down its sides the wild cataracts foam;
Winter's mad winds may sweep
Fierce o'er each glen and steep,
Thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home.
And when on dewy wing
Comes the sweet bird of spring,
Chanting its notes on the bush or the tree;
The Bird of the Wilderness,
Low in the waving grass,
Shall, cow'ring, sing sadly its farewell to thee.
YOUNG JAMIE.[9] Air—"Drummond Castle." Leafless and bare were the shrub and the flower,
Cauld was the drift that blew over yon mountain,
But caulder my heart at his last ling'ring hour,
Though warm was the tear-drap that fell frae my e'e.
O saft is the tint o' the gowan sae bonny,
The blue heather-bell and the rose sweet as ony,
But softer the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e,
And sweeter the smile o' young Jamie.
Dark lowers the cloud o'er yon mountain sae hie,
Faint gloams the sun through the mists o' the ocean,
Rough rows the wave on whose bosom I see
The wee bit frail bark that bears Jamie frae me.
Oh, lang may I look o'er yon wild waste sae dreary,
And lang count the hours, now so lonesome and weary,
And oft may I see the leaf fade frae the tree,
Ere I see the blithe blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.
Cheerless and wae, on yon snaw-cover'd thorn,
Mournfu' and lane is the chirp o' the Robin,
He looks through the storm, but nae shelter can see;
Come, Robin, and join the sad concert wi' me.
Oh, lang may I look o'er yon foam-crested billow,
And Hope dies away like a storm-broken willow;
Sweet Robin, the blossom again ye may see,
But I'll ne'er see the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.
CHARLIE'S BONNET'S DOWN, LADDIE. Air—"Tullymet." Let Highland lads, wi' belted plaids,
And bonnets blue and white cockades,
Put on their shields, unsheathe their blades,
And conquest fell begin;
And let the word be Scotland's heir:
And when their swords can do nae mair,
Lang bowstrings o' their yellow hair
Let Hieland lasses spin, laddie.
Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,
Kilt yer plaid and scour the heather;
Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,
Draw yer dirk and rin.
Mind Wallace wight, auld Scotland's light,
And Douglas bright, and Scrymgeour's might,
And Murray Bothwell's gallant knight,
And Ruthven light and trim—
Kirkpatrick black, wha in a crack
Laid Cressingham upon his back,
Garr'd Edward gather up his pack,
And ply his spurs and rin, laddie.
Charlie's bonnet's down, &c.
HEARD YE THE BAGPIPE? Heard ye the bagpipe, or saw ye the banners
That floated sae light o'er the fields o' Kildairlie;
Saw ye the broadswords, the shields and the tartan hose,
Heard ye the muster-roll sworn to Prince Charlie?
Saw ye brave Appin, wi' bonnet and belted plaid,
Or saw ye the Lords o' Seaforth and Airlie;
Saw ye the Glengarry, M'Leod, and Clandonachil,
Plant the white rose in their bonnets for Charlie?
Saw ye the halls o' auld Holyrood lighted up,
Kenn'd ye the nobles that revell'd sae rarely;
Saw ye the chiefs of Lochiel and Clanronald,
Wha rush'd frae their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?
But saw ye the blood-streaming fields of Culloden,
Or kenn'd ye the banners were tatter'd sae sairly;
Heard ye the pibroch sae wild and sae wailing,
That mourn'd for the chieftains that fell for Prince Charlie.
Wha, in yon Highland glen, weary and shelterless,
Pillows his head on the heather sae barely;
Wha seeks the darkest night, wha maunna face the light,
Borne down by lawless might—gallant Prince Charlie?
Wha, like the stricken deer, chased by the hunter's spear,
Fled frae the hills o' his father sae scaredly;
But wha, by affection's chart, reigns in auld Scotland's heart—
Wha but the royal, the gallant Prince Charlie?
BRUCE'S ADDRESS. When the morning's first ray saw the mighty in arms,
And the tyrant's proud banners insultingly wave,
And the slogan of battle from beauty's fond arms
Roused the war-crested chieftain, his country to save;
The sunbeam that rose on our mountain-clad warriors,
And reflected their shields in the green rippling wave,
In its course saw the slain on the fields of their fathers,
And shed its last ray on their cold bloody graves.
O'er those green beds of honour our war-song prepare,
And the red sword of vengeance triumphantly wave,
While the ghosts of the slain cry aloud—Do not spare,
Lead to victory and freedom, or die with the brave;
For the high soul of freedom no tyrant can fetter,
Like the unshackled billows our proud shores that lave;
Though oppressed, he will watch o'er the home of his fathers,
And rest his wan cheek on the tomb of the brave.
To arms, then! to arms! Let the battle-cry rise,
Like the raven's hoarse croak, through their ranks let it sound;
Set their knell on the wing of each arrow that flies,
Till the shouts of the free shake the mountains around;
Let the cold-blooded, faint-hearted changeling now tremble,
For the war-shock shall reach to his dark-centered cave,
While the laurels that twine round the brows of the victors
Shall with rev'rence be strew'd o'er the tombs of the brave.
REMOVED FROM VAIN FASHION. Removed from vain fashion,
From title's proud ken,
In a straw-cover'd cottage,
Deep hid in yon glen,
There dwells a sweet flow'ret,
Pure, lovely, and fair,
Though rear'd, like the snowdrop,
'Midst hardships' chill air.
No soft voice of kindred,
Or parent she knows—
In the desert she blooms,
Like the sweet mountain rose,
Like the little stray'd lammie
That bleats on the lea;
She's soft, kind, and gentle,
And dear, dear to me.
Though the rich dews of fortune
Ne'er water'd this stem,
Nor one fostering sunbeam
Matured the rich gem—
Oh! give me that pure bosom,
Her lot let me share,
I'll laugh at distinction,
And smile away care.
WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN? When shall we meet again,
Meet ne'er to sever?
When shall Peace wreath her chain
Round us for ever?
When shall our hearts repose,
Safe from each breath that blows,
In this dark world of woes?
Never! oh, never!
Fate's unrelenting hand
Long may divide us,
Yet in one holy land
One God shall guide us.
Then, on that happy shore,
Care ne'er shall reach us more,
Earth's vain delusions o'er,
Angels beside us.
There, where no storms can chill,
False friends deceive us,
Where, with protracted thrill,
Hope cannot grieve us;
There with the pure in heart,
Far from fate's venom'd dart,
There shall we meet to part
Never! oh, never!
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