Robert White, an indefatigable antiquary, and pleasing writer of lyric poetry, is a native of Roxburghshire. His youth and early manhood were spent at Otterburn, in Redesdale, where his father rented a farm. Possessed of an ardent love of reading, he early became familiar with the English poets, and himself tried metrical composition. While still a young man, he ranked among the poetical contributors to the Newcastle Magazine. In 1825 he accepted a situation as clerk to a respectable tradesman in Newcastle, which he retained upwards of twenty years. Latterly he has occupied a post of respectable emolument, and with sufficient leisure for the improvement of his literary tastes.
Besides contributing both in prose and verse to the local journals, and some of the periodicals, Mr White is the author of several publications. In 1829 appeared from his pen "The Tynemouth Nun," an elegantly versified tale; in 1853, "The Wind," a poem; and in 1856, "England," a poem. He has contributed songs to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song." At present he has in the press a "History of the Battle of Otterburn," prepared from original sources of information.
MY NATIVE LAND.
Fair Scotland! dear as life to me
Are thy majestic hills;
And sweet as purest melody
The music of thy rills.
The wildest cairn, the darkest dell,
Within thy rocky strand,
Possess o'er me a living spell—
Thou art my native land.
Loved country, when I muse upon
Thy dauntless men of old,
Whose swords in battle foremost shone—
Thy Wallace brave and bold;
And Bruce who, for our liberty,
Did England's sway withstand;
I glory I was born in thee,
Mine own ennobled land!
Nor less thy martyrs I revere,
Who spent their latest breath
To seal the cause they held so dear,
And conquer'd even in death.
Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain,
No bigot's stern command
Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain,
My dear devoted land.
And thou hast ties around my heart,
Attraction deeper still—
The gifted poet's sacred art,
The minstrel's matchless skill.
Yea; every scene that Burns and Scott
Have touch'd with magic hand
Is in my sight a hallow'd spot,
Mine own distinguish'd land!
Oh! when I wander'd far from thee,
I saw thee in my dreams;
I mark'd thy forests waving free,
I heard thy rushing streams.
Thy mighty dead in life came forth,
I knew the honour'd band;
We spoke of thee—thy fame—thy worth—
My high exalted land!
Now if the lonely home be mine
In which my fathers dwelt,
And I can worship at the shrine
Where they in fervour knelt;
No glare of wealth, or honour high,
Shall lure me from thy strand;
Oh, I would yield my parting sigh
In thee, my native land!
A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.
Eliza fair, the mirth of May
Resounds from glen and tree;
Yet thy mild voice, I need not say,
Is dearer far to me.
And while I thus a garland cull,
To grace that brow of thine,
My cup of pure delight is full—
A shepherd's life be mine!
Believe me, maid, the means of wealth,
Howe'er profuse they be,
Produce not pleasure that in health
Is shared by you and me!
'Tis when elate with thoughts of joy
We find a heart like thine,
That objects grateful glad the eye—
A shepherd's life be mine!
O mark, Eliza, how the flowers
Around us sweetly spring;
And list how in these woodland bowers
The birds with rapture sing;
Behold that vale whose streamlet clear
Flows on in waving line;
Can Paradise more bright appear?
A shepherd's life be mine!
Now, dearest, not the morning bright,
That dawns o'er hill and lea,
Nor eve, with all its golden light,
Can charm me without thee.
To feel the magic of thy smile—
To catch that glance of thine—
To talk to thee of love the while,
A shepherd's life be mine!
HER I LOVE BEST.
Thou morn full of beauty
That chases the night,
And wakens all Nature
With gladness and light,
When warbles the linnet
Aloof from its nest,
O scatter thy fragrance
Round her I love best!
Ye hills, dark and lofty,
That near her ascend,
If she in her pastime
Across thee shall wend,
Let every lone pathway
In wild flowers be drest,
To welcome the footsteps
Of her I love best!
Thou sun, proudly sailing
O'er depths of the sky,
Dispensing beneath thee
Profusion and joy,
Until in thy splendour
Thou sink'st to the west,
Oh, gaze not too boldly
On her I love best!
Ye wild roving breezes,
I charge you, forbear
To wantonly tangle
The braids of her hair;
Breathe not o'er her rudely,
Nor sigh on her breast,
Nor kiss you the sweet lip
Of her I love best!
Thou evening, that gently
Steals after the day,
To robe with thy shadow
The landscape in gray,
O fan with soft pinion
My dearest to rest!
And calm be the slumber
Of her I love best!
Ye angels of goodness,
That shield us from ill,
The purest of pleasures
Awarding us still,
As near her you hover,
Oh, hear my request!
Pour blessings unnumber'd
On her I love best!
THE KNIGHT'S RETURN.
Fair Ellen, here again I stand—
All dangers now are o'er;
No sigh to reach my native land
Shall rend my bosom more.
Ah! oft, beyond the heaving main,
I mourn'd at Fate's decree;
I wish'd but to be back again
To Scotland and to thee.
O Ellen, how I prized thy love
In foreign lands afar!
Upon my helm I bore thy glove
Through thickest ranks of war:
And as a pledge, in battle-field,
Recall'd thy charms to me;
I breath'd a prayer behind my shield
For Scotland and for thee.
I scarce can tell how eagerly
My eyes were hither cast,
When, faintly rising o'er the sea,
These hills appear'd at last.
My very breast, as on the shore
I bounded light and free,
Declared by throbs the love I bore
To Scotland and to thee.
Oh, long, long has the doom been mine
In other climes to roam;
Yet have I seen no form like thine,
No sweeter spot than home;
Nor ask'd I e'er another heart
To feel alone for me:
O Ellen, never more I'll part
From Scotland and from thee!
THE BONNIE REDESDALE LASSIE.
The breath o' spring is gratefu',
As mild it sweeps alang,
Awakening bud an' blossom
The broomy braes amang,
And wafting notes o' gladness
Frae ilka bower and tree;
Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is sweeter still to me.
How bright is summer's beauty!
When, smilin' far an' near,
The wildest spots o' nature
Their gayest livery wear;
And yellow cups an' daisies
Are spread on ilka lea;
But the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Mair charming is to me.
Oh! sweet is mellow autumn!
When, wide oure a' the plain,
Slow waves in rustlin' motion
The heavy-headed grain;
Or in the sunshine glancin',
And rowin' like the sea;
Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is dearer far to me!
As heaven itsel', her bosom
Is free o' fraud or guile;
What hope o' future pleasure
Is centred in her smile!
I wadna lose for kingdoms
The love-glance o' her e'e;
Oh! the bonnie Redesdale lassie
Is life and a' to me!
THE MOUNTAINEER'S DEATH.
Air—"Todlin' hame."
I neither got promise of siller nor land
With the bonnie wee darling who gave me her hand;
But I got a kind heart with my sweet blushing bride,
And that 's proved the bliss of my ain fireside.
My ain fireside, my dear fireside,
There 's happiness aye at my ain fireside!
Ambition once pointed my view towards rank,
To meadows and manors, and gold in the bank:
'Twas but for an hour; and I cherish with pride
My sweet lovely flower at my ain fireside.
My ain fireside, my happy fireside,
My Jeanie 's the charm of my ain fireside!
Her accents are music; there 's grace in her air;
And purity reigns in her bosom so fair;
She 's lovelier now than in maidenly pride,
Though she 's long been the joy of my ain fireside.
My ain fireside, my happy fireside,
There 's harmony still at my ain fireside!
Let the minions of fortune and fashion go roam,
I 'm content with the sweet, simple pleasures of home;
Though their wine, wit, and humour flow like a spring-tide,
What are these to the bliss of my dear fireside?
My ain fireside, my cheerie fireside,
There are pleasures untold at my ain fireside!
THERE IS A PANG FOR EVERY HEART.
Air—"Gramachree."
There is a pang for every heart,
A tear for every eye;
There is a knell for every ear,
For every breast a sigh.
There 's anguish in the happiest state,
Humanity can prove;
But oh! the torture of the soul
Is unrequited love!
The reptile haunts the sweetest bower,
The rose blooms on the thorn;
There 's poison in the fairest flower
That greets the opening morn.
The hemlock and the night-shade spring
In garden and in grove;
But oh! the upas of the soul
Is unrequited love!
Ah! lady, thine inconstancy
Hath made my peace depart;
The unwonted coldness of thine eye
Hath froze thy lover's heart.
Yet with the fibres of that heart
Thine image dear is wove;
Nor can they sever till I die
Of unrequited love!
THE FIRST OF MAY.
Air—"The Braes of Balquhidder."
Now the beams of May morn
On the mountains are streaming,
And the dews on the corn
Are like diamond-drops gleaming;
And the birds from the bowers
Are in gladness ascending;
And the breath of sweet flowers
With the zephyrs is blending.
And the rose-linnet's thrill,
Overflowing with gladness,
And the wood-pigeon's bill,
Though their notes seem of sadness;
And the jessamine rich
Its soft tendrils is shooting,
From pear and from peach
The bright blossoms are sprouting.
And the lambs on the lea
Are in playfulness bounding,
And the voice of the sea
Is in harmony sounding;
And the streamlet on high
In the morning beam dances,
For all Nature is joy
As sweet summer advances.
Then, my Mary, let 's stray
Where the wild-flowers are glowing,
By the banks of the Tay
In its melody flowing;
Thou shalt bathe in May-dew,
Like a sweet mountain blossom,
For 'tis bright like thy brow,
And 'tis pure as thy bosom!
SONG OF THE SCOTTISH EXILE.
Oh! the sunny peaches glow,
And the grapes in clusters blush;
And the cooling silver streams
From their sylvan fountains rush;
There is music in the grove,
And there 's fragrance on the gale;
But there 's nought so dear to me
As my own Highland vale.
Oh! the queen-like virgin rose,
Of the dew and sunlight born,
And the azure violet,
Spread their beauties to the morn;
So does the hyacinth,
And the lily pure and pale;
But I love the daisy best
In my own Highland vale.
Hark! hark! those thrilling notes!
'Tis the nightingale complains;
Oh! the soul of music breathes
In those more than plaintive strains;
But they 're not so dear to me
As the murmur of the rill,
And the bleating of the lambs
On my own Highland hill.
Oh! the flow'rets fair may glow,
And the juicy fruits may blush,
And the beauteous birds may sing,
And the crystal streamlets rush;
And the verdant meads may smile,
And the cloudless sun may beam,
But there 's nought beneath the skies
Like my own Highland home.
THE TEMPEST IS RAGING.
Air—"He 's dear to me, though far frae me."
The tempest is raging
And rending the shrouds;
The ocean is waging
A war with the clouds;
The cordage is breaking,
The canvas is torn,
The timbers are creaking—
The seamen forlorn.
The water is gushing
Through hatches and seams;
'Tis roaring and rushing
O'er keelson and beams;
And nought save the lightning
On mainmast or boom,
At intervals brightening
The palpable gloom.
Though horrors beset me,
And hurricanes howl,
I may not forget thee,
Beloved of my soul!
Though soon I must perish
In ocean beneath,
Thine image I 'll cherish,
Adored one! in death.
THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.[40]
Talk not of temples—there is one
Built without hands, to mankind given;
Its lamps are the meridian sun,
And all the stars of heaven;
Its walls are the cerulean sky,
Its floor the earth so green and fair;
The dome is vast immensity—
All nature worships there!
The Alps array'd in stainless snow,
The Andean ranges yet untrod,
At sunrise and at sunset glow
Like altar-fires to God.
A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze,
As if with hallow'd victims rare;
And thunder lifts its voice in praise—
All nature worships there!
The ocean heaves resistlessly,
And pours his glittering treasure forth;
His waves—the priesthood of the sea—
Kneel on the shell-gemm'd earth,
And there emit a hollow sound,
As if they murmur'd praise and prayer;
On every side 'tis holy ground—
All nature worships there!
The grateful earth her odours yield
In homage, Mighty One! to thee;
From herbs and flowers in every field,
From fruit on every tree,
The balmy dew at morn and even
Seems like the penitential tear,
Shed only in the sight of heaven—
All nature worships there!
The cedar and the mountain pine,
The willow on the fountain's brim,
The tulip and the eglantine,
In reverence bend to Him;
The song-birds pour their sweetest lays,
From tower, and tree, and middle air;
The rushing river murmurs praise—
All nature worships there!
Then talk not of a fane, save one
Built without hands, to mankind given;
Its lamps are the meridian sun,
And all the stars of heaven.
Its walls are the cerulean sky,
Its floor the earth so green and fair,
The dome is vast immensity—
All nature worships there!
