A FORGOTTEN BARD OF THE BORDER 105 



father but the faculty of rhyme. Although he must have been 

 well educated (as seems to have been possible then in nearly 

 every parish school) Park first appears in the capacity " of 

 minister's man " at Eskdalemuir, the preface to his book being 

 dated from that place in April 1833. Later, he held along with 

 his son-in-law the farm of Holemains, but as a farmer he was 

 unsuccessful. For some months before his death he was editor 

 of the Dumfries Standard^ a Free Kirk newspaper established in 

 1843 ; but he did not long enjoy what may have been the most 

 congenial employment of his life. He died at the age of 55, 

 and was buried ia Watcarrick Chapel. 



Here is one verse from the poem which gives the title to liis 

 little book, and which reveals in its form the influence of Byron, 

 in its sentiment the influence of Leyden : — 



Lov'd vale! I've seen thee in the flush of spring, 



When all thy woods vrere green and fields were gay, 

 I've heard thy farthest glens with gladness ring 



On the still evening of a summer's day; 

 I've marked thy fruits in autumn ripening, 



And watched the season's subsequent decay : 

 Pleased with each change, I even loved thee more 



When ail thy hills the weeds of winter wore. 



Not all the poems are of equal worth ; sometimes Pegasus 

 limps painfully ; but there are pieces of striking merit, and it 

 would be difficult, even in " Anster Fair," to excel " the muckle 

 pot of Skelfhill " as an example of the mock-heroic. In his 

 "Ode to Poverty " the poet may be said to reach his highest 

 level. It is all wo' thy of reprinting, but in the following verses 

 members of the B.N.C will find enough, perhaps, to justify this 

 enshrining of their author as one whose memory may well be 

 cherished by the generations who, after him, tread the classic 

 vales and hills of the Border : — 



Hail ! mighty power ! who o'er my lot 



Fresidest uncontrolled and free ; 

 Sole ruler of my rural cot, 



I bid thee hail, dread poverty ! 



When on this world of woe and toil 



A helpless stranger I was cast, 

 Like mariner on desert isle, 



The sport and victim of the blast. 

 Thy russet robe was o'er me flung. 

 And to thy cold lean hand I clung. 



