[72] We are indebted to Mr W. Deans, author of a "History of the Ottoman Empire," for much of the information contained in this memoir. Mr Deans was personally acquainted with Mr Hamilton Paul.
[73] "He never took any credit to himself," communicates his friend, Mr H. S. Riddell, "from the widely-known circumstance of his having carried off the prize from Campbell. He said that Campbell was at that period a very young man, much younger than he, and had much less experience in composition than himself."
Fair are the fleecy flocks that feed On yonder heath-clad hills, Where wild meandering crystal Tweed Collects his glassy rills. And sweet the buds that scent the air, And deck the breast of May; But none of these are sweet or fair, Compared to Helen Gray.
You see in Helen's face so mild, And in her bashful mien, The winning softness of the child, The blushes of fifteen. The witching smile, when prone to go, Arrests me, bids me stay; Nor joy, nor comfort can I know, When 'reft of Helen Gray.
I little thought the dark-brown moors, The dusky mountain's shade, Down which the wasting torrent pours, Conceal'd so sweet a maid; When sudden started from the plain A sylvan scene and gay, Where, pride of all the virgin train, I first saw Helen Gray.
May never Envy's venom'd breath, Blight thee, thou tender flower! And may thy head ne'er droop beneath Affliction's chilling shower! Though I, the victim of distress, Must wander far away; Yet, till my dying hour, I 'll bless The name of Helen Gray.
Of streams that down the valley run, Or through the meadow glide, Or glitter to the summer sun, The Stinshar[74] is the pride. 'Tis not his banks of verdant hue, Though famed they be afar; Nor grassy hill, nor mountain blue, Nor flower bedropt with diamond dew; 'Tis she that chiefly charms the view, The bonnie lass of Barr.
When rose the lark on early wing, The vernal tide to hail; When daisies deck'd the breast of spring, I sought her native vale. The beam that gilds the evening sky, And brighter morning star, That tells the king of day is nigh, With mimic splendour vainly try To reach the lustre of thine eye, Thou bonnie lass of Barr.
The sun behind yon misty isle, Did sweetly set yestreen; But not his parting dewy smile Could match the smile of Jean. Her bosom swell'd with gentle woe, Mine strove with tender war. On Stinshar's banks, while wild-woods grow, While rivers to the ocean flow, With love of thee my heart shall glow, Thou bonnie lass of Barr.