Home has not ventured on a publication, and latterly has abandoned the composition of verses. In youth he was, writes a correspondent, "an enthusiast in love, music, and poetry." A number of his songs and poetical pieces, which he had addressed to friends, have long been popular in the south of Scotland. His song entitled "This Lassie o' Mine" has enjoyed an uncommon measure of general favour. His compositions are replete with pathos; he has skilfully told the lover's tale; and has most truthfully depicted the joys and sorrows, hopes and fears of human life. Some of his best pieces appear in the "Unknown Poets" of Mr Alexander Campbell,--a work which only reached a single number. Of mild dispositions, modest manners, and industrious habits, Home is much respected in private life. Of a somewhat sanguine complexion, his countenance betokens superior intellectual power. He enjoys the comfort of a suitable partner in life, and is a respected office-bearer of the Free Church congregation at Broughton.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the lark begins to sing, And a thousan', thousan' joyfu' hearts Are welcoming the spring: When the merle and the blackbird build their nest In the bushy forest tree, And a' things under the sky seem blest, My thoughts shall be o' thee.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the simmer spreads her flowers, And the lily blooms and the ivy twines In beauty round the bowers; When the cushat coos in the leafy wood, And the lambs sport o'er the lea, And every heart 's in its happiest mood, My thoughts shall be o' thee.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When har'st blithe days begin, And shearers ply, in the yellow ripe field, The foremost rig to win; When the shepherd brings his ewes to the fauld, Where light-hair'd lasses be, And mony a tale o' love is tauld, My thoughts shall be o' thee.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the winter winds rave high, And the tempest wild is pourin' doun Frae the dark and troubled sky: When a hopeless wail is heard on land, And shrieks frae the roaring sea, And the wreck o' nature seems at hand, My thoughts shall be o' thee!
Oh, hast thou forgotten the birk tree's shade, And this warm, true heart o' mine, Mary? Oh, hast thou forgotten the promise thou made, When so fondly 't was pressed to thine, Mary?