The following beautiful tributary verses to the memory of those who fell at Airsmoss, were written by James Hislop, a native of the district where the skirmish took place. He composed them when only a shepherd boy, and when he had enjoyed few opportunities of inproving his mind. They have frequently been reprinted, but seldom correctly. The following version is copied from the Scots Magazine for February, 1821:— IN a dream of the night I was wafted away, 'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, When the minister's hame was the mountain and wood; When in Wellwood's dark moorlands the standard of Zion, All bloody and torn, 'mang the heather was lying. It was morning, and summer's young sun, from the east, Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast, On Wardlaw, and Cairn-Table, the clear shining dew, Glistened sheen 'mang the heath-bells and mountain flowers blue. And far up in heaven in the white sunny cloud, And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness, But ah! there were hearts cherished far other feelings, "Twas the few faithful ones who, with Cameron, were lying Concealed 'mang the mist, where the heath-fowl was crying; For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty cover ing. Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed, But the vengeance that darkened their brows was un breathed; With eyes raised to Heaven, in meek resignation, The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing, Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded, Yet the souls of the righteous stood calm and unclouded; Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, proud and unbending, They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending, The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming. The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling, When in Wellwood's dark moorlands the mighty were falling. When the righteous had fallen, and the combat had ended, A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended, And its burning wheels turned upon axles of brightness. A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining, And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation, On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding, LIVES BY AN UNFORTUNATE FEMALE BEWAILING HER MOURNFUL CONDITION ANON. LITTLE did my mother ken The day she cradled me, The lands that I should travel in! Oh that my father ne'er had on me smiled! Oh that the grave, it were my bed! The blankets were my winding sheet! And oh! sae sound as I should sleep! THE CHILD OF JAMES MELVILLE.' (DORN JULY 9, 1586-DIED ABOUT JANUARY, 1588) MRS. A. STUART MENTEATH. This page, if thou be a pater (parent-father) that reads it, thou wilt apardone me; if nocht, suspend thy censure till thou be a father, as said the grave Lacedæmonian Agesilaus."-AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JAMES MELVILLE ONE time-my soul was pierced as with a sword— A summer gift-my precious flower was given— Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven, When home I turned-a weary man of strife! This exquisite gem is from a volume of rare poetical excellence, in which full justice is done to our Covenanting sires, entitled "Lays of the Kirk and Covenant," by Mrs. Menteath. It is long since we enjoyed such a treat as this little volume has given us. No nation on the face of the globe has a history so full of interest to the Christian as that of Scotland. Her soil has been consecrated by conflicts, more noble than those immortalized in Homer's song-battles for Christ's crown and covenant, that have shaped the destinies of man to an extent that nothing but eternity can fully disclose. Amid such scenes the Christian poet finds appropriate materials for song. Mrs. Menteath has the true spirit of the ballad-wild, plaintive, and soulmoving. That parent must be made of stern stuff, indeed, who can read "The Child of James Melville" with undimmed eyes. |