The writer of some spirited lyrics, Robert Duthie was born in Stonehaven on the 2d of February 1826. Having obtained an ordinary elementary education, he was apprenticed, in his fourteenth year, to his father, who followed the baking business. He afterwards taught a private school in his native town; but, on the death of his father, in 1848, he resumed his original profession, with the view of supporting his mother and the younger members of the family. Devoting his leisure hours to literature and poetry, he is a frequent contributor to the provincial journals; and some of his lyrical productions promise to secure him a more extended reputation.
SONG OF THE OLD ROVER.
I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the wild sea waves,
And the tempest around me is swelling;
The winds have come forth from their ice-ribb'd caves,
And the waves from their rocky dwelling;
But my trim-built bark
O'er the waters dark
Bounds lightly along,
And the mermaid lists to my echoing song.
Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to lave
In the briny spray of the wild sea wave!
I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the foaming deep,
And the storm-bird above me is screaming;
While forth from the cloud where the thunders sleep
The lightning is fearfully gleaming;
But onward I dash,
For the fitful flash
Illumes me along,
And the thunders chorus my echoing song.
Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to brave
The dangers that frown on the wild sea wave!
I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat where my well-served shot
Lays the war-dogs bleeding around me;
But ne'er do I yield on the tentless field
Till the wreath of the victor hath crown'd me;
Then I, a true child
Of the ocean wild,
With a tuneful tongue
Bear away with my prize and my conquering song.
Hurrah! hurrah! shot and storm, let them rave—
I 'm at home, dashing on through the wild sea wave!
I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on my ocean home—
The home of the hurrying billow;
But the time is at hand when no longer I 'll roam,
But in peace lay me down on its pillow:
The petrel will scream
My requiem hymn,
And the thunders prolong
The deep-chorus'd note of my last echo'd song,
As I sink to repose in my rock-bound grave
That is down in the depths of the wild sea wave.
BOATMAN'S SONG.
Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea,
The home of the rover, the bold and free;
Land hath its charms, but those be mine,
To row my boat through the sparkling brine—
To lave in the pearls that kiss the prow
Of the bounding thing as we onward go—
To nerve the arm and bend the oar,
Bearing away from the vacant shore.
Pull away, pull away o'er the glassy sea—
'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me;
Land hath its charms, but no charms like thine:
Hurrah! let us dash through the sparkling brine.
Gloomily creeping the mists appear
In denser shade on the mountains drear;
And the twilight steals o'er the stilly deep,
By the zephyrs hush'd to its evening sleep;
Nor a ripple uprears a whiten'd crest,
To wrinkle the blue of its placid breast;
But all is still, save the lisping waves
Washing the shells in the distant caves.
Pull away, pull away o'er the sleeping sea—
'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me—
'Tis the home of my heart where I 'd ever rove!
Hurrah! hurrah! for the home I love.
Oh, I love the sound of the tempest's roar,
And I love the splash of the bending oar,
Playing amid the phosphoric fire,
Seen as the eddying sparks retire.
'Tis a fairy home, and I love to roam
Through its sleeping calm or its lashing foam.
The land hath its charms, but the sea hath more;
Then away let us row from the vacant shore.
Pull away, pull away o'er the mighty sea—
'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me;
'Tis the home of the rover, the bold and free:
Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea.
LISETTE.
When we meet again, Lisette,
Let the sun be sunk to rest
Beneath the glowing wavelets
Of the widely spreading west;
Let half the world be hush'd
In the drowsiness of sleep,
And howlets scream the music
Of the revels that they keep.
Let the gentle lady-moon,
With her coldly drooping beams,
Be dancing in the ripple
Of the ever-laughing streams,
Where the little elves disport
In the stilly noon of night,
And lave their limbs of ether
In the mellow flood of light.
When we meet again, Lisette,
Let it be in yonder pile,
Beneath the massy fretting
Of its darkly-shaded aisle,
Where, through the crumbling arches
The quaint old carvings loom,
And saint and seraph keep their watch
O'er many an ancient tomb.
