  Robert Davidson was born in the parish of Morebattle, Roxburghshire, in 1779. The son of humble parents, he was sent to tend cattle in his tenth year. He had received at the parish school a limited education; and he devoted his leisure time on the hills to miscellaneous reading. Learning scraps of old ballads from the cottage matrons, as they sung them at their distaffs, he early began to essay imitations of these olden ditties. As a farm-servant and an agricultural labourer, he continued through life to seek repose from toil in the perusal of poetry and the composition of verses. "My simple muse," he afterwards wrote, "oft visited me at the plough, and made the labour to seem lighter and the day shorter." In 1811, and in 1824, he published small collections of verses. At the recommendation of some influential friends, he published, in 1848, a compact little volume of his best pieces, under the title, "Leaves from a Peasant's Cottage-Drawer;" and to which was prefixed a well-written autobiographical sketch. He was often oppressed by poverty; and, latterly, was the recipient of parochial relief. He died in the parish of Hounam, on the 6th April 1855; and his remains rest in the church-yard of his native parish. Many of his poems are powerful, both in expression and sentiment; and several of his songs are worthy of a place in the national minstrelsy. In private life he was sober, prudent, and industrious.
FAREWELL TO CALEDONIA. Adieu! a lang and last adieu,
My native Caledonia!
For while your shores were in my view,
I steadfast gazed upon ye, O!
Your shores sae lofty, steep, an' bold,
Fit emblem of your sons of old,
Whose valour, more than mines of gold,
Has honour'd Caledonia.
I think how happy I could be,
To live and die upon ye, O!
Though distant many miles from thee,
My heart still hovers o'er ye, O!
My fancy haunts your mountains steep,
Your forests fair, an' valleys deep,
Your plains, where rapid rivers sweep
To gladden Caledonia.
Still mem'ry turns to where I spent
Life's cheerfu' morn sae bonnie, O!
Though by misfortune from it rent,
It 's dearer still than ony, O!
In vain I 'm told our vessel hies
To fertile fields an' kindly skies;
But still they want the charm that ties
My heart to Caledonia.
My breast had early learn'd to glow
At name of Caledonia;
Though torn an' toss'd wi' many a foe,
She never bow'd to ony, O!
A land of heroes, famed an' brave—
A land our fathers bled to save,
Whom foreign foes could ne'er enslave—
Adieu to Caledonia!
ON VISITING THE SCENES OF EARLY DAYS. Ye daisied glens and briery braes,
Haunts of my happy early days,
Where oft I 've pu'd the blossom'd slaes
And flow'rets fair,
Before my heart was scathed wi' waes
Or worldly care.
Now recollection's airy train
Shoots through my heart with pleasing pain,
And streamlet, mountain, rock, or plain,
Like friends appear,
That, lang, lang lost, now found again,
Are doubly dear.
But many a dauted object 's fled;
Low lies my once paternal shed;
Rank hemlocks wild, and weeds, o'erspread
The ruin'd heap;
Unstirr'd by cheerful tongue or tread,
The echoes sleep.
Yon bonnie burn, whose limpid streams,
When warm'd with summer's glowing beams,
Have often laved my tender limbs,
When my employ
Was chasing childhood's airy whims
From joy to joy.
Upon yon green, at gloamin' gray,
I 've often join'd in cheerful play,
Wi' comrades guileless, blithe, and gay,
Whose magic art,
Remember'd at this distant day,
Still warms the heart.
Ah, cronies dear! for ever lost!
Abroad on life's rough ocean toss'd,
By adverse winds and currents cross'd,
By watching worn,
Some landed on that silent coast,
Ne'er to return!
Howe'er the path of life may lie,
If poorly low, or proudly high,
When scenes of childhood meet our eye,
Their charms we own,
And yield the tribute of a sigh
To days long gone.
TO WANDER LANG IN FOREIGN LANDS. Air—"Auld Langsyne." To wander lang in foreign lands,
It was my destinie;
I joyful was at my return,
My native hills to see.
My step grew light, my heart grew fain,
I thought my cares to tine,
Until I fand ilk weel-kenn'd spot
Sae alter'd sin' langsyne.
I sigh'd to see the flow'ry green
Skaith'd by the ruthless pleugh;
Likewise the bank aboon the burn,
Where broom and hawthorns grew.
A lonely tree, whose aged trunk
The ivy did entwine,
Still mark'd the spot where youngsters met,
In cheerful sports langsyne.
I mixÈd with the village train,
Yet still I seem'd alane;
Nae kindly hand did welcome me,
For a' my friends were gane.
Those friends who oft in foreign lands
Did haunt this heart o' mine,
And brought to mind the happy days
I spent wi' them langsyne.
In youthfu' prime, at fortune's ca',
I braved the billows' roar;
I 've now seen thirty simmer suns
Blink on a distant shore;
And I have stood where honour call'd,
In the embattled line,
And there left many gallant lads,
The cronies o' langsyne.
I 've gather'd walth o' weel-won gear,
Yet still I fortune blame;
I lang wi' strangers pass'd my days,
And now I 'm ane at hame.
I have nae friend but what my gowd
Can draw to mammon's shrine;
But how unlike the guileless hearts
That wish'd me weel langsyne!
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