WILD FLOWER LYRICS Wild Flower Lyrics And Other Poems ^- ~~ JAMES RIGG HAIL ! sweet messengers of Heaven ! Angels of the mystic Light. God to man hath message given In your glorious eyes so bright ! Man adores your silent greeting While your fairy forms are fleeting From the ravished fields and fells, Where your fearful forms are springing, And your censers sweet are swinging Incense to your chiming bells ! ALEXANDER GARDNER iitibhsiirr to 5>rv l&airatp tijr *9iurrii PAISLEY; AND PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON 1897 PREFACE. FROM boyhood I have been in love with the Wildlings : I rank them among my teachers and preachers. To me, as to thousands, they ever seem to whisper such sweet things, and tell such strange and fairy-like stories of their present and past existence, that they appeal to the highest faculties of our being. The following pieces, therefore, are, for the most part, the outflowings of my heart to the lovely flowers that adorn our lanes, fields and fells, and that smile upon us and cheer and bless us in our country rambles. I offer my verses, such as they are, chiefly to the denizens of our big Mammon-worshipping cities, in the hope that they may help to lighten the burden of " Sordid Wealth " that weighs so heavily on tens of thousands. If they should be the means of leading one here and there with a lighter heart and keener percep- tion into Nature's fair domain there to gather im- perishable treasures from the lovely blossoms that kiss the clear brooks and mountain wells, or that smile up to us from our country lanes and bypaths I shall have done my little to check the Nature-forgetting tendencies of city life. " Natural Selection " being now generally admitted to be the chief factor in the life history of Flowers, I have, in many of my pieces, referred to this great law. That these " Wild Flower Lyrics " may give profit and pleasure to many, and be an offence to none, is the devout wish of the Author. 18 Wilton Drive, GLASGOW, June 1897. CONTENTS. (The figures in brackets indicate tlie pages where the Flowers, etc., occur incidentally in other poems.) PAGE A Dream of Wild Flower Perfumes, 205 Acorn, The (242, 246), Ill Alphabet of Wild Flowers, 188 Fruits, 189 Trees, 332 Ambition, (129) Anemone, To the (10, 26), 38 Art and Nature (86, 120, 147, 176) Ash, To the, 45 Monster, 93 Autumn, 174 Beech Tree, To a (231, 235), 233 Bedstraw, To the Yellow 229 Bees (50, 57, 67, 71, 74, 75, 89, 92, 96, 99, 108, 134, 141, 144, 173, 186, 224, 228) Bell-Flower, To the Giant (12), 88 Bells (89, 226), 99 Birch Tree, To the White (11, 57, 226, 234), 176 Blaeberry, To the (68, 83, 87, 229), 144 Bogbean, To the (12), 135 Bog-Myrtle (71) Botany and Railway Banks, 110 Botanist, The, 89 Bramble, The, in October and November, 156 To the (13, 136, 139, 163, 231, 235, 236) 157 Brambles, The, in the Whins, 181 Brooklet, The, 139 Bracken, The, (156, 163, 222, 231, 236) Broom, To the ((57, 58, 114, 140, 152, 206, 228, 245), ... 200 Bugle Flower, The, (11) Burns, Robert A Flower Garland, 242 Butter-cups, or King-cups, To the (12, 174), 98 Butterflies, To the, 194 Camelia, The, and the Rose (96, 226), 165 4 CONTENTS. PACK Campion, To the Red (11, 12,200), 222 To the White -223 Carrot, To the Wild, 78 Cedar of Lebanon, To a 252 Celandine, To the Lesser (10, 18, 24, 26, 38), 35, 36, 37 Centaury, To the Common, 127 Chickweed, To the (10, 14), 24, 44 Chrysanthemum, The, Show in Botanic Gardens, 116 Christmas, 239 Charlock, To the (11), 161 Clover, On a Field of White (12, 89, 145, 206), 95 Chestnut Tree, The, (18, 36, 41, 228) Coltsfoot or Tussilago, To the (18, 10, 24), 31, 32 Convolvulus, To the Great (12), 129 Complementary Colours, (74, 113, 172, 178) Corn-flower, To the (12), 113 Comfrey, (11) Cow-Parsnip, To the Common, 201 Crow-foot, White, (12) Cranberry, (71) Crawberry, (72) Crane's-bill, To the Meadow (12), 119 Cress, To the Field, 105 To the Water 48 Crocus, To the (10), 50 Cuckoo-flower, or Lady's Smock, (11, 81, 147, 167) Cuckoo, The, (19, 87) Cupid, (131, 136, 137, 207) Daffodil, To the, 30 Daffodils (10, 17, 20, 45), 29 Daisy, To the (11, 14, 66, 103, 129, 132, 170, 241, 250), 51, 52 To the Ox Eye (13), 170, 198 Dandelion, To the (11, 147) 53 To the, in Papus, 54 Date Palm, The, 253 Devil's-bit, To the, 159 Elder Tree, The, or Sambucus (234) Eyebright, To the Common (13, 134) 82 Falls of Foyers, To the, 177 Fairies, The, (33, 37, 43, 47, 50, 93) Ferns, To the 121 Flora, 136 Flora, Queen (63, 88, 89, 98, 133, 135, 146, 155, 156, 159, 182, 194, 197, 205) Flora, The Progress of Queen, Flowers. Hymn to the, 15 Flower, The, Hunters' Song, 67 Fleur-de-luce, (12) Forget- Me-Not, To the (12), 81 CONTENTS. 5 PAGB Foxglove, To the, in Calder Glen, 155 (11, 67, 88, 99, 174), 160 Galeopsis, (13) Garden, The Poet's, 153 Gentian, To the Spring (13), 39 Globe-flower, 122 Golden-rod, (13) Goldilocks, (10) Goafs-beard, To the Yellow, 91 Gooseberry, To an aged bush in a certain garden, 108 Groundsel, To the Common 27 Grass, To the Annual Poa, 66 Ground-ivy, To the (10), 64 Gromell, (12) Guelder Rose, The, (163, 226) Gymnadenia, To the (an orchid), , 122 Hairbells, (13, 134, 229), 190 Hawthorn, To the (11, 57, 64, 115, 174, 186, 206) 132-221 Hawkweeds, (13) Hazel, The, (156) Heath, (12-242) Heather, To the Common (71), 204 Hemlock, To the Deadly, 69 Hop, To the, 76 Holly, To the (14, 230, 236, 246), 168 Honeysuckle or Woodbine, To the (12, 88, 119, 140) 203 Hope, (19, 21, 124, 181, 221) Humility, (64, 129, 171) Hyps, or Hips (13, 85, 163) Hyacinth, To the Wild (11, 26, 99, 140, 174, 200, 208), 152 Like Smoke 224 Insects (15, 73, 75, 89, 125, 203, 222, 223) In Memoriam Robert Fulton Craig, 240 Ivy, To the (9, 202), 62 Jessamine, To a Yellow, 130 June, (67) Knapweed, To the, 134 Larch, To the (14, 36), 61 Lily, To the White Water (12, 197), 96 The Poet's 118 The (sacred piece), 251 The, and the Rose (a fable), (42, 90) 137 Lime-Tree, The (12), 141 Lady's-Mantle, (12) Leaves, or Decay and Death, 169 Lines on a Field of Lovely Greens in Bloom, 219 to a little Highland Maid, 237 Loose-strife, ' (12) May (147) 140, 228 6 CONTENTS. PAGE To May of 1896, 132 Marigold, To the Corn (13) 133 To the Marsh (11) 167 Mallows, (12, 68) Maple, (11) Maud Munroe (a Memory) 226 Mignonette, To the (123), 214 Milk-wort, To the (13), 87 Mint, (13) Mistletoe (14, 239) 148, 230 My Love (song) 211 Myrrh (11) Moschatell, To the (10, 41), 33 Moss (9, 67, 71), 17, 47 Musings at Giant's Causeway, 187 Mushroom, To the Field, 192 Natural Selection, 74, 78, 79, 80, 91, 93, 100, 107, 123, 125, 127, 134, 142, 144, 183, 195, 197 Nasturtium, To the Garden, 123 Nettle, The, and the Poet, 182, 183 Nightshade, To the Deadly 185 To the Woody (13, 246). 209 November, 248 None-so-pretty, To the (12), 22 Nutting Time 163 Oak, To the Wallace, 179 Odours of Flowers, (16, 161, 165, 204, 205, 214, 215, 218) October (five poems), 231, 234, 236, 244, 246 Orchids, (12, 67, 122) Pansy Its Eye (242), 74 Parnassus, To the Grass of (68, 71), 73 Pearl-wort, To the Common 171 Pimpernell, To the Scarlet (13) 125 Pine, To the Scotch (14, 61, 67, 242, 246) 215 Plane tree, To the (57, 242), 173 Poplar-tree, To the (18, 35, 231, 235) Pompadour, Madame,... (86) Poppies, To the Scarlet (12), 178 Potatoe, To the, 216 Primrose, To the (10. 61, 70, 99, 106, 174, 206, 228) 42 To a, in Winter, 41 Queen-of-the-Meadow, To the (81) 212 Rabbits in the Whins, 59 Ragwort, To the, 100 Rasp, The, (71) Reed-Mace, To the, 197 Robin, The, (72, 174) Rock-Roses, (12) Roses, The Two, or Simplicity, 84 CONTENTS. ? PAGE Rose, To the 251 To an Untimely (46), 104 To the Wild Dog, 131 TotheBurnet(128, 187), 145 To the Fragrance of the, 184 The Camelia and the, 165 Lines on Thomas Todd's Rose Garden, 150 Rose-bay, (12) Rowan, To the (236), 83 Saxifrage, To the Golden (10), 97 Sea Pink, To the (12), 101 Simplicity, (84, 106) Shepherd's-purse, To the, 43 Sloe, The, (141, 163, 226) Snowdrop, To the (250) 19, 21 Speedwell, To the Common (11, 155, 174), 147 Spruce, (14) Spring, The Bugle Notes of 18 (17, 19, 21, 26, 29, 33, 45, 59, 111, 144), 60 Stars, 102 (Floral), (44, 48, 89, 98, 103, 110, 194, 200, 222) Stag-horn Club Moss, The Hunt for the, 71 Stitch-wort, To the Greater (11, 152), 65 Strawberry, To the Wild (68, 83), 106 - To the Barren 107 St. John's Wort, (12) Summer, (19, 23) Sundew, To the Common (71), 195 Tansy (12, 206) The Flowers Will Come Again, 255 Thistle, To a Scotch (69), 80 Thyme, To the Wild (12, 57, 242), 92 Titania, (43, 79) Toadflax, To the Ivy-leaved (13), 202 Tormentil, To the 86 Trifoil, To the Bird's-foot 114 Vetch, To the Common, 115 To the Tufted (12) 186 Venus, (131) Violet, To the Mountain (12, 155, 200, 206) 218 Violets and Daffodils, To a Posie of, 172 Virtue, (70,105) Voices of Nature, 224 Waste Places, 138 Wallflower, To the (11, 206), 146 Whin, To the (11, 48, 206), 58 Whinny Knowe. The 57 Whitlow Grass, To the (9) 23 Willow, To the Goat (10, 41), 26 8 CONTENTS. PAGE Winter (17, 18, 21, 32, 168, 231), 250 Woundwort, To the 142 Woodsorrel, To the (11), 208 Woodruff, (11, 228) MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. About the Homes and Haunts of Burns, 264 Address to Barrhead, 265 Burns Anniversary, 1891,... 280 Faces, 260 Grace, To a Lady so named 293 Hope, Ode to 271 Helen, 291 In Memoriam James Shaw, 276 Walter MacLellan, 284 Andrew F. Shanks, 284 Rev. Dr. Oliver Flett, 289 Peter Denny, 290 The Duke of Clarence, 294 In Glen Messen (or Massan), 265 Lines on the Close of 1893, 286 Ode on Jubilee of Z. Heys & Sons, 281 Ode to Burns, 278 Truth, 263 Sunset on Mont Blanc, 268 To the Shade of Burns, 270 The Bards of Paisley, 259 ToStaffa, 258 The Poet, 274 To 1896, 276 The Home and Haunts of Shakespere, 277 To J. Lindsay, 283 The Peesweep Inn, 287 To the Alps, 291 To a Thrush singing on shortest day, 292 Unchanged my Love abideth, 271 Victoria, 257 Winsome Nell, 267 WILD FLO WEE LYRICS. THE PROGRESS OF QUEEN FLORA, ADORNED BY A HUNDRED WILD FLOWERS. IN dreamland once I Flora saw By all her flowers arrayed, As through the months she lightly trod O'er hill, by brook and glade. Not Venus flower of ocean's foam Was half so fair to see : The peerless queen without a stain Her looks woke harmony ! First JANUARY, in ermine cloak, With crystal spangles dight, He gave the queen an Ivy crown, And her fair shoulders white He happ'd with tender ferny Moss From many a cosy nook, Or from the rounded boulders warm Beside the frozen brook. Next, FEBRUARY, from her lap Of white and grey and green Brought tiny tufts of Whitlow-grass As offering to the queen ; 10 And Hazel Catkins, too, she hung About the Ivy crown, And Willow's silvery studs she sewed Upon her Snowdrop gown ! Then MAKCH lit all his Crocus lamps, And, in the Celandine, While rang the chimes of Daffodils He brought her dainty wine. Then round her brows he deftly set The Chickweed's pretty rays ; And tossed the Wood-Anemone All through the warmer days. Then Tussilago strewed her path With yellow guineas bright An offering to the beauteous queen : Sloe blossoms gave her light ; And all about the mountain brooks The Golden-Saxifrage Presented her with brooches rare To cheer her pilgrimage ! Ground-Ivy, last, a garland wove, With Amethysts begemmed, And bound it round her beaming brows : Her feet a brooklet stemmed As 'neath soft APRIL showers she passed, And Moschatel's wee clocks Chimed out their fairy peals, beneath The Primrose on the rocks. The Willow's silver turned to gold By her fair fingers white, And Goldilocks in glory shone Beneath her glances bright. II Her mantle brushed the new-lit fires Of flushed Marsh-Marigold ; And in her hair shone Stitchwort stars Of beauties manifold. And then I saw queen Flora smile, Her eyes grow bright as day, As canopied with Hawthorn white She paced the courts of MAY, Who robed her in the golden Broom, With skirt of Speedwell blue, Beflounced with fragrant Hyacinth, The Cuckoo-flower's pale hue Red Campion, Wood-sorrel pale Courting the crystal linn : While all the air with gladness held The dairy smell of Whinn. The Wallflower nodded from the rock, The Maple choired with bees ; Sweet Myrrh, Woodruff, the Bugle flower, Tall Comfrey yea, all these The goddess saw, well pleased, I trow ; But may I sing how she With nimble feet, divinely neat, Light skimmed the Daisy lea ? Till she embraced bright Rose-crowned JUNE 'Neath Birch trees' leafy showers, Where Foxgloves tall as sentries stood To guard the fragrant bowers. The Charlock gleamed o'er corny fields, And, that gay millionaire The Dandelion, flung his wealth Around her feet so fair ! 12 Here golden King-cups glittering stood ; Orchid did purple don ; Rock-Roses rare, and London Pride, In meads the Bogbean shone Like lamps. There Cranesbills and Monkshood, And Gromell brightly blue Rejoiced ; and o'er the little pools The Crowfoot's white flakes flew : Rich was the goddess fair attired As JULY did her greet With Fleur-de luce, Forget-me-nots, And Violets pure and sweet ; Convolvulus and Tufted- Vetch Round Flora's brows she twined, And scarlet Poppies, Campion, Sea-pinks and Mallows kind : Rose-bay and Purple Loosestrife tall, St. John's Worts, bells of Heath ; The Lime trees fragrant honey dropped ; The Water-lilies' breath Arose as incense from the lake Whose waters, rippling, played Soft whispering music to the queen. Here Flora long had stayed But AUGUST gives a welcome, too : Her Bellflowers welcome chime ! White Clover and the Woodbine blend Their smells with purpled Thyme. The Lady's-mantle by the brook, The Corn-flower 'mong the wheat, The Tansy among ruins old, Came forth their queen to greet : Gay Hawkweeds, Milkworts, Kidney Vetch, Grass-of-Parnassus star ; While Ox-eye-Daisy's living suns Blazed out both near and far ! Then mild SEPTEMBER, Heather clad, Her cheeks with Berries dyed, Lit all her lamps (the scarlet Hyps) She with the others vied To please the queen. A Golden-Rod She gave her ; and her locks She hung with Hair-bells, azure blue, And Bedstraw from the rocks, And Eye-bright, too, to bless her eyes ; Then on her bosom white She placed the fragrant leaves of Mint For Flora's dear delight. Gay Galeopsis on her dress She pinned ; and round her waist Ripe clusters hung of Brambles black, And bade the goddess taste ! OCTOBER round her snowy neck Bright Nightshade berries hung, And Ivy-leaved-Toadflax she wove For Flora's forehead young : With Gentian blue her robe she trimmed ; And her of storms to tell, She placed within her lily hand The scarlet Pimpernell : Then for a crown both rich and rare, Of beauties manifold, She placed upon the goddess' head The bright Corn-marigold ! NOVEMBER gave her scented sprigs Of Spruce and Larch and Pine ; And in DECEMBER'S gloomy shades Some Chickweed stars did shine. One Daisy, too, the bleak month gave To baffle melancholy ; And e'en I saw fair Flora smile When crowned with crimson Holly ! And then the queen of all the flowers Passed onward, soft and slow Her radiant brows adorned with Pearls Of sacred Mistletoe ! HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. HAIL ! sweet messengers of Heaven ! Angels of the mystic Light. God to man hath message given In your glorious eyes so bright ! Man adores your silent greeting While your fairy forms are fleeting From the ravished fields and fells, Where your lovely forms are springing, And your censers sweet are swinging Incense to your chiming bells ! God's own pictures Earth adorning Brightest effluence of His will, Beauty of creation's morning, Beauty of all mystery still. If th' Unseen Himself declare In your wondrous forms so fair ; Who may once His working trace, Or may see the unerring hand That within you Life first fanned, Robing you in matchless grace ? Love doth ever hover round you, And his fingers fair, divine, Have with priceless treasures crowned you, That in leaf and petal shine ; Still the quick-eyed insect telling Where your honied founts are welling. i6 Tell us, Nature's jewels bright, Have ye joy when children's eyes Gaze into your paradise ? Giving do ye feel delight ? Sweetly are your odours stealing Through the wooing summer air To man's inner self revealing Images of Eden fair : And your hues so manifold Prophetic of the age of gold Strike the adoring inner eye, Bright revealings of the day When man quits his house of clay For his palace in the sky ! MOSS. Some of our prettiest and cloth-like mosses are seen at their best in late winter ; on old walls, by the roots of hedges, or in the sounding glens that ring to the snowy torrents, their lovely forms are to be met with giving man a new pleasure ; and doubtless, what to us is a car- pet of soft velvet, to the fairies will appear vast forests of pines. THOUGH the naked woods in exile moan Beneath grim Winter's sway ; While his borean blast round the boles is lash'd Till each mourns for the Spring's soft sway : Though stripped and chilled all the branches toss, Yet cosie beneath lies the verdant Moss. The walls that in Summer wore sere and brown, And ever looked old by the year in prime, Each donneth in Winter its emerald gown Bejewelled with beads of the silvery rime : And deep in the dells where the fairies cross In the moonlight dance, grows the gay green Moss. Though the flowers be fled, and the earth's fair face Is veiled by the crispy snow ; Yet Nature is still in her secret mill For the Moss grows green below ; There our darling mother is spinning her floss And weaving a robe of the emerald Moss ! And when sprightly Spring blows his bugle bold Till the world "RESUEGUM" rings, When his bright Daffodils are kissed by the rills And the forest his welcome sings As he filleth his cups of the golden gloss, Then his feet fall soft on the ferny Moss ! i8 "THE BUGLE NOTES OF SPRING." Now, Winter, on his ice-bound car, Is rattling north, o'er crag and scar ; The thrush and blackbird cheery sing Blowing the bugle notes of Spring : Saying, " Coming ! coming ! coming ! The Spring is coming, man, to thee ! " I've heard for many a year, ah me ! Those bugle notes so wild and free ; And though each year its wrinkle throws, That music aye the sweeter grows Saying, " Coming ! coming ! coming ! Perennial youth I bring with me.'' The Celandine's bright cup of gold Is nestling by the brooklet cold ; The Coltsfoot to the warming days Is streaming back its yellow rays : Saying, " Coming ! coming ! coming ! Sweet Flora cometh, fair to see." The Chestnut bursts its shining hoods, The Poplar scents the leafing woods, Where, cheerfully, among the boughs, The birds are warbling tender vows, Saying, " Coming ? coming 1 coming ? And spend the Summer, love, with me ! " And my dull muse it fain would sing Of the bonnie bugle notes of spring : " O blackbird, in thy ecstasy, Chant thy loud clarion cheerily ! While, humming ! humming ! humming ! The words repeat thy song for me." 19 TO THE SNOWDROP. (Galantlius Nivalis.) LONE lady of the leafless woods, Pure herald of the Spring, Thy gauzy skirt soft frilled with green, Thy cloak, a seraph's wing ! Sweet, nodding 'mong the dewy moss, No sister flower to cheer, Alone, thou deck'st the silent glade, Dear firstling of the year ! Ere Spring hath donned his vernal robe, Ere Flora opes her hand, To waft her incense on the air, And paint the ravished land Thou wakest from thy wintry sleep, Like Hope in deepest gloom, And tellest me of brighter days, Of life beyond the tomb. Thou image white of Chastity, A drop all undefiled, I gaze upon thee till I seem Again a little child ! Too bashful for the pageantry Of summer's regal halls, How modestly thou comest forth Ere yet the cuckoo calls. 20 Yet, wilt not stay, e'en to behold The golden daffodils ; Nor hear the throstle charm the dawn And all the woodland rills. Go, lovely maiden of the dell, Thy image shall abide A thing of hope and sanctity Whatever may betide ! 21 TO THE SNOWDROP (HOPE). DARLING, that shun'st the glow of Summer's heat, Here, through the leafless woods, in skirt of green And robe that dims the snow, thou com'st to greet The glories of the year that long have been Imprisoned by stern Winter's ruthless hand ! Thou com'st the first of Flora's lovely band. I mark thy virgin form in quiet nook Sweet emblem of the pure, the true and good : Thy lovely bell e'en deigneth not to look Toward the lord of day : and thou'lt not brood On evils past and gone. Thou point'st to me A warmer, brighter ray dear lady of the lea ! ON THE SAME FLOWER. THERE'S an ancient wood, and I know it well, Where the meek, meek maid of the mossy dell- The Snowdrop, robed in the living Light (A gleam of hope in the longing night) Proclaims anew that the Spring is near And the flowery pageant of the year. 0, this lady of Light, I call her Hope, For the gates of Heaven her fingers ope ; And she bids us bask in its cloudless ray, With the loved ones lost in our wintry day. 22 TO THE "NONE SO-PRETTY," OR LONDON PRIDE. (Suxifraga Umbrosa.) IMAGE of sweetness lovely gem ! A fairy's sceptre's thy starry stem ; Young Jenny a-tripping the daisied lea, In innocence and maiden glee ; Or the witching glance of the dark-eyed Hetty, Are just like thee, my " None-so-Pretty." 23 TO THE WHITLOW-GRASS. (Drdba Verna. ) This little messenger of Spring is not a grass at all it is one of the crucifera. It is found growing on walls and waste places in February and March, and its tiny snowy blossoms, set on stems often no more than an inch high, are sweet, if not gaudy, after Winter's weary reign has come to an end. 0, WHY should I, still singing, pass Thy elfin form, wee Whitlow-grass ! On farmer's dyke, by crumblin' wa', Thy tiny blossoms, pale as snaw, Are aye the first to welcome Spring, An' wauk my drowsy muse to sing ! Ere Winter ower the Grampians clanks I see thee crowd the staney banks : Like white-clad bairns thy floorits play, Haudin' their wee short holiday. Beneath the scuddin' sleety skies Thou blinkest like a sweet surprise, An' mak'st thy modest curtesie Ere yet a flower-bell swings the bee ; Nor shall thy bashful eyes behold Gay Summer all her charms unfold ! Thou courtest not Life's looking-glass, My white- veiled sister Whitlow-grass. TO THE COMMON CHICKWEED. (Stellar ia Minor.) Examine this little wayside star, and you may not think I rave of its sweet, neat, snowy beauty. DAY-STARNIE o' the poet's e'e, Thy wee white rays shed joy on me ! By rough roadsides hoo bonnilie Thy blossoms blink ; Whane'er thy tender form I see, Thou gar'st me think. When Winter rives the inky lift, An' bings the banks wi' snawy drift, 'Neath some bit bield thou mak'st a shift To gie a glint, An' bring the Icy King a gift, When a' seems tint. Lang ere the fields are fleck'd wi' kine, Or Spring hath gloss'd the Celandine, Or Tussilago opes her mine Of treasures bright, Hoo sweet thy constellations shine Sae snawy white. Let folks e'en ca' thee " Chicken-weed " Thy beauty raises sic a breed O' bonnie thoughts within ma heid Pen canna match them ; And gleg e'ed Fancy, famed for speed, Can seldom catch them. Noo, on this bonnie day o' spring, Thy wee, gay, juicy leaves I'se bring To Dickie wi' the yellow wing, To clear his throat ; There, on his bauk, he'll thankful' sing A blither note. 26 TO THE GOAT WILLOW. (Salex Caprea.) The following lines might apply to nearly the whole family of Wil- lows ; but the above species is exceedingly pretty in the early spring- time. I. RICH rover of the water-ways ! Gold garland of young Spring, As up the hazel'd glen he strays And makes his clarion ring. II. Thy Cathkins, clad in silver, dance Like snowflakes by the stream ; Then, quick, ere Summer's flowers advance, In brightest gold they gleam. in. Thy blossoms dust the purpling dawn Of Hyacinthine glades ; But ere the Daisy creams the lawn Their golden splendour fades. IV. How sweet thy bending branches twine A silken soft Boudoir To shield the polished Celandine And Anemone so fair. v. Wan Willow by the wimpling burn O, joy of Youth and Age Invite me still, at Spring's return, To read fond Nature's page. TO THE COMMON-GKOUNDSEL. (Senecio Vulgaris.) This common weed of cultivation, to perpetuate itself, flowers all through the year. It follows in the track of civilisation, and is cer- tainly not beloved by the gardener or husbandman. Nevertheless, an ordinary magnifying glass applied to its head of flowers reveals to the eye a cluster of lilies of wondrous beauty. MY puir wee persecuted cronie, Sair ca'd and cuffed ne'er praised by onie Let me noo sing thy gowden bonnet A bab o' lilies, worth a sonnet ! Wee tawted type o' Labour haurl'd Frae birth tae death thro' this cauld warld ; Whyles raked here, and hirsled there, By some roadside, 'neath hedges bare Like some puir poet " crowded out " Frae ilka journal roun' about, Waitin' a nod frae men o' letters, Or maybe bobbin' 'mang his betters, Still sighing for some passing bliss, That, grasping, still he's sure to miss ! By dawner byngs or cottar's midden, Or, 'mang the gentry's flowers, unbidden. Thou cock'st thy downy toosie tappy, Nor ever seem'st tae tak' a nappy Like brawer flowers that bloom a blink, Syne cosy 'neath the divots sink For, e'en in blusterin' cauld December, When bairnies gather roun' the fender, 28 Thy dragled form I often spy By some auld hoose or grumphy's stye, Nursing thy weans 'mong sleet an' snaw Biding the winter's bitter blaw ! Thou hast an unco facht, my frien' A' thro' the year you're somewhaur seen ; And, maybe, could you tell your life, 'Twad be a tale o' lengthen'd strife Frae happier days and sunny climes Down tae the day your poet rhymes. Darwinians say that in Life's race You're aiblins shortenin' your pace, An' tho' aft aided wi' the win* You're doubtless laggin' far ahin' ; Yet gif we're bless'd wi' store o' patience, Baith you an' I shall fill our stations ! DAFFODILS. SOLOMON, Ophir, splendour, glory These are the Court of the Daffodils By the silent woods so gray and hoary, 'Mong the ferny moss by the dripping rills. Spring with its fluty voice is singing Winter is hastening over the hills Lightly the laughing hours are bringing Wealth to the home of the Daffodils. 0, Love in each golden Cup doth hide, And wine of the soul each chalice fills ; And the pure in heart alone may bide By the hallowed haunts of the Daffodils. Now, while their golden bells are ringing Music that all my being thrills, Grateful my heart anew is winging Thanks for the days of the Daffodils ! TO THE DAFFODIL. HERALD of the floral year, Come once more our hearts to cheer, While Throstles all the woods do trill O'er thy head bright Daffodil ; How thy glory fills my heart, There young fancies keenly dart AVhile the woods I roam at will, Courting thee, sweet Daffodil ! Youth perennial comes to me When thy royal charms I see In mossy groves beneath the mill, Gold bespangled Daffodil ! Music of the coming year Ever in thy bell I hear Ringing thro' the woodland still, Fresh, bright, nodding Daffodil ! Now thy brightest gold refined In dark ringlets I will bind : Love thy precious cup doth fill Lovely, lovely Daffodil ! TO THE COLTS-FOOT OR TUSSILAGO. (Tussilago Farfara.) 0, TUSSILAGO all the day, 0, Tussilago all the way ! From bouldered banks and drossy heaps Thy golden glory upward leaps ; I need not go to El Dorado Thou art my treasure Tussilago ! On grassless knolls, by paths and streams, I mark thy ever welcome gleams ; And feel again a child at play All through this sweet young April day ; Tho' gold may woo by false bravado, Thou ne'er deceivest Tussilago ! Like Charity in dusky lanes ; Like Mercy's ever cheering strains, So opes thy disk of living light To beat the Poet's fancy bright : From thy low bed of dross or clay Thou hast made glad this April day ! TO THE TUSSILAGO (No. 2). HAIL ! lowly flower ! The first to cheer The ransomed earth from Winter's spear, And lead the van in Flora's year Queen Tussilago ! Dark hid beneath thy bed of clay Thou did'st prepare each golden ray To light the poet on his way Dear Tussilago ! And from thy golden treasury Thou strewest wealth on bank and lea, And sayest, "It is all for thee,'' Loved Tussilago ! Each year I mark thee gladsome gleam O'er barren spots, by bank and stream I dream again a childhood's dream Gay Tussilago ! 33 TO THE TUBEROUS MOSCHATELL, OK FAIRY CLOCKS. (Adoxa MoschateUina.) This tiny green-flowered harbinger of the spring is found about dry banks or under hawthorn hedges. Its blossoms give evidence of a queer evolutionary history they are all five-petalled, save the terminal one on the spike, which carries but four petals. The flowers also have a faint odour of musk : for what purpose ? WHEN Spring leads in, wi' beaming e'e, His daffodils and lambs, I wander forth wi' boundin' step About Gleniffer's dams ; Or up the Glen, whar burnies sten Aroun' sweet " Tannie's " well, Wi' rovin' glee I seek for thee Wee, winsome Moschatell. Thy bonnie, triple-ternate leaves Lie cowerin' 'mang the cleavers,* A' nicket fine a deft design For leadin' Paisley weavers : While roun' your stems, like clustered gems, Your flowret's are a spell Like tiny clocks for fairy folks Wee, cunning Moschatell. Ye dinna flaunt a gaudy flag, To welcome in the spring ; But lowly, meek, the shade ye seek, Like poets when they sing ; * Robin-run-the-hedge. 34 An' to the ear that's gled to hear, Yer message saft ye tell, That broomy braes an' simmer days Are near wee Moschatell. An' mony a text ye haun' to me, Low, unassuming flower : Short is your stay aneath the brae, An' brief is manhood's power ; Ere summer's rose its perfume blows, Thy musk forsakes the dell ; Yet I hae joys auld Time ne'er cloys- Adieu, wee Moschatell. 35 TO THE LESSER CELANDINE. (Ranunculus Ficaria.) I FEAR to dim thy shining gold With my dull, misty measure ; ! had I words, I might unfold The half thou giv'st of pleasure. How gay thy polished petals greet The King of Days returning, As round the brooklet's margin sweet Thy fairy lamps keep burning. What purest joy pervadeth me, Still gazing on thy shining, While balsam from the poplar tree Might heal the heart's repining. 0, joy ! to see old age caress'd By youth's full love so tender, And know that Earth bears on her breast The Celandine's bright splendour. A tender Father sure doth send Sweet tidings by thy face ; 1 count thee still a beauteous friend, A solace, and a grace. 36 THE LESSER CELANDINE. (Ranunculus Ficaria.) THE Larch her scented tassels gay Hangs high, and bids us come away ; A chaplet, love, for you I'll twine, Set with the Suns of Celandine. We'll rove among the robing woods, Beneath the Chesnuts' glossy hoods ; And deep in dells we'll see them shine Th' unspotted Suns of Celandine. We'll skirt the brook so cool and clear, The Blackbird's lay our hearts shall cheer ; For sordid wealth we ne'er shall pine We've found the golden Celandine. With your true love, the streams and flowers, Content shall halo all my hours ; Nor shall I count what gain is mine For I have found the Celandine ! 37 THE LESSEK CELANDINE. (Ranunculus Ficaria.) I would ask my readers to look into the cup of this little spriug flower, and say whether they ever saw a piece of gold so brightly polished. THROUGH the glen the Throstle's singing The woods are all with wooing ringing ; And the fairies sip new wine From the golden Celandine ! About the lake, their bright array Doth gladden all this April day ; 0, bright the polished petals shine Of the Lesser Celandine. Thy beauty, floweret, ne'er was told For who can sing thy burnished gold ? Yet in my heart may I ne'er tine Thy image, Lesser Celandine ! TO THE WILD ANEMONE, OR WIND FLOWER. (Anemoni Nemorosa.) IN the budding Spring, when the woods till ring With the bird's clear minstrelsy, Then I roam the glade for my own sweet maid The fair Anemone\ When the Celandine in its gold doth shine, And the cascade leaps in glee By its crystal showers, thro' the noonday hours, Nods the fairy Anemone". O, Wind-flower sweet, when thy form I greet, And thy tender blush I see Thou recall'st a grace, and a vanished face, My lovely Anemone ! So I'll fondly press thy morn-tipp'd dress For her image abides in thee With thy flowers so fair she adorned her hair ; I bless thee Anemone. 39 TO THE SPRING GENTIAN. (Gentiana Verna.) Some years ago, while on a pedestrian tour among the Swiss Alps, I first came upon some patches of this incomparably blue flower on the summit of the Geninii Pass, at an elevation of 8000 feet ; and I deemed it a rich recompense for my six hours' climbing amid the majesty of the mountains, to gaze and gaze upon its beauty rendered all the more striking by its surroundings of ice and snow. It is now a rare flower in Britain ; but may be seen in bloom on the Eockery at the east end of the Botanic Gardens, Glasgow. Don't touch, please. HAIL, living Sapphire ! Brightly blow On Alpland's crown of silvery snow ! In thought I hear, with heart aglow, Thy mute Hosanna Arise, where choiring waters flow, Blue Gentiana ! Far from the languorous rosy vale Where lovers tell the young old tale Thou bloom'st alone, where none assail Thy form so tender, And spreadest to the Alpine gale Thy skiey splendour ! When through the deep cerulean blue The queen of flowers thy petals drew And gave to Earth a gem like you A heavenly prize She strewed thee where thou yet might'st view Thy natal skies ! 40 Thy azure beauty well doth pay My climbing half this summer day ; I call thee mine ; and well may say Thou art a treasure A living truth to cheer life's way A lasting pleasure ! TO A PRIMROSE I SAW BLOOM IN JANUARY. WITH joy I've wandered in the greening lanes, To catch a glimpse of thy pure saffron cup, Sweet Primrose when the Chestnut's glossy buds Were fragrant with the coying of the Spring ; And marked thee (with that fondness in my heart That comes with vernal sweets and fresh delights Of the dear Springtime) smiling in some nook Beneath a mossy scar that gently dripp'd Into thy bosom pure dew's liquid pearls ; And then I knew the beauty of the year Again was nigh fast following thy soft steps Through glen and brake, and o'er the upland lea, While dappled skies, the Celandine's bright cup, And music showering through the larky air, Proclaimed that Nature once again was young ! How hath grim Winter thus deceived thee, child ? For, ere the Willow had refined its gold, Or yet the Moschatell hath set its clocks, I mark thee, maiden of the moss-clad dell, A shivering suppliant for his scanty beams ! His looks betrayed but to allure thee hence ! But yesterday I saw thee bide his blasts To-day thy sweetness feeds his hungry frost ! 42 TO THE PRIMROSE. (Primula Vulgaris.) SOFT, saffron beauty of the Spring, Meek maiden of the glen, I'd travel half an April day In hopes to meet thee by the way, Or in cool, mossy den. Mine is a pilgrimage of love To meet thee once again ; Dear, after Winter's icy storm, To see thee raise thy moonlit form, To bless the eyes of men. Thy silken form by rippling rill, Or jewelled cascade bright, I saw with glee when yet a boy ; I mark thee now with deeper joy In manhood's clearer light. Methinks thou art surpassing fair, When, high above the stream, Thou bloom'st secure upon the rock, Nor heedest how the torrents mock A maiden in a dream. The lily and the rose shall reign When Summer's sun is high ; But thy sweet breath holds all the glade, Nor can I meet a fairer maid, While Spring doth rule the sky. 43 TO THE SHEPHERD'S PURSE. (Capsella Bursa Pastora.) WHAT a queer little chap thou art, sure, my Capsella ; Why, the fairies must deem thee a rich little fellow. Eight Months of the Twelve thou dost hire as thy nurses,* And well each is paid, by a largess of purses. Thou hast no pretensions to sweetness or beauty But just all the year thou art doing thy duty. Thy pinnatified leaves, tho', a bodice might make For Titania so fair as she frisks thro' the brake ! I would stare till my eyes started out of their sockets, Were I sure I should know how you fashion your pockets, Or Jww you can pack 'neath each green tiny fold Your round living treasures more precious than gold ! f I note you hang out your wee purses so queer, And the winds waft your money abroad far and near : And like words of the meek that keep cheering life's way, I mark thee, with joy, wherever I stray. * Tt nourishes nearly the whole year round, and is found everywhere. t Its seeds. 44 TO THE COMMON CHICKWEED. (Stellaria Media.) In order to keep up in the race for life, this plant is obliged to flower all the year round, and is everywhere showing off its pretty little stars. THY magnitude, 'mong Flora's stars, I scarcely may define ; But cloud nor cold thy image mars I ever see thee shine. By stubble field or roughest path Thy pretty rays blink clear, Like one that sure a mission hath To preach through all the year ! So, kindly words and simple ways Are faith enough for me ; Why long for singing sunny days ? The Year makes Harmony ! 45 TO THE COMMON ASH, IN SPRING. (Fraxinus Excelsior. ) THE LAST TO DON AND THE FIRST TO DOFF. " The tardy ash, that wilt not robe herself When all the woods are green.' 1 Tennyson. WHY stand you a-gazing all the day, Thy antlers * spread like a stag at bay ? Dost thou hear how the woods and the welkin ring O To the clarion clear of the bright-eyed Spring ? He is marching 'mong daisies and daffodils, And the smell of his garments his temple fills, The willows their silver have changed to gold, And the throstle his love hath ten times told ; And the yellow guineas the coltsfoot strew O'er the bouldered banks they are not for you. 0, hard is thy heart ! Awake ! come away ! Thou art missing the spring-time holiday. 0, "Coming, coming," I hear thee whine ; But thy face is red with the purple wine.t " With rimy Winter I've banqueted long, And his nectar hath made my heart feel strong ; I have no mind for your minstrelsy, Nor the celandine's gay pageantry ; I'm a practical tree, with a hard behest, And to prince and peasant I give my best ; For I give myself, when my limbs grow old, To fashion their implements manifold ; * Look at the angles of its branches very like the stag's horns, f The Ash buds are a wine colour. 4 6 Hammer and axe, and axletree, And chariot wheels they are all of me. And, poet, I would that thy fleeting song Were sturdy as I, enduring, strong Not the epheni'ral thing of an hour, Like a fading rose in a lady's bower. Tho' I tarry so late in my winter hall, And hear not the blackbird's early call : For the sons of men in their dinful strife I've been storing a treasure for their sweet life. Then why should the bard of the flowers complain If I come not forth at his warm refrain ? Tho' I muse awhile ere I go to print, Yet I give you a book with a purpose in't." 47 THE WALL MOSS. FAIR Flora hath fled to the sunny south, But hath left us a robe of green ; It is hung by the halls of the waterfalls, And the haunts of the fairy queen. Tis Winter, and all the trees are bare, Yet the orchard wall is gay In its mantle of moss of the virgin green, And rich as a lawn in May. Like a fairy forest of fragrant pines, On a fairy mountain high, Is the 'witching moss on the orchard wall To Imagination's eye. How tender the moss on the orchard wall : How charming its vernal green In the scanty rays of the wintry days, When a floweret ne'er is seen. So I love the moss on the old gray wall, For it knoweth nought of art, And it makes me glad when the days are sad, And its beauty fills my heart. 4 8 TO THE WATER-CRESS. Nasturtium Officinale.) ON SEEING IT EXPOSED FOR SALE ON A HAWKERS BARROW IN GLASGOW. While residing at Barrhead a favourite walk of mine of a Sunday morning (before breakfasting and going to church) was to the' famous spring well at the foot of the Neilston Pad, where the salad of the verses grew fresh and plentiful. Three miles either way, with a bit of buttered oat-cake, a handful of cresses, a drink from the fountain, and a half hour for meditation amid the lark's song, the bleating of lambs, and the wild bravoora of the curlew was a rare preparation for a feast of fat things temporal and spiritual. I HA'E an itching to express My thanks to thee wee Watercress. Thou bear'st nae winsome flowers an' braw ; But sweet wee starnies, white as snaw, Reflected in the siller stream Whaur aft, in Spring, I long to dream ! Thou'rt no a plant to tak' the e'e Or wauken up a poet's glee : Sae, plain this truth to you I'll blab Your strong appeal is to the gab ! Amid the city's sins an' coom I ken that Winter's surly gloom Is northward gane, when on some barrow The sicht o' thee my saul does harrow For that I canna see thy hame Whaur burnies toddle an' the flame 0' gowden Whin blooms lichts the braes Wham* mony a snawy lambkin plays ! 49 Thy image mony a memory wakes 0' Sawbath mornings crumpy cakes * Weel buttered o'er my rung in haun A three mile spin without a staun A clear wee rill, whaur thine ain sel' Grew fresh an' green, aneath the Fell A feastin' fine ; while ower us rang The Lavrock's lay, loud, clear, an' lang ; An' roun' us Snipes an' Plovers wheeled, An' Peesweeps screamed o'er ilka field. An' then, wi' sober thochts an' wise, My mind aft shot far yont the skies Tae yon blest river, crystal clear, Whaur trees bloom bonnie a' the year. Then frae that kirk aneath the hill My heart weel cleaned o' monie an ill I joined in Zion's solemn Psalm Wi' fewer cares, an' felt a calm Steal ower me at the hour o' prayer Since I had quaffed the mornin' air. Sic hallowed mem'ries, I confess, Thou help'st to wauken Water-Cress ! * Oat cakes. TO THE CROCUS. T am not sure of a plural for this joy of our lawns ; so " crocus had better stand for both the singular and the plural. IN galaxies, all up and down The greening lawn like girls from town, In purple, orange, or snowy gown I hail thee, lovely Crocus ! And now that weary Winter's o'er, Like fairy lanterns round my door Your lights make glad my eyes once more, And warm my heart, bright Crocus. Among your living, golden lamps The bitter March wind heedless tramps ; "Vet mighty Sol with beauty stamps Your glowing fires, bright Crocus. But this glad day the winds are still, And snowy lambs are on the hill, And raptured bees do sip at will Your honied wells, sweet Crocus. With keener joys my eyes behold This lowly flower its form unfold ; Nor would I weigh 'gainst mines of gold The treasures of the Crocus. TO THE DAISY. (Bellis Perennis.) WITH fresh delights of years gone bye, O'er Nature's carpet now I stray ; Beside thee, Daisy, now I lie, And feel once more a child at play. Thy ruby lips the morning sun Did gently kiss with soft caresses ; 'Tis burning noon, thy love he's won, He's playing 'mong thy golden tresses ! Thy pretty form now robes the field In gold and snow, thou " Eye of Day " (Thy ancient name) and thou dost yield Rare numbers to the Poet's lay. Thy " milky-way " of spotless suns Harmonious shine no din or strife And, as in me, in thee there runs Th' unending mystery of Life : So that thy disk and dazzling rays In silence still proclaim a story More wondrous than the sun's, whose blaze Floods earth and air with light and glory. Yet, " Beautiful for ever," thou Art still the pearl of every lea ; And wilt be decking childhood's brow When he who sings sleeps silently. LINES ON THE DAISY. THE pearls of ocean let others prize ; But a richer gem, 'neath the dappled skies, Is the Daisy, dight in its sunny dyes The Pearl o' the Lea ! 53 TO THE DANDELION. ( Taraxicum Dans Leonis.) HAIL ! Cheerer of the rough roadside ! The Springtime's joy, the Summer's pride Thou never dost thy treasures hide By brake or sedge ; But strew'st thy wealth both far and wide By path and hedge ! Thou art a joy to weary eyes Thy virtues are a priceless prize Thou mak'st the poor dyspeptic rise To ruddy health, Aud wander forth 'neath azure skies To bless thy wealth. The charm of children on the green The crown and garland of their queen While on its crutch old age will lean To catch thy rays, That waken many a playful scene Of childhood's days ! Let misers count their glittering hoard, Let gamblers court the guinead board ; A keener joy thy charms afford, All undefiled, When deep thou strik'st thy tender chord In Nature's child ! 54 LINES ON THE DANDELION, IN ITS PAPUS STAGE. It is instructive and pleasing to watch how the Dandelion makes provision for keeping alive its name. When the flowers appear above the earth on the stalk, they lie until fully matured close on their natal bed, then rising erect the Involucre or curtain opens their full-rtedgecl beauty to the sun. They soon lay a banqttet of honey for the insects, and in a few days the curtain closes around them once more, and again they lie down close to earth out of harm of wind and rain, until their future offspring (the seeds) are matured, when on their parent stem they again exalt themselves, and open to the warm caresses of the sun, each furnished with a papus or balloon. On their airy, fairy para- chutes they are borne away by the passing breeze, to germinate over the fields or by the rough waysides. THE POET TO THE DANDELION. MY dear Millionaire, have you left yourself bare Of the gold which you drew from the sun ? You that ne'er had a fellow in turn-out of yellow Is all your gay pageantry done ? Once in splendour you shone like a king on a throne, With your banquet aye spread for the bee ! Yet, my eyes are enriched, and my senses bewitched For your children about you I see ! In close order they stand to await your command, 'Neath their parachutes pretty and clean ; Now your blessing impart ere they're sundered apart, Like their sire, golden harvests to glean. 55 But whither away must your children to-day 1 Must they visit the shades of Lunardi In those airy balloons to the zephyr's soft tunes Don't you think they are rather foolhardy ? But, look ! while I stare, they are off through the air With never a cheer nor a rattle Like a fleet in full sail : how they bend to the gale, And with each windy wave how they battle ! THE DANDELION TO THE POET. I have spent all my gold on my heirs manifold, And in silk I have sent them away, That each may aspire like its dying old sire To make wealth out of each sunny ray. Through the fierce Winter wild, when I yet was a child, I was reared by the stoney wayside ; Till the Spring's sunny gleams brought me wealth in their beams, Then I rode in my beauty with pride ! Oft the bairnies' bright eyes did my splendour surprise, And thine own I did often decoy, Till your heart sung a song to the "rainbow-winged throng At my tables all feasting with joy ! But my night draweth nigh, and with never a sigh, I return to my Mother's embrace : Having spoken my page on Earth's wonderful stage, I to Youth and fresh Beauty give place ! 56 . ENVOY. There's a sermon in power cometh up from this flower, 0, ye selfish ones, lay't well to heart : That when sloweth your pace, and endeth Life's race, There are others going in at the start. So, from Love's golden mint, let us give, without stint, Kindly words and good cheer to our neighbour, That Earth may be bless'd with the loveliest and best Yea ! for all human Good let us labour ! 57 SONG THE WHINNY KNOWE. (To John H. Turner, Esq. of Parkhouse, Barrhead, I gratefully inscribe these lines.) O, THE Broom blooms bonnie on the brae, An' the Hawthorn creams the vale ; The Violet and mountain Thyme Waft incense on the gale : But dearer far is the gowden lowe An' the dairy breath o' the Whinny Knowe ! 0, June shakes siller o'er the Birk Draps hinnie frae the Plane Whaur the bees a' hum in a holy hymn I' their green an' leafy fane : But my heart grows warm at the gowden lowe An' the dear delights o' the Whinny Knowe ! O, the crystal burnie streaks the glen, Whaur the birdies sing a' day ; But my een drink lang o' the gowden Whin As I sit on the " Trystin' Brae," Whaur a vision comes o' a langsyne vow : O, the memories dear o' the Whinny Knowe ! 58 TO THE COMMON WHIN. (Ulex Europcem.) THOU vegetable Porcupine Grim tyrant o' the fields an' fells Can ony bard to thee incline, Thou source o' aiths, an' groans, an' yells ' He's plainly mused aneath the min, That daurs to sing thee surly Whin. Yet, minstrels rant o' castles steep, An' sturdy men that held them lang ; Thou art a fortress an' a keep An' surely worthy o' a sang Come, jag me weel till I begin To sing thy micht, ma' sworded Whin. Thou ance did don a mantle saft As onie Broom ; till strife o' years Fell self-protection drave thee daft, An' turned thy bonnie leaves tae spears ; Till, noo, Defence aft mak's thee win Thy Waterloos heroic Whin ! What clouds o' curses ower thee hing Frae farmers, herds, an' shepherds dour ; Yet, monie a hunted tail an' wing Ha'e sheltered 'neath thy bristled tower ; An' weasles, rodents, reynards rin Aneath thy shelterin' wa's, ma' Whin. 59 The wee white fuds * that dot the braes, An' nibble 'mong the clover sweet, Nae fear to waur their furry claes Ahint thy bay'nets rin fu' fleet Whene'er they hear the rifle's din Thou art a stronghold, sturdy Whin. Tak' that in praise o' thy guid mail ; Noo, let me chant thy gowden bonnet ! 'Mang a' things bonnie could I wale A theme for an immortal sonnet ; Nae laurels could I ever win, Sae braw's thy croon, gay Yellow Whin. It glads ma heart tae wander free In early Spring, the flowers tae greet ; An' mang them a' thysel' tae see, An' snuff thy dairy breath sae sweet. Lang may thy lowe licht up the linn The warl aye needs a sturdy Whin. * Rabbits. 6o SPRING-TIME FEELINGS. WHO hath not felt that inward stirring joy Perhaps not joy that happy pleasing sense That comes with vernal bloom and doth decoy The longing spirit into thoughts intense. With- 'mind renewed, I mark the drowsy buds Lift up their eyes, when Winter's night is past ; Or watch adown the hills the foaming floods, Or listen to the music of the blast ! 6i TO THE LAECH TREE. (Abies Larix). LIKE an emerald set on the breathing breast Of the forest, that robes for May How thy lightsome verdure my eyes hath bless'd In my rambles this April day ! Let me sing of thee where thy boughs soft arch O'er the Primrose dainty my lovely Larch ! By the solemn shade of the sable Pine Thou tossest thy tasselled arms, While thy Eubies rare in the sunlight shine, And thy beauty the woodland charms, And gladness circles thy fragrant air As love doth girdle a maiden fair ! ENVOI. When Death, like a Winter, doth leave us bleak, And our joys have all ta'en wing, May a tender friend to our sorrow speak Like the Larch to the woods in Spring, And tell us that summer days are nigh, When the birds shall sing 'neath a cloudless sky ! 62 TO THE IVY. (Hedera Helix.) OLD antiquary ! loth to leave The crumbling halls of story ; Like bodied memory, clinging still To haunts of legends hoary. 'Mong scenes where love and music reigned, Or Freedom called on Duty, Thou veilest thy immortal limbs With fadeless locks of beauty. I know thou lov'st the singing glen, The honeysuckle wooing, The citron primrose at thy feet, Above, the cushat cooing ! But over storied battlements In silent power thou ridest ; And o'er the dust of slumbering kings Thy sceptre green abidest. The raving storm that rifts the oak Ne'er scathes thy snaky limbs ; While 'mong thy leaves the zephyrs sing A century of hymns. Nor scorching suns nor winter's blasts Can mar thy ancient splendour ; And 'neath thy glossy leaves, the birds Rear safe their broods so tender. For them, mayhap, thou hang'st on high* Thy berries, black as night, That each by each, through wondrous Life, May keep the balance right. Dear Ivy ! type of friendship true ! When Flora's crown doth fade, Thy rustling band of sober green Adorns the queenly maid. * The ivy hangs its berries on the uppermost branches for the birds who in return for this kindness sow far and near the undigested seeds. 6 4 THE GKOUND-IVY. (Nepeta Glechoma.) THERE is a flower that lowly creeps, And, clad in purple petals, peeps From 'neath the hedge that skirts a road Which oft my willing feet have trod : Ground-Ivy is its English name ; And oft, methinks, this flower might shame Ambitious man. For, would you view Its loveliness, it says to you " Stoop down, adore, and, wiser, see What beauty clothes Humility." TO THE SAME FLOWER. WHY need I wish for sunset skies To please me with some new surprise ? Here, 'neath the Hawthorn, bending low Its angel wings of fragrant snow, Thy gay imperial purple shines With rarer charms than India's mines. Of thee a garland, fragrant, rare, I'll weave among my true love's hair ; But, chiefly, when I think of thee, I learn to love Humility. TO THE GREATER STITCH- WORT. (Stellaria Holstea.) BESIDE the Lychnis, robed imperial Beneath the lark's loud psalm, aerial This noonday lane thou mak'st siderial, Bewitching flower ! On thy frail stem, thy form ethereal Dost charm this hour. that my song were as replete With beauty as thy petals sweet ! How you and I should lowly greet The ear of Praise ! And 'mid earth's plaudits ever fleet Adorn our days. 66 TO THE ANNUAL POA GRASS. (Poa Annua.) This low-spreading grass is found everywhere, and flowers all the year round ; and it is perhaps the most plentiful plant on our planet. I SEE the children blithely trip, And all thy blades with jewels drip: Across the village green I pass Where'er I spy thee tiny grass. There maids and matrons, with delight, Oft happed thee up with linen white ; And yet the more thy carpet's trod The richer grows thy vernal sod ! With you the Daisy oft I meet Thy blades soft-bending at her feet ; Far fairer looks her crown, I ween, Enthroned upon thy virgin green. Thy little tufts of tender spears Ne'er rusty grow with circling years : When Winter's snows are o'er thee spread Thou poppest up thy pearly head. Yea, like the Anglo-Saxon race, In every land we see thy face : Nor would a poet deem it droll Should Nansen tread thee at the Pole ! No spot for thee is deemed too scant Whereon a colony to plant : , My heart to you with fondness clings Wee prototype of common things ! SONG OF THE FLOWER-HUNTERS FOR JUNE. WITH flowers of the fairest, the gayest, the rarest, The hours are arrayed by our dear lady June ; Then let us away : thro' the glen let us stray, Where the deep torrents bass to the Throstle's wild tune. Come away ! come away ! 'Tis a flower-hunter's day, We shall climb by the roots of the rock-rifting trees ; We shall leap the bold stream, where the rare flowerets gleam, And list to the psalm and the hymn of the bees. the scent of the Pines, it is richer than vines By the rush of the Rhone or the azure Moselle ; And the maiden-blushed Rose around us still blows, An odour far sweeter than poets can tell. We will tread the Thymed sward where the Foxgloves keep guard, Like a troop of Queen Flora's high cap'd grenadiers ; And, when weary, recline where a thousand stars shine And the Orchid its gay purple standard uprears. Where the Moonwort is peeping, the Club Moss is creeping 'Neath the bleating of snipe and the lapwing's loud scream, And where Violets are nodding, still upwards we're plodding Our love is the zephyr, our drink the pure stream. 68 By nooks that are barest we'll search for the rarest, Like truths that lie hid 'mong the peaks of old lore, But we'll deem it a scandal to once play the vandal, And think there are others come here to explore. 'Neath the twitter of swallows, we'll cull the Musk Mallows On banks where the deft Tormentilla lies spread, And the Grass of Parnassus we ne'er let it pass us Tho' the bee she deceives with a semblance of bread.* By the soft mossy bed hang the strawberries red, So luscious and ripe by the clear, crystal rill ; And the blaeberries, witching our senses enriching Inviting our fingers to pluck while we will. Then homeward we're wending, with joys unending, With free bounding step, and cheeks like the rose, And the vasculum's treasure shall still give us pleasure, Until in pure slumber our eyelids shall close. * This pretty flower has a false nectary. 6 9 TO THE HEMLOCK PLANT. (Conium Maculatum.) Hemlock is a deadly poison ; and is easily recognised among the Umbelliferous family to which it belongs by the dark blood-like splashes along its stems. THE Nettle's stings, the Rose's spines, The Thistle's cruel spears, May pain us for a few brief hours, And draw, from childhood, tears : But yet the Rose glad recompense Gives back in odour sweet, And e'en the Thistle waves her plumes Our wandering eyes to greet : But thou, dread Hemlock, hast no charm Giv'st no surcease to pain, But ever on thy countenance Thou bear'st the mark of Cain ! The silent herds that crop the sward Know well thy noxious breath ; And Man, the lord, in thee beholds But animated Death ! Beneath thy gloomy brows I see The blood still on thy face ; Nor can the dews of summer ere Those gory marks efface ! 'Tis well thou bear'st thy dread intent Upon thy looks alway : Perhaps kind Nature so stepped in To rob thee of thy prey ! On Earth's fair picture thou mak'st up The dark background that so We may admire the lovely forms That on her canvas glow : Thus Virtue wore no witchery Were Vice not ever near : Who deck'd the Primrose, made thee too, That Man may love and fear. THE HUNT FOR THE STAGHORN CLUB-MOSS. IT is fruity September, bee-hung is the Heather, The mornin' is dewy, presaging guid weather ; Noo, oor hunt for the Horn in plain Prose I shall tell An' the Poetry, fegs, ye maun fill in yersel'. Sae we're aff for the Ben whaur the Club-mosses grow 'Mang the scars on his face 'neath his bald windy pow. Feint a rifle or bullet sal waukin oor morn, Yet ere Sol gangs tae rest we maun bring hame a horn 0' the queer Lycopod. Noo we're scourin' the glen Whaur the Rowans hang red an' the clear waters sten Till they linger in linns, in blue crystal repose, Saft curtain'd wi' ferns : whaur the strawberry grows An' the Rasp tempts oor fingers wi' sweet juicy blabs Tae moisten wi' nectar oor gye drouthy gabs ! Hoo the bee-swingin' Heather be-pollens oor breeks An' the breeze gars the roses rebloom on oor cheeks ; An' the Bog-myrtle's incense perfumes a' the air, While the Humble-bees hum like a meeting in prayer. In the saft mossy dens the Cranberry we pou, Syne we keek thro' the lens at the spangled sun-dew Wi' her witchin' tiara o' di'monds sae clear Invitin' the doom'd thochtless midge tae its bier. 0, the Grass of Parnassus blinks white in the nook, Like a snawy-skinned nymph that's gaun in for a dook In the bonnie wee burnie that ever doth sing Far sweeter, I trow, than my muse on the wing ! 72 Aye upwards we climb, whaur a bush never nods, We've the tap in oor e'e an' we male' oor ain roads, When behold ! as we pant 'mong the Alpine-flower'd stanes, Here's oor dear Mither's gift tae her three faithfu' weans Here's the Staghorn sae green spread fu' bonnie to see, Sewed as firm to the grun as the roots o' a tree ; Ilka steek we snap canny, then the velvetty treasure We coil roun' oor hats ; syne we mount up wi' pleasure Towards the bald summit. Nae bluid we hae shed Except whaur we trod on a Crawberry bed. Wi' oor een fu' o' Bens an' the far sleepin' sea, We. returned to oor hame 'neath its *vine and fig tree, Whaur the Yucca Gloriosa dangles high its big bells An' the robin wi' joy his lowin' breast swells. * Mr. David Davidson, whose guest we were at Garelochhead, has an aged fig tree in front of his house, loaded with delicious ripe fruit, and close to it a vine also bearing in the open air. People have come from far and near to see his Yucca in bloom a charming sight. 73 TO THE GRASS OF PARNASSUS. (Parnasia Palustris.) IF on Parnassus dreamy steeps The poet breathes celestial air As o'er his fancy fitful sweeps . Ten thousand images most fair : Could he to mortals bear below Aught fairer than thy purpled snow ? And yet thy beauty's reared by stealth ! The wooing insects still do chide Thy mocking show of seeming wealth, And find thy feast is Barmecide.* Thy charms proclaim a proverb old All things that glitter are not gold. * Evolutionists will know the allusion to this pretty flower's false nectary. 74 A CHAPTER ON EVOLUTION THE PANSY'S EYE. ONE day my boy asked me why The Pansy hath a yellow eye. I said I'd try and make it plain In verse, for his and others' gain. So, first, you know as well as I The Pansy feels, but can't descry ; It can't behold its beauteous self, Altho' admired by maid and elf. So, what we name a thing of sight, That gives to you and me delight, Is just a bower of ecstasie A golden gateway for the bee. She walks across the velvet floor, And knows right well where lies the store Of priceless honey ; and in state She enters by her palace gate Prouder than England's vestal Queen, When o'er the cloak she stepped so clean, So that's the chief of reasons why The Pansy hath a yellow eye. Of Complementary shades you've heard ? To these the Pansy pays regard : Purple and yellow best combine The one doth make the other shine. 75 More courtly-like the petals seem When that gold eye doth on them beam ; And it in turn looks brighter too When robed all day in purple hue. But all this gaudy show, you see, Is built a palace for the bee ; And she with little din or strife Weaves thro' the years the Pansy's life. If Earth's gay insect tribes should die No Pansies like Aurora's sky Should greet our gaze ; no beauteous flowers Should dress the Summer's sunnv hours. TO THE HOP PLANT. (Humulus Lupulus.) It is the strobiles or catkins of the hop that give the bitter, appetising property to beer ; and who shall say but that England's success in arms is largely due to her moderate use of the mild beverage ? It is a curious coincidence that the hop leaf very much resembles that of the vine. ALL hail ! thou mimic of the vine ; Long may the muses with thee twine Thou that giv'st smack to England's wine, The nut-brown ale ; That mak'st the cot and hall combine In friendship hale. When bearded barley yields his soul To Britons in the brimming bowl, Thou, that wast reared around the pole, Adjur'st his ghost, And layest 'neath thy keen control Old England's roast. Tho' Whisky oft remorseless bites, Yet thou and Malt are cheery sprites That urge the mind to dear delights That seldom cloy, And wing the Muse for random flights Of rural joy. Tho' Nature stern doth recompense us, In thee she kindly comes to fence us, From pangs her broken laws dispense us- And early bier, And hang'st aloft to swell each census, Thy strobiles sear. Let southern bards bluff Bacchus crown, And fair in song the vine begown ; Britannia sings her rich Beer brown, And, proud, can ope The story of her fair renown, Enwreathed with Hop(e). 73 TO THE WILD CARROT. (Daucus Carota.) This plant belongs to the Umbelliferous order. The florets are very small, but in the umbel they are exceedingly pretty ; and, viewed from the under side, form a brooch of Nature's filigree work. In the centre of nearly all the umbels is seen a specialised flower, larger than the normal ones, and varying in colour from pale rose to deep violet or carnation. In the following lines I only theorise as to the why the plant has taken to this specialisation. When the petals are spent, and the flowers fertilized, the umbel closes up into the form of a chaffinch's nest. THE starnie man, wi' queer equations, May deave us 'bout his constellations, As, happy, thro' dread space he gropes, Wi' his big een ca'd telescopes ; But rarer joys this day are mine To see thy nebulae a' shine Wi' steady licht, about the bay, Wi' yellowing Corn an' Clover gay ! The starry suns, that ever pace That endless race-course folks ca' space, I'm tauld are nocht but ba's o' fire ; An' gif that's sae, what needs my lyre To strike her numbers 'mang the deid ? But thou, Carotus, tune my reed ! Thy airy umbels speak o' Life Migrating aye thro' beauteous strife. Thy gauzy petals far outrin In mystery sweet the sun or muin ; 79 But, yet, what beauty still I see In thy fair brooch o' filigree Hoo witchin' it wad look gif press'd On Queen Titania's bonnie breast ! But tell me whaur ye gat that gem That ruby rare like diadem Fair centred 'mang thy breathin' snaw, Nae monarch ere wore ane sae braw ? I'd thocht ye were enou' adorned, An' sic like jewels wad hae scorned. Or art thou like dear ladies fair, That to their charms maun add aye mair ? Maybe, like them, thou wadst decoy The wee, fat, wing'd erotic boy That, a' unseen, about their hearts Twangs frae his bow his pleasing darts ? Or hast thou gat some queer ambition To alter somewhat thy condition, An' doff yer cloak that ermine shone, An', Csesar-like, the purple don ? Ae secret thou hast ne'er confess'd The plan ye tak' to big yer nest, To bield yer bairns frae rain an' win', Whan their wee sarks are bare an' thin ! I daurna bid ye be content Jist shift wi' thy ENVIRONMENT. 8o TO A SCOTCH THISTLE. STRONG on thy sabred citadel, In power thou guard'st thy crimson crown ! What crawls, or creeps, or walks may tell The terrors of thy vengeful frown ! Long ere mankind had cut with stones, Or fair Damascus forged a blade, Thy throne was girt with grins and groans ! How many ages hast thou said " Noli me tangere ? " Say, what years, What cycles, did the Great Unseen By Evolution forge the spears That fence thy towers of downy green ? Far fairer flowers the herds entomb As conquerors lay vain nations low Yet fearless waves thy ruby plume : And " Independence " still doth blow Above thy sworded battlements, Like Britain's birthright ! May our isle, Through direst days of red events, On Freedom's throne still proudly smile ! 8r TO THE FOBGET-ME-NOT. (Myasotis Palustris.) CERULEAN haunter of the rills : " Forget-me-not " thou need'st not say, For thy rare beauty ever fills My mind with gladness while I stray 'Mong Meadow-sweet and Cuckoo flower, To sanctify one Summer hour ! " Forget-me-not ; " thy petals blue, And pretty eye, seem sent to bless The hearts of men that love the True, And all things beautiful caress : By brooks that lave the mountain's brow A thing of dear delights art thou ! Sweeter than opening Eglantine Young Peggy tripping through the mead To call, at early morn, the kine, Oft halts thy azure bloom to read, Or plucks thee for her breast of snow, With happy thoughts of Shepherd Joe ! In Winter wild, when thou art gone, To Fancy comes thy witching form. Like Love's caress to maiden lone, Or like a sunbeam through the storm ! I nurse thee as a pleasing thought : And Legend, flower, forgets thee not ! TO THE COMMON EYE-BRIGHT. (Euphrasia Officinalis.) WHEN wanderin' weary o'er the muir, Whiles followed hard by clouds o' care, Hoo aft I've marked thy bonnie e'e Keek up as if to crack wi' me ; Wee picture o' the purplin' dawn, Fair pencilled by auld Nature's haun ; What painter's art thy petals braw Could e'er on plaque or canvas draw ? Thy beauty e'en aneath my lens Wad baffle twenty poets' pens, Nor could the Muses in a ring Thy sweetness and thy beauty sing. By mountain path an' wimplin' burn My een to thee wi' joy return, Till, like yer ain, my e'e grows bright Thou tiny source o' pure delight. TO THE ROWAN TREE, OR MOUNTAIN ASH. (Pyrus Aucupario.) THE strawberry keekin' frae saft, mossy dens, The rasp droopin' sweet whaur the wild torrent stens, The blaeberry hingin' the heather amang, And the bramble's black e'e are a' worthy o' sang. But amang thy wild crags thou art dearer to me In thy bleeze o' red berries, my braw Rowan-tree. Whaur the clear mountain burnies in Autumn saft sing, There thy gay, scarlet clusters a' witchingly hing ; An' the brawest aye dangle aboon the wild steep, Like a maiden secure in a strong castle's keep ; But ae sicht o' thy charms fills my heart fu' o' glee, An' my haun' winna rieve thee my braw Rowan-tree. In the Spring when thy blossoms were scentin' the air, Like a maid in her teens, thou wast tender and fair ; But, buskit in green wi' the rose on thy cheek, In Autumn nae brawer in woods could I seek ; An' through the dark Winter a vision I'll see O' the Simmer caressin' mv braw Rowan tree. 8 4 THE TWO EOSES, OR SIMPLICITY. WHAT beauty laves the lovely limbs Of sweet Simplicity ! Mark how she crowns yon fair wild Rose Throned on its thorny tree ! Then to the guarded garden turn, When roses flaunting blow In all the pride of luxury And pomp of gaudy show. My lady of Luxurious ease Calls them divinely fair, And daily culls their fragrant forms To deck her soft Boudoir. Yea, who may say the garden's queen Is not a flower complete, To draw all men and maidens fair About her odour sweet ? But mark the pamper'd Rose, when comes Her hour of swift decay : Can this be she that proudly ruled O'er all the garden gay ? A heap of foul deformity Falls on the fair green sward, Telling how she, like mortals, reap High-living's sure reward ; While from her wildling sister plain The fair-formed petals fall In tender blushes down the dells, Like evening's purple pall. And when October robes the woods In ruby, brown, and grey, The Wild-rose decks her children * out The gayest of the gay. O vagrant man ! this lesson learn Pure, simple forms are best ; And he who courts simplicity Obeys high heaven's behest. * The Scarlet Hipps. TO THE COMMON TORMENTIL. ( Potentilla Tormentilla : variety, Reptans.) WAS e'er the limbs of giddy Pompadour * Adorned with flowers so dainty or so neat As you, reclining on this verdant floor, Unfolding thy soft charms so pure and sweet. Thy quinate leaves and trailing form so fair, And yellow blooms of matchless symmetry, Adorn this bank to kiss the lambent air, And o'er me throw a pleasing witchery. With cunning art some painter may portray Thy graceful form ; but who may add the charms That float about thee this sweet summer day, That holds all Nature in its loving arms ? * She who captivated Louis XV. of France, was the first to intro- duce dresses adorned with printed flowers. TO THE COMMON MILK-WORT. ( Polygala Vulgar it. ) This sweet little haunter of our heathy pastures does her flirting in three different dresses red, blue, and white : she has a decided pre- ference, however, for the Imperial shade blue. SWEET lowly darling ! Thou dost woo The moorlands' scanty green, And greet'st the vagrant-winged cuckoo That ne'er hath Winter seen ! How prettily thou paint'st the grass With Red and Blue and White ; Thou'rt witching as a winsome lass, Or Fancy's fitful flight ! Bilberry blossoms, blushing, bend Above thy peerless gems : Carnelians, Sapphires, Rubies, blend To beautify thy stems ! Like poet wandering far in dreams Soothed by the sound of rills, So thou dost haunt the home of streams That silvery streak the hills ! 88 TO THE GIANT BELL-FLOWER. (Campanula Latifolia.) WHILE down the glens the streams are singing Soft music to the fleecy flocks, Thy little sisters sweet are ringing Their fairy bells around the rocks : But here by gurgling Garnock's wave, (Thy airy form soft bowers concealing), Fair Fancy doth my being lave, And thro' my soul thy bells are pealing ! Like regal guards the Foxgloves stand About thy towers of welkin blue ; And Flora with her bounteous hand With thousand forms thy home doth strew. Thy azure spires of breathing air, O'ercanopied by Woodbines twining, From me dispel the city's care, And cleanse my heart from vain repining ! Here, 'neath thy wooded cloistered shade, Soothed with thy beauty, for a day I bless the Hand that hath thee made, And, grateful, homeward wend my way ! 8 9 THE BOTANIST. WITH Vasculum on shoulder, and his eyes Like twin flowers, dew-lit, at the rosy dawn, Forth walked the botanist : his was no march ; But bee-like was his path among the flowers, Drinking their loveliness. A lonely man ? 0, no ! For his communings ever were With earth's unnumbered stars the spangled hosts That stud the fields and kiss the brooks that sing Adown the ferny glades. To him came speech And glance, from purple bloom and nectar'd bud And glittering berry pendant on its stem. The flower-bells seemed to ring within his soul Soft chimes, while humble bombus all day bassed To insect choirs on mead and moor. His gaze Was ever on the unsung wealth of flowers That strewed his path : while Hope still led the way To glad surprises in each new found form. Crossing the snowy wreaths of clover soft His heart rose heavenwards for still he said Their flakes, in love, from Paradise were blown, Sweet with the angels' breath. At eve I mark'd The botanist towards the city wend His shoon with golden pollen powder'd o'er By his belov6d flowers. His garments bore The perfumes of Queen Flora's banquet halls ! His lips betrayed the wild fruits' healing juice, And e'en his breath told of Fragarian feasts Spread on the mossy banks ! F 90 A peaceful joy Sat on his rose-tipped cheeks for had he not Roamed through his garden broad of field and fen Planted and pruned by His unerring hand That lights heaven's myriad lamps, and paints so fair The lily and the rose 1 And I did hold Him happier far than men who drudge and dream Of winged wealth : for Nature was to him A treasure that Old Time could never steal. TO THE YELLOW GOAT'S-BEARD, OR, "GO TO BED AT NOON, JACK." ( Tragopogon Pratensis. ) This strange plant, which belongs to the Dandelion family, closes its flower-head at noon hence its English name. When rolled up in sleep, the Involucre resembles a goat's beard. Could the plant speak, it would tell a queer story anent its habit. GONE to bed at noon, Jack ? Gone to bed at noon ? While the bees are humming Labour's sweetest tune. You've not made your fortune Why, then, bed so soon ? Up ! the world is working 0, you lazy loon ! See, the flowers are vying Which shall kiss the sun ; All day they'll pursue him Short race you have run ! Go and cut your goat's beard, Don your yellow vest ; Why, sir, prove a unit ? Follow with the rest. But, say, are you sleeping ? Or do you count your gold In some inner chamber, Where things manifold Lie all about ? My queer Jack, You seem a lazy loon ; But, maybe, there is wit, Jack, Within thy drowsy croon. THE WILD THYME. (Thymus Serpyllum.) I CALL the hills a sanctuary, Its Choristers, the Brooks ; Its organ tone, the solemn Bee, The flowers, its sacred Books ; The azure sky, its dome sublime, Its incense sweet, the fragrant Thyme. TO THE SAME FLOWER. AURORA sought thee on thy natal morn, As on a mossy cradle softly lay Thy slender stems : and, so, the goddess fair, Soft kissing thee, did'st dower thee with her breath, And blessed thee with the blushes of the dawn. 93 LINES OX THE MONSTER ASH (FRAXINUS MONSTROSUS) GROW- ING IN THE KELVINGROVE PARK, GLASGOW.* The queer looking forms left each year at the ends of the twigs of this tree are called fasciations. The exact cause of them has never been fully explained by botanists. If my readers think my muse has run riot in the following lines, let them go and inspect this strange production of nature for themselves. No charge not even to people with a little fancy in their noddles. 0, THE strange Monster Ash, you can see't without cash, In the Kelvingrove Park, where it grows ; For big girls and boys it hangs out its toys : Where it gets them I wonder who knows 1 Look ! its queer fasciations, grow not by equations You can see that quite plain where you stand Here's a butterfly's wing there a bird that don't sing ; Why, some fairy's been here with her wand ! Here's an elfin-like fiddle, with the bridge in the middle, And volutes for capitals fair : There's a head like a donkey and yonder's a monkey On the end of a branch, I declare ! Here's Titania's harp there, the tail of a carp, (Give your fancy fair play for a smile), Look ! as sure's I'm a Scot, that's the oar of a boat, Greek helmets, and forms versatile ! And, see you, man, look ! there's a shepherd's bold crook, Don't you fancy you hear his dog bark ? See what this twig is holding why, some fairy's been moulding The great dorsal fin of a shark ! This ash must be seen before its leaves cover the last year's growths. 94 Now, say, did I lark, to ask you to the park To shew you these freaks all so queer, Growing up on a tree, as your fancy can see ? But they'll all be transformed by next year. All poets declare that Nature is fair Yet many odd forms she doth toss us ; Now, between you and me, the full name of that tree Is (note it) Fraxinus Monstrosus I " 95 LINES ON A FIELD OF WHITE CLOVER. ( Trifolium Repens. ) RICH not rare not a gaudy show, But with joy I tread it over : Each pretty ball like a flake of snow Tis only a field of clover ; Yet, my heart, thy all now yield And say " 'Tis mine, this treasure field ! " Away from the city's sloughs and slums, I list to lessons sober From morn till eve the hive bee hums 'Mong the wreaths of creamy clover ; Like Love's fond message from o'er the sea Is the perfume pure of this clover lea. I hold all worldly wealth in scorn, And Care thou hearts' corroder Rise thou not with this July morn On this milky mead of clover ! But come all peaceful thoughts and rare And revel free in its fragrant air ! 0, sweet is a kiss in a rosy bower, To lips with longing weary ; And sweet are wells at the noonday hour To men in deserts dreary ; But with purer joys my mind runs over When zephyrs waft me the scent of clover. TO THE WHITE WATEK-LILY. (Nymphea Alba.) HAIL, lovely Nymph of the limpid lake ! On the deep blue waters you set your throne ; 0, I know not if I should the silence break That reigns by the shore where I wander lone. Can the muse be mute while thy snowy rim To the organ tones of the bee doth hymn ? O, the spirit of Beauty my fancy sees In thy silvery lamp with its golden flame, As it floateth so fair, with its 4 witcheries, And my lingering eyes still seem to claim Till they join with the ripples that dancing play Round your fairy form, keeping holiday. I may cull the Rose, but her thorn must bear, Though her perfumed breath be a balm to heal ; Though Camelia flaunt in my true love's hair, No odours sweet doth her form reveal ; But thou thy beauty and breath dost keep, For they reign and ride on the waters deep. 97 TO THE GOLDEN SAXIFRAGE. (Chrysosplenium Oppositifolium.) BY todlin' burns, whaur birdies sing To welcome mossy sandalled Spring ; Whaur rocks wi' dewy diamonds hing- Whaur torrents rage There in thy beauty thou dost cling, Gay Saxifrage ! Adorner o' the rifted glen, Aye hauntin' whaur clear waters sten, By monie a sweet wee cosie den I see thy form, In gowden brooch come steppin' ben Frae Winter's storm. Whaur water kelpies sit and gaze In crystal linns, thro' April days ; Whaur siller fountains gem the braes, Thy beauty's spread ; Or whaur some singing cascade plays Aroun' thy bed. Hoo bonnilie thou fling'st a spell 0' verdure roun' some mountain well, Where aft I've sat, as evening fell, By its gurgling brim, To list what my puir Muse wad tell For my next hymn. 9 8 TO THE BUTTERCUPS OR KINGCUPS. (Ranunculus Acris.) YE are sure of rich degree Flora's goldsmiths may ye be ? Or do ye bear her royal wine In your cups of wealthy shine ? Wayside flowers I know ye are, Each resplendent as a star ; Yet within your goblets glossy Lies a pleasure for wee Flossy, Betty, Tommy, Ted, and Bill, As their tiny hands they fill With your gold, that brings them joy Happiness without alloy. Ah ! I see ye every year, Shining in your splendour clear, Like a golden coronet Round young Summer's temples set ; And my soul in silence sups Plenitudes from out your cups ; And I am a child again, Romping careless down the lane. 99 BELLS. (The Flower -lover's Version.) IN purple and gold, in beauty untold, Far away o'er the moor ye are ringing ; And deep in the dells where the pure torrent swells, Arid deep in my soul ye are singing. O, sweet flowery bells, soft toning bells, On the ear of fair Fancy ye chime : Ye were cast in dull earth, and the sun gave ye birth And your beauty begetteth my rhyme ! 0, the woods are all ringing with Hyacinths swinging Sweet odours aloft to the dove ; While, meek in the shade, the Primrose like a maid Seems silently dreaming of Love ! From its spire of great bells, the Foxglove aye tells That its temple lies ope for the bee : Hark ! she hummeth a prayer, and entereth there 'Neath a crimson and gold canopy ! 'Mong the fields and the flowers, by the rills, among bowers I have joys that court me unbidden ; In these are my wealth, never pilfered by stealth, Tho' to many they ever lie hidden ! IOO TO THE RAGWORT. (Senecio Jacobcea.) This plant will seek lea fields, although the farmer wages ineessaat war against it. Kennedy says" A good crop with bad farmers." RAGWORT, thou art a sturdy loon ! What tho' the farmer's sickle keen, Lays low thy spreading yellow croon, Still o'er his rigs thy form is seen. Thou maun ha'e pith within thy pow Tae warsle 'gainst sic sneddin' fate : I won'er that ye dinna vow Frae fickle fields to tak' the gate, An' plant yersel' whaur cruel steel Ne'er shears yer shanks whaur void o' fear Yer ruggit, tawted tap may feel Some wimplin' burnie roun' it steer. Ragwort, yer like the honest puir That haud their ain whate'er betide ; That, somehoo, thrive 'mid hardships sair, An' o'er Life's billows couthie ride. An' when to Death they pay the kine, Like thee they leave a buirdly race Firm planted for a haun Divine For ilk thing leevin' has a place ! 101 TO THE SEA-PINK. (Armeria Vulgaris.) WHERE Neptune flings his briny spray Athwart the rocks, thou noddest gay ; Upon the tottering tawny brink Of giddy crags, there blooms thy pink ! Where calm in coves the waters lie, Like pretty patches of the sky, I love to mark thy form recline, Or in the azure mirror shine ! Thy image makes me ever glad While wandering by the sea-shore sad ; Thy beauty, like a gleam of light, Makes all the dull grey shingle bright ! If round a country-garden bed I see thy purple blossoms spread, My fancy seawards flies once more, And hears the breakers beat the shore ! 102 STARS. WHEN winter wraps the earth in cold, The heavenly hosts their fires unfold ; The city of the mighty One Is bathed in light each lamp a sun ! Then Fancy, with her nimble feet, May pace far down each golden street, Or tread, all wonder-robed, alone The precincts of Jehovah's throne ! One night, lone musing on my way, Through orbed space my eye did stray ; The Dog star like a diamond skinkled, While countless galaxies all twinkled In many a beauteous scintillation Around Orion's constellation, As when the seer of Uz did turn His awe-struck gaze to see them burn Above his tents, when earth was young, 'Ere yet the shepherd King had sung The praise of Him whose word did frame That wondrous universe of flame. Ah ! had the royal bard's quick eye Seen fairy Science sweep the sky With optic glass and Reason's ken, What peans he had pourdd then To Israel's God ! O, dreadful space ! Methinks the Almighty's awful face Looks down from His eternal throne 103 On man, His image gazing lone Into His courts ! This is too vast Amid His shoreless sea I'm cast ! From rolling suns my reason turns To this that in me ever burns The Mind of man, more wondrous still The mind that doth Creation fill ; How truly Zion's singer said " Thou hast but little lower made Man than Thyself ! " * wonder this That 'mid God's wonders oft we miss ! From heavenly stars, on downward wing, To earth I turn. Tis balmy Spring ; The fields with living stars are gay, My feet traverse the Milky -way Of dewy daisies each a sun That still its beauteous course doth run Beneath the great All-seeing Eye That studs with gems the midnight sky. How spangled lovely earth is seen, In silver, gold, and varied green ! Dear earth-born stars, I turn to you ! To you my simple lays renew ! Heaven's fiery hosts God's might aye prove ;- Ye are the reflex of His love. Gay living forms more beauteous far Than sun or moon or gem-like star. * The correct rendering of the Hebrew in Psalm viii., 6, I am told, is, " Thou hast made him a little lower than Thyself." IO4 TO AN UNTIMELY ROSE, THAT WOULD BLOOM LATE IN DECEMBER, BUT WAS NIPP'D BY THE FROST. WAN wanderer in a weary waste, Far from thy summer home, I mourn to mark thy drooping form 'Neath winter's murky dome. What waked thee from thy restless sleep ? Heard'st thou the zephyr's tone, That spake of warmth and sunny smiles From sunlit seas upborne 1 Frail sister of the fragrant queen, The poetry of flowers, Nipp'd by the north ; thy scentless bloom Frozen by icy showers. Ah ! type of beauty robed in pride, That ruin still o'ercomes, That leaves her summer mansion fair, To perish in the slums ! Far from thy home ! My being bleeds To see thee pine and die, While, lov'd, thy sister's cheeks shall blush Beneath June's azure sky. Envoi. Untimely flower ! To me thou art Like laughter round the grave, Or like a gem that mocking decks The shackles of a slave ! LINES ON THE YELLOW FIELD-CRESS. (Nasturtium Sylvestris. ) This trailing plant, with its exquisite leaves and profusion of bright golden blossoms, is rarely found in Scotland, and then it is usually adorning some waste place or heap of rubbish. I have come across it in several spots 30 miles round Glasgow, and in each case it was on a railway often close to the track or on a little-used siding. As rushed the train, (like comet bold), Along its path of steel, I chanced to spy a patch of gold A flower of beauty manifold Close by Destruction's wheel. And marking quick the spot, as one Who finds a treasure rare When labour's hours their course had run, Ere yet had set the Summer sun I found my beauty fair. And, lo, it was the Field Cress bright, Its bed the dull gray dross, Yet radiant now with golden light, Resplendent as the brow of night Gemmed with the Southern Cross. On rubbish heaps this flower doth blow Makes spots, despised and mean, With brighter gold than Ophir glow, And barren places oftimes show The pageant of a queen. Thus oft we see, in slums and lanes, Fair Virtue sweetly bloom ; And 'mid a city's sins and pains Hear Charity, in dulcet strains, Come piping through the gloom. io6 TO THE WILD STRAWBERRY. ( Fragaria Vesca. ) WHEN the banks and dells are dight With the moonlit Primrose gay, Then thy stars so snowy white Seem to twinkle and to say : " We do shine thine eyes to greet, But we herald promise sweet." When the June sun waxcth hot, And the torrent turns a rill, 'Tis the schoolboys' happy lot Joyously to roam at will, Or loll upon each mossy bed Plucking thy luscious berries red ! Though sager grown, I deem it bliss To join their rambles pleased to glean Thy fragrant fruit, rare as the kiss The first pure kiss of sweet eighteen ! Thy sisters gross, in gardens placed, Lack thy simplicity and taste ! 107 TO THE BARREN-STRAWBERRY. (Potentilla Fragariastrum.) It requires the experienced eye of the botanist to discern the differ- ence between the leaves and flowers of this plant and the true straw- berry. As it name implies, it bears no berries only seeds like the other Potentillas. THE botanist, he knows you well, White peeping in some woody dell ; But, plodding hard, he may not tell Tny history queer : Why unto fruit thou dost not swell, The birds to cheer ! The children, nesting in the Spring, Delighted hear the blackbird sing, And, spying you, their hopes take wing They mark thy bed ; Their pretty lips in fancy wring Sweet berries red ! And, when hot panting June comes round, They seek thy home they know the ground ; To guarded spots they joyous bound But, sad surprise ! Thy mocking leaves alone are found To dim their eyes ! Thou'rt just like folk that only talk : In mimic leaves and flowers they walk ; With pretty speech they cunning balk Old Want and Woe ; Their charity is writ in chalk No fruit they show ! io8 LINES TO AN OLD GOOSEBERRY BUSH IN A CERTAIN GARDEN. The author, when a boy, often had Sulphur Grossets off this bush, and it is still bearing abundance of fruit, tho' said to be over seventy years old. THO' guid, douce John an' Mary Hortle Ha'e lang since pass'd Death's dreary portal, Yet thy auld form, grown horizontal, Aye seems to me A thing that I might ca' immortal That canna dee. When thy wee blossoms sweet did hing, On sunny days, in balmy Spring, I've marked the bees on early wing, I, tho' a birkie, Wad listen lang to hear them sing Like some wee kirkie. At Fair time I kept sweet wi' Mary She yont the orchard kept a dairy She'd gar me doff my auld Glengary, Syne, roun' thee happin', Frae thee she'd pou, large, ripe an' hairy, A big Scotch chappin. Then aff I'd toddle, f u' o' glee, Nae monarch hauf sae proud as me, As, squatted 'neath the auld Aik tree, I feasted fine ; An' thocht nae royal dish could be Sae gran' as mine ! 109 Let southern bards Parnassus spiel, An' sing hoo Grapes in humplocks reel In fizzin' vats I'll say't a Deil Is in ilk berry ; Wine gars puir dottards downward squeel Tae Charon's ferry ! An' tho' at times we pree the Grape, Its seeds like stanes aft gar us gape, As 'mang auld stumps we howk an' scrape Wi' pin an' picker Till Beauty's face taks monie a shape While loonies titter ! Let me the juicy Grosset praise : When ripe its gat nae tricky ways, Nae surfeit on oor painch it lays Nor grips, nor bile ; I wish the Grosset length o' days In oor bless'd isle ! If Luxury an' Wealth maun ban us Wi' trashtry frae the het Havanahs, Their Melons, Pomegranates, Bananas Wi' fumes like Rosset : Still may the Powers aboon aye staun us The halesome Grosset ! no BOTANY AND EAILWAY BANKS. If, in the British Isles, population, house and factory building, and laying out of cemeteries go on increasing at the rate they have been doing during the past twenty years, we may have few spots left as homes for our wild flowers ; and it seems to me that our railway embankments will be the custodians of nine-tenths of our wild flora. THE farmer turns his furrows o'er, The cattle and the sheep must graze, And fruity orchards, more and more Do widen, in these sumptuous days : Where shall I turn for wild-flower ways ? Death takes his acres, with no thanks, And fainter falls the field flowers' blaze : There's one rich band, where science clanks, And Flora courts the Eailway banks ! Here neither plough nor scythe can mar The beautiful, the rich, the rare : The floral gem, the living star, The sweet-breathed, chafing Summer's air ! At, just say fourteen miles nae mair As on the steel steed snorting spanks On holidays I sit and stare On one long garden ; and my thanks Ascend to heaven for Railway banks ! Ill THE ACOKK (A Rhyme for the Children.) WHILE roaming in a wood, one day, A boy on an Acorn trod : And thus that orb of life did say " Through Winter cold, beneath this sod, I'll sleep, till Spring his bugle blow, To banish north the frost and snow. Two rounded blades I'll then unfold, Then tiny leaves to shew my race That I have sprung from monarchs old : My impy form will fill small space, Until a hundred years are fled, And thou art sleeping with the dead ! And then perhaps thy grandson may (As truant, 'neath my boughs, he wipes The sweat of fear) when Hyps look gay, Climb up my arms to gather Pipes.* Yea, while man's generations go, A sturdy oak I still shall grow. And while great Kings shall rise and reign, And Empires like old sabres rust, My power shall spread with might and main, While cities proud are razed to dust Until some day the woodman's blow Shall lay my spreading glory low ! * The calyx or cup that holds the acorn. 112 And, after that, my limbs may rear A school to train a Shakespere's mind,* And pilgrims come from year to year Sweet inspiration there to find : And my strong arms may bear afar, On thundering ships, old Britain's star ! So, little deeds of kindness done, And simple words, if dropp'd in love, May grow in might, when thou hast won Thy crown of life in Heaven above : Despise not aught that's small if TRUE : Mont Blanc himself from atoms grew ! " *\* The Grammar School at Stratford, where Shakespere was educated, waa founded by Edward VI. and is still a school : the strong beams that keep it together are of oak and very likely young William played over them. TO THE CORN-FLOWER. (Centauria Cyamis.) DECKED in dainty frills of blue, 'Mong the Corn you flirt and play : And, for lover, none will do, Save the Scarlet Poppy gay ! Complement'ry blue and red Ye each other's charms enhance ; When to blending were ye bred ? Long, long ago ; and not by chance ! Pretty children's willing feet Dare not roam where you do grow ; For among the farmer's wheat Quite secure your blossoms blow. As a lovely lady fair Smiteth from her castle walls, And no love-sick knight may dare Follow where her footstep falls : So, from out the golden corn, Thou dost throw thy azure charms ; And, until of beauty shorn, Thou art safe from rude alarms. 114 TO THE BIED'S-FOOT TREFOIL. (Lotus Corniculatus.) THOUGH lowly guise thou dost assume, Thou art a rival of the Broom, And Thymy knolls for thee make room Lotus Corniculatus ! Thy dainty petals, tipp'd with red, By sunbeams of the springtime fed, Are quick in yellow beauty spread Lotus Corniculatus ! And when thou spread'st thy golden shields,* And turn'st to Ophir lanes and fields What dear delights thy treasure yields Lotus Corniculatus ! With thy rich beauty in mine eye, How sweet it is, in June, to lie And list the Minstrel of the sky Lotus Corniculatus ! One day with thee, 'mong bleating flocks, And cascades reeking down the rocks Is rare respite to city folks My thanks, Corniculatus ! * If any fail to realise the figure here used, let them visit the sandy pastures of the Ayrshire coast during the summer, where they will see rounded patches of this lovely flower forming golden shields from 1 to 3 feet diameter. TO THE COMMON VETCH. (Vicia Angustifolia.) This pretty ruby-coloured flower, which grows on sandy pastures, is the origin of the cultivated Vetch with which every schoolboy is acquainted. WHEN smiling May, in golden crown, And mantle of the milky thorn, Comes in her rich flower-dappled gown, Sparkling with dew drops of the morn, One Ruby rare adorn'st her brow And, lowly floweret, it is thou ! Among the gay green tender grass, It glads my heart to see thee shine ! A gem like you I ne'er could pass, And I, tho' poor, may call thee mine ! The jewels sordid wealth can buy, Ne'er kindled fire in poet's eye ! n6 THE CHKYSANTHEMUM SHOW IN THE BOTANIC GARDENS, GLASGOW. NOVEMBER, 1896. Dedicated to Mr. Dewar, curator of the Gardens, who is deserving of the thanks of the whole city and suburbs for his annual exhibition of these lovely flowers. Wi' ither folk the Muse e'en comes, An' to Saint Mungo saftly hums Her bonnetted Chrysanthemums Frae queer Japan ; An' on their beauty tries her thrums As best she can ! Aneath the Kibble's ample shade, In close battalions a' arrayed, Like Grenadiers on high parade Afore the Queen ; Or some enchantin' masquerade To feast her een ! Or might I ca't a galaxie O' ladies cled harmoniouslie Ilk ane o' noble pedigree In Court or ha', Turned oot to fling warm witcherie O'er Winter's snaw ? Their walth on dress they dinna spare Here's ane in gowd like millionaire See, this ane spreads her bosom fair Like lily white ; While some their royal bluid declare In purple bright ! Some blush like sunsets some hae strains 0' azure hair bells i' their veins : Some bronz'd, as if o'er Afric's plains They lang had trod Bearing sweet spices in their trains To waft abroad ! In sweet accord, on Dewar's tower, A' thae gar youth and beauty glower ; An' civic rulers feel what power In concord lies : On each the heavens a charm doth shower Frae kindly skies ! Dewar, thy bonnie flowers aye preach, An' auld Saint Mungo's bairnies teach, That wad their city aiblins reach PROSPERITY, ane maun ower the ither streetch But a' agree ! iiS TO THE PHEASANT'S EYE, OR POET'S LILY. (Narcissus Poelicus.) RICH treasury of heaven's balmy air, Soft, silver -spangled spoiler of the sun, The poet's lily fairest of the fair What love and music hath thy beauty won ! Fair image of celestial loveliness ! The fingers of young Innocence alone May dare to touch thee, or, in love, caress Thy beauty, when thy breathing snow is blown. What tho' day's orb warm woos thee with his beams, On thy chaste cheek he ne'er shall raise a blush ; And tho' thy fragrance haunts the poet's dreams, Thy snowy sanctity his harp might hush. Fair flitteth Fancy thro' her airy halls, When sings the throstle after vernal showers ; But thy pure splendour every sense enthrals Thou art the vestal princess of the flowers. 119 TO THE MEADOW CRANE'S-BILL. (Geranium Pratens6.) This is by far the handsomest of all our wild Geraniums. THE Woodbine from her golden horn Pours incense on the wings of morn Where thy soft purple bloom was born Geranium Pratense\ Free, up the trouty stream I roam, Where waters leap in fretful foam, Where you and Fancy make your home- Geranium Pratens6. How sweet by singing brooks to lie, 'Neath humming woods in hot July, Thy handsome blossoms in my eye Geranium Pratense". Thy southern sisters move elate In scarlet robes and pride of state About the mansions of the great Geranium Pratense\ There, 'neath hot glassy shades up-pent, Their languorous sickly days are spent : But, give me thy Environment Geranium Pratens6 : The sighing Birk, the fragrant Rose, The vocal woods the dear repose That Nature o'er her lover throws Geranium Pratense\ I2O LINES To AN ARTIFICIAL ROSE ADORNING A LADY'S GOLDEN HAIR.* WHAT a triumph of Art on a throne of gold ! O, where is the poet, or young or old, Will sing of the fingers so dainty and neat That can mimic the queen of all flowerets sweet ? The chisel and brush wake the poet's fires, But what bold singer to her aspires That set thy red petals and leaves and stems And even thy anthers like golden gems 1 No muse of mine shall thy beauty mar Thou, near unto Nature, yet from her so far ! Fair mimic, adorning a brow of snow, Thou bearest the form of the real that blow In my lady's garden in noonday pride When the Honeysuckles their blushes hide ! Ah, must I call thee a counterfeit Of the flower of Love so fair and fleet ? Thou art set as a charm 'mong my lady's locks Where Cupid still hides 'mong their golden flocks. The wildling Rose to the bee is a spell ; But thou, where thou art, ah ! my heart knows well ! O, wert thou, lady, for me so fair, And thy bosom the love of mine could share, I would gather thee roses gemmed with dew, And like thy fair cheek, of a peachy hue ; I would gather thee buds when the morning drips, And Aurora is kissing their crimson lips ! * Why the painters of flowers should be lauded and well paid, aad the poor girls who make artificial ones (with such cunning as to de- ceive our very senses), should be left out in the cold and paid wages that can barely keep body and soul together, I cannot understand. Ladies think of this ! 121 FERNS. ADORERS of the regal woods ! What tho' no flowers adorn Your palmy grace and symmetry Ye are of Beauty born : I deem ye still the fairest things That deck the glades or crystal springs ! How gracefully your palmy fronds Adorn the forest fanes, Or waving o'er some mountain brook Ye waft the Throstle's strains ; Or down the glen your tender green Throws round the linn a fairy sheen ! Did Mother Nature ere unfold Forms fairer of design Than yours, gay ferns ? Your loveliness Speaks of the Hand Divine ! 0, while I tread this beauteous Earth, Of joy my heart need dread no dearth ! 122 TO THE FRAGRANT GYMNADENIA, (AN ORCHID.) (Gymnadenia Conopsea. ) O'ER heathy pastures, where the sheep Like distant boulders seem, I seek thy perfumed purple form, As miser in a dream, Lone, gathers Ophir's yellow ore, And, happy, heaps his hidden store. How sweet, in June, thy balmy breath About the upland rills, When globe-flowers light the rushy mead, And larks sing o'er the hills ; And Joy and I for miles might stray, To feel thy breath in evening grey. Thy Orchidacean sisters fair We bring from sunnier lands, And bind their beauty all about With artificial bands ; Yet hear what one, thy singer, saith " They all may envy thy sweet breath." Yea, Love through thy pure odour wings His tender flight ; he steals About thy fragrant blooms, but still His awful form conceals ; And when, dear flower, I seek for thee My heart aye fills with charity. 123 TO THE GARDEN NASTURTIUM, OR INDIAN- CRESS. ( Tropiolum Mqjus. ) This garden favourite, that blooms on till frosts nip it, is named Nastartium from the pungent taste of its seeds, and leaves as well the word literally meaning " The Nose Twitcher." Its specific name, Tropiolum, means Trophies its leaf resembling a shield and the flower a helmet. IMPERIAL flower of warmth and light : Thou had'st not aye that helmet bright, But won thy trophies fair in fight Through seons lone, And now thou hold'st, by sovereign right, Thy fiery throne. In flaming folds of floral fire, To bind my bower's thy one desire ; And there thy hues, like sweetest choir, Harmonious blend There, till October's tints expire, Thy beauty spend. In spring, the Lily fragrance throws In Summer blooms the queenly Rose ; But, when the mellow Apple shows Her blushes fair, Loved Mignonette about thee blows Her perfume rare. 124 And bright the Gladiolus rears, To guard thy throne, his mighty spears : And Love his potent shaft oft clears By thy warm glow, Behind thy shields young Hope oft hears His twanging bow ! When friends of youth, and manhood's stay, Like flowers in Spring and Summer gay By Time's fierce blast are borne away Far from my view, Heaven grant to cheer Life's closing day A friend like you ! 125 TO THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL, OR POOR MAN'S WEATHER-GLASS. ( A nagallis A rvensis. ) If this pretty little plant could speak it would tell us that its reason for closing its cup before rain is to preserve its pollen, and so perpe- tuate its name : in short like a true redcoat it keeps its powder dry, and has, consequently, a better chance for its life. THOU dost not flaunt thy flaming flag If rain is drawing near ; And dost not count among thy friends Soft showers, that bring good cheer. I know you keep your table bright And shining, for the flies And so you keep a sharp look out For murky drizzling skies. 'Twould never do to cheat your guests Of sweets and pollen yellow ; And, wise, you keep your cupboard dry, My thrifty little fellow ! And so, while blessing others, you Still think of your descendants ; So that your ancient name may live With train of poor dependants. But when your banner is unfurled It is a pretty sight To see the green and tender grass Gleam with its scarlet bright. 126 My tender barometric friend Wee pretty weather glass Your sense of feeling must be fine, And mine must far surpass ! I would that you could speak, wee flower, And give a retrospection Of how you came to read the skies With such a rare perfection ! 127 TO THE COMMON CENTAURY. (Erythrea Centaurium.) This flower is also a sun wooer, and avoids rain. It grows in great beauty and abundance on the sand dunes by the sea shore at Port Rush. PINKY wooer of the sun ! When he smileth thou art gay : 'Neath his glory thou wilt run, Red robed, all a Summer's day. When the lord of day doth hide Under rain clouds, then in fear Well thou knowest he doth chide, And thou mourn'st his absent cheer. Thou art of the thoughtful flowers Tho' perhaps a little shy For thou seem'st to know the hours To follow whether WET or DRY. Often in my summer walks I will stand and read thy face ; And upon thy tapered stalks Coming showers can oft times trace. Pretty rover of the dunes, Thy tiny candelabra bright In my bosom wake soft tunes Kindle there a pure delight ! 128 Purple thyme about thee blows Soothed I press its fragrant sod And here and there a Burnet Rose Odour sheds where violets nod. These, thy rare companions meet, Carpeting the sand dunes' floor ; Perhaps with me they come to greet Thy beauty by the murm'ring shore. 129 TO THE GREAT CONVOLVULUS. (Calystegia Sepium.) This plant, although it bears a really beautiful flower, is universally detested for its utter selfishness ; for in order to show off its white bells, it not only tramples over all obstacles in its upward growth, but spreads its root stems far and wide underground causing general destruction to beauty and utility a type, surely, of pride and sordid ambition. TYPE of sordid, vain Ambition ! Fairest flower nor breathing Briar Work in thee a heart contrition : Thou'rt for self so, higher, higher, Till thy bells of shining snow " Victory " peal o'er all below ! Every height must have its hollow ! So, when surly Winter calls, In his train thou need'st must follow- At his feet thy beauty falls ; While the humble Daisy's rays Help to cheer December's days ! Pride, self -twining, oft doth climb, Heartless still, o'er honest worth ; But the withering breath of Time Lays all transient show in earth : The man is bless'd, thrice happy he, Who daily courts Humility ! 130 LINES TO A YELLOW JESSAMINE IN FLOWER ON A COTTAGE WALL NEAR AYR, DECEMBER, 1894. THERE ! like a happy thought, to light The Poet, ere the Muses sleep, I mark thy yellow blossoms bright, About this cottage window creep ! Kissing the Frost's ephemeral leaves Upon the panes, thy wealth of youth Perchance for soft- winged Love still grieves Still sigheth for thy sunnier South. Rare picture thou, of living gold, Thy setting soft the silvery snow ; Thou flowery flame 'mid Winter's cold My heart warms at thy kindly glow ! As dulcet music thralls the ear, Thy beauty captive keeps my eye ; With thee all Summer's sounds I hear, And Broomy June goes humming by ! TO THE WILD ROSE. (Rosa Canina.) SWEET Rose ! thy native air is song : And well the poet saith That Love, the ever young and strong, Still breatheth in thy breath. When first the Flower of Ocean's foam * With light foot touched the land, She sought beneath thy shade a home, And smote thee with her wand ; And quick thy perfumed petals flew About her form so fair, Till sleep his silent curtains drew About her golden hair. So first on bed of Roses slept The queen of Love's great power ; And well her winged son hath kept The fragrance of that hour : For swift from out thy opening buds In odour Cupid flies His wings adorned with dewy studs, The light of maidens' eyes ! Sweet Rose the Poetry of flowers Still to the Muses dear : Thou art, within thy thorny bowers, The glory of the year ! * Venus. 132 TO MAY, 1896. In the memory of the oldest, there has not been seen such a profusion of Hawthorn blossom as in the present month. This flower, with others, is also about three weeks earlier than usual. I GREET thee, queen month of the year ! Hail, May ! Thy fragrant mantle of the creamy thorn Methinks ne'er spread so ample or so gay As now in Ninety-six. At early morn I wander 'mong the lanes, to quaff the scent Of thine own blossom ; and afar and near The air is redolent. I, city pent, With rapture the sweet Throstle's piping hear ! Where'er I turn thy Hawthorn I descry Like snowy wreaths ; and every field is gay With Daisy constellations ; so that I Seem roaming in the moonlight during day. 133 TO THE CORN MARIGOLD. (Chrysanthemum Segetum.) MY Fancy never groweth old To meet thee 'mong the ripening corn, Arrayed in thy gay garb of gold Where Plenty fills her Autumn horn : And when the sickle steals thy crown, And all the barns are big with grain, Among the tubered fields so brown Thy beauty hails me once again : So winsome, bonnie, blithe, and gay ! October greets thee, sad and sere ; Her falling tresses round thee play Bright rearguard of the floral year ! Ev'n when November's sun is low And Winter flaps his fleecy wings, Thy gold among his silvery snow A solace in the sadness brings. When Flora lays her treasures past Till Spring shall call (her wooer bold) Her golden crown she placeth last ; And thou art it Corn Marigold ! 134 TO THE KNAPWEED, OR STAR-THISTLE. (Centawea Niyra.) I. I MAY not call you a lovely plant For your beauty is all on your bonnet ; So my jaded Muse she need not pant To shew you off in a sonnet ! But I'll lilt you a song on this moorland road, While the kindly breezes whistle Right over your purple crown, so broad Frail mimic of Scotland's Thistle ! * II. Your unsavoury stem hath no need of spears Like the Thistles green and sappy : But you steer your way thro' the strife of years, And you always look quite happy In your rosy head-gear bobbing about 'Mong Hair-bells blue, and Bedstraw yellow, While the dainty Eyebright peepeth out As if to say " you're a handsome fellow ! " in. When the July days are hot and still, And the wild-fruit time is coming ; Then I pensive stray by some tinkling rill Where the moorland bees are humming About your crimson bloom like bells Far off, in a Sabbath gloaming : And I bless your bonnet and all its spells For I'm wed to my wild-flower roaming ! * It lias no thorns. 135 TO THE BOG-BEAN. (Menyanthes Trifoliatum. ) 0, RAREST work of Nature's deft design ! peerless princess in Queen Flora's halls ! Thy snowy loveliness who may define ? Soft beauty reigns where'er thy footstep falls. Like silvered candelabra round the lake, Thy fairjklights illume the rushy mead ; While cheniR Larks above thee music wake, And, flushed, Aurora to the Day doth speed ! Lov'd Menyanthes ! Thou art angel fair ! 1 dare not cull thee by this trickling brook, Nor bind thee in my true love's raven hair, But gaze on thee then to thy Maker look ! 1 3 6 FLORA. ONCE the Lily and the Rose Would their mutual sweetness lend To some spot of soft repose, Where their lovely hues might blend : He who would the fair ones seek, Woos sweet Flora's neck and cheek. The Bramble sighed to Love's young lord, "Must my glittering glory fade ? Is my witchery ignored ? I'll enrich this beauteous maid." Cupid claiming such a prize, Changed the blobs to Flora's eyes ! Thus on young Flora beauty showers From Autumn's fruit and Summer's flowers. 137 THE LILY AND THE ROSE. A FABLE. CUPID, winging through the air, Lighted in a garden fair Soft, between that lovely pair, The Lily and the Rose. Slumber laved his wondrous eyes, But with a sudden new surprise He started hearing sobs and sighs That troubled his repose. For the flowers of Love and Song Mourned "The gods have done us wrong, That we should bloom amid a throng Of flowers of low degree ! O, Love ! thou heat from heaven's fire, To follow thee we twain aspire ; 0, Cupid, grant us this desire We would immortal be ! " The god of Love quick culled the twain, And, with soft music in his train, He flew afar o'er land and main To choose a spot right good Some sanctuary by beauty graced. Then on the cheek the Rose he traced, The Lily on the bosom placed Of English maidenhood. 138 WASTE PLACES. IF in the garden, nursed with care, Rich flowers, all flaunting, grow ; Yet oft on spots called WASTE and BARE The rarest wildlings blow ! 139 THE BROOKLET; There is sanctity about a clear brook or a mountain well. I SING of a crystal brooklet, That shimmers in the sun ; Its bed is soft with vernal green, Till its little course is run. It whispers from a lakelet, That mirrors wooded hills ; Its shore is bowers of fragrant flowers, Whose beauty ever thrills. And the brooklet's crystal twinkles, So fresh, and sweet, and cool ; And the flowers press its banks to dress, Or nod in each limpid pool. So I rest by the bonnie brooklet, When the autumn leaves are sere, And the Bramble's eye like a maiden's, shy- Doth glance on its bosom, clear. Dear image of my childhood, When my heart was pure like thee ; Ere the muddy strife of manhood's life Was merged in an unknown sea ! 0, thing of grace ! in thy angel face, I read of the golden shore ; Of its crystal sea, and its harmony, When the toils of earth are o'er ! 140 MAY. Now virgin May herself arrays To meet the happy Poet's gaze. Around her brow how sweetly plays The creamy Thorn, While blue the Hyacinthine haze Her skirts adorn. About her breasts the Broom doth blow,- With thousand tints her garments glow, With stars her golden hair doth flow In clusters sweet ; While cascades all their gems do throw About her feet ! How pleasing 'tis at noon to lie Amid the Hyacinthine dye That forms a blue ambrosial sky All through the copse, While bright the happy moments fly On new fledged hopes ! THE LIME TREE. (Tilia Europ&a.) I SAW blithe Spring whose nimble feet Were oft bepowdered with the snow With Catkins hang the Birks so sweet, And robe in white the leafless Sloe, And breathe his breath across the trees, Hang bee and blossom from the Plane, While wafted on the soft'ning breeze The Throstle poured his sweetest strain. When Spring had decked the woods all fair And from the Ash her wine buds pressed, He vanished through the Summer air, And warmer days the Lime hath dress'd. The Lime the last of forest trees To part with all her honeyed store When corn is yellow calls the bees To roam at will her treasures o'er. Yes, thou, sweet Linden, art a type Of wealthy men, who, late to give, Give lavishly their purpose ripe Fling gifts that make their memory live. Stand 'neath the Linden's minster shade, And breathe the incense of her air, And let her noonday psalm pervade Thy inner self and worship there ! 142 TO THE COMMON WOUND WORT.* (Stachys Sylvatica). I would advise my readers to beware lest they in a solitary ramble with a friend should mistake this plant for Wild Mint (which it closely resembles, in appearance only), and cull a sprig of it for presentation. FOUL Stachys ! Woundwort ! that's thy name Thou ne'er shalt set my muse aflame ; But I'll rhyme something, all the same, Though not in praise j I scarce dare drag thee into fame, With thy bad ways. The Nettle's form thou dost assume : Her sting may cloud our face in gloom ; Yet in the pot for her there's room, 'Mong Scottish kail, That makes the rosy faces bloom Of bairnies hale. Stachys ! A poet hath a nose, And thou art of its dreaded foes. By lonely glens, where'er he goes To muse a while, He meets, like unforgotten woes, Thy odour vile ! * The Nettle protects itself by its stings. The Woundwort, which has a leaf exceedingly like that of the Nettle, wards off its enemies by its offensive odour, like that General in ancient history who placed the stink pots between his army and the pursuing foe. 143 If 'mong the flowers he happy stray By burn, or brake, or sunny brae, He's sure to tread thee in his way, 0, Stachys dread ! But of thee he's no more to say Thou'rt of the dead ! 144 TO THE BLAEBERRY. (BILBERRY OR WHORTLEBERRY.) (Vaccinium European.) OFT hae I sang the wildling flowers By heath an' hill an' woodland bowers By trouty burns an' ivied towers In Spring an' Simmer ; But though my muse on you aft glowers, It's aye been timmer ! Blaeberry Gather roun' the Nine, (Least I my rustic sang should tine), An' dye wi' your sweet purple wine Their dewy lips, That thou mayest hear hoo fair an' fine My measure trips ! Hoo sweet thou art in Lassie Spring When ower your bells the Lavrocks sing, And early bees are on the wing Amang their blushes ; In crimson beauty sweet they hing Mang heather bushes. An', 0, whan Simmer rules the sky, An' Flora's fragrant train sweeps bye ; Hoo pleasing 'neath the pines to lie An' gust the gab Wi' thy sweet berries Tyrian dye Is in ilk blab ! 145 THE BURNET ROSE. This lowly haunter of the sand dunes, though never rising more than a few inches above the ground its blossoms often touching their mother earth is the sweetest scented of all the rose family. SWEET is the breath of the summer sea, As it stealeth at noon o'er the clover'd lea ; But sweeter than all, beyond compare Tho' its stem be thorny, its garden bare ; Tho' on sandy dunes it humbly grows Is the loved and the lowly Burnet Rose. This lowly flower, with her petals pale, That wafteth her incense on the gale, Tho' her bed be the earth, yet her odour sweet The airy angels of morning greet, As they shake the dew from their bless'd repose, And kiss the lips of the Burnet Rose. O, dreamy as music steals in glens, Cooler than springs in bosky dens, Sweet as the kiss that Love first drew, Clearer than flights ever poet flew, Is the witching spirit that tender blows In the balmy breath of the Burnet Rose. 146 TO THE WALLFLOWER. (Cheiranthus Chfiri.) This flower grows in profusion on the Castle Rock, Edinburgh. WHEN first I spied thee as a wildling, them Wast goldening the giddy rocks beneath Edina's ancient fortf, there wafting far Thy rarest odour to the heedless wind, Far up beyond the hand that fain would pluck Thy bronzed beauty, like a maiden coy In some high palace, where Love lingers near, Yet may not climb, or, daring, fears a fall. But in the garden thou art Spring's delight, When apple trees shower blossoms at thy feet, And music raineth from the larky sky. Sweet-breath'd brunette, thou art beloved by all ! How soft thy cheek thy beauty is as Youth ! Thy perfume is thine own : no rival bloom Breathes thy sweet breath. When thou art near to bless Thou wakest in my mind all pure delights, And lead'st me captive in fair Flora's train. 147 TO THE COMMON SPEEDWELL. (Veronica Officinalis.) WHERE'ER I meet thee, up doth Fancy fly In thoughts celestial Image of the sky ! About thee shining, starry Daisies sing, And from their hosts the joyous Lark doth spring ; While Dandelion suns around thee blaze, And Lady's-smock, dipped in Aurora's rays, Wafts o'er thy petals blue, an odour, sweet As dawn of love let me thy beauty greet With my faint song, dear, tender, fragile flow'r That from the azure vault once drew thy dow'r ! When mine do gaze upon thy laughing eyes, I have one wish to pluck thee as a prize ; But that I know thine eyes were never made To mock the sky, save from the dewy glade : Even as a modest maiden, reared amid The pieties of Nature, that lie hid In forms like thine, blooms fairest where she grows, And of deceitful Art but little knows ! Thou art a jewel on the brow of May, That, robed in scented garments, wings her way ! Emblem of Friendship rarest gem of blue From me thou ever hast affection true ! 148 THE MISTLETOE. (Viscum Album.) A RHYME FOR THE CHILDREN. COME, gather round, my chubby ones, The winter's come, you know ; I'll tell you of that wondrous plant The sacred Mistletoe ! I'm sure you all have oft admired Its berries just like pearls ; And, 'neath its boughs you've often seen The boys kiss the girls ! Well ! Do you know, this plant so queer Ne'er grew in any soil : " How can that be ? " I hear you say, Yet, listen ; and don't smile : It's just a wretched parasite, And grows on orchard trees : Yes, just like folks called " hangers-on," Or " spongers " if you please ! When once its pretty pearls are ripe, The Throstles from the wood Come hopping o'er its branches green And pick the pearls for food : And oft their viscous, gluey blobs Stick to their feet and wings, And then they fly to other trees And rub them off poor things ! 149 And thus the birds are gardeners too Unconsciously they sow Upon the apple, oak, or beech The sacred Mistletoe ! And long before the Romans came To fight our savage sires, The Druids burned the Mistletoe Amid their festal fires. And when stern Winter swept his blasts Across their fields so poor ; To still his rage, the Mistletoe Was hung above each door : They counted it a sacred thing, And offered it to Baal Their cruel God in sacrifice : That is an ancient tale ! But now the Mistletoe adorns The feast we hold more dear The birth of Him who speaketh peace In every sinner's ear. LINES, SUGGESTED BY A VISIT TO THE CELEBRATED ROSE GARDEN OF MR. THOMAS TODD AT BROOMHOUSE. Mr. Todd (fruit merchant, Gallowgate, Glasgow) has one of the best and largest collection of roses in the country ; and the astonishing thing is that nearly all of them are Dutch varieties imported direct. His display is proof that Dutch roses can do splendidly in Scotland. 0, WAD ye like to see the Rose Clad in the grace Perfection throws ; Or wad ye feast for ance yer nose On odours sweet ? Then aff tae Broomhouse ! There she blows Wi' charms replete ! For me, I gat a braw surprise, An' thocht me 'neath Italian skies Or 'mang the glades o' Paradise In Tammie's yaird : Roses o' every hue an' size Ma' glowerin' shared ! Roses in thoosans red an' white, Or streaked like Aurora bright, An' ithers in Carnation dight Wi' buff between A very garden o' delight For poets' een ! But what gart me ma 1 pow whiles claw, Was hoo Tom Todd could name them a' Princes and lords, an' ladies braw, Poets and sages, Great names at hamc an' far awa' Wad filled sax pages ! Frae Holland, tae, I'm tauld by Tarn, This galaxy o' queens a' cam', Prize-catchers a' at Amsterdam An' ither toons ; An' mony a Dutchman's drained his dram To grace their croons. My blessin' on thee, Tammas Todd, Sin' I amang yer rcses trod ! A sicht o' them micht ease the load 0' warldly care, An' send us whistling doon Life's road A livelier air ! 152 THE WILD HYACINTH. (Agraphis Nutans.) FLEECY and blue is the sky o'erhead : But I pensive lie On a living sky For the blue Agraphis is my bed ! And wide as my raptured eye can reach Are its scented bells : And their music tells Of our Father's love : and I list their speech. See ! The children's arms can bear no more Of the breathing blue ! And with pleasures true They are turning their treasures o'er and o'er ! I could lie all day 'mong the odour sweet, And for ever gaze On the steady haze Of the Hyacinths about my feet While the Stichwort's stars through the blue smoke shine, And the Lychnis red Hath its glory spread, And the Broom laughs out from its golden mine ! 153 THE POET'S GARDEN. " WHERE lies the Poet's garden ? Where 1 For I would breathe its balmy air ! What fairest flowers ! What fruity boughs What garlands for his lady's brows ! Where is the Poet's garden 1 Say : That in it I may wandering stray ? " Thou canst not see his clustering vine If thou hast not the vision Fine ! His garden doth unmeasured lie : Its walls, the hills ; its roof, the sky ; Its fountains fall 'mong fleecy flocks ; Its statues are the mossy rocks ; Its music wild, the winds and waves Or where the tumbling torrent raves ! But its full chords thou canst not hear, If thou hast not the Gifted Ear ! Among its never-ending walks With Fancy still the Poet talks : Its vistas stretch remote and far, And, rising, kiss the morning star ! Ten thousand lights illume his way, And make it one unending day. But canst thou see how bright they shine If thou hast not the Vision Fine ? 154 The Poet's garden is the world, Or where in pomp the clouds are hurled In wreaths of glory, high upborne ! Sun, moon, and stars ; the dewy morn, The lark's loud lay ; all fragrant flowers, The fleecy winter summer's showers ; All blend harmonious in his verse His garden is the UNIVERSE ! 155 TO THE FOLKSGLOVES IN CALDER GLEX. JUNE, 1895. I have never seen this stately flower so plentiful nor in such magni- ficence as in the upper portion of Calder Glen, near Lochwinnoch. WHY should I long to roam afar Amid the tropics' floral wealth, When your gay forms adorn each scar Of Scotia's glens the haunts of health ? Yea, to my fancy, it appears Ye are Queen Flora's Grenadiers ! Queen Flora holdeth high levee Beside the crystal waters cool ; Her minstrels sing from every tree, And fragrant flowers bend dutiful Well guarded by your awful spears, Imperial, purpled Grenadiers ! Fair queenly flowers, rare perfumed o'er, Or pensive as young maidens shy, All sweetly deck the garnished floor Where Violets and Speedwells vie In beauty ! yet no fair one fears Guarded by you gay Grenadiers ! And Calder Glen keeps holiday While your proud forms like sentries stand : With bounding heart I upward stray ; Nor would I lift a ruthless hand To break the glory of your spears For ye are Flora's Grenadiers ! 5 6 THE BRAMBLE IN OCTOBER. THE flora of the year is past Adown the lanes I ramble, The faded leaves are falling fast, Yet jetty hangs the Bramble. Its blossoms still are silken white, And black, and red, and green, Its berries dangle with delight Fit jewels for a queen. The Hazel all its nuts hath shed In many a cozy nook, And all the flowers have gone to bed And closed is Flora's book. But still the Bramble's raven eye Doth glance beneath the bracken, And many a bank doth beautify By every flower forsaken. ON THE SAME IN NOVEMBER. THE loveliest, the last and best The glory of the year Behold ! the hoary frost hath press'd And dimm'd its eye so clear. 157 Now, woeful wan it hangs its head Beneath November's blast, The beauty of the year hath sped The snow is falling fast. Yet, when September's suns have shone, As by the woods I ramble, Mine eyes may meet when musing lone The glances of the Bramble. TO THE BEAMBLE. OCTOBER sets thy leaves ablaze, And warms my muse to sing thy praise, Dear Bramble ! Oft my doublet thin Thou used to rive, when round the linn I scrambled for thy clusters ripe, Black glancing 'neath the Haw and Hip Like maidens' eyes. And truth to tell, In manhood's years thou fling'st a spell To charm my eyes or please my taste, While Autumn doth to Winter haste ! Thy silken blossoms white and gay Seem pretty children out to play ; Thy berries green, their days at school, Soured with each task of book and rule ; Till larger grown, thy berries show Their ruddy bloom, like healthy glow 158 Of manhood, spurred by Love's warm flame On to the goal of wealth or fame, Till like thy berries black, it wage No more the strife in ripe old age. Tho' Life 'mid cruel prickles grow Like thee it may soft blossoms throw ; And, if with kindly Faith as root, Leave to old Earth some precious fruit. Yea, what a lesson thou dost preach When dangling high beyond my reach Thy envied blobs ! Thus beauty rare And things most lovely, sweet and fair To call these mine, I must, alas, Through pain and toil and suffering pass, Ah ! He who brought the soul its bread, Had crown of thorns about His head ! Thanks, lowly Bramble of the brake, From you bless'd lessons oft I take ! 159 TO THE DEVIL'S-BIT SCABIOUS.* (Scabiosa Succiso.) MY grandsires gazed with curious eyes On you, my pretty mountain prize ! Perhaps in fear their thoughts would run Unbidden to the Evil One That haunted tree, and vale, and hill, And farm, and fen, and stream, and mill, And on thy rhizome set his seal, Lest thy rich beauty might reveal To passer's gaze the hand Divine That made thy dome in purple shine ! With brighter vision I behold Thy matchless hive of bloom unfold, Thy arching form, to Fancy's eye May seem an image of the sky Without a cloud ! But to the bee Thou art a honied treasury. Mayhap the fairies name thy towers " Rare bouquets for the queen of flowers." When snows lie deep, and winter's spear Lays low the pageant of the year, I'll miss thee by the moorland burn, And, longing, sigh for thy return ! * The Ehizome of this plant is abrupt, as if cut off with a blunt instrument. The ancients of course believed that the Devil bit it off, to prevent it being used as a medicine. The flower head is not unlike a bee-hive. i6o TO THE FOXGLOVE (POISONOUS). (Digitalis Purpurea.) GREAT guardian of the summer flowers ; Stern watcher of the dappled fields ! Thou tall Dragoon by Flora's bowers, A painful death thy sabre wields ! When I was small, I wondering stood, Approached thy regal form with fear : Whene'er I met thee by some wood I scarce dared break thy crimsoned spear ! TO THE CORN MUSTARD OR CHARLOCK. (Sinapis Arvensis.) " THE farmer's pest," good people say, As they behold thee make thy way Across the greening fields in May, Sinapis. Yet, gleaming o'er the earless field, With ne'er a hedgerow for a shield, Thou dost to me sweet pleasure yield Sinapis. How gladsome, on a sweet June morn, To mark thy yellow light adorn The glades of verdant tender corn Sinapis. And when the zephyr comes to greet The flower-crowned spring with nimble feet, I, ravished, catch thy odour sweet Sinapis. Or should a cloud its shadow flit Across the field, thou'lt follow it Like sunshine, or a poet's wit Sinapis ! I meet thee in October mellow, And note that thou hast ne'er a fellow To match thee for thy coat of yellow Sinapis ! 162 On moor or fen thou wilt not grow, But where men till and plant and mow There I behold thy social glow Sinapis. But tell it not to farmer Brown, A poet holds thee in renown, And deigns to sing thy yellow gown Sinapis ! 163 NUTTING TIME. OCTOBER in scarlet and russet and grey Is hymning of Plenty and wine : So, with hearts light as air, let us up and away Through the glen where the gay berries shine. How calm is the morn ! In high treble the stream Is singing in rambling measure Like a bard all enrapt that would catch on a theme In the mazes of Fancy and pleasure ! O, a-nutting we go ! Now the bloom's on the sloe ; * And the Guelder-rose clusters are gay In glossy carnation ! How bright is the glow Of the Hip fairy lamp of the day ! 'Mong the Brackens so brown how the Brambles do glance As witching as Jenny's dark eyes As she glides like a Grace through the hall in the dance And her heart still a coveted prize ! O, the joys of nutting ! The clusters hang high, But the crook brings the branches anear, And the fringed involucre that shades the bold eye To our fingers and pockets is dear ! * The bloom of its fruit. 164 We strip the bold clusters and set the branch free, And deem we have all its nuts shaken ; But others pop out 'neath the leaves, we can see, So we own we are somewhat mistaken. So Nutters who follow may gather and glean, Though to us it may prove tantalizing : On the fair tree of knowledge is fruit always seen, And to each generation enticing. 0, money can't buy the delights of the glen, Nor Poetry sing all its charms : There's a solace and calm ne'er described by the pen When we're folded within Nature's arms ! 165 THE CAMELLIA AND THE ROSE. A MORAL. In the language of flowers, the White Camellia is the symbol of " Perfected Loveliness," yet it lacks perfume ; the Rose has ever been dear to " The Ruling Passion." BENEATH a crystal dome and shade Safe sheltered from the blustering storm There bloomed, I ween, the loveliest maid That ever bore fair Flora's form ! Her bosom might the snow-flake shame : Camellia was her choral name. Beside her grew a damask Rose Her odour breathing all around : To match this pair there never grows Such Form and Sweetness from the ground. Perfection of all Beauties fair Perfection of all Perfumes rare ! The lovely fair Camellia spake, And thus the queen of flowers addressed : " Ah ! could I but thy fragrance take, Young Love had sure my petals pressed ; Yet why, since he thy court adorns, Must he be hedged about with thorns ? " Then spake the flower of Love and Song : " I must be wooed, fair evergreen ; Yet, bold must be the heart and strong That wins the blushes of a queen ; And he who highest bliss would gain, Must tread the thorny path of pain ! " 1 66 A nymph whose brow the Lily shows, Her breasts full acorns in October Heard fair Camellia and the Rose, And bade them list to counsel sober : Beauty and Perfume, heavenly pair, Heard Poesy this truth declare : " Learn, maidens : God hath kindly given Some charm to every living thing : The Lark that, singing, soars to heaven, He plumeth not the Pheasant's wing ; The Peacock draped in rainbow shades Ne'er wakes to song the sleepy glades ! And thou, Camellia, to the eye, Hast ne'er a rival ! Why repine If Perfume Nature thee deny 1 Thy gay green dress hath ne'er a spine : No cruel thorn upon thee grows So, live content beside the Rose ! " 1 67 TO THE MARSH MARIGOLD. (Caltha Palustrls. Literally, the fire or lamp oftJie meadow.) THOU sett'st the meadows all ablaze To welcome in the May ; Where'er the crystal burnie strays I mark thy blossoms gay. 0, that I could thy charms unfold My cheery, gay Marsh Marigold ! Thy golden flame yet warms my breast, As in the Springs long fled, When, searching for the wild bird's nest, I saw thy splendour spread About the marsh like floral fire, And still thou art my heart's desire ! The cuckoo-flower's gauzy dress Looks gayer in thy gleams ; Thy gold her lilac, sweet caress Beside the limpid streams. Thou bringest joys manifold My winsome gay Marsh Marigold ! i68 TO THE HOLLY. (Ilex Aquifolium.) WHEN trees are hung with icy beads, Thy red and green shine brightest, Holly ; Gayest when Nature wears her weeds, And drapes herself in melancholy. To meet thee by some giddy glen, Thy berries blushing 'mong the snow, Thou seem'st a type of good old men Whose cheeks still wear their youthful glow, With hearts aye young and evergreen Of healthy cheer devoid of folly Like thee, full beautiful, I ween, My sturdy, gleesome, gay, green Holly. When Winter rolls his crispy car Across the bleak and barren plains, I see arise a wondrous star, And hear far-off angelic strains. For, lo ! the merry bells ring in The birthday of the " Meek and Lowly ; " The world hath ceased its warring din ; And crowns His natal feast with Holly. 1 69 LEAVES, OR DECAY AND DEATH. i DECAY. WHILE roaming pensive 'mong the silent woods, When mellow Autumn drapes them in her gold And russet robes, we feel a holy calm Pervade us, as the tinted leaves fall soft About our path, or glow with fruit-like hues From Beech and Elm and sweeping Chestnut fair. Beneath the mighty Painter's silent touch How charming this Fruition and Decay : This peaceful filling of the kindly lap Of Mother Earth, with past gifts beautified ! Yet say not this is Death. DEATH. Go pace the woods When Summer o'er them throws her favourite hue. High roars the blast; and Air's dread ocean heaves The green expanse, and flings a wrenched branch Of foliage fair athwart your unsafe path : Call this Destruction Death ! Go scan that limb, When Autumn's golden tresses sweep the ground, And mark the haggard aspect of its leaves Still clinging like dead infants to a breast That holds no generous store. Then pause ! .Reflect ! 170 TO THE OX-EYE-DAISY. (Chrysanthemum Leacanthemum.) 'Tis drowsy June : the Muse, tho' lazy, Yet wakes to sing thee, Ox-eye-Daisy ! Thy handsome form hath silent power When thy great eye begins to glower From rosy banks and broomy braes Where'er the flower-adorer strays ! Thy modest sister of the lea At noon a rarest pearl is she ; But when Aurora chafes the night, Wee Daisy wears a ruby bright : Yet darkest night nor nimbus sky Can make thee ever close thine eye ; But thy white beams for ever play About thy disk so bright and gay ! What cunning Compass drew each line Wherein thy golden florets shine ? What fairy fingers ere could space Each nectar'd cup within its place ! And so in thy great eye I see A very world of mystery ! I/I TO THE COMMON PEARL-WORT. (Sagina Procumbens.) This is perhaps the smallest flowering plant in Britain ; its nodding capsule resembles a pearl. LITTLE croucher by the wall, Hast thou never heard a song ? Is it that thou wast so small ? Then the poets did thee wrong ! Thou art lowly scarcely seen Yet thou hold'st a pretty gem ; For, above thy robe of green Nods a pearly diadem ! Were Humility my theme, Rare similitude wert thou ; For there darts a heavenward beam From a jewel on her brow ! 172 LINES ON A POSIE OF PURPLE SWEET VIOLETS AND GOLDEN DAFFODILS. Violet and Yellow are complementary colours. IMPERIAL Purple, royal Gold, Dame Nature's complementary hues, Your beauty never groweth old ; A sense of pleasure ye diffuse, Like harmony amongst the hills, Sweet Violets and Daffodils ! Philosophy I shall not ask Why ye so winsome draw together ; I only in your beauty bask, As doth a lane in sunny weather ; Till rapture all my being fills, Wed Violets and Daffodils ! Thy glory, Daffodil's, thy dower ; Thy breath, Viola, is thy charm ; And I could wish that human power With Beauty so went arm in arm; Twould change a thousand Mortal ills To Violets and Daffodils ! 173 TO THE PLANE TREE. (Acer Pseudo-platanus.) The language of the Plane is Genius. As a fair, fresh fancy illumes his brain And brightens the poet's eye, So spreadeth thy palmy leaves, Plane, 'Neath the fleecy April sky ! Like a Milton's muse is thy grandeur calm And thy massive dome of green ; And when noon rides high 'tis a healing balm To rest 'neath thy ample screen ! 'Mong thy nectared blossoms low hymn the bees Like a hallowed fane in prayer ; While thy incense stirred by the sighing breeze Perfumeth the list'ning air ! Grand symbol thou of Genius Power And Beauty and Thought sublime ; And I deem thee of Nature the wealthiest dower That blesseth our northern clime ! 174 AUTUMN. Now Nature dons her tawny gown, And to her rest doth creep : She's laid aside her Summer crown, And sadly sinks to sleep. Soft, pensive feelings now I own Within my bosom stray, While wandering by the woodland lone That rings no Throstle's lay All hushed ! save that the Redbreast trills His tender, tearful song, Responsive to the whispering rills : Might I his strain prolong, I'd mourn the King-cups broken all, The blue-eyed Speedwell dead The Primrose by the waterfall, Her saffron beauty shed The Hyacinth's rare perfume lost (All save its memory dear), The Foxgloves stately of their host Snapped is each purpled spear. Snow drifts of fragrant Hawthorn, they Have melted from my view ; Of all the galaxy of May, Dimmed is each lovely hue ! And, grateful for the beauty thrown Each year to bless our eyes, What mortal knows, when Autumn's blown, If Spring, in myriad dyes, 175 Again he'll see 1 Thus Autumn mild And pensive hath her speech On swift decay to man and child : Each fading flower doth preach ! Yea, this I know, that mother earth Shall mantled be in green That Nature yearly giveth birth To Beauty, that hath been And still shall be ? Mankind behold God's lovely pageant pass Before their eyes, that soon grow old, Then slumber 'neath the grass. 176 TO THE WHITE BIRCH. CALLED BY ARTISTS "THE LADY OF THE FOREST." (Betula Alba.) SWEET fragrant fountain of fair foliage ! I hail thy showering beauty, by the lake That mirrors all thy grace upon its page Where all thy twinkling leaves soft-shimmering shake I Or let me call thee Lady of the Brake, Where waving ferns adoring kiss thy feet, And Blackbirds all the glens to echoes wake And vernal rains allure thy perfume sweet, While round thee and afar with joy the flowerets meet. Thy beauteous form, fair Birch, we often trace By cunning brush, and proudly call this Art ; But who the waving witchery and grace, That wakes the latent music of the heart Can ere to lifeless canvas once impart 1 Who paint thy perfume after genial showers, Or the soft sighings of thy leaves, that start The sleeping memories of our childhood hours When free from care as thou we culled our fairest flowers ? 1/7 TO THE FALLS OF FOYERS. VISITED 8TH AUGUST, 1893. FOYERS thy foaming form still flings Her misty showers around the pine, And gems with noontide dew the wings Of flowers that 'neath thy rainbow shine. Here, where the umbrageous trees do twine Their roots around the rifted rock, My spirit in thy roar doth join The deep, hoarse thunder, and the shock That evermore do Silence mock. This warring Cauldron ! Hewn by thee Ere yet, perchance, Man's wondrous eyes Had gazed upon thy majesty With terror or divine surprise ! Still thou seem'st pouring from the skies The battered boulders bide thy roar. Thou hast a voice that never dies ! Silence ne'er trod thy temple's floor, Where rolls thy anthem evermore ! Foyers thou hast thy temple built, Here thou art Priest and Prayer and Praise. I, Son of Care, on shadows spilt, To thee but faint my pa3ans raise ; Yet, on thy glories I may gaze, And join the triumphs of thy thunder ! There was an eye* once pierced thy haze ; That orb was sure the home of wonder As it surveyed thy crystal splendour ! * Burns visited these falls. THE POPPIES IN THE CORN. It is a striking instance of the struggle for existence, that the scarlet poppy is found in greatest profusion amongst corn or wheat, where its blossoms appear all the brighter in contrast to the green of the cereals green and scarlet being complementary colours. POPPIES, Poppies, all the way, To right or left, where'er I stray : Xor flirting high, nor all forlorn, But flaunting 'mong the vernal corn ! Upon a rustic gate I lean, To quaff the fragrance of the bean ; But through the corn my charmed eye Doth catch the Poppy's scarlet dye. I ask myself this question plain " What doth this flower amongst the grain ? Why are its fickle petals rife Beside the ancient staff of life ? Its rosy hues though fading fast Flame brighter by the green contrast." Ah, types of vain extravagance ! Amid the sturdy grain you dance But one short day. Then wan and weak The crimson faded from each cheek, Your glory spent like setting sun What praise or blessings have ye won ? While, marching to some merry strain, Men carry home the golden grain. And there are human Poppies, sure We call them rich ; but they are poor ! Their motto " Take," but never " Give ; " For pomp and show they only live. Corn Labour dyes their garments gay, Yet fleet and fitful is their day. 179 TO THE WALLACE OAK IN THE FOUNTAIN GARDENS, PAISLEY.* MY puir wee stunted, crouchin' thing ; Thy form wad ne'er mak' bardies sing : Tho' hallowed memories round thee cling My heart is sair To see ye show, in leafy Spring, Yer stumpies bare ! Are ye a son o' that bauld Aik Aft screened the Knight gart England quake, And drew his sword for Scotland's sake An' Libertie ? Ye'r liker some decrepit rake New aff the spree ! Maybe thou say'st wi' crecklin' face, That Scotia's shortenin' her pace, An' faggin' fast in Freedom's race, Wi' gowd weighed doon ? Something like that I think I trace In thy wee froon. Folk hint, puir thing, ye need protection Frae knaves wa'd slit ye for dissection, An' haun yer limbs roun' for inspection When stiff an' deid : Sic Antiquarian cursed infection Maun e'en tak' heid : * Planted at the opening of these Gardens, and grown from an acorn from the aged oak which grew at Elderslie the birthplace of Wallace. The hero oft hid from his enemies in its boughs. i8o For Seestu bodies mean to shield Yer tawted tap wi' speary bield ; An' whan sax hunner year are reeled By Spinner Time, To some puir poet ye may yield A theme sublime ! THE BRAMBLES IN THE WHINS. "We joy in tribulations also." PAUL. THE whins now cover all the path That led me merry home from school, When my young heart, devoid of wrath, Knew little save the golden rule. Now scarce I drag my tortured limbs O'er this rough tangled hill of thorn ; My heart with fire enough up brims Might burn it ere to-morrow morn. Lo ! here are brambles growing near, But not a ripe one can I see ; For children's fingers have been here That is as plain as well might be. Yet, with my stick the whins I ope, And with my feet their prickles tread, When, gladsome as the gleams of hope, Full many a cluster, black and red, Of sheltered brambles, all unseen, Well hidden from the tiny hands. I eat my fill of them, I ween, Nor grudge the gorse its well-earned lands. Thus should the soul, from bitter sorrow, Some sweet refreshment ever borrow ! 182 THE POET TO THE NETTLE. WHAT poet would thy praises sing, Thou vegetable adder ? And for his lays receive thy sting, To make his muse the madder ? The thought of thee new pain suggests Thou foe of every hand ! Thou'rt in the van of Flora's pests 'Gainst thee I take my stand ! I'll grip thee firm and all thy kind That spurn at soft address, Whose sting in every word we find, And in the feigned caress ! I hate thee, Nettle ! What's thy place In earth's economy ? I care not I ne'er see thy face, Nor folks that act like thee ! THE NETTLE'S REPLY TO THE POET. You ask me to define my place In earth's economy, And why I've not the winning face Of gaudy flowers folks see 1 I'll try. I've fought for ages long The battle of existence, In which some lose who are not strong, Some win by sheer resistance ; Some flaunt gay colours to allure, And some the air perfume ; While others worse than me, I'm sure (Like spiders in your room) Set cruel snares to catch a fly ; Some send their youngest born To prey on some beast passing by ; And some your fair earth scorn, And thrive well on your fair fruit trees ; Some climb upon your walls, Some set sweet meshes for the bees, And some, as evening falls, By fragrance woo the silken moth And all are in the fray, The fight for Life, not one is loth ; And note now what I say : I woo the wind but not in sport I wear no gaudy hues, And tender folks tread not my court My company I choose. The breeze tends well my offspring dear, And plants them far and wide, I own I am a little queer But note, there's more beside ! In short, Philosophy can show it, There's room for Nettle and for Poet ! 1 84 TO THE FRAGRANCE OF THE ROSE. AH, Rose ! had'st them but Beauty's charms Thou ne'er had been the poet's flower : Extended on thy thorny arms Thou had'st not wielded sovereign power ; Thy perfume is the royal spell So is the love of Isabel. Thy redolence, bewitching queen, Doth haunt me all the summer days Like incense from a world unseen, Where Innocence for ever strays ; O, lave me in thy soothing spell, That I may win fair Isabel. Through all my being sweetly float Like music from a distant choir : When thou art near, on love I dote, My heart is tuned to pure desire ; Thou art a draught from God's deep well Thou art like Love and Isabel. 185 TO THE DEADLY NIGHTSHADE (No. 1). (Atropa Belladona.) The fruit of this rare but highly poisonous plant is lovely, and may fitly be compared to the dark eyes of women. I GAZE upon thee as I might On galaxy of dark Italian queens In some high hall around the festive board Dealing destruction 'mong enamoured knights. Can death lurk in those glorious glittering orbs That glance at me from out the russet leaves 1 As witching to the untutored schoolboy's hand As those fierce glances from old Nila's banks That changed a warrior to a feeble child ! The Siren on the rock methinks thou art. The poor deluded swain whom wanton eyes Hath driven to despair, in thee may find The soporific Death. And jealousy Will close her sideling eyes at thy command ! The meanest weed that grows on rubbish heaps Is dearer far to me than thou proud queen ! And underneath a plain yet modest form May beat the truest heart ; and Virtue rare Abide for aye, where ne'er a glance betrays ! ATROPA BELLADONNA (No. 2). ROBED in her Autumn dress of brown and sere, The dark-eyed Belladonna glanced at me With her wild wondrous eyes so clear : And, charm'd, I thought can aught more glorious be 1 When old Experience passing by that way Said, " Amorous youth, let not thy bosom swell ; Love lurks not in those orbs, nor cheerful day : Behind them croucheth Death and deepest hell ! " M 1 86 TO THE TUFTED VETCH CLIMBING OVER A HAWTHORN HEDGE. (Vicia Cracca.) HERE in the flower-ciad lane, by hedgerows lined, I drink thy sunset beauty, climbing bright Above the hawthorn's tops ; thy trusses twined Amid its lovely wreaths of fragrant white. Imperial climber ! To thy flowery throne, Arrayed in purple, thou hast fought thy way From lowly birth, thro' tortuous ways, alone, Till crowned at last thou gladdenst the day. High up beyond the yearning children's hands, Thy blossoms catch the bee's quick anxious eye : I mark her now, in robe of golden bands, In rapture hum amid thy Tyrian dye ! The Mayflower loads the breeze with odours sweet : She fades before the coming of the queen The love-fraught Rose and pale about her feet ; But, in thy royal robes, thou at her court art seen ! MUSINGS AT PORTRUSH AND GIANT'S CAUSEWAY. HTH AUGUST, 1892. GREAT Ocean ! Thy loud pulse for ever beats ; I nurse new raptures by thy sounding shore. A mortal here thy curling tresses greets, And fain would sing a cadence to thy roar, Which through thy caves doth echo evermore. Thine eye shall never dim through ages vast, Eternal youth reigns in thy bosom's core. Thy vigour riseth with the rising blast, And thou art still the same when untold years have passed. Here Pluto's fires have burst in lava'd storms, Leaving strange records of their vanquished rage In sculptured columns, whose mysterious forms Are wondrous pictures on great Nature's page ; And youngling science doth her powers engage To read the records of the riven rocks : While thou, dread ocean, ceaseless war doth wage Against the reeling land with thunder shocks ; And even as she reads thy blinding fury mocks. Great Rarifier of Air's ocean ! Thou That bearest healing in thy briny breath To sickly man, and placest on his brow The bloom of health where stole the hand of Death. (" Sweet purifier," foul Corruption saith.) Here 'mong the bee-toss'd bells and fragrant thyme, The silken burnet rose and purple heath, I list the hissing of thy salty rime, And feel my being tuned to Nature's ceaseless chime. 188 A WILD FLOWER ALPHABET. A the Anemone, Spring doth unfold ; B is the Broom, with her tassels of gold. C Celandine, sung by Wordsworth the bard. D is the Daisy, the sun of the sward, E Eglantine, to the poets aye dear. F is the Folksglove a bold Grenadier. G is the Gorse, making bird-nesters quail H hoary Hawthorn, perfuming the gale. I is the Iris, by streams we must seek. J Jack-by-the-Hedge, with his breath like a leek. K is the Knapweed that crimsons the brake L is the Lily, white nymph of the lake. M is the Melilot, fragrant when dry. N None-so-pretty, and well named, say I. O gives the Orchids a statesman knows well. P is the Primrose, the moon of the dell. Q Queen-of-the-Meadow, sweet scenting the morn. R is the Rose : O, if minus her thorn ! S is the Speedwell she mocks the blue sky. T is the Thistle, that says " I defy ! " U Umbelliferous flowers mostly white. V brings us Violets, breathing delight. W Woodbine, beloved for her breath. X names no flower as a poet here saith. Y stands for Yarrow, a flower and a stream. Z is the Zephyr that round them doth dream ; & now, gentle reader, here endeth my theme. 1 89 A WILD FRUIT ALPHABET. A is the Acorn aye filling his pipe. B is the Bramble, how tempting when ripe ! C is the Cranberry, loves mossy fens. D is the Dewberry, haunter of glens. E Elderberries, that make a rich wine. F is the Filbert a hazel-nut fine. G is the Gean, the grandma of the Cherry. H the Hagberry 'tis a Drupe, not a Berry. I Ivy berries, as black as a crow. J stands for Junipers gin tipplers know. K the Knowtberries, 'mong bogs on the hill. L Lords and Ladies, that blackbirds won't kill. M is the Mountain Ash, yclept the Row'n. N Nightshade berries, in scarlet, green, brown. Nature's Orchard so dear to her child. P is the Plum, which we often find wild. Q is a Quart we may eat in the glen K of the Rasps, in some cool flowery den. S shows the Strawberries we ramblers prize. T is the Tutsan, like maiden's black eyes. U Upright-bramble of deep crimson dye. V gives the Vetches we eat till we're dry. W Whorlly the King of the Hips. Y scarlet Yews that must ne'er cross our lips. Z is the zest that I hope you possess. & away o'er the moors for the wild fruits we'll press ! 190 HAIRBELLS. (Campanula Rotundifolia.) BY the flowery mountain path By the torrent's foaming wrath Far among the humming heather There the blue bells chime together. On the rugged quarry's face There they dangle with a grace, Makes a poet's heart to leap As the zephyrs round them sweep. On their airy fairy stems They hang like skiey gems Ever nodding in the breeze Ever bending to the bees. Sweet azure bells were ye Once baptised in the sea, Or, did ye to beauty wake From the blue of Alpine lake ? What are ye ever chiming To the poet ever rhyming ? Ye make music in his heart And his eye with fancy start, As ye dangle and keep swinging, On his full emotions ringing : And how quick his spirit tells All the music of your bells ! Hairbells so blue ! so fair ! Ye are living forms of air ; And to Faith's discerning eyes Ye are Angels from the skies. And, in Winter, when you're missing, And the sleety showers are hissing, Wee loving fingers and blue eyes Are gathering you in Paradise. TO THE FIELD MUSHROOM. (Agaricus Campestris.) LET folks wha need to gang to schule Despise thee ca' thee "puddock's stool," An' maybe say the bard's a fule That rhymes o' thee : Thy silken ba' and salmon gill Are dear to me ! Thou art a rover o' the field, Nae bush nor bracken asks't for bield, Nor big'st thy beauty 'neath the shield 0' craggy glen : When seekin' thee I've never reeled Wi' headlong sten. But 'mang the bler^in' o' the ewe, An' rowtin' o' some cottar's coo, Aft hae I marked wi' rapture new Thy silvery dome O'erarching Beauty that ne'er grew In Greece or Rome. Just when the corn begins to yellow Thy pinky flesh grows sweet an' mellow ; 'Mang drippin' thou hast ne'er a fellow I' the skirlin' pan : Aneath thy snaw-white umbrella There's feastin' gran' ! 193 But when thou pour'st thy sauted bluid* Thou mak'st a brander'd steak fu' guid : Ye'll mak' a drouth's wan cheek grow red- His head to think, An' whiskied stomachs fit for food E'en in a blink. I've kent me whyles when far frae hame Flower huntin' wi' a hungry wame, Gey prood to spy thy snawy kaim Like manna spread : Far sweeter thou wert then than game On hauvers fed ! Sae, thou canst please the gab an' e'e A thing o' rare utility A very treasure unto me Tho' short, fu' sweet ; Thou an' the gourd micht preachers be On a' things fleet. * Ketchup. ( 194 TO BUTTERFLIES. Composed in the Dranse Valley, Switzerland. YE silent seraphs, circling Flora's throne ; Ye flitting flowers of air, that sip delight From earth's sweet stars ere heaven's gems grow bright ! Like wreck of rainbows o'er the meadows blown, Or gay Imagination wandering lone Through untrod realms so is your happy flight Among the perfumed fields, which ye have dight With beauty manifold that soon is gone. Ye silent wooers of the wishing flowers That, blushing, lure you to their honeyed halls, Dance out your golden day, and steal its hours, Till o'er you, as o'er men, Death's slumber falls : Till Spring shall blow " Resurgum " o'er the lea, And name you types of Immortality ! 195 TO THE COMMON SUNDEW. (Drosera Rotundifolia. ) This plant, which grows in wet boggy places, depends chiefly for its sustenance on the blood of little insects, which it captures by exposing on the leaves what looks to the silly fly drops of dew, but which are only blobs of transparent, viscid matter. When the insect alights the tentacles close round it and strangle the victim. THE spider watching by his snare, Weel hid, at noon, amang the air The brindled Tiger in his lair Wi' burnin' e'en Ne'er matched thee, Sundew, deadly, fair Deception's queen ! When simmer shines, wi' ne'er a shoor, Then is the day o' thy great power ; Amang the moss ayont the moor Thou feastest fine, An' mony a midge thou dost allure Its life to tine ! Aye ! Wha would think your rosy bed, Wi' skinklin' jewels a' o'erspread Is nocht else than a butcher's shed Or slaughter cairn : An' thou thy victims ne'er hast bled Wi' steel or aim ! 196 Wee, glaiket midge that isna dew Yer gaun to sip I'll tell ye true Thae di'monds a' are made o' glue, Then, 0, beware, Or else thy flirtin' thou shalt rue In sorrow sair ! O, artless maid ! This flower to thee Doth point a lesson ; cans't thou see 1 Beware of Wealth's wild witchery Th' unreal shun ; The lowly cot a heaven may be The palace none ! 197 TO THE REED-MACE. (Typha Latifolia.) This stately plant is to be found on Loch Libo. It is erroneously called the bull-rush in many parts of the country, but it belongs to quite a different order from the rushes. Its aggregate spike of florets forming a dense black mass is not unlike a grenadier's bonnet ; the leaves resemble long sabres. TYPHA ! thy glittering sabres shake Beneath the glancing of the sun About the shallows of the lake, Like spoils of war by Flora won ; Or did she steal thy form from Mars While nursing him from's weary wars ? Or did she send the armoured god When first he'd form his sanguine blade Thy deft design, two-edged and broad, For Vulcan in the lurid shade ? Tell me thy warlike evolution- Did Flora dread some revolution ? When first I saw thy waving spears, And sable sentries sullen stand Round Libo's lake like grenadiers I deemed it then a vision grand : And every year it pleaseth me Such regal forms again to see ! Typha ! go guard the lilies hoar, That lean on Libo's bosom fair ; While o'er her woods the lark doth soar, And Flora's breath holds all the air, And o'er the sleeping watery plain The wild duck waves his widening train ! 198 TO THE OX-EYE-DAISY. (Chrysanthemum Leucanthemum. ) The following verses were written at the request of a friend, who, having read a former poem to the above flower, asked for another iu " braid Scots." Fu' blythe an' bonnie 'mang the sward Tho' inaist folks pay ye sma' regard, Or maybe ca' ye names sae hard, As big horse gowan Thou art the pride o' ilka bard That sees thee growin'. In fragrant June, hoo pleased I stray 'Mang fields o' clover-dappled hay, Whar purple vetch and lotus play, An' sweetly blend, An' 'neath thy queenly blossoms gay, Adoring bend. But, ah ! the whetted scythe alas ! To-morrow mows thee wi' the grass, An' steals the gowd thou didst amass To gladden me ; For Death's cauld, clammy haun' shall pass, An' close thy e'e. But whar the roarin' engine clanks, An' o'er the iron railway spanks, Hoo bonnilie the fleetin' banks Thou dost adorn ; There mony a ane thy beauty thanks, By blade ne'er shorn. 199 My Ox-eye Daisy, thour't a treasure ; Whare'er we meet thou gi'est me pleasure ; An' I could laud thee withoot measure Chrysanthemum ; Sae, whan my muse again has leisure, Thy praise she'll hum. 200 TO THE BROOM. TASSELL'D skirt of the maiden May ; Golden robe of the lady June ! Splendour of vale, and bank, and brae, Childhood's fancy, the poet's tune. Lighting the wold with gladsome gleams, Fringing with gold the silvery streams ! When the hyacinth is thine azure sky, Thou art as a cloud by the sunset press'd ; With the violet shedding a purple dye, And the campion crimsoning all its crest : O, the heart it knoweth nor care, nor gloom, When the eyes do gaze on the golden broom ! 201 TO THE COMMON COW-PARSNIP. (Heracleum Spokndylium.) 4 WHEN Orrey did first define How round the sun the planets shine ; Methinks he studied long and humble The symmetry of thy broad umbel Eeared on its tubed peduncle strong A crown of stars for poet's song ! Thou art a mystery despised By pampered folk ; yet richly prized By men who have the " Inner eye," And in thy host of flowers descry The Law of laws that blushed the Rose And fixed the Oak in broad repose ! The tiny forms that round thee hum, With rapture to thy banquet come ; And there, when all thy silver's spread, Are with thy sweetest dainties fed ; And unseen fairies all the night Sit round thy board with rare delight ! The Foxglove and the Lychnis gay Salute me in the lanes each day ; Though I admire their gaudy hues, To turn to thee I'll ne'er refuse ; But see in all that springs from earth The Father of each wondrous birth ! 2O2 TO THE IVY-LEAVED TOADFLAX. (Linaria Cymbalaria.) LINARIA CYMBALARIA ! There's music in thy name ; But fringing this old castle wall Thou set'st my muse aflame ! How gracefully thy tresses wave Above the Ivy green Thine own, rare mimic of his robe, With jewels set, I ween, Fit to adorn the fairest brow That strikes a poet's eye ! I marvel why dame Nature chose Such place for flower to die This haunted ruin old and grey ! Perhaps she wished to teach The human gazer lessons rare ; Mayhap to him she'd preach That modesty still lives apart Nor courts the common gaze : That Genius oft in garret grows There blooms and ends its days ! 203 TO THE HONEYSUCKLE OR WOODBINE. LADS and lasses love the gloaming, Nature then the heart doth move ; Poets then go forth a-roaming, Trysting with the Nine they love : And, Woodbine, thy odour's sweetest When the star-rimmed cloudlets glow ; Then the Sphynx-Moth,* thirsty, seeketh Where thy wells of honey flow. Honeysuckle, honeysuckle ! I feel young when clasping thee ! Down the lane wee bairnies buckle Dancing " Innocence " and " Glee ! " Crystal burnies birds a-singing Balmy odours thornless bower Loving whispers hearts a-glowing These thy dowry, maiden flower ! * Said to be the only moth that can fertilize this flower. 204 TO THE COMMON HEATHER. (Calluna Vulgaris.) MY heart beats ever to a livelier tune, When o'er the Grampians, like a vesture, hangs Thy purple glow bright Heather. Summer's sun Oft bathes the western hills in dolphin dyes And glories evanescent ; but thou sham'st With thy abiding hue thro' August days His setting splendours and his rising charms. Thou art a thing of Liberty, and rid'st On lofty Bens and giddy scars sublime, Where bounds the stag with branching head erect, And nostrils, farther piercing than the eye Auxiliary of man his deadly foe. Beneath thy shade protective clucks the Grouse ; And 'mong thy bells the bee ecstatic reels, Its one sole care the hive ; and little recks It bears about thy fertilizing gold From flower to flower 'mong all thy nodding sprays. Thy sweet imperial charms dispel all care ; And, walking in thy beauty all day long, My blood steals half thy bloom, and floods my cheek. After soft sunny showers, how delicate The odour of thy breath that wakens dreams Of long lost Eden yet to be restored. Now for the vase I'll pluck one lovely sprig Of thy fair florets, that its tender blush May bless me (till the weary winter wanes) Like memories of a faithful friend, long gone ! 205 A DREAM OF WILD FLOWER PERFUMES. ONCE, through the boundless realm of sleep, Queen Flora took my hand Thro' ferny dells, 'mong drooping bells O'er hills 'neath mountains grand. I said " thou, divinely fair, What are those odours sweet Those unseen favours shed around, Man's wondrous sense to greet ? " She said " God gave not flowers a speech, Nor winning charm of song ; But in their perfumes and their hues Love reigneth young and strong : By Robe and Breath they gently woo The rainbowed butterfly, Or lure the deep-toned choiring bee As hymning he doth hie. And so the endless web of Life Doth wrap this Earth so fair ; And all its secret threads inwove The Unseen's hand declare." " Now woo the fragrance of the flowers," She said, with beaming eyes, " And tell me, with the voice of song, To which thou'lt yield the prize." 2O6 She pulled the Primrose, dipp'd in dawn : Its tender odour sweet Woke gentle lays of childhood's days, Ere Time did seem too fleet. Then to a wood of Hyacinth, With willing feet we flew ; The scented air seemed wrapped in prayer, Above the bed of blue. We sat on banks of violets, Dight in the hues of Morn ; Their balmy breath my being filled, Like Love on whispers borne. Through glades of Hawthorn snow we swept, By singing, silvery streams : The Sun did play on every spray With fragrance in his beams. Here lovers vowed, 'mong tasselled Broom ; And, gleaming up the Fell, The prickly Whin about the linn Wafted its creamy smell. Through fields of Clover, dairy-breath'd, 'Neath incense-breathing Pines 'Mong ruins old, where Tansy bold In golden buttons shines. Then, from a ruined castle bold, The fresh Wallflower she flung ; Till in me rose a clear repose And pure deep thoughts unsung. 207 O'er smooth green hills, where zephyrs bore The bleating of the sheep, We trod on purple fragrant Thyme : Elfstoons I fell asleep, And dreamed a dream within a dream : For, bearing Eoses white, A winged boy* eastward flew To greet Aurora bright. The blushing goddess of the dawn Into her bosom drew The new-blown Roses, kiss'd them then To Earth their petals flew ; But beauteous now as her fair cheek. Love gather'd up the flowers, And strewed the scented damask, round His ever blooming bowers. The Rose filled all my vale of dreams, I yielded her the prize : And Flora like a vision fled Before my waking eyes. * Cupid. 208 TO THE WOOD-SORREL. (Oxalis Acetosella.) This beauty of the dell is allowed by many authorities to be the real Shamrock of Ireland. About Portrush the writer has often seen it trained in pots in boarding-houses, and was always told it was the Shamrock. WHEN azure hyacinths perfume The woods and greening braes, With joy I mark thy silken bell Dipped in the morning's rays. Streaked with Aurora's pencil soft Thou art to poet's eye In thy sweet form, so delicate, An image of the sky. So pensively thy tender form In modest beauty blows ! Yea, in the shade, thou tell'st me more Than Daffodil or Rose. 209 TO THE WOODY NIGHTSHADE, OR BITTER- SWEET.* (Solatium Dulcemara.^) I MAY not sing thy limbs so slender, Nor thy pale drooping blossoms tender, But I will chant thy Autumn splendour Solanum Dulcemara ! I know thy home within the glen That solemn spot for musing men Where o'er thee hops the little wren, Solanum Dulcemara ! In Summer when thy lilac bells Low droop in ferny flowery dells, And Broom and Hawthorn fling their spells About thee Dulcemara Thou seem'st a crouching thing of fear ; But when the shedding woods grow sere, Thy glittering clusters then appear Solanum Dulcemara ! For not in glen nor glade, I ween, Could I such witching berries glean Carnation, red, orange, fawn, and green, Solanum Dulcemara ! * Nothing can surpass the beauty of its berries in October, t Meaning Bitter-sweet. 210 Frail trailing thing ! Thou hold'st a prize Each closing year, to glad my eyes ; And what if there within thee lies The germ of Dulcemara 1 May I, like thee, my birthright meet, And change my bitter into sweet, And own that Life so frail and fleet Is still a " Dulcemara ! " 211 SONG MY LOVE. MY love she is a priceless gem Which I have envied long : A lily on a guarded stem The music of my song : But I may ne'er that jewel wear Upon my ravished breast ; Xor call that lily fair mine own By noble hands caress'd ! My love is like a berry red Beyond the schoolboy's hand ; A cluster on a palace wall Where high birth holds command ; Would Love me teach, how I might reach And pluck that cluster sweet, I'd happier be than minstrelsy With monarchs at its feet ! My love's a flower upon a rock, By many a floweret press'd : 0, I could bear the tempest's shock To cull it for my breast : Beauty is rare ; and will not share Its wealth with low estate : So I'll but gaze on Ida's charms And mourn my hapless fate ! 212 TO THE QUEEN OF THE MEADOW. (Spiraea Ulmaria.) I SAW thee, sweet one, in a dream ; And, rising with the morn, I sought thy home beside the stream Beyond the bladed corn And the hosts of bearded wheat ; Where catchy, beauteous, brave, yet fleet, Ten thousand poppies met my view, Fighting their way 'mong coats of green (No thought of mowing sickles keen) A mimicry of Waterloo * But from the strife I turned to you ! And soon thy stately limbs I spied Laved in a moonbeam bath ; f Along the meadows I descried My queen adorn the brooklet's path Where the nettle tried to hide Thy glory and thy pride ; And many a flower would snare With 'colours bright my eyes Yet hues were not my prize It was thy fragrance rare, Thy breath that captive held me there ! * Unless the reader has seen a field of green corn glowing with scarlet poppies, he will hardly understand the simile. t The moonlight colour of the flower. 213 Queen of the meadow ! Childhood's queen ! Queen of the air that blows Adown the lanes and glens so green Floating, like Love, round all that grows- Filling with unsung witcherie The heart's deep well that loveth thee ! 0, I would not give the sunny days With thee and the running brooks For the treasures of all books, Nor aught that flattery says, My queen of the wateryways. 214 TO THE MIGNONETTE. (Reseda Odorata.) (language thy qualities surpass thy charms.) I HAVE not known thee yet Adored Mignonette ; Nor ne'er may understand thy hidden charms That captivate the air With soothing odour rare Coming like Love that Envy still disarms Sweet as a crystal well or maiden's kiss ; And where thou art, that is a spot of bliss ! How humbly thou dost blow ! There is no gaudy show Of colours to allure the wandering eye ; But gently thou dost smite Our sense with dear delight, Which, felt but aye unseen, thou waftest by- Filling our being with a rich surprise Like breathings from the vales of Paradise. Tho' but a lowly flower Thou speak'st to me with power Of him who, robed in Mercy, came to save. He left His starry throne And wandered wan and lone, And to the scorn of men Himself He gave ; Yet Love and Pity were his breath Divine, Like that pure fragrance and that charm of thine. 215 TO THE SCOTCH PINE. (Pinus Boreallia.) BONNETTED warrior of the winds Dark guardian of the glen : Thy waving plumes amid the blast Inspire my raptured pen ! Thy sombre tresses ne'er grow grey Nor sere with brown October ; But round thy ruddy stalwart limbs Wave all the year, full sober. In Spring when all the groves and woods In gayest robes are seen, Their virgin garments brighter shine Beside thy dusky green. Stern, rugged majesty is thine, When, anchored to the rock, Thou laughest while the forest falls Beneath the tempest's shock. But when the fields their fragrance raise Kound Summer's languid feet How healing 'neath thy shade to lie And quaff thy incense sweet ! Let Myrtles and fresh Olives spring Around the reeling Vine Far dearer to the Scottish heart Art thou my Northern Pine ! 2l6 TO THE POTATO. (Solanum Tuberoxum.) HAIL thou that ne'er wast preed by Plato My muse wad woo thee, plump Potato, (Braw cousin to red-robed Tomato Sae roun' an' ripe), Thy worth might draw an obligato Frae Pan's sweet pipe ! Dear to the roamin' poet's bosom Is thy snaw-white or lilac blossom ; An' to his een rare symposum ! Thy stamen's gold ! Thy leaves solanum tuberosum How rich an' bold ! Thy tubers gust the gab o' a' Thou'rt welcome in the cot an' ha', An' even on royal tables braw Thy jacket's seen : But, chief, the poor man lo'es thy ba', An' laughin' een ! Since great Sir Walter bracht thee new Frae rainless, gloaminless Peru Ma' frien', thou'st been in monie a stew At roarin' feasts ; An' hills o' thanks hae risen to you Frae gratefu' breasts ! 217 Thou'rt no sae sturdy as the oat The bane an' muscle o' the Scot Yet, weel supplant'st the parritch pot I' the reeky toun, Whar life drees oot its weary lot The hale year roun'. Lang may yer shaws the drills adorn Blythe may yer blossoms greet the morn Large be yer bings 'mang stacks o' corn At ilk farm door : Blank be the day yer held in scorn By rich or poor ! 218 TO THE MOUNTAIN VIOLET. ( Viola Lutea. ) WHEN Iris, from the mystic light, First formed her soft prismatic bow, Some remnants, by her fingers dight, Showered on the wondering Earth below The violet's form they did assume The whispering air they did perfume ! The sweetest maid e'er poet sung Ne'er rivalled thy soft witching charms ; And, flow'ret, thou art ever young, Though Beauty dies in Age's arms : For Spring still brings thee in his bosom, And scents the uplands with thy blossom, Like Amethyst I see thee shine On June's rich robe of Roses sweet ; And Summer's gayrish golds combine Thy purple willing nods to greet : You dance by mountain paths and rills, And amorous kiss the breathing hills ! Ever, like pleasing F,ancy near On zepher'd-kiss'd Gleniffer's brow, I greet thee, each returning year Unchanged as when I made love's vow ; And thy gay petals softly press'd Loved Lilyanna's snowy breast ! Ah, sweet Viola ! could my song Steal half thy beauty or thy breath, Its purer echoes might prolong Each cadence past the gate of Death : Yet aye the Muses, as they roam, Shall sing around thy mountain home ! 219 LINES ON SEEING A FIELD OF CURLY GREENS IN BLOSSOM AT PRESTWICK, MAY, 1894. It is customary for curling clubs in Scotland to challenge each other to a game, the defeated standing "Beef and Greens " in the Village Inn. After some hours at a keen contest on the loch, the appetites of the combatants can do justice to this wholesome repast. HECH ! what a sicht for poet's e'en ! It's you, my green-powed curly frien' ! Yer surely haudin' holiday ; Or wad ye welcome winsome May, That ye hae beat sic yellow fire, That warms my heart like sweetest choir ? Your tossing, lowin' dance I see, Whilk bauds my soul like harmony ; An' as wi' joy on you I glower, I feel your beauty's silent power, And own that frae your gay flirtation There comes a sweet illumination. I aye hae counted mang my frien's A weel how'd plot o' curly greens : Their palmy blades, the simmer lang, Are worthy o' some poet's sang. E'en in Melrose's cloistered shades I've seen in stane their feather'd blades Adorn a pillar, staunin' still A monument o' sculptor's skill. But let me sing o' guid digestion, And ask this gastronomic question : In winter, whan the North bites sair An' wigs the woods wi' cranreugh hair, 22O Whan skiters skite an' curlers roar, An* gloamin' greets some merry corp Planted fu' snug in Luckie's " Best," Wi' appetites that winna rest "Wad Esculapius fret or froon Whan " beef an' greens " the table croon ; An' reekin' taties burst their graith, An' ilka man hauf bauds his breath Till cosilie the table's laid An' presidential grace is said ? Let jaupy soups sour'd stomachs rake ! But beef an' greens an' crumpy cake Are Scotland's wintery doctor's kist ; Wi' langkail * may she lang be blessed. * Langkail is the German or curly green, boiled and mashed ; usually eaten with oaten cakes. 221 TO THE HAWTHORN, OR MAY BLOSSOM. (Cratagus Oxyacantha.) ABOVE the Broom's bright golden glow Again thou shower'st thy fragrant snow, And round the brows of Spring dost throw Thy garland white ; And through my spirit thou dost blow Hope's dear delight. 0, joy ! as through the glen I stray, To mark thy purple Anthers gay Amid thy creamy petals play So beauteous fair, And feel how sweet thy breath, May, Holds all the air. I fly the City's ways uncouth, And, 'neath thy angel wings of Ruth, I clasp the memories of Youth Dear Hawthorn flower And feel the simple love and truth Of Childhood's hour ! Though crazy Age steals on full fleet, The years shall find thee young and sweet ; And children's little prattling feet Shall round thee play, And their clear merry laughter greet Thy blossoms gay ! 222 TO THE RED CAMPION. (Lychnis Diurna.) LIKE a little rosy maiden, Peeping through the ferny brake, In thy robes so downy laden All the woods sing for thy sake : Thou art sure a ruby set In the spring's gay coronet. 'Mong the hyacinth's bright blue, And the stitchwort's stars so white, There in spring I look for you, Shewing off your petals bright With the muses set me free, Wooing such a galaxy. Thou dost blush the cheek of May, As she walks in white and gold ; While the brackens on the brae Ope their fronds so manifold Bowing, through the sunny hours, Adoration to the flowers. Campion, thou dost court the sun ; And the insects of a day O'er thy ruddy blossoms run, Seeking still their honied way You and they, with little strife, Linking still the chain of life. 223 TO THE WHITE CAMPION. ( Lychnis Vespertina. ) This handsome flower opens only in the night, when it then gives forth a sweet perfume. Its snowy petals and delicious fragrance attract night moths, which fertilise it. At dawn of day the flowers fold up, and l>y noon seem dead and withered ; but at evening they again unfold their charms ; and so on for several nights, until they require no more help of the moths, and then they die. DEAR Lychnis Vespertina ! soothing name ! Who woos thy breath, salutes the evening star ! By day thy sister with the sun dost flame, But thou ne'er court'st the triumphs of his car. Beneath pale Luna's silent, silvery sway Thou swingest incense to the nightingale, And 'neath the influence of the Milkyway Thou pourest odours from thy blossoms pale. Dotting the silent wilderness of night, Thy snowy blooms still mark where moths do play ; But when the garish day with flowers is bright, Thou veil'st thy form in semblance of decay. So that the anxious bee and butterfly Do pass thee by as beauty long since dead ; But fairy Science can thy ways descry As she sits peering by thy noonday bed. Thy rosy sister hoards diurnal wealth ; Thou, like a student, burn'st the midnight oil Yea, all things living, by some wondrous stealth, For happy life do ever onwards toil. 224 VOICES OF NATUKE. i. How varied the voices of Nature What a winning speech hath she From the treble of rills 'mong the heathery hills To the roar of the restless sea ! When the virgin Spring comes smiling, And her fingers the fresh flowers strew, From the Primrose dells how each warbler tells His love to his love anew ! Let us up through the glen, soft shaded, Where the Hyacinth's smoke exhales Its perfume sweet all about our feet, And the Throstle betunes the gales. 0, list, till the soul grows full, By the cascade's rush and din To the hiss of its spray like an alto's lay And the bass of its boulder'd linn ! Far away 'mong the scented fields We will learn of the bee's sweet psalm, As she ringeth the hours on the bells of flowers When the summer days are calm ! 0, hark, how the Lark is storming The gates of Heaven with song : On his choral wing how he longs to sing In the midst of its blissful throng. 225 But the Autumn hath donned her robe ; All the birds are mute save he Of the ruddy breast : but he now sings best, For he trilleth so mournfully. ir. Go, pace, entranced, the forest's faded fanes, When Winter winds usurp mild Autumn's choir ; And from the boles what deep and solemn strains Awaken in our breast true worship's fire ! in. Ten thousand torrents, that did lakeward leap, Or sang, in solo, to the silent Pine, United are, that voice that knows not sleep Niagara booming to the boundless Brine ! With awe o'erwhelmed, bow down my wondering soul The Almighty's Thunder, hurtling hurls on high ! 'Tis God that speaks amid that solemn roll His Majesty of Glory passeth by ! 226 MAUD MUNROE. (A MEMORY.) A VISION comes of long ago ! I see it flit about the Mill The lovely form of Maud Munroe, As witching as the Daffodil ! Her cheeks were Daisies at the dawn, Her bosom the Camelia's snow ; And blythely tripp'd the dewy lawn The fairy feet of Maud Munroe. Ripe berries of the Guelder Rose Recall her lips ; and her bright eyes Twin Brambles black, when Autumn throws Across the vales her myriad dyes : While, dangling with delight, aye blew About her graceful, ivory shoulder, Rich curls of deepest hazel hue, Like clustered Blue-bells o'er a boulder. The very waving of her gown Was like a Lady Birch in June, That rains its fragrant foliage down As Zephyrs through it sing a tune. Not sweeter sang the Thrush in Spring, Above the creamy mantled Sloe ; No Lark, on heaven-aspiring wing, Ere thrilled my soul like Maud Munroe ! 227 Till I had met this nymph of light, My heart slept like a Summer linn ; But swift Love's torrent, in its might, Stirred all its depths, such prize to win ! But such a gleam of heavenly rays Too lovely grew for mortal's eye ! The sun still on the brooklet plays And Maud Munroe sings from the sky ! Yet aye as by the Mill I stray, And scent the Roses, newly blown Or, musing, climb the flowery brae I see her still on Beauty's throne ! 228 MAY. ROOM for the Queen ! She comes, with robes inwrought With purple and fine gold. In her white hand How bright her Caltha burns ! Her Hawthorn breath Makes glad the hearts of swains and maidens fair ! Hail to the Queen ! She comes with flowery train. Among her Daisy suns she trips, and o'er The fragrant carpets of the field she walks, While zephyrs kiss her dimpled virgin cheek And wave her Lilac gown with violets trimmed, Gay flounced with yellow Broom. Her peerless eyes Of bright Veronica beheld with joy The glades herself adorns ! To greet their Queen The furzy fields flame far their fragrant blooms ; While to the jocund sun the Chestnut towers Her silvery candelabra, and the lawns In Rhododendron splendour gorgeous glow ! All hail, sweet May ! Hail, Vestal of the year ! Come, spread thy azure mantle 'neath our woods, Made vocal by thy smile. Thou bringest still Young rural Joy, with sweetest odours fanned. The citron Primrose and the Woodruff fling Their beauty and their perfume round thy feet Soft sandalled with all flowers of lovely hue. Thy brows are wreathed in pure immortal Youth ! 229 TO THE YELLOW BEDSTRAW, OR LADIES BEDSTRAW. (ORIGINALLY "OUR LADY'S BEDSTRAW.") (Galium Verum.) Many of the wild flowers are dedicated to the Virgin and in all such cases the prefix should be " Our Lady's " instead of " Ladies'." WHEN the hay is a-coiling, perfuming the breeze, Far over the uplands I wander, Where the pure azure Hairbells are swung by the bees, And, like Fancy, the streamlets meander : For I know I shall gather thy glorified gold To panicled splendour sunbeaten ; And feel that thy breath, as in summers of old, The wings of the zephyr doth sweeten. How loving I linger, allured by thy charms My lips with the Blaeberry dying : And I now seem to clasp Mother Earth in my arms, While around me the streamlets are sighing. For the " Bless'd among women " our sires did thee name; And a sanctity circles thy beauty : And may I, in the light of thy pure golden flame, Still walk in the pathway of Duty. 230 SONG UXDEK THE MISTLETOE. UNDER the Mistletoe's pearly boughs, There we in silence plighted ; Your quick glance flashed 'neath your snowy brows That was never by sorrow blighted. Under the Holly, with Coral crowned, Two loving hearts grew single : "We, by the pearls of the mistletoe bound, In the ocean of Love did mingle ! 231 IN OCTOBER. CORN-YELLOW all things look ; the Light That waved, in Summer, angel white, Is with the mellow hue bedight. Skirting the stream, that softly choirs, The Beech has lit her farewell fires Beneath the Poplar's amber spires Whose leaves, when fitful breezes wake, All pattering, dancing, shimmering shake, Like big rain o'er a sleeping lake. The Ash, the last to don her green, To greet the Springtime's flowery scene, Doffs first her fading robes, I ween ! Where warm the dark-brown Brackens lie, The Bramble peers like maiden shy Bewitching with her raven eye ! The Eose hangs out her ruby lamps, Tho' death o'er Flora's beauty tramps, And with " Decay " the Lovely stamps ! The glens are hushed ! No vocal vows Are heard from birds among the boughs Sad Pensiveness wreaths Nature's brows ! For Winter, with his icy spear, In snowy mantle draweth near To triumph o'er the sickly year ! 232 AN ALPHABET OF TREES. For the Children. A is the Ash holds our hammer-head fast. B is the Beech gave our forefathers Mast.* C is the Chestnut with shoe of the horse. D shows the Dryads sweet Woods Nymphs, of course. E is the Elm tall and handsome, I ween. F is the Fir ever fragrant and green. G is the Gean-tree, which schoolboys know. H is the Hornbeam leaves silvered below. I is the Ilex a name for the Holly. J is the Juniper dark, melancholy ! K is the Kissing-tree bless'd among trees. L is the Lime a great Minster for bees. M is the Maple gives sugar refined. N Noble-bay Roman brows used to bind. O is an Oak, when a thousand years speed. P is the Plane that hath wings on its seed. Q is the Quince fruit in jam often found. R is the Rowan for beauty renowned. S Service-tree and it takes a rich polish. T Tree of Liberty who dare demolish 1 U is the Upas right deadly, I ween ! V is the Vine-tree, at Hampton Court seen. W Willows by waters aye wailing. X Xylobalsamum perfume exhaling. Y is the Yew ever gloomy and sad. Z Zebra-wood maketh joiners' hearts glad. & so, my dear children, here endeth my fad ! * The Beech Nuts. 233 TO A BEECH TEEE IN OCTOBEE. HAIL ! nee tamen consumebatur ! Lov'd flame of the forest once green ! How November thy glory shall scatter And I'll sigh for the light that hath been. In thy yellow-green robe in the Spring time- To me thy soft mantle was dear ; But I love thee to-day in thy garb of Decay And thy crown of rich beauty all sere ! 234 THE POET'S RAMBLE IN OCTOBER. RIPE are October's glories : Come away ! Hushed are the waiting woods : their rustling robes Of mildest tints, create within my soul Emotions meet for melancholy song ! See, Winter in white robes, with icy spear, Comes slowly o'er the northern hills snow-capp'd. Then pause with Nature, ye that live estranged Amid the city's roar ; and list the voice That calls you forth to cull emotions sweet, And gaze entranced across the garnished woods. Mark how the forest now hath doffed its green, And Nature dons her cloak of many hues ; Now reigns the holy beauty of Decay ! How calmly sleeps the lake : the coloured woods Reflected on its face in thousand tints Now flash across that dome of thought the mind And brighter lift Imagination's eye. Like rainbows wreck'd, all the gay woods do sing, The Hawthorn hedge gleams like the Pheasant's breast. Its silvery candelabra's lights long out The Chestnut sweeps, in saffron hues, the lawn. Skirting the field the Whin, repellant, throws His golden offering at grim Winter's feet ; And, "beautiful for ever," daisies lift Their sleepy eyes to the receding sun. See how Betula dreams herself away, Or showers her myriad leaves on brakens brown ; Sambucas, glittering, floods the groves with wine. 235 Mark how yon boulder with the bramble burns, It's jetty blobs, like eyes, peer from the grass ; And here and there along its spiny arms, A spray of silken blossoms yet appears Like aged Laurette, crowned with fruit of song, Still waking music in his country's heart. Lo, the pale Poplar like an amber tower Quivers beneath the Beech's flaming flag ; The Oak, by summer's scorching rays, hath tanned His rugged face beside the late-robed Ash, Whose garments heavy drop in faded green Among the Rose's scarlet lamps the hips That to the now mute birds are light and food. Winding the boles th' immortal Ivy clings ; And, sombre, over all the sturdy Pine, Expectant, waits its robe of ermine snow. From out yon nimbus cloud, the mighty sun Sweeps o'er the raptured woods his golden beams, And wakens in my soul such dulcet chords As harp or breathing organ never swelled. O, what a charm hath Nature for her child ! Let me but lie upon her matron lap And gaze adoring on her lovely face The reflex of my God and I am bless'd ! 236 OCTOBER. COME, dowie October, in mantle o' yellow, Wi' the Hyp an' the Haw on thy fast-fading croon ; Come, soothe me a blink wi' thy speech sad and mellow, As 'mang the brown Brackens I saf t lay me doun ! 0, lay on my lips frae the Simmer sun droothie Ae blab o' the Bramble, November shall mar ; An' read me yer sermon sae saftly an' coothie, While draps the last Row'n in the deep rocky scaur ! Thou tell'st me the friens that I loo'd in Life's Simmer, Like thy chequered leaves frae my heart drap awa" ; An' leave, o' the licht o' ilk face, but a glimmer, Aboon the wild waste o' Death's drear driftin' snaw ! October, I lo'e thee ! Thy whisper is soothing ; There is Lore in thy face, there is wealth in thy bowers : Thy pensiveness adds but a charm to my musing And sweet are my dreams through thy fast ebbing hours ! 237 LINES On meeting in a railway train a little Highland maid from Tighna- bruaich : she was carrying with peculiar care a large bouquet ( of garden flowers to a sick friend in Glasgow. SWEET flower of Tighnabruaich's shade ! Queen Flora sends thee, little maid, To bear those living treasures bright To give thy dear sick friend delight : But sure naught sweeter may she see Than thy sweet face : for even to me A charm about thy English rung Soft cadenced by thy Gaelic tongue ! Lo ! what thy posie doth display ! Great Marigolds, with wealth all gay, Pyrethyrums with frizzy locks, And white and lilac scented Phlox : Spirseas, brought from queer Japan, Rear high their sculptured steeples wan, And Poppies red from orient fields Whose milky juice " Oblivion " yields. But, on thy Bouquet's summit, blows The image of thyself the Rose : 'Tis not more fair when, on its thorn, It spreads its bosom to the morn Wiping the tears of night away And, blushing, greets the lord of Day Than thou in thy parental shade, My lovely little Highland maid. Glad Innocence and Beauty blend About thy brow. Go, lightly tend Thy lambs that crop the fresh green grass, Till thou to womanhood shall pass ; Then may thy cheeks by young Love's flame, Bear blossoms that the Heathbells shame ; Till some strong shepherd claims thy heart, And only death your loves shall part ! 239 CHRISTMAS. HEAR we to-day how the angels are singing All through the wynds and the dusky lanes ? Over the earth they are chorally winging White are their wings 'mid the world's foul stains. The angels are with us they are hovering near Hark how they carol their Christmas cheer ! And, look ! Night's brow wears a glorious gem, For it beareth the Star of Bethlehem. Charity, Mercy, Truth, we now welcome you ; Down from the Throne with the Christ ye once came ; Long through the night we have heard the clear song of you, 0, let such music our freezing hearts flame ! Hate, o'er the rim of the earth be hurled Christ's banner of Love it is now unfurled ! O, see ! Night's brow bears a glorious gem Earth knows it the Planet of Bethlehem. Bring pearls of the Mistletoe, coral of Holly, And hang them aloft in the cot and the hall ; Let Joy now banish dark-eyed Melancholy, And every heart ope' where the angels' feet fall. Old Night turns Day in the light of that gem The wondrous Star of Bethlehem. 240 3n fIDemoriam: ROBERT FULTON CRAIG, died at Caver shank House, Paisley, on 5th May, 1894, in the fortieth year of his age. My late lamented friend was an ardent admirer and student of Nature, and in field botany he had few equals in and around Paisley. I can never forget the many delightful chats I had with him on the names and haunts of the wild flowers. His love of the wildlings sweetened his whole life. DEAR brother that did'st love the lowliest flower That weeps its dewdrops o'er thy slumbering clay, I think of thee, full clad in manhood's dower, Laid low by envious Death in Life's noonday ; And, with the fragrance of the bird-tuned May, I, too, above thy bier some song-drops shed : Thou, that through flowerland oft did with us stray, We cannot deem thy face for aye hath fled Into the doleful chambers of the dead. 0, lovely flowers more beauteous by the love He bore to you wave o'er his mansion cold, Yet know his spirit hovers still above Your varied sweets and forms so manifold ; Spread all your wealth of purple and of gold In tribute to the praise he poured on you. The tongue that ever of your charms was bold Is silent now ; nor can his eyes once view Your myriad tints the lovely landscape strew. 241 Ye daisies, that do claim the changeful year, Watch by the bed of him who loved you well ; Ye snowdrops, that bring Hope with eyes so clear, Come bless our winter, and our sad hearts tell That he who in Life's fray too early fell Lives far aloft, where never-fading flowers Bloom by the stream where all the faithful dwell, Where Time is not, nor sorrow's sable hours, But bliss abides in white radanthine bowers. 242 TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. This garland is made up according to the " Language of Flowers." Read at the Paisley Burns Club Supper, County Hotel, Paisley, January 25, 1893. THE trembling Muse, with fond desire, Again would weave a garland fair Of flowerets, round the golden lyre Whose music sweetens Scotia's air ! We'll crown the Bard with wildling flowers From field and fen, from dale and dell, From sylvan shades and woodbine bowers, From heathy moor and lofty fell. The Ivy in his garland twine The type of his immortal lays And wreathe it 'mong the Eglantine, Dark-eyed Magnolias and Bays. Its pearls shall be fresh Daisy gems And Cowslips wet with morning dew, And Speedwells on their slender stems, And Hyacinths and Harebells blue. An ear of Wheat for wealth of song, The Snowdrop for his soaring hopes, And Oak leaves for his manhood strong, And sprig of Pine, that Pity props. Fresh Pansies for his thoughts sublime, And purple Heath for Solitude ; And for his Courage fragrant Thyme, And Lilies for his love of Good. A leaf from off the spreading Plane Shall symbolise his Genius bright ; 243 And so we crown with flowers again The memory of his natal night ! Tho' down the drumly tide of Time Forgetfulness still bears along Full many a faintly-fading chime Of what an age deemed " deathless song ! " Yet, radiant thro' the dark'ning Past, And glorious thro' the dust of urns, There shines a star no clouds o'ercast The deathless fame of Robert Burns ! 244 OCTOBER MUSINGS. I SAW the poet, pensive, musing, stray Amid the glories of October's portals. Bright crimson fruits shone far in bright array While falling leaves bespoke the life of mortals ! The Beech flashed far its flame o'er fading woods Fading, yet fragrant, and of many a hue (Fit emblem of the poet's varied moods) While dappled clouds sailed o'er their sea of blue. I marked the singer ; and his look was sad, And on his shoulder leaned the pensive muse In garland of red berries, and full clad In russet garments of a thousand hues. With pensive smile she bade him touch his lyre In saddened tones amid the rustling bowers : Her speech awoke in him new choral fire And thus he mourned farewell to Summer's flowers : " Adieu, my summer flowers ! a fond adieu ! I loved ye as ye danced by field and stream ; I love ye now receding far from view I love ye when awake or when I dream ! 0, bright and beauteous train ! ye would not stay ; Yet, vanished all, hear now my sad farewell. I see ye, linked together, far away, Yet in my heart I feel your holy spell ! 0, Hyacinthus, in thy robe of sky 0, saft'ron Primula Spring's darling pride 0, gold-crowned Celandine how quick ye hie ! Ye sweet breathed queens, far from my gaze ye glide 245 O, tasselled Broom, the music of the Bard 0, stately Foxgloves guarding daisied fields ; And Hawthorn, Thyme, perfuming glen and sward- Your mem'ries now a sudden solace yields ! Come mild October, mellow, meek, demure ; Drop in my vacant heart thy soothing treasures ; Thy woodland gardens make the spirit pure And strike to sober tones the poet's measures ! Yet, hope shall burn 'neath Winter's icy load, That Flora's children I again may meet To cheer me on Life's weary winding road, And bathe my being in their charms so sweet ! 246 ODE TO OCTOBEE. OCTOBER, russet matron of the year, Waving adieu to Autumn's golden train Spreading abroad thy banner red and sere To welcome Winter from the north again I offer you the tribute of a strain ; (Of all the pacing months thou'rt dearly mine) To sing thy praise the muse may ne'er refrain, Or round thy sober brows red berries twine, Half hid in Holly smooth, and scented sprigs of Pine. Now, in thy cloak of countless shades and mild, Thou marchest to the music of soft winds ; The ruddy Beech, of all its green beguiled, Beneath the tawny Oak a shelter finds ; And the broad Elm full many a wreath it binds To float upon the brooklet's bosom fair Pensive as thoughts that glide thro' pensive minds Mellow as mellowed words such thoughts prepare Soft as the voice of Love, borne on thy evening air. Thy woods, full radiant as the Iris, glow With witching tints unknown to Summer's flowers ; Ked, brown, and yellow, with green lawns below, And crimsoned clusters in the Nightshade bowers ; While o'er the dreamy vale the dark Pine towers, And hedgerows gleam in purple fringed with gold Singing harmonious to the breezy hours Making the year seem young, tho' growing old ; So Love grows sober as our years are told ! 247 Thou hast a grace the poet's bosom warms ; Tis said that he who sung our Bliss once lost, Whene'er he felt thy ever soothing charms Uttered divinest song now England's boast ! Even Love himself in thee is loving most, When moonbeams play among the village trees And rustling leaves by tiny feet are crossed, And the young-old tale falls like thy whispering breeze So come all seasons, the pure mind to please. 248 NOVEMBEE. SPRING'S wakening bugle long is hushed, Long dimm'd is Summer's splendour ; October yields her easel bright To " black and white " November ! Even so the hopes of boyhood, But few I do remember : The hills of fame I meant to scale Grow misty in November ! The faces and the friends long fled, Grow paler, dimmer, slender ; The tones of love once pleasing heard, Grow echoes in November ! But woods and lanes that seemed so green In childhood's springtime season ; Seem fairer now, by Fancy sunned, And beautified by Reason ! Those starry hosts the fields of flowers Fierce Boreas may dismember ; But thou doth deck thy sombre brows With countless stars, November. If jocund Spring doth singing come In clouds of hawthorn blossom ; Yet old November oft doth wear The snowflake on his bosom ! 249 If, in my youth, the world seemed young- Experience is a treasure Which, put to usury, may bring To middle life a pleasure ! And when with age the house shall fall, The tenant hath grown richer : The fount of life for ever flows, Though broken lies the pitcher. 250 WINTER. MUST I, the wildling's singer, end My song, when o'er their wintry sleep The fleecy blasts their curtains bend In requiem folds ? Must I, too, weep ? And dreary dirges urge my quill To mourn decay o'er wood and hill ? Nay ! Let my song with Hope be bold ! 'Neath Winter's shroud the Daisy waits To rise, a citadel of gold Girt with a hundred pearly gates : And fragrant herbs shall odours swing About the lovely feet of Spring ! As sudden as the shepherds' eyes Beheld the angels long ago ; So shall I see with glad surprise The hosts of snowdrops beauteous blow About the woods : sweet things of hope That come Queen Flora's halls to ope ! Then, o'er the snows of Winter strew The memories of Summer's flowers ; And deem that Love that love once drew Lies sleeping warm in Eden bowers ; The chilling blast we misname Death Hath future life in its cold breath ! 251 BLOOMS AND SPRAYS FROM HOLY WRIT. No. 1. THE ROSE. " I am the Rose of Sharon," Cant. II., I. THE traveller, weary by the way, Doth oft forget his wants and woes, As round him, 'neath noon's burning ray, Soft wafts the fragrance from the Rose. So to the pilgrim, Zion bound, From Sharon's Rose sweet odours steal, To make his pathway hallowed ground ; And foretastes of his rest reveal. How lovely are the lays that rise Around the Rose, on Beauty's throne ! A maiden queen, she holds all eyes, And all her heavenly fragrance own : But purer strains eternal ring From saints below and saints above ; And hosts unnumbered praise their King Who bears the fragrant name of Love ! No. 2. THE LILY. " I am . . . a Lily of the Valley." Cant. II., I. THE loveliness of Love doth blow Where'er the Lily rears her head ; Where she unfolds her fragrant snow All sweetest sanctities are shed. 252 She courts the dell, in lowly guise, Nor armoured as the Rose is she ; She captive holds admiring eyes, And Beauty is her panoply ! Whene'er I mark the Lily fair, I see One, radiant as the morn, Bend o'er her ; and, with accents rare, Her glory with His own adorn ! Yea, comlier far, more glorified, "Was He who graced Earth's sinful vale ; The flower of Love the Crucified Was lovelier than the Lily pale ! NO. 3. TO A CEDAR OF LEBANON. " The Righteous shall grow like a Cedar in Lebanon." Ps. xcii., 12. The Arabs say that the Cedar never dies. It is known to live for thousands of years. MAJESTIC emblem of the good, Robed in unfading dress ! What strains shall sing thy ancient power And regal loftiness 1 For still thy fragrant branches wave On Lebanon's bold brow ; And such as Hebrew bards inspired So is thy glory now ! 253 Thy grandeur and thy beauty tower Firm rooted to the rock : The war of winds and shafts of time Thy calm repose doth mock ! The canker worm ne'er blights thy bole Strong symbol of the Just : Thou bloom'st secure when impious thrones Are turned to common dust ! Prophetic tree ! For aye the type Of Righteousness and Truth That grow not old but like to thee Bloom in immortal Youth Shedding pure odours all around : A shade for the oppressed ! A plenitude of saintliness In God's own beauty dressed ! No. 4. THE DATE PALM. " The Righteous shall flourish like the Palm tree." Ps. xcii., 12. THE Cedar and the Oak o'erawe ! The Palm doth admiration wake ! From hidden springs its roots still draw The sap that makes it fruitful shake. Type of the upright man, that grows Amid Life's weary desert waste : His soul no dearth of bounty knows Fed from the secret wells of Grace. 254 When weary-footed Israel marched Through burning sand without a glade ! Their weary hosts, all dry and parched, Drank Elim's wells felt Elim's shade. So oft when by the world oppressed Some sweetly shaded spot is ours : A place of wells and quiet rest Beneath Contentment's palmy bowers ! Around thee, Palm, what memories hang, Choral, as round thy flowers the bees : Thy praise through Zion's temple rang Thou art the Poetry of Trees ! 255 THE FLOWERS WILL COME AGAIN. (A WINTER SOLACE.) 0, HEART, what gives thee pain ? Though Winter, waring, reign The woods with bells of blue shall ring A welcome to young laughing Spring The flowers will come again ! O, heart, what gives thee pain ? Like Beauty without stain The Primrose shall thy fancy hold Beside the brooklet clear and cold The flowers will come again ! O, heart, what gives thee pain ? Lured by the Throstle's strain To hawthorn glades thou wilt repair And many a flower shall greet thee there All these will come again ! 0, heart, what gives thee pain ? With Roses in her train Queen Summer comes, with lilies crowned And heath-bells round her temples bound The flowers will come again ! O, heart, what gives thee pain ? Thine is a countless gain ! Dear, tender Nature grows not old, And lavish is her lap of gold The flowers will come again ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. (SOME OF LOCAL INTEREST ONLY.) VICTORIA. SKE, Liberty, enthroned on sweetest flowers, Ascends, with burnished trump, the fair June skies, And wide around the Earth her music showers, Bidding the nations wake with glad surprise, And shout with her in accents of the free, In loftiest tones, " Victoria's Jubilee ! " First glad Britannia loud the anthem swells "God save the Queen," and with a glowing pride She chants her victories and each triumph tells In Arts or War, or where her great ships ride On every wave to set the captive free : And sings, with grateful heart, " Victoria's Jubilee ! " Then high above the Atlantic's surge and roar In England's tongue Columbia's shout ascends ; While echoing to Pacific's utmost shore A youngling continent her greeting sends To bless a Queen who rules none but the free " All hail Victoria Queen ! Hail to thy Jubilee ! " Loud o'er the wreck of Juggernaut's red car Dark India triumphs in her Empress Queen, And, hopeful, marks the lustre of her star The brightest that our Earth hath ever seen : 2 5 8 And darker Africa, whose sons are free, Swells gratefully the hymn " Victoria's Jubilee ! " Ye tyrants who bear ill your heavy load, Our Queen o'er you the robe of pity throws ; Then hither come tho' long and rough the road, And breathe the fragrance of an English Rose That for six decades hath adorned a throne Whose splendour grateful Earth this joyous day doth own. TO STAFFA. VISITED AUGUST 1869. AND is this Staffa ? This the cavern vast Which oft in boyhood's years I longed to see And am I 'neath its vaulted roof at last List'ning the ocean's murm'ring melody 1 Ah yes ! and while I view such grandeur bold I find to me the half had not been told ! O aged Staffa with thy wondrous cave Since first dread Pluto reared thy columns fair And belched thee glowing thro' the troubled wave Smiting the dark'ning sky with sudden glare Full oft thou hast repell'd the surging tide And all unmoved viewed the tempest's pride ! Long e're those Desert piles arose to view That hide the dust of Egypt's mighty kings Or yet the fame of proud Serapis grew (When Time reigned young o'er all created things) Full many a storm had scathed thy summit hoar And thy dark aisles rebellowed ocean's roar ! 259 Thy sister, fair lona like a queen Once robed in saintly beauty what is she ? A place where men now wonder what hath been ; While thou as time defying as the sea Unreared by human hands, doth proudly smile While man's great temples rise and fall the while ! Hail ! hoary Staffa ! Temple of the wave Treading thy altar steps with weary moan Old Neptune as thy priest, still holds thy nave ; His ancient voice here echoes sad and lone Or, brimmed with awful mirth that voice he'll raise Till all thy pillar'd fanes shall thunder glorious praise ! THE BAEDS OF PAISLEY. If corroboration were needed of the saying that Paisley has pro- duced more poets than any town of its size, it is to be found in the pages of " The Poets of Paisley," by the late ex-Provost Brown, where a brief sketch is given of the life and verses of no fewer than two hundred and twenty-four bards, all either born or naturalised in the town. When it is considered that nearly all of these lived and sang during the present century, and published in whole or part, we must conclude with William Motherwell, that " Paisley is a veritable nest of singing birds." INVERNESS for English speakers ; Oban for its pleasure seekers ; Paisley for its maidens fair And bards, their praises to declare. High favoured town Apollo's throne Gleniffer's still thy Helicon, As when upon the Weaver * fell Fair Fancy's mantle, by the well. * Tannahill. 260 There yearly through the broom I mount, To taste that pure Castalian fount ; There murmur by the Linn's deep roar, Or gaze the enchanting landscape o'er. Saint Mirrin, why should I once lift My pen to praise thy warbling gift ? The echo of thy song is bless'd I pledge thee, minstrel of the west ! Long may the Nine, that shining throng, Still bathe thee in the light of song ; And on the ear of Fame still beat The silvery music of their feet. FACES. Each man I meet, unconscious oft, Is ever reading books Not writ with ink, in leather bound, But his brother's changeful looks ! What histories and strange romance, What Agonies, what Graces, We ever read from life till death Deep penned on human faces ! I pace the city's hustling streets, Where Life's keen battle wages, And read each soldier's countenance That in the strife engages ! 26l Glad Hope, fell Fear, Mistrust and Guilt, Mad Laughter, Smiles, and Tears, And cold Disdain, and hateful Pride, And faces ploughed with years ! There, see the anxious merchant speed With Cunning in his eyes ; Here struts the Student, book in hand His look doth clutch the prize ! Here Disappointment's doleful look, Wandering it knows not where : And she, long lost to chastity With face set like a snare ! And yonder lurks the stealthy thief His visage changing ever Still simulating every face : The Taker ne'er the Giver ! With slanting brow and open mouth, Swings brainless Jollity ; And on its arm bland Opulence A face most sad to see ! See ! wan and weary, sunken-eyed, There crawleth wrinkled Care ; And on his track with blood-shot eyes There staggers wild Despair. K- Here, wicks of mo^th still earwards bent, His coat long out of date, Slow creeps the Miser, and behind, With teeth on edge, grins Hate. 262 Mark this cold form, of Xo-heart born, With face unlined and smug The Heartless man, with Callousness Around him like a rug. There goes the Stoic, unconcern Stamped on his forehead aye ; And Hunger with his sunken cheek From door to door doth stray. Look ! all his avenues agape Eyes starting from their sockets That's Wonder ; and anear is Theft A-picking of his pockets. There walks the Maiden, " Fancy free," Her cheeks a dawn in May ; One passing glimpse of that sweet face Might make a sad heart gay. Here, arm in arm, two seem but one And that the cooing dove Their faces like a dream illumed By the languorous light of Love. And there walks he, the Gifted one, He moves with conscious grace The Poet ; but can words define The language of his face ? Ah ! you and I, unconscious oft, Are reading aye such books : But what sweet charmed pen can tell What flits in human Looks ! 263 ODE TO TRUTH. TWIN spirit of the Light, Fair baffler of old Night, That round thee still would throw his sable pall, But ne'er shall once caress Thy holy loveliness, Nor touch those limbs that angel eyes enthral : No dawn ere rose upon thy forehead fair, Nor can seraphic hymns thy comeliness declare. More glorious than the sun What conquests hast thou won ! Foul sin and shame thy eyes can ne'er abide. In direful overthrow, Old Error, Guilt, and Woe, Beneath Oblivion, at thy glance do hide ; At thy command the red-robed tyrant reels To black perdition's depths, beneath thy chariot wheels. Sweet to the poet's ear Come thy pure accents clear, As, seeking thee, he roams o'er hill and vale ; Perchance to catch one glance Of thy fair countenance In leaf and flower, or scent thee in the gale ; Or catch thee floating on some rainbowed wing, Or see thy peerless form in some clear gurgling spring. With joy thou dost surprise Her of the myriad eyes Fair Science, seeking still thy 'witching face Through clouds of mystery, In air and earth and sea, Or down the far-lit lanes of orbed space ; Or, should she clasp thee by the morning star, She bears thee willing captive on her jewelled car. 264 ABOUT THE HOMES AND HAUNTS OF BUKNS. JULY, 1894. THE July sun in joy doth glance Among the Roses by the Ayr, His day-stars o'er the Doon still dance, And still the ferns and flowers are fair As when the ploughboy strung his lyre And fanned the muse at Love's fond fire. But who was he that o'er these streams Poured heavenly light transcending far The glory of the noon-day beams And sweeter than the morning star ? A peasant poor, fell misery's heir The child of want and cankering care ! He read the fields I scan to-day, And, down the lanes of Oliphant, His fancy with the flowers did play : Ah, could I but one cadence chant To those great eyes aye glancing still Upon the Woodbine round the hill ! Is there a voice he heard alone From tuneful Nature ? Even to me In each flower-bell I hear some tone Of her soft soothing harmony : But I may ne'er her charms unfold On Coila's harp of heavenly gold ! As, charm'd, some wanderer's upward gaze Still marks the minstrel of the sky ; As wings the bee its bounteous ways, And swift can each pure fount descry So, captive still, the heart returns To list the lays of Robert Burns ! 265 IN GLEN MESSEN. His spirit drinks mysterious awe This solitude who treads Where stern in rugged majesty The mountains rear their heads. Here could I lie on Nature's lap And mark her matron smile, And in her face divinely fair Eead many a truth the while. Most fit retreat for Nature's child- Far from the foils of folly Here read a page of Loneliness, And taste sweet Melancholy. 0, list, ye souls so city sad, To the solemn psalm of rills ; Here worship to the organ-choir Of the sanctuary of hills. ADDEESS TO BARRHEAD, On its having, at the lang last, transformed itself into a Burgh, and seated in the civic chair, as its first Provost, Mr. WILLIAM SHANKS, 2nd March, 1894. NAE mair my muse Parnassus spiels, Tae gar my measures shine, Sin' auld Barrhead saft tunes my reed An's voted on the Nine I R 266 Sae, Pegasus, wi' nimble stride, Swift loups the Levern's banks, Nor faulds a wing, till he maun ding A verse to Willie Shanks. Ma' natal shinty-shaped toun, You've touched my expectation You've fand, in a' your seekin' roun', A Prince o' Sanitation. He's jist the very man, i' faith, To slush your glaury stanks ; You need a frien' to keep you clean, Sae robe your Willie Shanks. The Doctor might hae served you weel : He'd made a learned inspection O' plookit weans an' chockit drains, An' gien you for dissection. The Engineer, wi' head aye clear, Wad geared your wheels an' cranks ; But Fortune braw has spinned her ba' A goal for Willie Shanks. Or had you throned in civic chair That gallant sodger, Heys A trustier chiel, wi' heart mair leal, Ne'er clam' fair Learnin's braes You'd pleased yoursel', and, truth I'll tell, You'd gained a bardie's thanks ; But, Muse, keep time, you're at your prime Your theme is Willie Shanks. 267 He'll wear his chain an' honours braw Wi' ne'er a spark o' pride, Unless it be " the pride o' worth " Whilk honest men ne'er hide. An' what if fame shall tout his name As through the Wast she spanks 1 Or auld Barrhead fresh tune her reed In praise o' Willie Shanks ? He's worthy o't, an* muckle mair ; And hark, auld toun, tae me Aye use him weel, gif you wad spiel On firm Prosperity. Sae here's guid health, ma' doughty knight, Aye foremost in the ranks ; You've won the day, and noo we'll say Not Willie Provost Shanks ! * WINSOME NELL. Tune " Ye banks an' braes," or another. RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE PAISLEY TAXNAHILL CHOIR. WHEN Nature gems her evening veil An' love hath tuned the Blackbird's lay ; When shines the Primrose, luna-pale, And Sorrel f robes in " Dawn o' day ; " * Doctor John M'Kinlay was made a Bailie. The " Engineer " Mr. John Cochrane was also created a Bailie. Colonel Heys succeeded Mr. Shanks as Provost. t The wood-sorrel ; examine its beauty to understand the imagery. 268 Wi' love-light heart I joyous stray Amid Glentyan's woody dell ; There list the birds and burnie's play, An' meet my ain dear Winsome Nell ! 0, Flora's fairest treasures hing Amang thy glades, Glentyan fair ; The angel Snawdrap hails the Spring, The Hyacinth perfumes the air : But sweetest Rose may ne'er compare, Nor gay Laburnum's gowden spell, Wi' her my beating bosom's care My life's fond treasure Winsome Nell ! Awa' ye cankerin' cares o' earth Awa' ye dull deluded train Wha nightly count your coffer's worth /- Your life is but a dismal strain : Gay Nature's charms to me are gain, They mak' my heart wi' rapture swell ! Gie me the Throstle's wild refrain Glentyan's woods, an' Winsome Nell ! SUNSET ON THE MONT-BLANC. THE evening air is cool, and clear, and calm, I view entranced in Majesty's array, From a shoulder of the mighty Col de Balme, The Alps (the crowning prospect of the toilsome day), In scintillating caps of ermine snow, And glacier garments glittering blue below. 269 In giant pomp to kiss the evening star, No jealous cloud to doubt his sovereign right, Rose Europe's mighty monarch mount afar, Whose awful form of dread and silent might Beckoned the spirit from its icy throne, To leave mankind awhile and be alone. Silent steals evening o'er Chamounix's vale. Chasing the shadows to the mountain's crest ; (Silent as steals the lover's evening tale, Chasing all doubting from his true love's breast) Till Blanc's soft virgin snows by Sol's soft sway, In blushing amours greet his rapturous ray. Now the deep worship of the soul awakes ! Behold the mount with heavenly fire aglow, O'er peak and dome the kindling glory shakes ; Spreading in beauty o'er the beauteous snow, Like Innocence on Virtue sweetly smiling, Or pensive muse the poet's fancy wiling. Fast fades the glory ! So fades earth's fond dreams, All, save the soul's wrapt fancy, steals away : Silence sits throned on high above the streams, And round Blanc's summit gathers evening gray, And out heaven's blue drops many a golden star, And the full orbed moon wheels up her silvery car. Night is abroad in Chamounix's long vale, One farewell gleam illumes the monarch's head ; There is no sound the silence to assail, Save where the Arve sighs o'er its granite bed ; Apollo's steeds now plough the Atlantic's wave, And shake their silvery manes above the sea-boy's grave. 270 TO THE SHADE OF BURNS. 25TH JANUARY, 1894. As years roll on, in strife and din, Into the silent past, Thy tide of song still floweth in Through Time's loud roaring blast ! And louder still thy numbers beat As generations onward fleet ! The casket of thy deathless soul In ashes lieth low ; But while the ages onward roll Thy harmonies shall blow About Humanity's great heart A soothing solace to impart. I see thee 'mid the Elysian shades Thy brow with Daisies dight ; Thy great eye glancing thro' the glades That banish erring Night, And clear from out that flower-crown'd throng I hear the echoes of thy song ! Prophetic bard ! I hail the day That lit thy hallow'd fire ; And joyous own the raptured sway Of thy immortal lyre ! And clearer still the trump of Fame Adown the years shall sound thy name ! 27 r SONG UNCHANGED MY LOVE ABIDETH. MY love is not a fleeting flower That dies beneath the blast ; Nor is it, Love, a sunny hour That smileth and is past. Tho' love be young and love be old, Tho' love be weak, and love be bold And oft in triumph rideth ; Tho' love be tender and be strong And oft is short and oft is long Unchanged my love abideth ! In sunshine and in shadow, still My love to thee shall flow For ever, like the gathering rill That deeper still doth grow. Tho' love doth run, he oft doth creep, And in the dark he oft doth sleep, And his keen arrow hideth : Till death's dark sea engulph my heart 'Tis thine, my love, in every part Unchanged my love abideth ! HOPE. A PAGAN bard, as auld's the rocks, Tells hoo man's woes in blackest flocks Flew frae Pandora's weddin' box An' left but thee : But surely some ane did thee coax Abroad to flee ? 272 Yes, Hope, I doubt that auld warld fable ; For, och ! this earth wad be a babel, An" mankind a' wear mantles sable But thy fair form Can half the direst darts disable In Life's lang storm ! I think thou wast in Eden born On that dark, dismal, waefu' morn Whan man was o' his glory shorn By Satan speared : Yea, frae his teeth the prey was torn Whan thou appeared ! Withouten thee we a' might stray, Without a path, in dark dismay ; But thou mak'st straught ilk crookit way O'er moors and fells ; An' whan we're weary on Life's brae Thou diggest wells. Thou art o' hope a maid o' micht Or star that shines in mirkest nicht ; Thou'rt wi' the valiant for the richt Tho' sair oppress'd ; An' in Death's dale thou art a licht That's aft confess'd. Without thee Faith were whiles sair faggit ; Wi' thee, Heaven's highest fruit she'll bag it, An' through celestial gates she'll nag it Whar Keason reels ; Troth, far ahint has aften laggit Her chariot wheels ! 273 Thou laughest in the simmer showers ; Wi' Love thou reign'st in rosy bowers Thou singest high on Alpine towers O' granite-lore ; And gi'est mankind maist godlike powers To learn aye more. Thou'rt wi' the farmer 'mong his stooks ; Thou jinkest 'mong the student's books ; To lovers in sweet flowery nooks Thou gi'est a croon, An' aye thou shin'st wi' chubby looks I' the honeymoon. Thou flashest in the poet's e'e ; Thou starr'st the sailor ower the sea ; Thou art the soldier's panoply 'Mid battle's shock ; On Science thou blink'st bonnilie Fair blue-eyed Hope. Thou'rt wi' the digger in his hole ; Thou'rt wi' a Nansen near the Pole ; An' roamest far, in places droll, Some hint to pop ; Thou reignest in the human soul Inspiring Hope. The martyr's fires they canna char thee ; The lion's teeth they canna scar thee ; The dungeon's doors they canna bar thee- There thou shin'st bright ; The fiends o' darkness canna mar thee, Thou nymph o 1 light. 274 That ravin', red-e'ed fiend, Despair, Wi' haggard limbs an' tauted hair ; An' her half-sister, canker'd Care Guid keep us a' Whan that ill-faur'd, inhuman pair Drives thee awa'. The poet's harp shall be unstrung ; The warrior's shield in hall be hung ; But thou shalt reign for ever young, Man's heaven to ope ; Until all human tears are wrung Thou'rt Angel Hope. THE POET. HAST thou once viewed his palace fair ? O, hast thou seen the Poet's home ? It riseth beauteous in the air Imagination is its dome ! Go, see him, fleet, fair Fancy tending To glorify the evening star ; Or, through the pearly Morning wending To gem Aurora's crystal car ! Or wilt thou with the Poet stand Tip-toe on yon high throne-like cloud ? Or canst thou hear his music grand Now dulcet sweet now thunder loud 1 275 Or hast thou watched him pensive stray When all the glories of the West In purple robes infold the Day From sable Night in star-light dressed ? Beyond the suns he tarries long Amid the music of the spheres ; But thou mayest never hear the song Or harmonies the Poet hears ! To him belong dread Time and Space Through these he walks alone serene : His smile illumes the fair sweet face Of Nature his beloved queen. He beareth Beauty in his eyes She beameth forth o'er Nature's realm ; Nor Chance nor Fortune him surprise, Nor storms of wrath his spirit whelm ! His love-lit wand doth gently lift From mortals their sin-heavy load ; And in Life's lute he makes no rift He singeth by the throne of God ! He singeth not as thou dost sing He prayeth not as thou dost pray : He drinketh Change's bubbling spring He liveth in unending Day ! 2/6 TO 1896, WHICH CLOSED WITH RUMOURS OF WAR WITH AMERICA. WITH pledges of good-will and social cheer, We cannot welcome thee, thou youngling year ; For on thy brow there broods a dark'ning cloud, And all thy garments smell of smoke ; and loud Amid thy train is heard the blast of War, And thou com'st vengeful neath the blood-dyed star I O, tell us, Ninety-Six ! canst thou declare What waits our race on ocean, earth, in air, In thy short span of life ? Bid doubting cease With one soft message from the Prince of Peace. We thought in thee our brightest hopes to fix : But mourn thy advent gloomy Ninety-Six ! 3n fIDemoriam: JAMES SHAW, Schoolmaster, Tynron, Dumfriesshire, died there 15th July, 1896, aged seventy years. An ardent admirer of Nature a true poet and friend. BESIDE the murm'ring Shinell clear We've laid thee down to rest ; But its sweet sooch thou can'st not hear : Nor can thy loving breast With rapture swell at sight of Rose Or rainbowed butterfly : Thy ashes rest in long repose Thy spirit wings on high ! 277 0, thou did'st love all beauteous things Could'st read fair Nature's page With poet's eye, by rippling springs, Or where loud torrents rage Down mountain scars. And every flower For thee had message sweet ; And bird and beast in field and bower Were thy companions meet ! Gone ! Best and wisest I have known Earth gives me not another ; A pall o'er Nature's face is thrown, Since thou hast passed, t) brother ! Hope says Beyond Death's doleful dale, Where fairest flowers fade never, With joy we may each other hail, Along the crystal river. A HOLIDAY AT THE HOMES AND HAUNTS OF SHAKESPERE. AT WARWICK CASTLE. NOT with the breathing canvas, charmed with age, Adorning halls ancestral, are my thoughts ; Nor on those priceless treasures of fair art From many lands but with a host unseen, The ghosts of warriors that, bright mailed, once thronged This stately pile : and vows of hate or love From manly times like wandering echoes come : And Sadness in this place hath set her throne ! 2 7 8 AT ANNE HATHAWAY'S COTTAGE. 11 Anne hath a way" oft would he say Who rules the realm of Song ; And, truth to say, she had a way That never led him wrong ! IN SHAKESPERE'S BIRTH-PLACE. (Shakespere) Of Poesy the flower and fruit Imagination's rarest blossom, Born to be King of all who sing His throne, for aye the human bosom. AT KENILWORTH CASTLE. Still chased by Love's sharp arrows keen Here Amy stole, like hunted deer ; Here poured her sorrows to a queen That rarely dropped Compassion's tear. Cold are the hearts that here beat warm : The bosoms stilled that warred Love's waves Here Pageantry no more can charm Where Ruin rules a realm of Graves. ODE TO BURNS, FOR THE CENTENARY OF HIS DEATH, 196. A CENTURY hath flown, Since, weak and wan and lone, The Lily of the Lyre in dust was laid : 2/9 But still its odour sweet Scenteth the years that fleet Wafteth through Life's alarms, sunshine and shade ; Nor can such redolence depart But sweetly soothing blows about the human heart ! When, by the Nith's clear wave, The MORTAL found a grave. Th' IMMORTAL on Fame's chariot heavenward flew, Winged with the name of Burns (That Dissolution spurns) And round the World her silver Trump she blew, Which wider, clearer, through the years, Humanity's great heart with growing rapture hears ! Burns, with celestial fire, Did swift transmute the Lyre From rusting brass to strings of trembling gold ; And by the Doon and Ayr Uttered such Music rare, That Earth, enthralled, bowed to the Minstrel bold : He dewed with Song the daisied lea, And o'er his native vales showered heavenly harmony ! With sympathetic song He charmed the common throng, And lowly things did raise to heights of glory : With seer's keen eye did trace In every brother's face Some record of Life's blurred and blotted story : With Prophet's gaze beheld the day When Love o'er all the Earth shall bear its sovereign sway. 280 His is the Fire to smite Old Wrong that rides on Might ! He bids the steeds of Tyranny unyoke : And of the Brave and Good Mouldeth one Brotherhood That makes Oppression's Throne to reel and rock : Though Nature's face he sweet doth scan, His Lyre's bold numbers roll in sympathy with Man. As trills the Lark on high Circling the azure sky, Witching our ears with rich angelic strains : So Burns, the Lyre's crowned King, Doth ever, soaring, sing, Leading our willing hearts with golden reins : The Centuries shall never mar His upward Choral flight toward the Morning Star ! BURNS ANNIVERSARY, 1891. 'TWAS a howling night, and the snow fell fast, As I mused by the ingle's glare, When a maid stepped in from the angry blast, And her form was fearfully fair. 'Twas Fancy : the Queen of the Poet's light And the soul of his quenchless fire ; And she said " I must crown the bard to-night In the midst of the ninefold choir. I will wing me back to my summer bowers And the glens where the burnie shimmers, Where the cascade sings in its silvery showers And the flame of the May-flower glimmers. 28l I will gather the woodbine, bean, and rose, And the ivy's fadeless green, And each fairest flower in the field that blows, Or that kisses the river's sheen ; And I'll twine them sweet in a crown of light To the car of immortal fame, With daisies diamonded and dight, And the holly's winter flame : And I'll wheel aloft where the ninefold choir And the great immortals throng Where the bard of mankind strikes his lyre In the halls of deathless song : And I'll crown him on this, his natal day, With a wreath that never dies While the power and passion of his lay In the human bosom rise ! " ODE To commemorate the Jubilee of Messrs. Zechariah Heys k Sons, South Arthurlie Print Works, Ban-head. Written by Mr. James Rigg, a former employe, and recited by Mr. Alex. M'Phail Stewart at the Banquet given by the firm in the Golden Lion Hotel, Stirling, on Saturday, the 18th June, 1892 Chairman, Colonel Zechariah John Heys of Stonehouse, Barrhead ; Croupiers, Lieutenant-Colonel Zechariah Henry Heys of Rockmount, Barrhead, and Zechariah George Heys, Esq., of Springhill, Barrhead. About ninety sat down to dinner. Now fifty summer suns have shone, And fifty weary winters fled, Six hundred silvery moons have gone, Since first there rose above Barrhead A star that still doth brightly blaze, And bears the charmed name of Heys. 282 From Lennox fells six pioneers, The grand old sire, five noble sons, All full of hope and void of fears, Pitched fast their tent where Levern runs The book of years tells what they've done ; But of the brave there's left but one. Methinks I see the primal chief, His kindly gait, his dauntless eye ; With word so tender, yet so brief The inward sight to quick descry. A type of all true men and ways Was staunch old Zechariah Heys. And still the name is ever green In city, town, and busy mart ; In generations three we've seen Heredity still play its part, For manly youth doth still aspire To tread the path of such a sire. To-day, from Stirling's ancient rock We view the fields where heroes fell, And fearless met grim battle's shock Whose dauntless fame the muses tell ; But Art may now her peans raise And sing the Jubilee of Heys. Can my poor muse the deeds proclaim Of fifty years of nobler strife, Or celebrate the well-won fame Of men who've lived an honoured life ? 'Twould need a Burns to bind the bays Around the lustrous name of Heys. When our good ship first shook her sides, Of larger guns* she had but three ; But mark how proudly now she rides In splendour in Port Jubilee ! For, tho' through Flood and Fire oft driven, She thunders now her Twenty-seven* Alas ! what memories throng the mind While treading through the chequered past ! We hear sad moaning in the wind, See pale Death riding on the blast ; With lamentations, sobs, and tears, Sad prelude to these fifty years, f Where are the faces once we knew The merry laugh, the friendly tear ? All quickly fading from our view, And faint and far their voice we hear. Let's think o' them where'er they be, , In this glad year of Jubilee. But you, my merry mates to-day, Let's pledge success let cheers be given : Let Stirling's rock itself be gay, All sadness to the shades be driven, And let it be the queen of days That blows the Jubilee of Heys. i Now let us sing " Long live our Queen," And " Longer live South Arthurlie ; " Rich golden harvests may it glean, And foster fair Prosperity, Until its years in number be Like stars upon a sleeping sea. * Printing Machines. f Referring to the appalling catastrophe, the bursting of Glanderstone Dam. 284 3n flDemoriam: Mr. WALTER MACL.ELLAN, died at Blairvaddick, Row, Gareloch, 17th June, 1889. O'ER Gare's sweet rippling waters darkness rests, The sunshine of a face that cheer'd its shore Hath sunk in night. From us for evermore The smile benignant that in all our breasts Told of a heart infraught with pure bequests Hath pass'd away. The countenance that spoke Of inward calm, and in true men awoke A thousand charities as welcome guests, Is pall'd by death ! The mart he did adorn ; And added grace to all its rugged ways, And Labour was the sweetness of his days. The city he might pace with Honour's mien. Faith found him waiting for the heavenly morn, And earth for long shall keep his memory green. ANDREW FERRIER SHANKS, died 12th May, 1893. WELL done, brave knight, in Christ's sure armour clad ! Thou, ever foremost in the ranks of peace, That, with the sun, each day did make one glad ; * The King hath given thee rest and bless'd release. * The deceased gentleman, for many years prior to his death, made it a part of his daily duty to make at least one person happy. What a blessed valley the Levern would traverse if this were more practised by rich and poor ! 28 5 And we that, weeping, watched thy welkin flight, Scarce caught the hidden harmonies that hung About a life that strove for Truth and Eight ; Nor missed the harp till Death its chords unstrung. Thy voice, that ever spake to edify, Is hushed for ever 'neath the flowery sod ; Thy soul, whose pinions ever soared on high, Now folds its wings within the rest of God. Yes, thou art gone ! But yet the memory Of all thy kindly ways, like clusters sweet Of white Radanthus blossoms, still shall be Hung round our hearts and homes while Time doth fleet. SONNET TO J. LINDSAY, AN AGED LITERARY FRIEND. THOU that did'st ope to me the golden gates Of Wisdom, and did'st lead my longing soul Through Poesy's sweet meads, where Fancy waits To touch the lips with song let me extol Thy cherished favours. Could my numbers roll Full as the tide of Memory that elates My being, and the Wisdom contemplates Of thy weighed words now written on Time's scroll My song should bear the image and the grace That round thy sober speech do ever play, Or else the Lore deep chisell'd in thy face That speaks a mind where all that's pure holds sway : For, he who scans like thee dread Time and Space, Lives, loves, and longs in one unclouded day ! 286 LINES ON THE CLOSE OF 1893. (The year was noted for its advanced Spring and early Harvest. ) ANOTHER year in judgment sits On us, the erring sons of men ! Alas ! how Time, in silence, flits Across our " Threescore years and ten " ! Did Caution mark his fitful face, Old Wisdom by his side might pace ! Yes ! Thou art gone, old Ninety-three ! (Perhaps, to Fancy, thou art dead,) And thou wert sure full fair to see ! What golden harvests thou did'st spread ! How quickly Spring fair Flora woo'd How soon ripe Autumn's face we viewed ! For Friendship, fresh as fragrant flowers, For Love that reigneth ever young For social joys and hallowed hours Ev'n for the griefs that hearts have wrung A grateful Faith looks back to thee, Thou sent-of-God, old Ninety-three ! Young Ninety-four ! we hail with hope Thy coming ! May our youngest year To fairy Science vistas ope : May waiting Earth some waf tings hear Of that full swelling Harmonie When Christ shall of his Travail see ! 28; THE PEESWEEP INN. Tune " Soldier's Joy." The following verses may help to keep in remembrance the delight- ful excursions made for many a year by " the Squad" the endearing name of the committee of the Barrhead Mechanics' Institute, the first Mechanics' Institute ever formed in Scotland, I believe. I have no doubt, however, but the verses will find an echo in the breasts of the Ramblers and kindred associations in and around Glasgow and Paisley, who were wont, once a year, to make a pilgrimage o'er the Gleniffer Braes to the above world-famed muirland hostelry, over which our Justices have thrown a pall. WHEN the last o' bielded snaw Frae Ben Lomond skips awa', An' the floods, deep roarin', fa 3 Ower the Craigie Linn ; Then come the flowery days When we hie us o'er the braes Jist to hear what Nature says At the Peesweep Inn ! 0, the Daisy's on the sod, An' the Squad are on the road, Through the mairs they aft hae trod 'Mang the gowden Whin ; An' the Lark is singing high Whaur the Snipe and Plover cry An' wi' joyous hearts we hie To the Peesweep Inn ! Here's the Peesweep on the sign. First a drap o' Hielan' wine, That ilk man his care may tine Let the sports begin ! 288 See, L-t-r's on the stump, An' wi' laughin' gars us jump, Till on peaty knowes we dump Koun' the Peesweep Inn. Then, in dancin' circled quorum, M-rr-y gies us " Tullochgorum " Worth hauf a hunner score um That in ha's mak' a din ; While Br--m, sae "neat and handy," Gies us " Yankee Doodle Dandy," 'Mang the trees sae bow'd and bandy, Roun' the Peesweep Inn. But, hungry noo as clegs, We sit doon to ham an' eggs, An' the seer a blessin' begs Frae the Pow'rs aboon ; While, wi' cakes an' soda scones, Od, the rustic table groans, An' the tea flees oot like rhones At the Peesweep Inn. Syne, roun' the reekin' bowl, Sang an' sentiment maun roll, Whilk great L-nd-y maun control, For we mak' sic a din ; Yet, like brithers a', we twine Roun' the days o' auld langsyne Sic a sicht might draw the Nine To the Peesweep Inn ! Wi' monie a loud encore, An' monie a random splore, 0' fun we had galore Till the rise o' the moon 289 Till night cam' on apace An' shot in his bruckie face : Syne we left that classic place Ca'd the " Peesweep Inn " ! Nae mair we'll climb the brae On a bonnie simmer day, An' join sic merry fray, Flingin' care to the win' ; There's a moanin' on the road, Sin' the fiat's gaen abroad, An' there's written " Ikabocl " O'er the Peesweep Inn ! 3ln a^emoriam : The REV. DR. OLIVER FLETT, died suddenly at Sannox, Atran, 20th August, 1894, aged 64 years. AMID the glories of the Alpine isle, Thy soul, sure pinioned, took its homeward flight, Meek shepherd, in whose steps we marked no guile, Thy bleating flock is cloaked in tearful night. No more to sylvan pastures shall thy crook Lead gently by the streams of Zion fair ; No more thy glance illume the holy Book Thy voice no more lead heavenward in prayer. Gone ! faithful one ! yet sweet is now thy rest, Where earth's wan, weary woes can ne'er assail ; Thou art at peace upon thy Father's breast, And we, awhile, must tread this tearful vale. 290 3ln a^emoriam : PETER DENNY, Esq., LL.D., Dumbarton, died 22nd August, 1895, aged 74 years. WHEN conquerors bend to grim unconquered Death, And leave their empires and their glories, won By sword and cannon : then, with trumpet breath, Fame rings their battles while the ages run ! Yet goodness walketh not through war-clouds' dun, And deathless deeds rise not from heaps of slain ! The truly noble earthly plaudits shun ; Their bliss to find a balm for human pain : These tune the poet's lyre to many a soothing strain ! Of such was he whom Clutha's sons now weep ! His triumphs ride o'er every ocean's wave ! Where'er fair Commerce round the world doth sweep To bless mankind and free the shackled slave, She beareth back immortelles for the grave Of him whose heart o'erflowed with pity still, Whose love did oft the brow of Sorrow lave, Whose bounty large old Want did ever fill, Whose tongue aye spake to bless, whose mouth ne'er uttered ill ! We've laid his dust in Nature's tender Ian ! f Our sea-king's spirit is in haven " Fair," The form beloved with daisied sod we hap, And with his kin unfeigned sorrow share ! Would that, like him, our barque we might prepare For " Homeward Bound," 'neath Faith's all-powerful sail, That catcheth full the sweet celestial air, That rides us safe, through many a bitter gale, On to the golden shore beyond earth's woe and wail ! 29 1 TO THE ALPS. (Written in the Vale of Chamounix.) THE Alps ! the Alps ! The snow-capp'd Alps, The poet's contemplation ; Whose awful forms, that dare the storms, Seem the king-works of Creation ! The Alps ! the Alps ! the glorious Alps The palaces of wonder ; Where the tall pine waves, and the torrent raves, And the avalanche leaps in thunder ! 0, the bracing air from your glaciers bare, 'Neath your mighty thrones of glory Where'er I be, seem part of me A song in Life's short story ! HELEN. THY een are like twin Brambles black, Glittering 'mong the dew ; And the hiniest pear, at the fa' o' the year, Ne'er matched thy luscious mou ! TO A THRUSH I HEARD SING IN THE AFTERNOON OF THE SHORTEST DAY. SAY, thou that makest poets dream, By flowery glade and purling stream, What gave thee that untimely theme ? Think'st thou 'tis Spring 1 292 That twig, erewhile a scented spray, Hath not a leaf, nor green nor grey, And yet on this, the shortest day, What makes thee sing ? Dost thou not mark bleak Boreas stand, To lead his crispy-arrowed band, To lay beneath his icy hand, Wood, lake, and bower ? And thou dost pour thy mellow song Beneath grim Winter's batteries strong, While youth, and age, and beauty throng Thy Poplar tower. Perhaps the love that lurks in dells, That tinkles in the sweet blue-bells, Inflates thy bosom with strange spells That burst in song. Dost thou this day, so short and drear, Feel pulsings of the unborn year, Like hope, that comes my heart to cheer, When vexed with wrong ? Or through thy being doth there stray The image of an April day, With shimmering birks and willows gay Above thy head ? Whate'er it be, my thanks, sweet thrush ! Ah ! blinding snows thy hymn shall hush, Or Death thy hopes and mine shall crush Amongst the dead. 293 GKACE. (Written in the album of a young lady, whose Christian name was Grace). COULD I, with Ruben's magic brush, One perfect form on canvas trace ; I'd make all meaner plaudits hush, And all men own " Yes ! that is Grace." Or could I, like a Phidias, turn, From marble white, the fairest face ; With admiration men should burn And each exclaim " Yes ! that is Grace." Or could I, with a Shakespeare's eyes, Through Fancy's realm for ever pace ; I'd meet no rarer, sweeter prize Than just the witching form of " Grace" Envoi. When I, ere long, Time's service leave, The King hath promised me a place ; In this I've had no hand, I grieve, 0, no ! It's all been done by " Grace. 1 ' 294 3in a^emotiam: H. R. H. THE DUKE OF CLARENCE AND AVONDALE. (Born 8th January, 1864 ; Died 14th January, 1892.) For which tlie Princess graciously thanked tJie author. O DEATH, dark lurker round our brightest days ! Can famished millions or grim battle's gore Not glut thy rav'ning maw ? Thy hidden ways Lead to the gates of bliss ! one triumph more ! And England bows to thee deep smitten sore. Young Hope, high prowed, on Time's uncertain tide For Hymen's happy haven proudly bore ; And Love flower crowned sang o'er the waters wide : But thy fierce blast, Death ! hath wrecked an Empire's pride. Rest, Clarence ! Hope of England, calmly sleep ! No war cloud o'er thy bier doth darkly frown ! Above thee shall the Snowdrop yearly weep I The sword of Truth hath won thee thy renown, And we 'mong flowers white have laid thee down ! High gleamed in thy young eye Earth's loftiest throne : Thine eye is dimmed ! But thou hast gained a crown With glory gemmed : then why should hearts be lone ? Since Faith's quick upward glance may follow where thou'rt gone ! To H. R. H. The Princess of Wales. MAR 1 7 1986 A 000 560 743 7