Robert Wilson was born in the parish of Carnbee, and county of Fife. He practised for some time as a surgeon in St Andrews. He has contributed many pieces of descriptive verse to the periodicals. In 1856, a duodecimo volume of "Poems" from his pen was published at Boston, U.S. His other publications are a small volume on "The Social Condition of France," "Lectures on the Game Laws," and several brochures on subjects of a socio-political nature. He has latterly resided at Aberdour, Fifeshire.
AWAY, AWAY, MY GALLANT BARK. Away, away, my gallant bark!
The waves are white and high;
And fast the long becalmÈd clouds
Are sailing in the sky.
The merry breeze which wafts them on,
And chafes the billow's spray,
Will urge thee in thy watery flight:
My gallant bark, away!
Now, like the sea-bird's snowy plumes,
Are spread thy wingÈd sails,
To soar above the mountain waves,
And scoop their glassy vales;
And, like the bird, thou 'lt calmly rest,
Thy azure journey o'er,
The shadow of thy folded wings
Upon the sunny shore.
Away, away, my gallant bark!
Across the billow's foam;
I leave awhile, for ocean's strife,
The quiet haunts of home;
The green fields of my fatherland
For many a stormy bay;
The blazing hearth for beacon-light:
My gallant bark, away!
LOVE. What fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart!
Resistless, as a spring-tide sea, it flows into the heart,
Pervading with its living wave the bosom's inmost core,
That thrills with many a gentle hope it never felt before.
And o'er the stripling's glowing heart, extending far and wide,
Through passion's troubled realm does Love with angel sway preside;
And smiles are shed that cast a light o'er many a future year,
And whispers soft are conjured up of lips that are not near.
With promises of fairyland this daylight world teems,
And sleep comes with forgetfulness or fraught with lovely dreams;
And there is magic in the touch, and music in the sigh,
And, far more eloquent than speech, a language in the eye.
And hope the constant bosom cheers with prospects ever new;
But if the favour'd one prove false, oh! who can then be true?
Our fond illusions disappear, like slumber's shadowy train,
And we ne'er recall those vanish'd hopes, nor feel that love again.
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