He sigh'd for kindred hearts again, and left the sunny lands, And where his father's cottage stood a stately palace stands; And with his grandchild on his knee--the old man's heart on flame-- 'Tis thus he trains his darling boy to cherish thoughts of hame.
Oh! hame is aye hamely, dear, though poor at times it be, Ye winna find a spot like hame in lands beyond the sea; Oh! ye may wander east or west, in quest o' wealth or fame, But there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame, Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.
Peter Still was born in the parish of Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, on the 1st day of January 1814. At the time of his birth his father rented a farm, but, being unfortunate, he was compelled to seek the support of his family by manual labour. With a limited education at the parish-school of Longside, whither his parents had removed, the subject of this memoir was sent, in his eleventh year, to tend cattle. When somewhat older, he found employment as a farm-servant; but having married in his twentieth year, he afterwards followed the more precarious occupation of a day-labourer. Of a delicate constitution, he suffered much from impaired health, being frequently, for months together, confined to the sick-chamber. During the periods of convalescence from illness, he composed verses, which he gave to the world in three separate publications. His last work--"The Cottar's Sunday, and other Poems"--appeared in 1845, in a handsome duodecimo volume. He closed a life of much privation and suffering at Peterhead, on the 21st March 1848.
Of sound religious principles and devoted Christian feeling, Still meekly submitted to the bitterness of his lot in life. He was fortunate in arresting the attention of some, who occasionally administered to his wants, and contributed, by their patronage, to the increase of his reputation. His verses are largely pervaded with poetical fervour and religious sentiment, while his songs are generally true to nature. In person he was tall and slender, of a long thin countenance, large dark blue eyes, and curling black hair.
I never thocht to thole the waes It 's been my lot to dree; I never thocht to sigh sae sad Whan first I sigh'd for thee. I thocht your heart was like mine ain, As true as true could be; I couldna think there was a stain In ane sae dear to me.