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 Poems, Songs, and Sonnets
 
 Poems, Songs, and Sonnets 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT RE I D 
 
 (ROB WANLOCK) 
 Author of " MooRLANn Rhymes" 
 
 ALEXANDER GARDNER 
 
 ^utlisl)fr to l^tr iiMajestg ti)f tauten 
 
 PAISLEY; and 26 PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON 
 
 1894
 
 
 TO 
 
 Don. <Sir ^owM Jl. <Sittith, liaT-Jft.®., #1.^.. 
 
 Hon. President of the Caledonian Society of Montreal, 
 
 A REPRESENTATIVE SCOT, 
 
 Whose Love for the Old Land manifests itself on every 
 available occasion, 
 
 THESE 
 
 " WooDNOTES Wild " 
 of our common country 
 
 Are Respectfully Inscribed 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Rosehill, 
 Outremont, P.Q., 
 
 CAiVADA, 
 
 iSq4. 
 
 7644J7
 
 PREFACE 
 
 By way of Preface to this volume, it may not be unfitting 
 to give the following excerpts from a lecture on Modern 
 Scottish Poetry delivered before the Caledonian Society 
 of Montreal on the evening of Friday, 2nd February, 
 1894, by Mr. John MacFarlane, author of Heather 
 a)id Harebell. Speaking with some title to treat on 
 the subject as the writer of such lyrics as " The Last 
 Langsyne," "The Bonnie Banks o' Clyde," etc., the 
 lecturer remarked : " In the year 1874, a book was 
 issued from the Dumfries press of John Anderson & Son, 
 under the unpretentious title of Moorland Rhymes, 
 which, more than any other that I know of, gives voice 
 and interpretation to the underlying poetry of the Scot- 
 tish moors. On its appearance, it was hailed as a 
 valuable addition to native literature, and its author, 
 Robert Wanlock (Reid), from the grace and sweetness of 
 his numbers, took at once a front rank place among the 
 minor singers of the day. 
 
 A new and genuine note had been struck from the 
 Scottish lyre, and lovers of the hamely Doric recognised
 
 viii. Preface. 
 
 with a thrill of pleasure that although the age of Faery 
 had vanished never to return, yet " the bent sae broon " 
 was still magical with " the lilt o' the laverock and lintie," 
 "the perfume o' brier and brume;" and the mystery of 
 awe still potent to consecrate as by a solemn benediction 
 the lonely beauty of the hills. 
 
 One peculiarity of the verse, apart from its higher 
 attributes, is its exquisite form — a quality in which the 
 vernacular poet, as a rule, is not strong. The dedicatory 
 stanzas are quite as delicately fine as anything to be 
 found in the dainty filigree work of Andrew Lang or 
 Austin Dobson. They instantly transport the reader (to 
 quote the words of another dedication recently famous) 
 to a land " where about the graves of the martyrs the 
 whaups are crying — Scottish hearts know how." . . . 
 
 Mr. Reid is a native of the little lead-mining village 
 of Wanlockhead, perched away high up among the 
 Lowthers, almost at the dividing line or watershed be- 
 tween the shires of Dumfries and Lanark. It takes its 
 name from the Wanlock burn — hence also the pen-name 
 of Robert Wanlock. About a mile to the north on the 
 Lanarkshire side is the twin lead-mining village of 
 Leadhills, celebrated as being the birthplace of Allan 
 Ramsay, and where he resided till his fifteenth year. 
 The district is rich in native song and music, but its 
 isolation from the outer world is all that even a Thoreau 
 or a Carlyle in his Craigenputtoch days, could have
 
 Preface. ix. 
 
 desired. So sheer is the ascent approaching from the 
 
 north, that the door-step of Leadhills parish church is 
 
 said to be on a level with the top of Tinto or Tintock, 
 
 only some ten miles distant, and one of the highest 
 
 mountains in the South of Scotland. Of the two villages, 
 
 Wanlockhead is, perhaps, the most lonely, and certainly 
 
 the most "old-world" and unique. Mr. Reid describes 
 
 it as : — 
 
 " Far frae a' ithers, and stan'in' its lane. 
 
 Like a mitherless laddie left oot in the rain." 
 
 He further informs us that 
 
 " There's three months o' bluister tae ilk ane o' sun, 
 And the dour nippin' cranreuch's maist aye on the grun." 
 
 But the reader is fully conscious that, despite his playful 
 depreciation, the poet loves it as a mother loves her 
 child ; and to any who have visited the locality, his vivid 
 and graphic portraiture of "Wanlock" will recall with 
 talismanic power this beau-ideal small metropolis of the 
 moors. ... Its environment is markedly sterile, 
 but to atone for the absence of floral and other treasures, 
 there is always the lovely green girdle of hills — "the 
 bonnie hills o' Wanlock" — of which their laureate so 
 fondly sings. . . . 
 
 Sometimes, however, tragedy throws its shroud across 
 their bosoms, and the sunshine is shadowed by some 
 pitiful incident, such 9s the poet portrays in his poem
 
 X. Preface. 
 
 of "Storm-sted." The reign of King Winter, if neither 
 so severe nor so lasting as in Canada, is often sig- 
 naUsed by terrific snow-drifts, and it would almost seem 
 as if, in accordance with old superstition, the storm-fiend 
 claimed an annual human victim from among the Low- 
 thers. . . . There is hardly anything more weird in 
 the whole body of Scottish poetry than the lines in which 
 the climax of this tale of a traveller lost in the snow is 
 reached : — 
 
 " But wheest ! what waefu' cry was that 
 
 Blawn in frae yont the hill, 
 When the wild storm had lown't a blink, 
 
 And a' the glen was still ? 
 It soundit like the eerie maen 
 
 O' some half-waukent thing 
 Shot — or the dour blude at the hert 
 
 Could nerve its brain tae spring ; 
 A wild lost yaumer fleein' far 
 
 Afore the sabbin' blast, 
 And drappin' nameless dreid like dew 
 
 On ilka thing it past. 
 Far i' the glen lichts fired at ance, 
 
 And heids cam' oot tae hear, 
 Gin neebors heard the waefu' cry, 
 
 That fill't theirsel's wi' fear." 
 
 Legends of the Covenant have also, as Simpson's 
 Traditions will testify, touched with an almost sacred 
 awe these upland moors, — and especially the braes of 
 Enterkin — so that our author as he " speels " to visit 
 Katie's Well is forced to exclaim : —
 
 Preface. xi. 
 
 " What getherin's at the mirk o' nichts, 
 
 When mune or sterns were smoort or dim, 
 And a' the misty muirlan' hichts 
 
 Were quiverin' wi' the martyrs' hymn ! " 
 
 In the battle for " freedom's sacred cause," as Burns 
 terms it, it has too long, perhaps, been taken for granted 
 that the poetic spirit was and is entirely on the one side 
 — the side of the Jacobites and the Cavaliers. This 
 conclusion is not quite just. Mr. Reid's beautiful poem 
 of " Kirkbride " is an instance to the contrary. Only 
 the other day, a writer in a popular Scottish miscellany 
 referred to it as one of the finest tributes yet paid to the 
 memory of those sturdy assertors of civil and religious 
 liberty — the stern Covenanters. Another poem of 
 similar import is entitled " Enterkin." Neither of these 
 pieces are included in Moorla?id Rhymes, but both 
 possess in a high degree the hall-mark of individuality, 
 so characteristic of their author's genius, and in any 
 future edition of his works will be assigned a high, if not 
 the highest, place. . . , 
 
 While to "the seeing eye and the understanding heart," 
 the Scottish moorland is instinct with the purest poetry, 
 it is yet not quite the Elysian fields. It has its bleak and 
 barren side as well, iron-hued with the stern reality of 
 fact. But the compensations of life amid the most un- 
 likely surroundings could hardly have been better or 
 more philosophically set forth than in the poet's "Hame's
 
 xii. Preface. 
 
 aye Hame : or A Lintie's Defence of the Moorland." I 
 remember some years ago, in the course of a summer 
 evening walk and conversation by the banks of the Clyde, 
 the late Robert Tennant, author of "Wee Davy Daylicht," 
 and of the beautiful lines, " 'Tis Sweet to Roam by 
 Allander," incorporated by William Black in his delightful 
 story of "Stand Fast, Craig Royston ! " after repeating 
 the poem, remarked, that it was one of the few things of 
 which he had an intense desire to have been the author. 
 Linties have not yet " hopped up " the evolution ladder 
 so far as to be capable of articulate speech, but if ever 
 a gifted member of the race breaks forth into words, it 
 might very suitably be in the strain of this dialogue. 
 
 Burns, in one of his letters, explains the peculiar effect 
 upon him of the cry of the gray curlew ; and to most 
 Scotsmen "the wheeple o' the whaup," is more moving 
 than the songs of all the nightingales. But to Mr. Reid 
 has been reserved the privilege of enshrining in a com- 
 plete lyric this "Sentinel of Silence" among the hills. 
 Verses like " The Whaup " haunt the ear with the 
 strange pertinacity of the bird's own cry. . . . 
 
 Had I not already exceeded " the time limit," I could 
 have wished to convey a few " tit-bits " from such pieces 
 as "Kilmeny's Warning," "A Sprig o' Heather," "The 
 Spirit of The Moor," "The Cairn o' the Hill"— a cairn 
 grown gray in wind and weather — and more particularly 
 from " Something Wrang," a moorland tragedy, or rather
 
 Preface. xiii. 
 
 a catastrophe, gleaming like a dark tarn amidst the quiet 
 beauty of pastoral life. Enough, however, has been 
 given to show that a richer vein than that of lead exists 
 among these lonely heights of the South of Scotland. 
 And my task has been well accomplished if for a brief 
 space any have been transported in spirit across the 
 Western Ocean — have heard again "the laich seep- 
 sabbin' o' the burn doon by," when — 
 
 " The win' sae lown. 
 Can scrimply gar the stey peat-reek play swirl, 
 Abune the herd's auld bield." 
 
 Mi)orland Rhymes, to which the foregoing utterance 
 chiefly refers, has been out of print for the last ten years. 
 To meet the demand of many inquiries for the work, 
 both at home and in America, the present collection of 
 Poems, Songs, and Sonnets, is offered to the public. It 
 contains what may be considered the riper fruit of the 
 former book, with a large addition of new matter — 
 notably in the Sonnet form.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 KiRKBRIDE,... ... ... ... ... ... I 
 
 The Auld Gray Glen,... ... ... ... 5 
 
 NATIONAL SONNETS. 
 
 My Birthright, ... ... ... ... ... 11 
 
 Scotland, ... ... ... ... ... 12 
 
 Burns and Highland Mary, ... ... ... i,? 
 
 Bannockburn, ... .. ... ... ... 14 
 
 Cameron's Grave in Airsmoss, ... ... ... 15 
 
 On Seeing a Portrait of Claverhouse, ... 16 
 
 Flodden, ... ... ... ... ... ... 17 
 
 Bonnie Prince Charlie, ... ... ... 18 
 
 Kirk-o'-Field, ... ... ... ... ... 19 
 
 Abbey Craig, ... ... ... ... ... 20
 
 xvi. Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Robert Burns, .. ... ... ... ... 21 
 
 Glencoe, ... ... ... •■• .. 22 
 
 James Hogg (" The Ettrick Shepherd "), ... ... 23 
 
 "She has the Eyes of Burns," ... .. 24 
 
 Wallace at Stirling Bridge, ... ... ... 25 
 
 Ottereourne, .. ... ... ... ... 26 
 
 Hogg, ... ... ... ... ... .•■ 27 
 
 Bluebells, ... ... ... ... ... 28 
 
 Gloaming, ... ... ... ... ... ... 29 
 
 Langsyne, ... ... ... ... ... 3c 
 
 POEMS AND SOXGS. 
 
 Bruce's Grave, Mount Royal, Canada. ... ... 35 
 
 To Memory, ... ... .. ... ... 38 
 
 Song— Come and Woo, ... ... ... ... 41 
 
 Dedication — To John Mathieson Reid, ... 43 
 
 Wanlock, ... ... ... ... ... ... 46 
 
 The Si'iRiT of the Moor, ... ... ... 51 
 
 Kilmeny's Warning, ... ... ... ... 56 
 
 Storm-Sted, ... ... ... ... ... 62 
 
 To My Mother, ... ... ... ... ... 67 
 
 Katie's Well, ... ... ... ... ... 70 
 
 Saint Valenti.ne's Day, 1879, ... ... ... 74 
 
 The Hinmaist Crichton, ... ... ... 76
 
 Contents. xvii. 
 
 rAi;K 
 
 Bacchanalian Song for the New Year, ... ... So 
 
 Laying By a Little for a Rainy Day, ... 82 
 
 Jean: A Lyric, ... ... ... ... ... 84 
 
 Graves on the Scottish Hills, ... ... 85 
 
 In the Garden, Outremont, ... ... ... 92 
 
 The Whaui", ... ... ... ... ... 95 
 
 Song: The Contented Shepherd, ... ... ... 97 
 
 Necony, ... ... ... ... ... 98 
 
 THE LOST HOME. 
 
 The Lost Home, ... ... ... ... ... loi 
 
 On Naming my Son Wanlock, ... ... ... 102 
 
 To MY Mother, ... ... ... ... ... 103 
 
 To the Lowthers, ... ... ... .. 104 
 
 The Reason Why, ... ... ... ... ... 105 
 
 Mennock, ... ... ... ... ... 106 
 
 Carsehope, ... ... ... ... ... 107 
 
 Glencrieve, ... ... ... ... ... 108 
 
 auchenlone, ... ... ... ... ... i09 
 
 Enterkin, ... ... ... ... ... no 
 
 The First Break, ... ... ... ... ... in 
 
 On Reading of the Earl of Dalkeith's Mar- 
 riage, ... .. ... ... ... 112 
 
 Our Mary in Heaven, ... ... .. ... 113 
 
 Motherless, ... ... ... ... ... 114
 
 xviii. Contents. 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 The Spell Broken, ... ... ... ... 115 
 
 Our Portion, ... ... ... ... ... 116 
 
 A Sorrowful Choice, ... ... ... ... 117 
 
 On Wanlock Dod, ... ... ... ... 118 
 
 The Mystery, ... ... ... ... ... 119 
 
 Changed Times, ... ... ... ... 120 
 
 To a Laverock, ... ... ... ... ... 121 
 
 To Rev. Mr. Blair, Wanlockhead, ... ... 122 
 
 The Flight of Time, ... ... ... ... 123 
 
 POEMS AND SONGS. 
 
 May Moeil, ... ... ... ... ... 127 
 
 Forgotten, ... ... ... ... ... 130 
 
 Atween and Mennock-Hass, ... ... ... 133 
 
 The Days of Old, ... ... ... ... ... 135 
 
 The Cairn on the Hill, ... ... ... 137 
 
 Retrospect, ... ... ... ... ... 142 
 
 I Pu'd a Rose,... ... ... ... ... 147 
 
 Gin Ye Lo'e Me, ... ... ... ... ... 148 
 
 The Last Toast, ... ... ... ... 149 
 
 My Ain Hills, ... ... ... ... ... 151 
 
 The Sea, ... ... ... ... ... 153 
 
 In the Forest, ... .. ... ... ... 155 
 
 Carron Water, ... ... ... ... 157 
 
 Glenballantyne ; or, my Last Look o' Hame, ... 159
 
 Contents. xix. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Amang the Brume, ... ... ... .• 162 
 
 The Poet and his Theme, ... ... ... ... 163 
 
 At the Garden Gate, ... ... ... ... 166 
 
 Wallace, ... ... ... ... ••• •■• 167 
 
 Pairing-Time, ... ... .. ... ... 169 
 
 The Death-Song of Time, ... ... ... ... 170 
 
 El Dorado, ... ... ... ••• ••• ^73 
 
 Enterkin, ... ... ... ... ... ••• 17s 
 
 The Cry of the Hillmen, ... ... ... I79 
 
 Hame's Aye Hame,... ... ... ... •• 181 
 
 Little Things, ... ... ... ... 184 
 
 Like the River, ... ... ... .. ■•• 186 
 
 Only a Dream, ... ... ... ... 188 
 
 The Burn's Answer, ... ... ... ■.• 190 
 
 Scotland's Charms, ... ... ... ■.. 192 
 
 Something Wrang, ... ... ... ■■• i94 
 
 A Sprig o' Heather, ... ... ... ... 202 
 
 Autumn, ... ... ... ■•■ •■. ■•• 204 
 
 Unfulfilled Renown,... ... ... ... 205 
 
 Tired, ... ... ... ... ••• •■• 208 
 
 A Song of Pain, ... ... .• •■• 210 
 
 Rear our Flag on High ! ... ... ... ... 211 
 
 Tintoc-Tap, ... ... ... ... ... 213 
 
 Epistle to Nellie,... ... ... ... .•■ 214 
 
 A Gust on the Lake, ... ... ... ... 217
 
 XX. 
 
 Contents. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 POESIE, 
 
 Love, ... 
 
 Fame, 
 
 April, ... 
 
 Banished, .. 
 
 Heroism, ... 
 
 Discontent, 
 
 Singing, 
 
 Romance, ... 
 
 Reality, 
 
 Love-Weary, 
 
 Spring, 
 
 Gifts, 
 
 Pledged, 
 
 Nature, 
 
 L'Envoi, 
 
 James Morgan, 
 
 The Last Enemy, 
 
 Rest, 
 
 I Woo'd m\ Love, 
 
 Winter, 
 
 In Love, 
 
 Fareweel, ... 
 
 PAGE 
 ... 221 
 
 222 
 
 ... 223 
 
 224 
 ... 225 
 
 226 
 ... 227 
 
 228 
 ... 229 
 
 230 
 ... 231 
 
 232 
 ••• 233 
 
 234 
 •■• 235 
 
 236 
 •■■ 237 
 
 23S 
 ... 239 
 
 240 
 ... 241 
 
 242 
 ••• 243
 
 Contents. xxi. 
 APPENDIX, 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 To Rob Wanlock, by Alexander G. Murdoch, ... 249 
 
 To Rob Wanlock, by Alexander Anderson, ... ... 250 
 
 To Rob Wanlock, by Nisbet Noble, ... ... 253 
 
 Epistle to Rob Wanlock (Reid), by John Arborj', ... 259 
 
 To Rob Wanlock, by Walter Chisholm, ... ... 261 
 
 To Rob Wanlock, Montreal, by Nellie, ... ... 263
 
 poems, Sono^t ^n^ Sonnets*
 
 ^^ Land of my sires! what mortal hand 
 Can e'er untie the filial hand 
 That knits me to thy rugged strand?"
 
 K I R K B R I D E . 
 
 [It is related of an old native of this district that the last request 
 he made while on his deathbed was, "Bury me in Kirkbride, for 
 there's much of God's redeemed dust lies there ;" and, taking ad- 
 vantage of the license which all rhymers are apt to arrogate to 
 themselves, I have put the beautiful words into the mouth of an 
 old Covenanter, who is supposed to have survived the persecu- 
 tion.— R.R.] 
 
 Bury me in Kirkbride, 
 
 Where the Lord's redeemed anes he ; 
 The auld kirkyaird on the grey hillside, 
 
 Under the open sky ; 
 
 Under the open sky, 
 On the briest o' the braes sae steep, 
 
 And side by side wi' the banes that lie 
 Streikt there in their hinmaist sleep : 
 This puir dune body maun sune be dust, 
 
 But it thrills wi' a stoun' o' pride, 
 To ken it may mix wi' the great and just 
 
 That slumber in thee, Kirkbride.
 
 Kirkbride. 
 
 Little o' peace or rest 
 
 Had we, that hae aften stude 
 VVi' oor face to the foe on the mountain's crest, 
 
 Sheddin' oor dear heart's blude ; 
 
 Sheddin' oor dear heart's blude 
 For the richts that the Covenant claimed, 
 
 And ready wi' life to mak' language gude 
 Gin the King or his Kirk we blamed ; 
 And aften I thocht in the dismal day 
 
 We'd never see gloamin' tide, 
 But melt like the cranreuch's rime that lay 
 
 I' the dawin, abune Kirkbride. 
 
 But gloamin' fa's at last 
 
 On the dour, dreich, dinsome day. 
 And the trouble through whilk we hae safely past 
 
 Has left us weary and wae ; 
 
 Has left us weary and wae. 
 And fain to be laid, limb-free, 
 
 In a dreamless dwawm to be airtit away 
 To the shores o' the crystal sea ; 
 Far frae the toil, and the moil, and the murk, 
 
 And the tyrant's cursed pride, 
 Row'd in a wreath o' the mists that lurk. 
 
 Heaven-sent, aboot auld Kirkbride. 
 
 Wheesht ! did the saft win' speak ? 
 
 Or a yaumerin' nicht bird cry ? 
 Did I dream that a warm haun' touch't my cheek, 
 
 And a winsome face gade by ? 
 
 And a winsome face gade by.
 
 Kirkbride. 3 
 
 Wi' a far-aff licht in its een, 
 
 A licht that bude come frae the dazzlin' sky, 
 For it spak' o' the starnies' sheen : 
 Age may be donart, and dazed and blin', 
 
 But I'se warrant, whate'er betide, 
 A true heart there made tryst wi' my ain, 
 
 And the tryst-word seemed, Kirkbride. 
 
 Hark ! frae the far hill-taps, 
 
 And laich frae the lanesome glen. 
 Some sweet psalm tune like a late dew draps 
 
 Its wild notes doun the win' ; 
 
 Its wild notes doun the win', 
 Wi' a kent soun' owre my min' 
 
 For we sang't on the muir, a wheen huntit men, 
 Wi' oor lives in oor haun' langsyne ; 
 But never a voice can disturb this sang, 
 
 Were it Claver'se in a' his pride. 
 For it's raised by the Lord's ain ransom'd thrang 
 
 Forgether'd abune Kirkbride. 
 
 I hear May Moril's tongue, 
 
 That I wistna to hear again, 
 And there — 'twas the black McMichael's rung 
 
 Clear in the closin' strain ; 
 
 Clear in the closin' strain, 
 Frae his big heart, bauld and true : 
 
 It stirs my saul as in days bygane. 
 When his gude braidsword he drew : 
 I needs maun be aff to the muirs ance mair, 
 
 For he'll miss me by his side :
 
 Kirkbride. 
 
 I' the thrang o' the battle I aye was there, 
 And sae maun it be in Kirkbride. 
 
 Rax me a staff and plaid, 
 
 That in readiness I may be, 
 And dinna forget that The Book be laid 
 
 Open, across my knee ; 
 
 Open, across my knee, 
 And a text close by my thoom, 
 
 And tell me true, for I scarce can see, 
 That the words are, " Lo, I come ; " 
 Then carry me through at the Cample ford. 
 
 And up by the lang hillside. 
 And I'll wait for the comin' o' God, the Lord, 
 
 In a neuk o' the auld Kirkbride !
 
 THE AULD GRAY GLEN. 
 
 O' a' the glens in Scotland, bonnie Scotland ! 
 
 Is there ane amang them a', my lads, tell me gin ye 
 ken, 
 That winna yield the gree at ance tae winsome muirland 
 Wanlock, 
 The hame o' lichtsome lasses, and o' leal gude-hearted 
 men? 
 The lawland dales are bonnie, and the hieland hills are 
 grand, 
 And mony a cantie fisher toon sits smihng by the sea ; 
 But suld ye search wi' eident care frae pebbled strand 
 tae strand 
 Ye wadna cross anither neuk that's half sae fair tae 
 me, 
 
 As Wanlock, winsome Wanlock ! 
 The pride o' a' the kintra is the Auld Gray Glen. 
 
 Fair dawns the spring on Scotland, bonnie Scotland ! 
 While hill and loch, and muir and glen, avow its witch- 
 ing spell ; 
 And blithely simmer opes its e'e on winsome muirland 
 Wanlock. 
 When bees begin tae bum abune the heather's burstin' 
 bell;
 
 6 The Auld Gray Glen. 
 
 And oh ! the fragrant autumn hills it's rare to wander 
 
 oer, 
 
 Wi' some sweet lass beside ye, when the gloamin' haps 
 the glen ; 
 And Nature's winter mantle sparkles wi' its brichtest 
 hoar, 
 And a' tae please the couthie folk— trig queans and 
 canny men 
 
 O' Wanlock, lanesome Wanlock, 
 Ilk season wears its richest on the Auld Gray Glen. 
 
 The men are leal in Scotland, bonnie Scotland ! 
 
 Nae maitter whaur ye meet a Scot ye'll fin' him true 
 as steel ; 
 And lealer men ye couldna meet than won in winsome 
 Wanlock, 
 I carena whaur ye spier for worth, nor wha ye reckon 
 leal ; 
 The lawland lads are sonsie, and the hieland loons are 
 stieve, 
 But for the chields wha care for nocht commend me 
 tae the glen, 
 Whaur freens can get an open loof, and faes a steekit 
 nieve, 
 And gin ye watna whaur it is, I'd like tae let ye ken, 
 That's Wanlock, sturdy Wanlock ! 
 Big are the hearts and fearless in the Auld Gray Glen. 
 
 And, oh, thy lassies, Scotland, bonnie Scotland ! 
 
 Weel kens my heart their glamourie has cost it mony 
 a stoun' ;
 
 The Aiild Gray Glen. 7 
 
 And deeper e'en did never shine than glowed in winsome 
 Wanlock, 
 And redder Hps were never kist, the hale wide warld 
 aroun' : 
 And though they michtna busk themsel's in silks and 
 satins fine, 
 The plaid gangs wi' the heather, an' they're baith sae 
 dear tae me 
 That I wad wiss nocht better than a year o' life tae tyne, 
 And haud anither tryst wi' baith, awa' across the sea, 
 In Wanlock, lo'esome Wanlock ! 
 Sweet were the kisses gien me in the Auld Gray Glen. 
 
 My heart is sair for Scotland, bonnie Scotland ! 
 
 It's unco sair to think that I may see her shores nae 
 mair ; 
 For I ha'e wander'd mony a mile awa' frae winsome 
 Wanlock, 
 And wha can tell if e'er again I'll roam contented there? 
 The sea is wide atween us, and the cruel hills are high, 
 And black cluds mar my vision, that I canna see the 
 shore ; 
 But though my life be doomed tae pass aneath an alien 
 sky 
 Aft will my spirit flichter back tae scenes that I adore, 
 Tae Wanlock, hamely Wanlock ! 
 Heaven bless the kindly dwellers in the Auld Gray Glen.
 
 IRational Sonnets.
 
 II 
 
 M y BIR TH RIGHT. 
 
 Proud of my so/ishtp, glorying in the ?ianie 
 Bestowed by thee, though now by thee forgot, 
 Dear mother country ! shall a kindly Scot 
 Viewing his fate withotif one thought of bla7?ie 
 Tliough disitiherited renoufice his claim ? 
 Nay, surely, circumstances matter not — 
 Though far my luanderings and obscure my lot, 
 Still am I heir to all thy storied fame I 
 
 For me thy szveetest bards have tun^d the lay, 
 Thy martyrs striven ; for me on Bannock^ s side, 
 (Ay, and at Flodden) have thy bravest died ; 
 
 And shall I fling this priceless dower away. 
 This precious birthright 1 Nay ! with jealous pride 
 Til guard the treasure till my latest day.
 
 12 
 
 SCOTLAND. 
 
 Mountain and mist, lone glen and murmuring stream, 
 The shaggy forest, and the gray hillside — 
 These are thy features, Scotland ! these the pride 
 
 Of those that love thee, — and thy minstrels' theme. 
 
 For partial nature, that denied to thee 
 
 The sun of England and the soil of France, 
 Hath clothed thee in the garment of Romance, 
 
 That dearer for that dearth thy face might be. 
 
 Proud mother, whose best son with reverence turns 
 To greet thee, — land of Wallace, Knox, and Burns — 
 
 Thy rugged hills are sacred from the feet 
 
 Of heroes ; and thy bards (a countless throng) 
 
 With tuneful tribute make the charm complete — 
 Each moor a memory, and each stream a song !
 
 13 
 
 BURNS AND HIGHLAND MARY. 
 
 A ROYAL harp hung in Life's palace hall ; 
 
 And one by one, as in and out they strayed, 
 
 The careless guests a fitful music made 
 Striking its strings : so true the notes did fall. 
 That whoso heard, straightway for more did call. 
 
 Thus many strains the willing heart essayed, 
 
 As many hands (and some unworthy !) played. 
 Ah ! but when Love, the master player of all, 
 
 Parting in tears from one fair visitor, 
 Taught her deft fingers 'mong its chords to twine, - 
 
 The poor dumb instrument, whose soul did stir 
 With sudden transport — left on earth to pine — 
 
 Yearn'd evermore for the dear hands of her, 
 Knowing their touch t' have been indeed divine !
 
 14 
 
 BANNOCK BURN. 
 
 Here is the Heart of Scotland : on this plain 
 Her quivering pulse stood for a moment still 
 While in the shock of Fate she dared fulfil 
 
 Her destiny, and a nation's rank maintain. 
 
 O brother Scots ! O fellow countrymen ! 
 If standing by this shrine, ye do not thrill 
 With proud emotion — ye are bondsmen still ; 
 
 For you this battle has been fought in vain. 
 
 The charging squadrons of victorious Bruce 
 
 Toil'd here for you and me ; the light which crown'd 
 
 Their weary brows was for our common use ; 
 For us the treasures that these toilers found. 
 
 Then reverently approach, and take your shoes 
 From off your feet, for this is holy ground.
 
 15 
 
 CAMERON'S GRAVE IN AIRSMOSS. 
 
 Like a sweet incense rising to the Lord 
 From this lone altar on the moorland gray, 
 The hallovv'd memories of a bygone day 
 
 Hang over Airsmoss ; here the tyrant's sword 
 
 Made brave men martyrs, and their graves a shrine ; 
 For here the lips of those who that day bled — 
 Staining the heather to a deeper red — 
 
 Revere them, Scotland ! cherish and revere ! 
 Base is that son of thine who shuts his eyes 
 To the pure merit of that sacrifice ; 
 
 111 he deserves the freedom purchased here ! 
 
 For to this spot our country's glance should turn 
 
 As proudly as to glorious Bannockburn !
 
 i6 
 
 ON SEEING A PORTRAIT OF CLAVER- 
 
 HOUSE. 
 
 Dundee, thy calm proud face and lofty bearing 
 Dispel some fancies that had grown in me ; 
 In that clear index I can plainly see 
 
 Love of high deeds, and dreams of mighty daring, 
 
 But not one trace of cruelty appearing ; 
 This, with the thought of thy heroic death 
 Closing thy " day's darg "* with thy closing breath 
 
 For an unworthy King, would make me sparing 
 
 Of aught like censure ; but can I forget ? 
 Can I forget that Scotland links thy name 
 
 With those old cairns upon the mountain side ? 
 
 Thy hands may be blood-guiltless, yet, oh yet ! 
 I cannot love thee if I do not blame, 
 Better not judge at all ; let God decide. 
 
 * Dundee gave as his reason for leading the clans at Killiecrankie 
 that he wanted to do one "day's darg " for the King his master.
 
 i; 
 
 FLODDEN. 
 
 In a proud sorrow does fair Scotland's heart 
 
 Yearn over Flodden. Leave her with her dead : 
 Gaze not too keenly at that stricken head, 
 
 Lest once again the ready tears should start. 
 
 Behold her sitting with white lips apart, 
 And in her eyes the grief of tears unshed. 
 Like Rachel, mourning, and not comforted ; — 
 
 A sad sweet study for the sculptor's art. 
 
 But though her life be emptied of all joy, 
 
 Even now her bosom swells with a stern pride 
 
 To see them there, — the monarch from his throne, 
 
 The grayhair'd warrior, and the beardless boy, — 
 Sleeping like brothers on the mountain side : 
 
 " Till Death ! " she sighs, and knows them for her 
 own.
 
 i8 
 
 BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE. 
 
 Perchance had I been living in thy day, 
 
 O hapless Prince ! and felt the witching charm 
 And grace of thy bright presence that made warm 
 
 And quick old hopes well nigh renounc'd for aye 
 
 By many a loyal heart, — perchance, I say, 
 
 Me too the alluring thought had help'd to arm, 
 Nerv'd me to shield thy homeless head from harm. 
 
 Or for my idol dare th' impending fray. 
 
 But in the calm light of this colder day 
 With pitying eyes I see thee as thou wert. 
 
 Weak and unstable ; all unfit to play — 
 
 In the great game of crowns — a Bruce's part ; 
 Poor changeling offshoot from that Lion heart 
 
 Who struck and struck, until he cleared his way !
 
 19 
 
 KIRK-O'-FIELD. 
 
 Unhappy Darnley ! Vain, presumptuous boy ! 
 
 Thinking to bind that siren to thy side 
 
 With bonds of straw ! not thine the hands to guide ; 
 In key's thy Ufe is but a broken toy. 
 What of the night's deHghts, the amorous joy 
 
 Those sweet Hps promised ? where the dainty breast 
 
 On which a monarch royally might rest ? 
 Thou sleepest alone ; her^ other thoughts employ. 
 But hist, she comes ; wake, Darnley ! laggard, wake ! 
 
 Nay, by God's truth, those steps are none of hers ; 
 
 Not hers indeed, but of her messengers 
 Perchance with some sweet word for dear love's sake. 
 
 Ah, fatal love ! too late the slumberer stirs ; 
 For him again no earthly dawn shall break.
 
 20 
 
 ABBEY CRAIG. 
 
 The dreams that nestled in a nation's heart 
 For five long centuries, the myth-like lay 
 And floating legend of that far-off day 
 Live here in stone ; here at the hand of Art 
 Take " local habitation," and make part 
 
 Of our bright present tho' of times old and gray ; 
 And to the future from this rock will say 
 How honor'd of thy land. Great chief ! thou art. 
 'Tis well, — though 'twas not needed ; while a hill 
 In Scotland lifts its forehead to the sky — 
 While with glad voice a stream goes singing by, — 
 Ay, though hills fall, and every stream be still, 
 While one free soul lives on in proud content 
 Wallace shall never lack a monument !
 
 21 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Those things alone are great that stand the test 
 Of Time ; and only those can long endure 
 That ceaseless struggle, whose foundations sure 
 
 In some great truth or principle do rest. 
 
 All else, lacking this pillar'd strength, at most 
 Is but a nine-days' wonder, in the shock 
 
 Of changeful years irrevocably lost. 
 
 But if the house be builded on a rock — 
 
 The law be framed in justice — or if Art 
 
 Keep tune with Nature when she sings her best, 
 
 That lives ; therefore, exult, O Bard ! man's heart 
 Is beating in thy song, and while one breast — 
 
 Instinct with generous chords, on earth remains, 
 
 Twill thrill — as mine does — to thy matchless strains •
 
 22 
 
 GLENCOE. 
 
 Accursed gorge ! whose thunder-riven peaks 
 
 And storm-scarr'd sides look as if God's own hand 
 Thee to a heritage of woe had bann'd : — 
 Dread valley ! though no more the horrid shrieks 
 Of midnight murder pierce thy startled gloom ; — 
 Yet in the living pain of thy dead face 
 Some memories of the awful past we trace, 
 Its days of sorrow, and its night of doom. 
 In thy dark precincts, where no light or mirth 
 Of Nature comes, 'tis not for man to dwell ; 
 Thou shouldst be peopled with the fiends of hell 
 That wrought thy ruin ; or the outrag'd earth 
 Furious should rise, and in convulsive throe 
 Hurl to the void each vestige of Glencoe.
 
 23 
 
 JAMES HOGG, 
 (The Ettrick Shepherd). 
 
 The genial Shepherd ! full of boisterous glee 
 As any schoolboy ; dreamer of fairy dreams, — 
 Rapt wanderer by lonely glens and streams, — 
 
 More than aught else had he the making o' me. 
 
 From earliest childhood 'twas my lot to be 
 
 Charm'd with his music ; with the witching gleams 
 He caught from Elfland ; and his speech, which teems 
 
 With rustic mirthfulness, uncurb'd and free. 
 
 How like his own sweet mountain lark he seems ! 
 The homely garb, the lowly-fashioned nest, 
 Where all night long the tender parent breast 
 
 Warms to his brood ; but when the morning's beams 
 
 Arouse his soul, — on pinions swift and strong 
 
 Soaring, he seeks the realms of deathless song !
 
 24 
 
 "SHE HAS THE EYES OF BURNS." 
 
 On learning that the great-grand-daughter of Robert Burns (who 
 is said to have the poet's eyes) refused to be put on exhibition at 
 the World's Fair. 
 
 " She has the eyes of Bums," they say ; those great 
 Proud orbs of his that blazed with lofty scorn 
 When meanness woke their fires ; or teardrops (born 
 
 Of human pity), fill'd to hear narrate 
 
 Some tale of wretchedness : O priceless dower ! 
 O starlike gems a queen might yearn to gain ! 
 O noble heritage ! not given in vain 
 
 To one unconscious of their pride and power. 
 
 And much, dear girl, it pleases me to see 
 That native independence in thee dwell, 
 Which, scorning sordid gain, disdains to sell 
 
 Those matchless glances for a paltry fee : 
 This, more than accident of eyes or name, 
 Tells me whose blood is throbbing in thy frame !
 
 25 
 
 WALLACE AT STIRLING BRIDGE. 
 
 Colossal shape ! half hidden in the gloom 
 Of murky centuries, through which we strain 
 Pride-quicken'd eyes in keen attempts to gain 
 A clearer vision of the forms that loom 
 In that far distance ; pigmies in hosts are there 
 Unknown, unnoted ; but thy Godlike form 
 Towers majestic through the hurtling storm 
 Of battle : lo ! thy terrible arm is bare, 
 Dealing destruction on thy country's foes ; 
 
 With swelling hearts we view its matchless force 
 Sweep all before it in its glorious course : 
 And as the tyrant reels beneath its blows — 
 Thy visor up — almost we can descry 
 The deathless sorrow in thy steadfast eye.
 
 26 
 
 OTTERBOURNE. 
 
 Ho ! strike the harp for thriUing deeds of weir ; 
 
 Chant loud the glories of a day gone by : 
 
 Praise for the victors ! nor suppress a sigh 
 For the brave foemen that were humbled here. 
 Well are they worthy of both song and tear ! 
 
 For never on tented field where banners fly 
 
 More dauntless daring, more achievements high 
 Crown'd the stern wielders of the sword and spear. 
 
 Proud is each country of that knightly fray ! 
 
 So keen for glory, that the victor's bay 
 Scarcely will either to the other yield : 
 
 But wherefore doubt the issue of the day ? 
 
 Since England's chief was captive borne away, 
 And our dead Douglas held the hard-won field.
 
 27 
 
 HOGG. 
 
 Lift up thy radiant welcome, Scotland ! here 
 In lowly garb one of thy truest sons 
 Is bent before thee ; love of country runs 
 Not stronger in the peasant or the peer 
 Than in the heart of him thy laggard pride 
 Is slow to own. And if true love like his, 
 And the rich welling of such music is 
 Lost on thy parent ear — what cave will hide 
 The unnoticed strains my feebler spirit sings 
 For love of thee ? Insulted Coila yearns 
 To see him seated on the throne that springs 
 At the high footstool of his master, Burns ; 
 Then grant the boon, and let affection see 
 Thy ploughman and thy shepherd knee by knee !
 
 28 
 
 BLUEBELLS. 
 
 We note the standard of a nation's mind 
 
 In England's queenly rose ; it breathes of power 
 And beauty, pride, and all the generous dower 
 
 Of lavish nature, and is meet to bind 
 
 Among the tresses on a regal brow. 
 
 Strange, then, that roses only bloom for me 
 As fairest flowers ; they move me as the free 
 
 And kindling glance of beauty moves me now, 
 
 Wedded to her I love, no more ; but thou. 
 
 Bluebell ! scarce seen beside the rose, thou hast 
 
 An influence other than the short-lived glow 
 Of pencill'd petals, for the slumbering past 
 
 Wakes at thy smile, and makes me inly pine 
 
 For bonnie Scotland's hills — thy home and mine.
 
 29 
 
 GLOAMING. 
 
 The hinmaist whaup has quat his eerie skirl, 
 
 The flichtering gorcock tae his cover flown ; 
 
 Din dwines athort the muir ; the win' sae lown 
 Can scrimply gar the stey peat-reek play swirl 
 Abune the herd's auld bield, or halflins droon 
 
 The laich seep-sabbin' o' the burn doon by, 
 That deaves the corrie wi' its wilyart croon. 
 
 I wadna niffer sic a glisk — not I — 
 Here, wi' my fit on ane o' Scotland's hills, 
 
 Heather attour, and the mirk lift owre a', 
 For foreign ferly or for unco sight 
 E'er bragg'd in sang ; mair couthie joy distills 
 
 Frae this than glow'rin' on the tropic daw', 
 Or bleezin' splendours o' the norlan' nicht.
 
 30 
 
 L A N G S Y N E . 
 
 " What means Langsyne ? " oor fremit comrade spier'd, 
 Aboot the turn o' nicht when havers fail, ' 
 And some ane hinted as we raise tae skail 
 
 Tae close wi' " Auld Langsyne : " sic joy appeared 
 
 In ilka face, sae kindly grew ilk tongue ; 
 
 And as the auld dear owrecome tirl'd atween 
 Han' gruppit han' sae leal, and frae oor een 
 
 Tears fell sae fast — the lad was donart dung. 
 
 And though a' nicht his voice amang oor ain 
 Had gart the reekit rafters ring wi' glee 
 In that auld bield o' his ayont the sea, — 
 
 Yet when the Scottish hearts did loup fu' fain 
 Tae raise this chorus, little wit could see. 
 
 Be Scotsmen wha they micht, that he was nane. 
 
 " O bairn ! " quo' I, " here in your ain dear hame 
 Life snooves awa' sae cannily that ye 
 Hae nocht tae grieve for, or wad wis' tae see 
 E'er alter'd, — sae langsyne is but a name 
 Tae you and yours ; sma' differ wad it prove 
 Gin ye were tynin' what ye hae tae fin' 
 What ye hae had afore ; but tae sic men 
 As sang e'enoo — langsyne is Scotland, luve, 
 And youth ; — the land that saw them blythe as you ;
 
 Langsyne. 3 1 
 
 The lichtsome heart that they maun ken nae mair, 
 The leal bauld bairntime, free o' cark and care. 
 Sic sweets as thae, and mony mair I troo — 
 The wale o' life's few pleasures — ye maun tyne 
 Afore ye dree the weird o' ' Auld Langsyne.' "
 
 IPoems anD Sonae.
 
 35 
 
 BRUC E'S GRAVE 
 
 MOUNT ROYAL, CANADA. 
 
 BRUCE REID. 
 
 BORN 1ST MAY DIED 4TH MAY, 1 887. 
 
 Early — bright — trafisieni — chaste as vi07-ning dew. 
 He sparkled — was exhaled — a7id zvent to heaven. 
 
 Young's Night Thoughts. 
 
 Come not with stern, heroic thought, 
 
 And pride of country pulsing high, 
 Ye, whom a glorious name has caught 
 
 And stirred to ardour, passing by : 
 Banish at once the lofty dream 
 
 Engender'd as that name is told ; — 
 For brave exploits are not my theme, 
 
 Nor memories of the days of old. 
 
 Not here the sacred dust is laid 
 
 To Scotland and her sons so dear ; 
 The iron arm — the kingly head — 
 
 The dauntless heart — are far from here : 
 In his own land the hero lies, — 
 
 That greater Bruce that made us men, 
 Whose fame adds lustre to her skies, 
 
 And wakes Romance in every glen.
 
 36 Bruce's Grave. 
 
 Well might I sing each manly deed, 
 
 The furious charge — the mighty blow — 
 That turn'd the war in time of need, 
 
 And dealt destruction on the foe ; 
 For deep in every Scottish breast 
 
 The thought of these must aye abide. 
 And where a Bruce is laid to rest 
 
 Must ever thrill his soul with pride. 
 
 But, with each patriot impulse check'd. 
 
 And every stormful thought put by. 
 Approach this little grave, bedeck'd 
 
 With flowers, and breathe a tender sigh ; 
 For purity of life may claim — 
 
 As well as force — memorial tear ; 
 And on the blazing scroll of fame 
 
 None purer shows than ended here. 
 
 'Twas but a little waif of Time 
 
 The wind blew darkling to our door. 
 Round-wrapt with love from some sweet clime, 
 
 And beauty from the Shining Shore ; 
 But while we look'd, and long'd to keep 
 
 The wondrous stranger for our own 
 The little life had pass'd to sleep. 
 
 And with it all our hopes had flown. 
 
 Sleep soft, beloved ! O sweetly rest, 
 
 Unvexed by any evil dream ; 
 A little lamb on Christ's own breast, 
 
 Transfigur'd in th' Eternal beam !
 
 Bruce s Grave. 37 
 
 How could I, even in my grief, 
 
 Begrudge thee to those circling arms 
 
 That gave thy tender soul relief 
 From life, and all its vague alarms ? 
 
 Now lost alike to hands of thine 
 
 Are all earth's paltry tools and toys ; 
 Enough for them the flowers to twine, 
 
 And pluck the buds of Paradise : 
 And those wee feet, that could not climb 
 
 The heather hills thy fathers' trod — 
 Ah ! they have scal'd the clifls sublime 
 
 That tower around the throne of God.
 
 38 
 
 TO MEMORY. 
 
 The age of miracle will never end. 
 
 There is a wonder-worker with me now. 
 
 Whose feats would raise no blush upon the brow 
 Of old-time conjurors — nay, rather lend 
 An unclaim'd lustre to each mystic crown. 
 
 IV/iaf am he do ? He cannot walk through fire 
 Unharm'd, nor bring the lightning down 
 
 Upon the altar of my soul's desire ; 
 Nor smite the rock and bid the water flow ; 
 Nor ever stay the sun and moon, that go 
 
 Chasing each other through the boundless blue — 
 Lover and lov'd, that never can embrace. 
 
 Forever hopeless, but forever true, 
 And she with all his passion on her face. 
 
 But other powers there be : what have I done, 
 Or seen, or felt, or for a moment thought, 
 That I could wish another moment brought 
 
 Back from the greedy, whelming streams that run 
 
 Forever onward through the gloomy land 
 Forgetfulness, into the sea of Death ? 
 
 O then arise, and with thy magic wand 
 
 (Spirit, or sprite, or what thou wilt, that hath
 
 To Mejjiory. 39 
 
 Thy home within me) — with thy magic wand 
 Upon the banks of Time's swift river stand, 
 
 And, at my bidding, bid the rushing waves 
 Roll back, and show me what their depths contain, 
 
 Bitter or sweet — whate'er my fancy craves — 
 One moment bare it to my gaze again ! 
 
 What is it I desire ? What should it be — 
 
 Exiled from all I love — but to behold 
 
 The smiles that I have seen so oft of old 
 Upon the faces that are dear to me ? 
 I will, and it is done. O wondrous power ! 
 
 What glamour is Hke thine ? what fancy spell 
 In home's sweet circle for a happy hour 
 
 Could on the instant take me thus to dwell ? 
 The present fades, the city is no more ; 
 In the dim past I tread another shore : 
 
 The scent of heather from the breezy hill, 
 And carol of the wild bird, fills the day ; 
 
 While looks of love my soul with rapture fill, 
 And kindly words, — too soon to die away. 
 
 What, gone already ! Art thou gone so soon. 
 Bright vision of the well-remember'd past 
 That brought me pleasure all too deep to last ? 
 
 How quickly was thy soul-bewitching boon 
 
 Withdrawn ! — as quickly as it came it went ; 
 But I have that within me that can lure 
 
 Thee back again, therefore I am content, — 
 Nay, not content — for thou wilt not endure.
 
 40 To Memory. 
 
 O wizard, thou art mighty, but, alas ! 
 
 Thy might has hmits, and thy wonders pass ; 
 
 And with a sigh I turn from thee to list 
 Hope's voice soft-stealing on my charmed ear, 
 
 Whose whispers hint that I shall yet be blest 
 In seeing all I sit and dream of here.
 
 41 
 
 SONG— COME AND WOO 
 
 A TOWMOND back, abune Bonaw, 
 
 When lint was in the bell, 
 I heard a bonnie lauchin' lassie 
 
 Singin' to hersel ; 
 
 Singin' to hersel sae sweet, 
 I trow she kentna hoo ; 
 
 I leuch to hear the kind invite 
 She gied the lads to woo. 
 
 " The laverock seeks the yird," quo' she, 
 
 " When e'enin' shadows fa'. 
 And close beside his chirpin' dearie 
 
 Dreams the nicht awa' ; 
 
 Dreams the nicht awa' sae sweet. 
 They watna how it flew. 
 
 Then, laddie, tak' the laverock's time, 
 Oh come at e'en and woo ! " 
 
 A towmond back, abune Bonaw, 
 
 Afore the nicht was gane, 
 I row'd her in my tartan plaidie, 
 
 Ca'in' her my ain ;
 
 42 Come and Woo. 
 
 Ca'in' her my ain, sae sweet, 
 She couldna think to rue, 
 
 But aye at ilka smack she speir'd 
 Hoo I cam' there to woo ? 
 
 " The laverock seeks the yird," quo' I, 
 
 " When gloamin' skies are grey, 
 For there he hears his chirpin' dearie 
 
 Chidin' his delay ; 
 
 Chidin' his delay, sae sweet. 
 Just as I listen't you 
 
 Amang the birks abuiie Bonaw, 
 When singin' " Come and woo ! "
 
 43 
 
 DEDICATION.— TO JOHN MATHIESON 
 
 REID. 
 
 Short syne, in the gray o' the dawin', 
 
 Or Wanlock had opent its een, 
 When barely a muircock was crawin', 
 
 And never a whaup tae be seen ; 
 When even the laverock was sleepin' 
 
 Abune the burn heids I gade through, 
 And ilka bit fitroad was dreepin'- 
 
 And drookit wi' dew, — 
 
 I gethert a hamely wee posie 
 
 O' a' the hill blossoms in prime, 
 And buskit it trigly and cozy 
 
 Wi' orra bit ravlins o' rhyme : 
 And kennin that ocht frae that quarter 
 
 Wad gledden yer heart thro' and thro', 
 I yoked wi' the Musie and gart her 
 
 Address it tae you. 
 
 Some bards get their sangs dedicated 
 Tae big folk, tae gie them a heeze. 
 
 But gyte wad I be gin I waited 
 Till big folk took notice o' these —
 
 44 To John MatJiieson Reid. 
 
 Wauf glisks o' the muirlan' and mountain, 
 
 Odd blinks o' the corrie and glen ; 
 It's little on favours I'm countin' 
 
 For these frae sic men. 
 
 Their coach rumbles on owre the highway, 
 
 And little its occupants care 
 What ferlies may lirk in ilk byeway 
 
 That leads tae the moss and the muir ; 
 What lilts o' the laverock and linty, 
 
 What perfume o' brier and broom, 
 What wiels the wee burn popples intae — 
 
 Ne'er fashes their thoom. 
 
 But you that were bred amang heather, 
 
 A bird o' the muirs like mysel' — 
 And aften hae roved them tae gether 
 
 The primrose and bonnie blue-bell : 
 Ye ken the lane scene o' ilk ditty, 
 
 Glengaber, Necony, Glencrieve — 
 And far in the reek-ridden city 
 
 Betimes ye may grieve 
 
 For a lown cannie oor in the gloamin' 
 
 Tae breathe the sweet air o' the glens. 
 And listen the mavis while roamin' 
 
 Away amang fairy-like dens : 
 And sae tae mak' short wi' your grievin', 
 
 As far as sic substitute gangs, 
 I send you this wab o' my weavin' — 
 
 This posie o' sangs.
 
 To John Matliieson Reid. 45 
 
 And gin the wild ring o' their measure 
 
 But wauken a thocht in your min' 
 O' the days when we feastit on pleasure 
 
 I've ne'er kent the like o' sinsyne : 
 Gin Wanlock be onything dearer 
 
 For ocht I hae mintit or sung, 
 And heather and bracken he nearer 
 
 Your heart and your tongue : 
 
 Gin the bonnie green howms o' the Mennock 
 
 But ance in the fancy ye see, 
 Or rest by the linn o' Petrennock 
 
 Heart-eased wi' its auld-warl' glee : — 
 Thir sangs o' mine bauldly may shaw them 
 
 Though learned folk lichtly them sair : 
 What care I though critics misca' them ? 
 
 I ettlet nae mair.
 
 46 
 
 WANLOCK. 
 
 Did ye ever hear tell o' a lanely wee toon, 
 Far hid amang hills o' the heather sae broon, 
 Wi' its hooses reel-rail, keekin' oot at ilk turn, 
 Like an ill-cuisten crap in the howe o' the burn ; 
 Ane here and ane there, wi' a fit road atween, 
 In the daftest construction that ever was seen ? 
 
 O there the cauld winter first comes wi' his snaw, 
 And he likes it sae weel that he's laith tae gae 'wa ; 
 For there's three months o' bluister tae ilk ane o' sun, 
 And the dour nippin' cranreuch's maist aye on the grun' : 
 Ay, whyles the corn's green in the lallans, they say, 
 Or the hinmaist snaw-wreath dwines awa' on the brae. 
 
 Frae mornin' till nicht ye wad tentily gang, 
 And no hear the cheep o' a hedge-sparrow's sang, 
 Nae merle at e'enin' his melody starts 
 Tae wauken the dream in the lassies' bit hearts. 
 But a corbie's maybe, or some ither as stoor, 
 Comes by wi' a wauf o' the win' frae the muir. 
 
 Then for flow'rs and sicklike, there's juist no sic a thing, 
 Except a wheen gowans a while in the spring ;
 
 Wanlock. 47 
 
 And the twa-three bit busses the bodies ca' trees 
 Hae an auld-farrant look as they bend in the breeze, 
 And scarce want the gift o' the gab tae proclaim 
 They reckon this solitude ocht but their hame. 
 
 But, dod, for a' that its a wonderfu' toon. 
 There's hardly the like o't for parishes roon ; 
 Though far frae a' neebors, and stannin' its lane, 
 Like a mitherless laddie left oot in the rain. 
 Ye'd open yer een, like a gled's tae the mune. 
 Gin ye kent a' the uncos its offspring hae dune. 
 
 For the chiels are as likely a set as ye'd meet 
 
 Frae the muir and the glen tae the square and the street ; 
 
 Big, buirdly, and bauld, like the hills o' their hame, 
 
 And no cruppen doon wi' inherited shame ; 
 
 But gaun frae the knee tae their grave in the glen, 
 
 Like their faithers afore them, the vvalins o' men. 
 
 And the lassies — preserve us ! Fm fleyt tae begin, 
 Lest ony auld carles, wi' prejudice blin', 
 Should ever but hint sic anither wee place 
 Could brag o' sic beauties in figure and face : 
 Sae winsome and backward they were, for ye ken 
 That a' things were backward up there — but the men. 
 
 And 'deed, when I think on't, this very complaint 
 Was hkely eneuch the best frien' that they kent, 
 For in love or in war the maist likely tae speed 
 Is the ane that first raxes for what he may need ; 
 A laggard in poortith a lifetime may dwell. 
 But Providence helps him that's guid tae himsel'. 
 
 4
 
 48 Wanlock. 
 
 And let a' the virtues beside it be theirs, 
 'Twas weel eneuch kent o' thir men o' the niuirs, 
 That blateness or backwardness ne'er Avas the thing 
 That keepit them quate when a ploy was in swing ; 
 They'd face up tae onything comin' tae han', 
 And fecht for the brag wi' the best in the Ian'. 
 
 For instance, I've heard o' a parish quite near 
 That keepit the causey at curlin' ae year, 
 And, tired o' defeatin' a' comers ablow. 
 Were braggin' o' gaun tae the mune for a foe, 
 When some ane suggested the victors suld try 
 A bout wi' the lads o' the muirlan' gaun by. 
 
 They did, and the consequence was that they fun' 
 They were matcht withoot gaun tae sic far-awa' grun ; 
 For they left the heich kintra far sadder, we ken, 
 And wiser, we howp, than they cam' tae the glen, 
 Wi' their prood Suthron hearts like tae loup frae the shawp, 
 And their fine balloon journey a' knockit tae jaup. 
 
 And that's but a swatch o' the plaiks that they play — 
 
 Be it curlin' or quoitin' they carena a strae : 
 
 In city or kintra their marrows are few 
 
 At ocht that'll bring the reid blude tae the broo ; 
 
 And he that wad twine the free saul tae his will 
 
 Maun alter his thochts o' the men o' the hill. 
 
 And that's no the best o't — for nae bit I've been 
 Sic hamely, intelligent faces are seen : 
 Sae little they ken o' the ill warl's ways
 
 Wanlock. 49 
 
 That happiness lies like a dream on the braes ; 
 And the lown cannie life o' the muirlan' gangs by, 
 The bud that will blossom or lang in the sky. 
 
 And better than that — if a better could be — 
 That howe in the heather is a' things tae me ; 
 For there I first lookt on the licht o' the day, 
 Pree'd the first cup o' pleasure unmingled wi' wae, 
 And slum'd through the years o' my bairntime in glee, 
 As bhthe as the linty that chirm'd on the lea. 
 
 There, tae, the first whisper o' heaven did start. 
 When the gowd dream o' love creepit in on my heart, 
 And there on the wild heather mountain I roved 
 Wi' the frien' o' my choice, like a lassie beloved ; 
 But the tane is forgotten, the tither has fled, 
 And a Hcht less will glint on the muirlan' than did. 
 
 But O ! there are plenty tae welcome me still 
 When I follow my heart tae its hame on the hill ; 
 Leal looks frae the auld, and kind words frae the young, 
 And the grup o' the han', that says mair than the tongue; 
 And mony blithe memories wauken in me 
 Whenever the bloom on the heather I see. 
 
 Ye powers that can see through the maskins o' men, 
 Gin this be a lee, or the contrar' ye ken, 
 That never by mountain or valley hae I 
 .Sic glimpses o' gladness and stounins o' joy, 
 Nae happiness ever beguiles me sae pure 
 As I pree when the gloamin' comes doon on the muir.
 
 50 Wanlock. 
 
 Sangs tell aboot Yarrow and Boon's bonny braes, 
 The Luggie rows saft in that measure o' Gray's ; 
 Frae Tweed tae the Beauly there's hardly a glen 
 But brags it has minstrels and rhymes o' its ain : 
 Yet here's a wee toon never named in their glee, 
 That's mair than them a' put thegither tae me.
 
 51 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE MOOR. 
 
 MORTAL. 
 
 Whither so fast, fair wilding of the mountain ? 
 
 'Tis late for such as thou to wander here, 
 Unguarded, by the lonely wizard fountain 
 
 That bubbles in the moonlight cool and clear : 
 This is no place to tryst with ardent lover, 
 
 And listen vows, enraptured though they be ; 
 A sweeter spot would thoughtful love discover 
 
 To pass the mellow gloaming hour with thee. 
 Hath night enwrapt thy maiden soul in glamour, 
 
 That thou shouldst linger here beneath the moon, 
 Where plovers' wail and curlews' ceaseless clamour 
 
 Do mar the solemn midnight's soothing boon ? 
 If so — a kindred spell hath surely won me 
 
 To gaze upon thy beauteous form, that seems. 
 With the pale moonbeam raining glory on thee, 
 
 Th' inspiring muse of my poetic dreams. 
 Were not the days of faery dead for ever 
 
 I'd look for elfin vassals by thy side. 
 For ne'er on heath or holt, by wood or river. 
 
 Have I beheld such comeliness and pride. 
 Bright eyes that thrill my being with their brightness, 
 
 Long locks that flutter freely in the wind,
 
 52 TJie Spirit of the Moor. 
 
 A foot whose firmest step in airy lightness, — 
 
 All speak a spirit bountiful and kind : 
 Then, if as frank as thou art fair of feature, 
 
 One kiss — I ask it here on bended knee — 
 The pass-word of a kindly, common nature, 
 
 A bond of mortal faith 'tween thee and me ! 
 We meet upon the mountain wild and lonely 
 
 That never met before on hill or plain, 
 Thou fair — I fearless — grant me this, this only, 
 
 One little kiss and then we part again ! 
 
 SPIRIT, 
 
 We meet upon the mountain wild and lonely 
 
 That never met before on hill or plain ; 
 Yet think not that we meet to part, and only 
 
 This kiss shall be for aye between us twain. 
 Beneath these stars that stud the vault of heaven 
 
 Long have I sought a soul to mate with mine ; 
 At length unto my weary search is given 
 
 The bliss that makes mortality divine. 
 Is it not writ in answer to my prayer 
 
 " The first whose voice ye listen is your lord ; 
 Shun him that fears, he is a false betrayer. 
 
 But take the dauntless mortal at his word." 
 Men come and go upon this lonely mountain, 
 
 I meet them in the silence and the gloom ; 
 But one by one they turn them from the fountain, 
 
 And I am left alone to wail my doom : 
 These eyes that strike within and heat thy being 
 
 Have terrors for thy mates of lesser mould ;
 
 TJie Spirit of tlic Moor. 53 
 
 The earthly drags who turn about and fleeing 
 
 Go back into their trammels and their gold ; 
 Who could not nerve their courage to the stature 
 
 That shrinks not in the company of gods, 
 But crippled from the partial hand of nature 
 
 Break into dust at death like parched clods. 
 But thou in manly guise and godly spirit, 
 
 Far other future looms ahead for thee ; 
 A nameless dower of bliss thou shalt inherit, 
 
 Shower'd down upon the barren moor by me. 
 Yet shrink not — I am little more than mortal, 
 
 Press that soft hand, or kiss that softer brow ; 
 Thy faltering soul is at Elysium's portal. 
 
 Say will it muster heart and enter now ? 
 
 MORTAL. 
 
 A spell is on me, viewless bands enthrall me. 
 
 The grosser world is passing from my ken ; 
 In the far ether fairy voices call me. 
 
 Ethereal music fills the lonely glen : 
 Sweet maid, I can but stand apart and wonder, 
 
 I know not what to think of this or thee ; 
 Some charm hath rent forbidden things in sunder, 
 
 Or touched the iris of my sight to see. 
 A little while — and this bare stretch of mountain 
 
 Was cold beneath the moon's unwarming ray, 
 And, as I thought, beside the wizard fountain 
 
 Two mortals met upon a lonely way. 
 The beauty of the one had nerved the other 
 
 To crave the favour of affection's boon —
 
 54 The Spirit of the Moor. 
 
 The chaste kiss of a sister to a brother, 
 
 Given by the sanction of the maiden moon. 
 But now the mist that dimm'd my gaze is lifted, 
 
 I see thee in thy weirdly robes arrayed. 
 With beauty wild and wondrous glamour gifted, 
 
 The living semblance of a fairy maid. 
 I see thee thus : I who can show no token 
 
 That earthly love will evermore be mine ; 
 The tie that binds me to the world is broken, 
 
 I feel in spirit I am only thine. 
 I bow before the eyes that so enthrall me, 
 
 I yield thee all the future I can claim ; 
 Tell me, sweet lady, what my tongue may call thee, 
 
 That on my heart it may impress thy name. 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 I gently pass among the whispering bracken 
 
 That toss their tresses in the morning wind ; 
 I float along the curlew's call, and waken 
 
 An echo of it in thy musing mind : 
 I touch thee in the breeze that sweeps the mountain, 
 
 I kiss thee in the mist that clasps the glen, 
 I murmur to thee in the lonely fountain 
 
 That bubbles in the wild, remote from men. 
 There is no sight or sound in all the many 
 
 That long have led thee to these lonely ways, 
 Whether thy fancy rove through hollows fenny. 
 
 Or seek the sunshine of the upper braes — 
 But doth the charm that thrills thy kindred spirit 
 
 And holds its silent worship firm and sure,
 
 TJie Spirit of the Moor. 55 
 
 In all its weird variety inherit 
 
 From me, the spirit of the lonely moor. 
 Long have I watched the simple fondness growing 
 
 That shows the flower of love now owned by thee, 
 While I, unseen, the chosen seeds was sowing. 
 
 Whose blossom bourgeons out so fair to see. 
 And never yet hath mortal maid enchanted 
 
 Her chosen champion with bliss so rare, 
 As to the heart of him is freely granted 
 
 Who lives the spirit's moorland life to share. 
 I'll still be with thee, quickening into motion 
 
 The tides of song that leap in light and glee ; 
 Enough if, answering to my warm devotion. 
 
 The murmur of these tides doth breathe of me.
 
 56 
 
 KILMENY'S WARNING. 
 
 I FERLIED aft that wit and will 
 
 Suld smoor aneth the gruesome grave, 
 
 And hoo nae crank o' mortal skill 
 This deidly weird could save. 
 
 And whiles I thocht some baulder wing 
 Micht cleave the mirk and come again, 
 
 Wi' posies o' the floors that spring 
 Ayont the midnicht main. 
 
 Sae lang this howp my heart had fill'd. 
 That howp a demon passion grew ; 
 
 And late and air I socht and thrill'd 
 Tae pruve my fancy true. 
 
 And pangt wi' fowth o' fearsome lair, 
 I wrocht wi' candle, book, and bell ; 
 
 Nae moil was hain'd that I could wair 
 Tae work the faery spell. 
 
 But ane by ane ilk rede was thrawn, 
 The wab I warpit wadna weave ; 
 
 And fient an icker rowthly sawn 
 Cam' stowlins tae the sieve.
 
 Kihneny's Wartiing. 57 
 
 Then tae the airts I Ijann't the book, 
 
 And oot I sten't in thrawart dule, 
 Tae streak me in some lanesome neuk, 
 
 And geek at fate, and snool. 
 
 Or, aibhns, doon the jinkin' burn, 
 I'd dauner when the mune was fu', 
 
 Where halflin swankies bhthely turn 
 Tae sport wi' them they lo'e. 
 
 And this I lo'ed and grient tae grip, 
 
 Cam' never till the sun was low ; 
 Nor or the whitely mune was up, 
 
 And a' was lown ablow. 
 
 Syne in the toom or dernest shaw, 
 
 Through a' the eerie oors o' e'en, 
 I'd watch until the mornin' daw 
 
 Tae see the fatal green. 
 
 to' 
 
 But never glisk o' faery face. 
 
 Nor morrice dance, nor witchin' spell, 
 Could I wi' a' my watchin' trace 
 
 But this that noo I tell. 
 
 And suld the ferlie seem to some 
 Nocht better than a daffin' skair, 
 
 It maksna, since the voice will come 
 Amang oor glens nae mair.
 
 58 Kilmeny's Warning. 
 
 Yestreen, when a' my darg was dune, 
 And cankert care had loot me be, 
 
 I left yon waukrife, wastlin' toon, 
 Kilmeny's grave tae see. 
 
 Sae lown a gloamin' seldom creeps 
 Atween the darkness and the day. 
 
 Sic eldritch light but seldom steeps 
 The warlock's eerie brae. 
 
 By this I guess'd that verra nicht 
 The morrice wad be danced again, 
 
 And ettled weal tae see the sicht 
 Kilmeny saw alane. 
 
 The lift, a' whaur the sun had fa'n, 
 Was reider than the burstit rose. 
 
 Though east and wast thegither drawn 
 Begoud in murk tae close. 
 
 Yon hill, athort its yethert broo, 
 Yet woo't the glint sae wae tae lea', 
 
 And doon this dowie hollow threw 
 Its shade on burn and tree. 
 
 Lane muirlan' music fillt the air — 
 Sae sweet tae me, that seldom heard 
 
 But orra liltins here and there 
 O' lamb, or bee, or bird.
 
 Kihneny's Warning. 59 
 
 On ilka cairn the lintie sang, 
 
 Frae spretty cleuchs the grey curlew, 
 
 And wilyart muircocks birr'd alang. 
 And clapp'd their wings, and crew. 
 
 I couldna lowse the witchin' spell 
 The time and place thegither brung. 
 
 It seem't the verra scene itsel' 
 The shepherd poet sung. 
 
 Sae there, aneth the hoary haw. 
 And as the win' was lownin' doon, 
 
 And gloamin' had begoud to draw 
 A rowk owre sicht and soun', 
 
 I lay and croon't the bonnie sang — 
 Hoo sweet Kilmeny left her hame, 
 
 And hoo her minny grat sae lang 
 Tae see her clear o' blame. 
 
 Sma' need had I tae spell and glow'r ; 
 
 It's lang sin' first it drew my min', 
 And aft I've rhymed it owre and owre 
 
 In mony a glen sin' syne. 
 
 The glamour't lass — the minny's dule — 
 
 The aftercome — I min't it a' ; 
 And thocht cam' thick as drift at Yule 
 
 Aneth that hoary haw ;
 
 6o Kilmeny's Warning. 
 
 Till ane by ane ilk sicht and soun' 
 Turn'd unco tae my dwaumin' brain, 
 
 And licht and landscape grew aroun' 
 O' ither warlds again. 
 
 Here where the mawkin, houn'd wi' fear, 
 Gaed like a glouf the bracken through. 
 
 Uncanny feet begoud tae steer, 
 And cantrip din tae brew ; 
 
 An awsome wecht o' nameless dreid 
 Cam' like a mist attour my ken, 
 
 And aft I win't tae break this threid 
 O' craft and breathe again ; 
 
 Till, pile by pile, on howm and hill. 
 
 The soughin' sprett took maik and tongue, 
 
 And in the gloamin' lown and shill 
 This elfish lay was sung : — 
 
 " Alake ! alake ! sair weird tae dree 
 Has he that wons the w'arlock's name ; 
 
 The licht o' life maun quat his ee, 
 The look o' yird his frame. 
 
 "His heart maun shrivel like a threid 
 That's held abune the ingle lowe. 
 
 And warplet roon' wi' en'less dreid 
 His donart senses row.
 
 Kilmeny's Warning. 6i 
 
 " Men wat the land o' thocht is fair, 
 And fain wad lichtly come and gang, 
 
 Yet reckna o' the waefu' care 
 Oor ilka joy maun stang. 
 
 " Ne'er was a rose withoot a brier — 
 The bonnier floo'r the faircer thorn — 
 
 For ilk guffaw some waefu' tear 
 Maun fa' afore the morn. 
 
 " Then haud by what ye hae tae tyne — 
 Haud weel by it, and want nae mair ; 
 
 Ye'd aiblins rue fu' soothly syne 
 Ye meddl't warlocks' ware."
 
 62 
 
 STORM-STED. 
 
 'TwAS twal o'clock — a gurly nicht — 
 
 The shilpit mune rade high, 
 Deep-wadin' through a scoury brugh 
 
 Wi' no a starnie by ; 
 Atween and Wanlock hills the snaw 
 
 Gade swirlin' by like stoure, 
 And like a spell its glamour fell 
 
 Athort the mirksome muir. 
 A' efternune the feathery flecks 
 
 Cam' flichterin' through the air, 
 Wi' scarce a wauf o' win' tae drift 
 
 The whiteness here nor there ; 
 But or the blude reid sun had fa'n 
 
 x\neth Glengaber's broo, 
 A norlan' blast begoud tae blaw 
 
 Wad chill't ye thro' and thro', 
 And as I barr't the ootmaist door, 
 
 And hapt me fiel and warm, 
 I maistly grat that ane I lo'ed 
 
 Micht still be in the storm. 
 
 But no — I kent that couldna be. 
 
 The wild sea sail was by. 
 My lang-lost lad was safe on shore, 
 
 His vessel high and dry.
 
 Storm-Sted. 63 
 
 Twa days at maist wad join the hearts 
 
 That Providence had spared 
 Tae pree a wee sowp o' the joy 
 
 That's \vi' the Hchtsome shared : 
 Twa wee short days — sune micht they sHp ! 
 
 A' days were lang tae me 
 That lay atween my langin' airms, 
 
 Davy lad, and thee. 
 
 The day ne'er broke I didna miss 
 
 Your fit beside the streams, 
 And ilka nicht wi' hungry lip 
 
 1 kist ye in my dreams. 
 
 But sune the weary oors wad pass 
 
 That keepit us in pain, 
 And big wi' thocht o' comin' joy 
 
 My heart bude greet again. 
 
 But wheesht ! what waefu' cry was that 
 
 Blawn in frae yont the hill, 
 When the wild storm had lown't a blink, 
 
 And a' the glen was still ? 
 It soundit like the eerie maen 
 
 O' some half-waukent thing 
 Shot — or the dour blude at the heart 
 
 Could nerve its brain tae spring ; 
 A wild lost yaumer fleein' far 
 
 Afore the sabbin' blast, 
 And drappin' nameless dreid like dew 
 
 On ilka thing it past. 
 Far i' the glen lichts fired at ance 
 
 And heids cam oot tae hear 
 
 5
 
 64 Storm- Sted. 
 
 Gin neebors heard the waefu' cry 
 That fiUt theirsels wi' fear ; 
 
 And ane by ane they ferUed there 
 What that sad wail could be 
 
 That shook their hearts wi' tremblin' 
 As the tempest shakes the tree. 
 
 Again — my God ! a human voice 
 
 In agony and fear — 
 A human voice — it took nae skill 
 
 The mournfu' truth tae hear. 
 Abune the roarin' o' the blast 
 
 The voice cam lood and shill, 
 Some nichtit traveller, storm-sted, 
 
 Was lairt ayont the hill. 
 Lichts sune were got, and bauld men oot, 
 
 But a' their skill was vain ; 
 They listent laigh and gleg, and socht 
 
 By hill and stream and plain ; 
 But never mair they heard the voice 
 
 Had thrillt them tae the core. 
 And ane by ane they a' returned 
 
 Forjeskit frae the muir. 
 And then we kent the ruthless snaw 
 
 Had smoort him bye oor ken, 
 And there he'd lie until the Spring 
 
 Had cleart the driftit glen. 
 
 The snaw lay lang that weary year. 
 But lang afore it thow'd
 
 Storvi-Sted. 65 
 
 I kent the name o' him that lay 
 
 Aneth its spotless shroud : 
 Days past and Davy camena— days 
 
 O' fearsome thocht tae me, 
 And ilka ane that broke I wist 
 
 Micht be the last I'd see : 
 I couldna bide in hoose or hauld, 
 
 But wandert far and near, 
 And prayt wi' a' my heart tae God 
 
 That Spring wad but appear, 
 That I micht see ance mair the lad 
 
 That thol't sae sair for me. 
 And lay him i' the raools where I 
 
 Hae howp sae sune to be : 
 The auld kirkyaird ayont the burn 
 
 Where e'enin' shadows fa'. 
 And nicht is never rent in twain 
 
 Wi' voices through the snaw. 
 
 O God, that gart the tempest blaw 
 
 That wrocht sae muckle wae, 
 At the lown turnin' o' the nicht 
 
 I come ance mair tae pray. 
 Sair hast Thou strucken, but Thy wrath 
 
 Wi' patient heart I bide, 
 And tae the chastenin' o' Thy rod 
 
 I turn my waukit side. 
 This bonnie warld o' Thine has tint 
 
 The licht that made it braw, 
 And fain wad I relinquish it 
 
 For him that's noo awa'.
 
 66 Storm-Sted. 
 
 Tak' me but tae him or the snaw 
 
 Brings back the thochts o' pain 
 That rise whene'er I see the hills 
 
 In Winter's garb again ; 
 Tak' me where nevermair the snaw 
 
 '111 smoor my comin' bliss, 
 And ither warlds maun yield the joy 
 
 I never kent in this !
 
 67 
 
 TO MY MOTHER 
 
 (after father's death). 
 
 How blythe it was in Wanlock, when summer skies were 
 
 fair! 
 How sweet to roam the Wanlock hills when those we 
 
 lov'd were there ! 
 Now skies are cold, and hills are bare, and those we 
 
 lov'd are gone ; 
 And Oh, 'tis sad in Wanlock, for those that sit alone. 
 
 To sit alone in Wanlock, when all its charm has fled, 
 To think upon the happy days that all too swiftly sped ; 
 Hath life a sadder thought than this — borne in on heart 
 
 and brain — 
 That things have been in Wanlock, that ne'er will be 
 
 again ? 
 
 Oh ! ne'er again in Wanlock, beneath the old roof-tree, 
 Can such a season come to us, so full of life and glee ; 
 No more, in undiminish'd strength, we'll gather proudly 
 
 there — 
 That joyous board in Wanlock has now a vacant chair.
 
 68 To My Mother. 
 
 A vacant chair in Wanlock, that never can be fiU'd, 
 A noble presence gone for aye, a voice for ever still'd ; 
 Death's dismal shadow lies across the threshold of that 
 
 door 
 That stood so wide in Wanlock, to welcome us of yore. 
 
 To. welcome us in Wanlock, how eager were those eyes 
 
 That now are closed to earthly things, and ope but in 
 the skies ! 
 
 How kind the manly voice of him that bade the wan- 
 derers come 
 
 Back to his hearth in Wanlock, their childhood's happy 
 home ! 
 
 That happy home in Wanlock — where are its inmates 
 
 now? 
 In other lands they're wandering, with sadness on each 
 
 brow ; 
 The gloom that shrouds that homestead o'er is in each 
 
 heart as well, 
 And far away from Wanlock, it is their lot to dwell. 
 
 But far away from Wanlock, and parted though we be. 
 There's still a tie that binds us to the home of infancy ; 
 Though something of the charm hath pass'd that grac'd 
 
 each stream and hill, 
 Oh, lonely glen of Wanlock, our hearts are with you still! 
 
 And, Mother dear, in Wanlock, thy presence is the spell 
 That draws our hearts to those old hills we long have 
 known so well ;
 
 To My Mother. 69 
 
 The memories of the vanish'd days, the dreams of those 
 
 to be, 
 And all that hallows Wanlock, are centred now on thee. 
 
 The spring will come to Wanlock as in the years gone by, 
 
 And smiling summer clothe in beauty moor and moun- 
 tain high, 
 
 The heather's bursting blooms will fling their fragrance 
 on the air — 
 
 But what were these, or Wanlock, if thou wert wantmg 
 there ? 
 
 Be strong ! sad heart in Wanlock, thou mourn'st the 
 
 happy past ; 
 Be happy ! knowing Love will tend thee fondly to the 
 
 last; 
 God send His peace to comfort thee, and cheer thee 
 
 with our love, 
 Till that dark day for Wanlock, when thou art call'd 
 
 above !
 
 'O 
 
 KATIE'S WELL. 
 
 [A small spring of crystalline purity in the lonely Pass of Enter- 
 kin, well known to the natives of these parts, and easily discovered 
 by any strangers who may essay to climb its rugged but not un- 
 lovely braes.] 
 
 O Katie, but thy lips are sweet ! 
 
 Their caller touch is life tae me, 
 As, feckless in this mochy heat, 
 
 I bide a blink tae rest by thee. 
 
 Wow, but the braes are dour tae spiel ; 
 
 And what wi' loupin' hags and burns, 
 It's richt weel pleased I am tae kneel 
 
 Beside thee till my breath returns. 
 
 And restin' here tae feel the calm 
 
 O' this lown glen come owre my min', 
 
 While memory lea's me in a dwaum, 
 Wi' gowden glints frae auld lang syne. 
 
 For, Katie, I am muirlan' born 
 
 And muirlan' bred juist like thysel'. 
 
 And mony a time I've seen the morn 
 Breck bonnie ower this lanesome fell.
 
 Katies Well. 71 
 
 And gin the gift o' speech were thine, 
 
 It's mair than joyfu' I wad be 
 Tae streik me in the warm sunshine 
 
 And nifFer canny cracks wi' thee. 
 
 What wondrous tales I then micht hear, 
 Tales that my heart is wae tae tyne, 
 
 O' fairies linkin' blithely here, 
 
 And skirlin' in the clear muneshine ! 
 
 What trysts o' lovers — ages deid — 
 Were held aside this glistenin' stream, 
 
 Whase liquid wimplin' row'd a threid 
 
 O' glamour through their thochtless dream ! 
 
 What getherin's at the mirk o' nichts, 
 
 When mune and sterns were smoort or dim, 
 
 And a' the misty muirlan' hichts 
 
 Were quiverin' wi' the martyrs' hymn ! 
 
 What cheeks, wi' different passions fired, 
 Hae cule't them in thy crystal wave ! 
 
 What hearts that reach'd thee wauf and tired 
 Turn'd at thy simple magic brave ! 
 
 Wha kens but Peden's haly lip, 
 
 Or black M'Michael's bearded mou', 
 
 At times may hae been fain tae dip 
 
 Where mine but gethert strength enow ?
 
 72 Katie's Well. 
 
 Or, sin' thy sweets are free as grace, 
 E'en Clavers may hae lichtit doon, 
 
 Het frae some cantrip deevil's chase, 
 And gledly quafft thy proffert boon ! 
 
 Nae choice has thou o' hynde or peer, 
 Or gude or ill thou walest nane ; 
 
 A' lips that thirst are welcome here, 
 And free tae mak' thy walth their ain. 
 
 Herds on the hills, sin' time was young, 
 Hae shared their mid-day meals wi' thee. 
 
 And mixed the music o' their tongue 
 Wi' thy laich croon and en'less glee. 
 
 Nor art thou kind tae man alane. 
 For ither voices lilt thy praise, 
 
 And ither tongues as blythe's my ain 
 Aye roose ye tae the listenin' braes. 
 
 For scores o' lambs hae left the hill 
 The freshness o' thy stream tae share ; 
 
 And coontless birds hae drunk their fill, 
 And still there's rowth for mony mair. 
 
 O winsome well that rins sae clear 
 In this far-hid, unheard-o' glen ! 
 
 'Twas Heaven alane that prankt thee here. 
 Sic gift nae ither han' could sen'.
 
 Katie's Well. y- 
 
 And while the mither hill hauds gude 
 Thy siller spring may still be seen • 
 
 A wee fresh drap o' the very blude 
 
 That keeps the heart o' the warld green !
 
 74 
 
 SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY, 1879. 
 
 Time flies — insatiate, cruel Time ! 
 
 How like an Ishmaelite he seems 
 Whose hand is raised in every clime 
 
 'Gainst man and all his deeds and dreams. 
 
 Youth loves : Time turns his love to dust : 
 Man plots : poor fool ! how soon 'tis o'er ; 
 
 And Age's dreary drivellings must 
 In a few days be heard no more. 
 
 No power in us can stay his hand ; 
 
 Not strength — for where are they of old 
 Who made might right in every land ? 
 
 Gone, like a tale that has been told. 
 
 Nor love, — else would not love keep young 
 That form that is his bosom's queen. 
 
 Revel in songs the dear one sung, 
 
 And make life nausrht but smiles and sheen ? 
 
 -"o' 
 
 And would not I, if such could be, 
 
 (Vain thought, we who have felt it, know) 
 
 Roll back the tide of Time for thee, 
 Dear Mother, thirty years or so ?
 
 St. Valentine's Day. 75 
 
 Then thou wert young, and fair I trow ; 
 
 And on this morn in storm or shine, 
 Just as thy daughters choose one now, 
 
 Thy heart would own its valentine. 
 
 But since I cannot take thee back 
 
 To those sweet days, nor them to thee, 
 
 A valentine thou shalt not lack 
 
 If thou wilt claim thy knight in me. 
 
 Here as a pledge I send my glove, 
 
 And on my bended knee I swear 
 No maid this year shall win my love 
 
 Nor token from her hand I'll wear : 
 
 But like a true and faithful squire, 
 
 I'll humbly bide thy high behest, 
 Content to wait on thy desire 
 
 And do whate'er shall please thee best.
 
 76 
 
 THE HINMAIST CRICHTON. 
 
 Crichton o' Sanquhar had guid braid lan's, 
 And the feck o' the kintra-side in his han's ; 
 Frae the brig o' GlenairHe tae Corsincon 
 There wasna a neuk that he didna own ; 
 Baith couthie farm toon and herd's lane biel' 
 Rentit their hauld frae the Laird o' the Peel. 
 
 His credit was guid, and his pay nae waur, 
 
 His gien word reckont on near and far ; 
 
 Nithsdale kentna the man e'er trowed 
 
 A differ in Crichton's word frae his gowd ; 
 
 But were it a merk or a boddle broon, 
 
 The siller was there when the day cam' roon. 
 
 Fu' gleg i' the uptak' tae was he, 
 And a cout's best price at a glisk could see, 
 Whether he bocht for himsel', or saw 
 That knaves owrerax'd na the limit o' law ; 
 At market or fair for a settlin' voice, 
 Crichton o' Sanquhar was a' men's choice. 
 
 And mair than that — he was held the pride 
 O' the women folk in the hale Nithside ;
 
 TJie Himnaist CricJitou. jj 
 
 Kind tae the eild he had been a' his life. 
 And blithe could he crack wi' the douce gude wife ; 
 And the younglin' jauds, were they never sae shy, 
 Aye buskit their best when the I.aird gaed by. 
 
 For Crichton o' Sanquhar was sax fit three, 
 Straucht as a sprout o' the forest tree, 
 Buirdly and stieve, o' a manly make. 
 Less like the esh than the lordly aik ; 
 Firm on his fit; and free in his air. 
 And the gait o' his gangin' was leesome fair. 
 
 In trowth ye wad socht frae the craigs o' Scaur 
 Tae the laichmaist biel' on the braes o' Daer 
 Afore ye'd forgether wi' ane like him, 
 Sae leal in the heart, sae clean in the limb , 
 Few were his marrows, and fewer if e'er 
 His betters were kent, for they badena here. 
 
 But the bonniest day that the sun e'er saw 
 May be gurly and snell or the licht gae wa' ; 
 And afore his day was amaist began 
 The Laird o' the Peel was an alter'd man ; 
 Dowie and dazed wi' a sair heid-hing, 
 Mair like a doyte than a mortal thing. 
 
 And a' folk ferlied — for nane could see 
 The gruesome weird that he had tae dree ; 
 Hairst ne'er failed him, craps were gude, 
 As heich as the Cruffel the auld name stude ;
 
 78 TJie Hinmaist Crichton, 
 
 At tryst or at market he still bure the bell, 
 And Crichton was Crichton tae a' but himsel'. 
 
 But weel I wat there was one that kent 
 Hoo the runkles grew on a bree sae brent ; 
 Her glamour had warplet the clear gaun brain, 
 And wastit his life with a cureless pain. 
 This curse gang wi' her wherever she be — 
 May she moop ill-mated, and barren dee ! 
 
 Nane o' oor Nithsdale kimmers was she 
 
 That artit the laird sae far ajee ; 
 
 For though he was kind tae them, ilka yin. 
 
 And treatit them a' as he wad his kin. 
 
 Yet thocht he aye o' his ain degree. 
 
 And their honour was dear in his blameless ee. 
 
 But a loesome dame frae the border side 
 
 He had thocht fu' fain tae hae made his bride ; 
 
 Sae wily and slee her lures she laid, 
 
 Sae keen wi' her noble victim play'd. 
 
 That he, wha ettlet her a' his ain. 
 
 Was seldom fasht wi' the lover's pain. 
 
 But oh, when he spiert her for her han', 
 Vowin' he'd mak' her the pride o' the Ian', 
 Guess ye hoo siccan as him could thole, 
 Wi' the touchy pride o' his moorlan' soul. 
 When she leuch as merry as blithe could be, 
 And tauld him — it wisna her ain to gie ?
 
 The Himnaist CficJiton. yg 
 
 Frae that time forrit the laird was dune, 
 
 Fey as a nateral aneth the mune ; 
 
 He daunert and drave for a while, nae doot, 
 
 But his cracks were sma', though he snooved aboot ; 
 
 And a' folk kent, if they likit to speak. 
 
 That Crichton's tether was ner the streik. 
 
 Aweel, ae mornin' the cry got up 
 The laird had gi'en Sanquhar and a' the slip. 
 The wuds were trackit, the moorlan's scoor'd, 
 The deepest wiels o' the Nith explored ; 
 But trace o' Crichton fand they nane — 
 And he never was seen in the kintra asrain. 
 
 ■*&" 
 
 This was the hinmaist o' that bauld line 
 That keepit the causey's croon lang syne — 
 A line in its kintra's memory bricht 
 En't like a knotless threid i' the nicht, 
 And a heart nae man ever maistert yet 
 Dwined tae its deid at a woman's fit. 
 
 Ye wha hae love tae gie, look weel 
 That ye rest your wish wi' a bosom leal ; 
 Braw braid acres and manly pairts 
 May dree nocht better than broken hearts, 
 And a wearifu' blank i' the warl' he'll pruve 
 That's matcht wi' a lady licht o' love.
 
 8o 
 
 BACCHANALIAN SONG FOR THE 
 NEW YEAR. 
 
 Fill the cup and let it circle 
 
 Freely round the festive board ; 
 Night without may storm and darkle, 
 
 Here her madness is ignored : 
 For with wine that beads before us 
 
 What for raving night care we ? 
 • Let us raise the sounding chorus, 
 
 And be wilder yet than she. 
 
 Do not nights like this one strengthen 
 
 Hearts that long in tears have lain. 
 And with links of brightness lengthen 
 
 Memory's reach of rusty chain ? 
 Life would ne'er be crown'd with pleasure 
 
 If we let such moments go, 
 When there's that in every measure 
 
 Floats us from the reefs of woe. 
 
 Wine was made to charm our sadness, 
 Nights like this to own its sway ; 
 
 Surely 'twould be worse than madness 
 All its sweets to cast away :
 
 Bacchanalian Soiig: 8i 
 
 Let it flow as free as ocean ! 
 
 And while hand is joined in hand, 
 We will empty with emotion 
 
 All our cups at Love's command. 
 
 Pledge we first the souls departed 
 
 In the year that now is fled ; 
 Who so base or canker-hearted 
 
 Would not bumper to the dead ? 
 Those we loved — may heaven bless them ! 
 
 They are free from every woe ; 
 For the rest — we can but wish them 
 
 Firmer friendships where they go. 
 
 Pledge we now the living present 
 
 With its mingled shine and shade ; 
 May these hours we find so pleasant 
 
 Graff' d in memory, never fade ,; 
 Pass the glass, and let it smother 
 
 Petty spleen in royal glee ; 
 Come, get up, and all together 
 
 Drain it out with three times thee \ 
 
 Last, with neither roar of pleasure 
 
 Nor in boding silence dumb. 
 We will fill the brimming measure 
 
 To the year that is to come ; 
 Ah, my friends ! there is no knowing 
 
 What this future may contain, 
 But behold, the goblet's flowing — 
 
 Let us drain it out like men.
 
 82 
 
 LAYING BY A LITTLE FOR A RAINY 
 
 DAY. 
 
 Hey, bonnie lads, that are lippen-fou o' siller, 
 
 Ye that trow the lift o' life has ne'er a clud for you ; 
 But live sae pack wi' Fortune ye're as guid as bairns till 
 her. 
 
 And hing upon the dimples o' her mou'. 
 Haud a wee, my lads, or sairly she'll beguile ye, 
 
 Dinna think a' the year can be as biythe as May ; 
 But while it's in your pow'r ne'er let your pleasures wile ye 
 
 Frae layin' by a little for a rainy day. 
 
 The wild hill bee that ye meet amang the heather, 
 
 Though he sings awa' the simmer in its balmy bell. 
 Has wit eneugh to guess there's an end to bonnie weather. 
 
 And pangs his winter stores in mony a cell. 
 Then when the snaw comes, and bitter winds are roarin', 
 
 Little will it fash him suld the drift smoor the brae. 
 Among his gowden kaims like a king he'll be snorin' — 
 
 His honey has been hoordit for a rainy day. 
 
 Far be't frae me e'er to stint the young o' pleasure, 
 Aneath its cheery sunshine they are baith guid and 
 fair;
 
 Laying by a Little. 83 
 
 But just a kennin' less in the reaniin' daily measure, 
 Wad male' but little dififer here or there ; 
 
 And gey pair comfort it gies to man or woman 
 
 To ken they've wastit chances they ne'er again can 
 hae, 
 
 To see the simmer's pride fa', and dreary winter comin', 
 And ken they've naething hoordit for a rainy day.
 
 84 
 
 JEAN : A LYRIC. 
 
 Few are the flowers on Wanlock braes, 
 
 And wondrous tiny those that be, 
 For nights of storm and sunless days 
 
 Keep down their growth on moor and lea ; 
 But though the hills be stern and bare, 
 
 And flowers are few and far between, 
 One peerless blossom still is there, 
 
 Rose of the wilds — its name is Jean. 
 
 Nursed in this lonely glen, my heart 
 
 Has borne like it few things of joy. 
 But chiefly lived its life apart 
 
 From love of man and maiden coy ; 
 But though its golden dreams are rare. 
 
 And in their glow few shapes are seen. 
 One face forever lingers there — 
 
 One queenly form — its name is Jean. 
 
 And Wanlock braes, despite this dearth 
 
 Of leaf and petal, scent and show. 
 Are dear above all braes on earth 
 
 Where buds of beauty thickly blow ; 
 Nor does my heart in wailings loud 
 
 Mourn o'er a happier might-have-been, 
 But dwells apart, content and proud ; 
 
 Would'st know the charm ? — its name is Jean,
 
 85 
 
 GRAVES ON THE SCOTTISH HILLS. 
 
 The gloamin' fa's fu' bonnily 
 
 Frae blue Canadian skies, 
 And at my fit, composed for sleep, 
 
 A queenly city lies ; 
 Frae stey Mount Royal's rugged crest 
 
 I view the winsome scene, 
 And mark the stately river rowe 
 
 Its noble width atvveen : 
 Blythe sicht it is ! and weel micht be 
 
 The theme o' bardie's lay, 
 For fairer spot ye wadna see, 
 
 And travel mony a day. 
 
 But, lanely as I sit at rest 
 
 Upon the mountain bree, 
 I see the beauties o' the place, 
 
 And yet I dinna see. 
 For crowdin' cot the things that are, 
 
 Auld Scotland fills my min' ; 
 I see the mirk come owre the hills 
 
 I kent sae weel langsyne ; 
 Dear scenes o' youth wi' fidgin fit, 
 
 And blythe heart loupin' fain, 
 In a deep dwaum 'tween sense and sleep 
 
 I spiel your hichts again.
 
 86 Graves on the Scottish Hills. 
 
 O, leese me on the mountain taps, 
 
 And on the grey hill sides ; 
 And leese me on ilk wimplin' burn 
 
 That doon its forkin' slides ; 
 And lichtly may the dawin break 
 
 That opens e'en tae see 
 The lang bare muirs and dowie glens 
 
 Forever dear tae me ; 
 Where, an' the whaup wad quat his cry, 
 
 And the wee burn be still. 
 Ye maist wad trow the weird o' doom 
 
 Hung roon ilk hauntit hill ! 
 
 But be they lown as midnicht, 
 
 Or blythe wi' bird and burn, 
 What thochts they wauken up in me 
 
 Whichever airt I turn ! 
 Big thochts o' Scotland's glory, won 
 
 Amang her warriors stern. 
 By him whase banes hae fa'n tae mools 
 
 Aneth yon hoary cairn ; 
 Yon hoary cairn that Hke a ghaist 
 
 Glow'rs owre the upland braes, 
 And tells tae ilka wicht that speirs 
 
 Its tale o' ither days. 
 
 There lies the buirdly bouk o' ane 
 Wham king could never cowe ; 
 
 The heart where Freedom's genty spark 
 Brunt wi' a cheery lowe ;
 
 Graves on the Scottish Hills. 8y 
 
 The stalwart airm that redd the road 
 
 When faes were thick and fell ! 
 And the trumpet-tongue that through the storm 
 
 Rang clearer than a bell ; 
 O, Fame ! is this the gate ye pay 
 
 Debts ye sold blush tae aw' ? 
 A grey stane on a mountain side, 
 
 And nocht tae tell for wha ! 
 
 But, wantin' even a stane to tell 
 
 That mortal banes are by, 
 What disrespeckit grave is this. 
 
 Bare tae the gurly sky ? 
 O lichtly press the lanely turf ! 
 
 It bauds some desperate saul 
 Wha couldna wait till He that bound 
 
 Released his life frae thrall, 
 Sae wi' his ain impatient hand 
 
 He took that life awa', 
 And here in lanely exile bides 
 
 The hinmaist trumpet's ca'. 
 
 Nae consecrated burial-place 
 
 His outlaw'd dust could claim, 
 Nae auld kirk steeple wagg'd its tongue 
 
 When this puir chield wan hame ; 
 For him nae woman's cheek was wat, 
 
 Nor maiden's e'e was dim ; 
 The very bairns wad grue wi' dreid. 
 
 And hide when tauld o' him.
 
 88 Graves on the Scottish Hills. 
 
 Sae by the wan licht o' the mune 
 Some twa-three men cam' here, 
 
 Syne howkt a hole and hid the deid, 
 And hurried hame in fear. 
 
 It's said that at the mirk midnight, 
 
 When a'thing else is still, 
 An eerie soun' is aften heard 
 
 By folk gawn owre the hill — 
 An eerie soun' o' dule an' dreid 
 
 Like cries o' ane in pain — 
 And ever and aye comes in between 
 
 The clankin' o' a chain. 
 I canna tell gin this be true, 
 
 But I've heard the hill folk say 
 That the herds wad gang five mile aboot 
 
 Tae pass this lanely brae. 
 
 Doon in the hollow o' the burn 
 
 A cairn o' stanes ye'll see, 
 Where, on an awsome winter nicht, 
 
 A stranger lad did dee. 
 The road was tint, the nicht was mirk, 
 
 The snaw blew thick and snell. 
 And just a kennin frae the toon 
 
 The weary stranger fell, 
 Without a freen' tae close his e'e. 
 
 Or hear his pairtin' cry, 
 God, wha tak's tent when sparrows fa' 
 
 Alane was standin' by.
 
 Graves on the Scottish Hills. 89 
 
 And see ye yon wee bit benty knowe 
 
 Scarce rais'd abune the yird, 
 Whase only use wad seem to be 
 
 To rest some weary herd, 
 And yet a noble martyr lies 
 
 Aneth that grassy sod, 
 Shot wi' his Bible in his hand. 
 
 There worshippin' his God ! 
 Hill rang tae hill, and glen tae brae, 
 
 When that fell deed was dune ; 
 But gin ye wad learn the martyr's name, 
 
 It's in the Buik abune. 
 
 Fu' mony a nameless grave like this 
 
 Hallows thy hills, Scotland ! 
 Fu' mony a heart that lo'ed thee well 
 
 Lies at thy heart unkenn'd ; 
 Auld sangs and stories tell o' some, 
 
 And stir our souls wi' pride. 
 But never sail we ken till doom 
 
 The hoord o' the hale hillside ; 
 For warrior bauld and coward loon. 
 
 And weary wanderin' chield, 
 Wi' mony a witness for the truth, 
 
 Sleep in thy kindly beild. 
 
 On the bare muir they lie at rest, 
 Fause heart and heart as true, 
 
 On the muir amang the moss, 
 Aneth the lift sae blue,
 
 go Graces on the Scottish Hills. 
 
 And owre their heids the linty chirms, 
 
 And the wild plovers cry, 
 And like the ferlies in a dream, 
 
 The wanderin' win' gangs by. 
 Wha kens, that hisna heard its sugh. 
 
 Gin nocht but win' be there ? 
 For whyles I think the hameless deid 
 
 Are yaumerin' through the air. 
 
 Tongues o' the deid — wild, waefu' souns- 
 
 Forever haunt tlie hill ; 
 Or when the win' is laich and lown, 
 
 Or rairin' lood and shrill. 
 Abune the scaur or in the howe, 
 
 Alang the breezes borne. 
 The skraigh o' ilka bird comes by, 
 
 Like speech frae heart forlorn. 
 And be the lawlands braw wi' trees, 
 
 And prankt wi' mony a floo'r, 
 For wilder joys than they can yield, 
 
 I seek the ghaistly muir. 
 
 I 
 
 My days gang by in exile 
 
 Three thoosan' miles frae hame, 
 And I've dune nocht for Scotland yet 
 
 Tae hae on her a claim ; 
 But suld I ever win the richt 
 
 Tae beg ae boon o' her, 
 I want nae monuments o' stane, 
 
 Nor ocht tae mak' a stir ;
 
 Graves on the Scottish Hills. 91 
 
 But far awa' amang her hills 
 
 That my dune dust be laid, 
 Wi' the mist tae settle owre my heid 
 
 And hap me like a plaid !
 
 92 
 
 IN THE GARDEN, OUTREMONT. 
 
 I WALK within my garden, at the quiet evening hour, 
 When all the air hangs heavily with scent of fruit and 
 
 flower ; 
 While here a bud and there a bloom attract me as I 
 
 stroll, 
 And Autumn's tranquil loveliness is mirror'd in my soul : 
 Perchance the silvery moonlight streams athwart each 
 
 branching tree, 
 And lends its lustrous witchery to every shape I see. 
 Is it not strange, in such a scene with beauty all aglow. 
 My heart should seek the rugged hills and haunts of 
 
 long ago ? 
 
 Close by, my happy homestead stands, withdrawn in 
 
 umbrage deep. 
 Where, hours ago, my little ones were wrapt in balmy 
 
 sleep ; 
 My wife is singing softly as she moves from room to 
 
 room. 
 Her bright lamp casting lanes of light through all the 
 
 leafy gloom : 
 I hear her crooning to herself some old subdued refrain. 
 As though she fear'd to wake to life those noisy imps 
 
 again : —
 
 In the Garden. 93 
 
 Why should I turn me from that music weUing rich and 
 
 low, 
 To list the far-off voices and the songs of long ago ? 
 
 Up there, on steep Mount Royal, where the pine-trees 
 
 darkly wave, 
 The silent stars look down upon a little tiny grave ; 
 The winds make music o'er it, and the spot is fair to see. 
 And oh the dust within that grave is very dear to me ! 
 But though the dust were doubly dear, the spot more 
 
 sweetly fair, 
 'T would give me little joy to think I'll one day slumber 
 
 there : 
 Far liefer would I lay my head where Wanlock's waters 
 
 flow 
 Around our own God's acre, with the loved of long ago. 
 
 Oh Land of misty mountain heights, of lonely glens and 
 
 lakes, 
 The tie that binds my heart to thee nor time nor distance 
 
 breaks ; 
 True to the soil that bore me, and the race from which 
 
 I spring 
 Forever backward o'er the wave to thee my thoughts 
 
 take wing : 
 Still fairest of all sights to me is morning on thy Bens, 
 And sweetest sound, the wild bird's note at gloaming in 
 
 thy glens ; 
 And dearest of all memories, the cherish'd thoughts 
 
 that flow 
 In solitary hours like these from dreams of long ago.
 
 94 I^^ tJi^ Garden. 
 
 Scotland ! thou art the shrine to which my partial fancy 
 
 turns, 
 Land of the hero, seer, and bard, of Wallace, Knox, and 
 
 Burns ; 
 Land, where my infant eyes first saw the purple heather 
 
 wave ; 
 Land, where the chilly hill-wind weeps upOn my father's 
 
 grave : 
 Oh ! many charms has Canada, and to my soul 'tis dear, 
 For all the choicest gifts of time are gather'd round me 
 
 here : 
 But in my breast the ruddy stream must falter cold and 
 
 slow 
 Ere I forget dear Scotland, and the days of long ago !
 
 95 
 
 THE WHAUP. 
 
 Fu' sweet is the lilt o' the laverock 
 
 Frae the rim o' the clud at morn ; 
 The merle pipes weel in his mid-day biel', 
 
 In the heart o' the bendin' thorn ; 
 The blythe, bauld sang o' the mavis 
 
 Rings clear in the gloamin' shaw : 
 But the whaup's wild cry in the gurly sky 
 
 O' the moorlan' dings them a'. 
 
 For what's in the lilt o' the laverock 
 
 Tae touch ocht mair than the ear ? 
 The merle's lown craik in the tangled brake 
 
 Can start nae memories dear ; 
 And even the sang o' the mavis 
 
 But waukens a love-dream tame 
 Tae the whaup's wild cry on the breeze blawn by, 
 
 Like a wanderin' word frae hame. 
 
 What thochts o' the lang gray moorlan' 
 
 Start up when I hear that cry ! 
 The times we lay on the heathery brae 
 
 At the well, lang syne gane dry ; 
 
 7
 
 g6 The WJiaiip. 
 
 And aye as we spak' o' the ferlies 
 That happen'd afore-time there, 
 
 The whaup's lane cry on the win' cam' by 
 Like a wild thing tint in the air. 
 
 And though I ha'e seen mair ferlies 
 
 Than grew in the fancy then, 
 And the gowden gleam o' the boyish dream 
 
 Has slipp'd frae my soberer brain, 
 Yet — even yet— if I wander 
 
 Alane by the moorlan' hill, 
 That queer wild cry frae the gurly sky 
 
 Can tirl my heart-strings still.
 
 97 
 
 SONG: THE CONTENTED SHEPHERD. 
 
 The king has a croon, and I hae nane, 
 
 And gin he is prood sae let him be ; 
 But the wecht o't maun tell on his white hause-bane, 
 
 For he bauds his heid nae heicher than me ; 
 My pow ne'er yeuks to be ringed wi' gowd, 
 
 But a gude blue bannet can busk it fair, 
 And I'm blythe on the hill in my grey plaid row'd, 
 
 Div ye think that the king need want ocht mair ? 
 
 I come frae the hill when the e'enin'-fa's, 
 
 Gled that the darg o' the day is by ; 
 And the wee things meet me wi' cheensome craws, 
 
 And the gudewife smiles when she sees me nigh , 
 And a' forenicht by the ingle side 
 
 We fley Daddy Care wi' a royal glee. 
 For I rule my realms wi' a faitherly pride ; 
 
 Wad ye glow'r gin the king micht swap wi' me ? 
 
 In the auld kirkyard ayont the burn 
 
 The grass grows bonnie abune my kin. 
 And I carena hoo sune it may come my turn 
 
 To hae dune wi' the warld and lie therein ; 
 I ken that the dust maun turn to dust. 
 
 But never ance fear that the saul may tine ; 
 For I trust where my forbeirs a' pat their trust ; 
 
 Wad the king gie nocht for a faith like mine ?
 
 98 
 
 NECONY. 
 
 Roun' by Necony the heather blumes bonnie, 
 
 And sweet is the Hit o' the mosscheiper's sang ; 
 But though ye'd gang farrer and no fin ocht fairer, 
 
 Vet roun' by Necony I carena tae gang : 
 I'll rove by Petrennock, Snarswater or Mennock, 
 
 The stey craigs o' Carron I'll still spiel wi' glee ; 
 But roun' by Necony there's something no canny, 
 
 And he that's no fley'd for't is baulder than me ! 
 
 I canna tell whether the blume o' the heather 
 
 Be reider owre yonder than heather suld be, 
 But aye when I see it in blossom, tae me it 
 
 Taks shape like the dreepin o' blude in the ee : 
 The mosscheiper's liltin', at ither times meltin', 
 
 Gangs thro' the daz'd heart wi' a dirl and a stoun ; 
 In yaumers sae eerie, wi' naething else near ye, 
 
 Ye grue as a warlock were raisin' the soon. 
 
 But gruin' or glowrin', nocht mair overpow'rin' 
 
 Will stertle the calm on the breist o' the glen ; 
 Nae warlock or wurricoo bides in Necony noo, 
 
 Scarce can you trace its connection wi' men : 
 But though they be rotten, their memory forgotten, 
 
 And naething be kent o' their deeds or their doom, 
 God's mercy, Necony ! there's something no canny 
 
 Has happent tae deed ye in glamour and gloom.
 
 Zbc Xo6t UDome,
 
 lOI 
 
 THE LOST HOME. 
 
 Summer will deck thy bonnie braes again, 
 My moorland home ; upon thy shaggy hills 
 The purple heather — by thy wimpling rills 
 Bluebell and bracken — will announce its reign. 
 As bravely as of old the blackcock's note 
 Will usher in the dawn ; and o' still nights, 
 E'er gloaming like a mantle wraps thy heights, 
 From some far glen the mavis' song will float. 
 But other ears must hear, and other eyes 
 Behold these things : for unto me they seem 
 But memories of a sad yet tender dream ; 
 And thou thyself — a haunted spot that lies 
 Beyond this earth, in some realm of the dead 
 Where mortal foot of mine no more may tread.
 
 I02 
 
 ON NAMING MY SON WANLOCK. 
 
 As if it were not always in my heart, 
 Sleeping or waking ; in my quiet room, 
 
 Or toiling in the city's busy mart, 
 
 And like a sun-glint ever in the gloom 
 
 Lightening my lot — the dream of childhood's home 
 With all its lov'd ones ; all its breezy hills, 
 Calm glens, lone uplands, myriad murmuring rills, 
 
 Whereby no more my exiled feet may roam ; 
 
 Out of the fulness of my love for these. 
 
 And that my tongue in speaking it may share 
 The untold joy of dreaming — I will give 
 
 My boy its name : then though the heartless seas 
 Divide me from the old I found so fair, 
 
 In this new Wanlock all my hopes will live.
 
 10' 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 (on one of my birthdays.) 
 
 There are not many days throughout the year 
 In which fond memory does not retrace 
 My path of life back to its starting place, —   
 
 The little glen that I still hold so dear. 
 
 But of all days, and of all objects there, 
 
 This day my warmest thoughts should surely be 
 In filial duty centred all on thee, — 
 
 Thou object of my heart's sincerest prayer ! 
 
 Dear Mother ! may the love of all thy sons 
 And daughters, now in thy declining years. 
 
 Comfort and cheer thee as the season runs. 
 And never deed of ours bring any tears 
 
 But tears of joy ; let these thy glad eyes fill. 
 
 Seeing we honour, love, and prize thee still !
 
 I04 
 
 TO THE LOWTHERS. 
 
 (after a long absence.) 
 
 Have ye no voice to welcome my return, 
 
 Nor arms to clasp me to your parent breast, 
 O stern, cold hills ! whose every lofty crest 
 
 Withdraws to leaden skies in silent scorn ? 
 
 Not thus the human mother hails the son, 
 
 Whose feet, from wandering on a foreign shore, 
 
 Turn, tired of travel and adventure done, 
 
 To prove the peace of childhood's home once more ; 
 
 And ill your gloom requites his glance elate 
 Who, leaving fairer scenes beyond the sea, 
 (Where of His grace God has been good to me 
 With health and plenty, wife and children dear,) 
 
 Drawn by heart-hunger, seeks no better fate 
 Than to be gather'd to his fathers here.
 
 I05 
 
 THE REASON WHY. 
 
 Not for their beauty do I love the hills 
 
 Of which I sing — fair though the features seem 
 Bath'd in the splendour of the morning's beam, 
 Or clad in that soft witchery that fills 
 Each glen at gloaming ; not for this the rills 
 Are more to me than any classic stream 
 That ever Poet chose him for a theme : — 
 A sweeter reason all my being thrills ! 
 They are my own ! the much-lov'd hills of home 
 Not with that earthly ownership which looks 
 For rent and taxes ; but because the brooks, 
 The braes, the glens, all — all — where'er I roam 
 Have voices sounding in the lonely wild. 
 That call me as a mother calls her child.
 
 io6 
 
 M E N N O C K. 
 
 Sing on, sweet Mennock, to thy listening hills ! 
 Far in the moorland where thy stream has birth 
 (That dearest spot to me of all the earth) 
 From many glens thou drawest kindred rills 
 To swell thy melody : into thy voice 
 
 The music of those moors has pass'd ; the call 
 Of lonely birds, the bleat of lambs, and all 
 I'he happy sounds that make the wilds rejoice. 
 Past pleasant holms — growing in beauty still,— 
 Skirting the bases of the silent steeps, 
 Where at the noontide listless nature sleeps ; — 
 Through wooded gorges that the linnets fill 
 With answering song — till Nith's fair flood we see- 
 Sing on, sweet Mennock, to thy hills and me !
 
 I07 
 
 CARSEHOPE. 
 
 (inscribed to J. M. R.) 
 
 Sometimes, when very weary of my lot — 
 Tired with the dull routine of city life — 
 Seeing the same sights every dismal day, — 
 Gray houses, dusty streets ; without one spot 
 Home-like to cheer me ; all my heart at strife 
 With its environments, and far away, — 
 Perch'd at my desk with all the ledgers round, 
 I shut my eyes, and this is what I see : — 
 A streamlet running 'neath a cloudless sky 
 Through mountain solitudes ; two weary men, 
 Tired with a long day's ramble (you and I,) 
 Stretch'd prone beside it, with no harsher sound 
 To mar their musings, than the wandering bee 
 Makes, as he crosses this enchanted glen.
 
 io8 
 
 GLEN GRIEVE. 
 
 Is this Glencrieve ? I deem'd the spot more fair 
 When here we Unger'd many years ago — 
 My love and I — and watch'd the ruddy glow 
 
 Of sunset deaden on the moorlands bare. 
 
 Perchance my foot some erring path hath ta'en 
 That led astray, and I have missed Glenrcrieve ; 
 Then will I back, for I am loth to leave 
 
 These hills, till memory be stirr'd again. 
 
 Yet stay ! this is the glen : yon glint so bright 
 Smites the long upland and its summit hoar, 
 Just as it smote them then ; but I, alone. 
 
 Here in the shadow'd gorge, have lost the light 
 Of eyes, whose lustre rob'd the scene of yore 
 In a dim loveliness for ever flown.
 
 109 
 
 AUG HEN LONE. 
 
 In the dim gloaming, dreaming of old days, 
 
 When far-off forms and half-forgotten things 
 Take shape again before me in the gloom — 
 No fairer vision rises to my gaze, 
 
 Nor sight more welcome wizard Fancy brings, 
 Than the last glimpse that in my heart finds room 
 Of thee, lov'd mountain ; Oh ! for words to show 
 
 The summer sunlight slanting from the west, 
 And Enterkin in shadow ; all thy braes aglow 
 
 With heath and thyme, and high above thy crest 
 One solitary watcher of the glen below 
 
 Circling and screaming, — all things else at rest : 
 And my last look — ta'en with an envious thrill — 
 The great bird settling on his native hill.
 
 I lO 
 
 E N T E R K I N . 
 
 Smooth rounded peaks rise up on either hand 
 In long array; and in between the rills, 
 Skirting the bases of the silent hills, 
 
 Join each to each as with a silver band. 
 
 Morn breaks not on a fairer scene than this 
 In beauteous Scotland ; peaceful, holy, calm : 
 The Lowther zephyr charg'd with summer balm 
 
 Steals to my forehead like a mother's kiss. 
 
 Enterkin ! glen of peace ; oft have I bent 
 My steps towards thee in a happier day : 
 Here in thy praise have conn'd my boyish lay, 
 
 My head upon thy turf in sweet content : 
 
 And, when the tumult of this life is past, 
 
 Here gladly would I lay my head at last.
 
 1 1 1 
 
 THE FIRST BREAK. 
 
 Sit closer, closer, round the darken'd hearth ; 
 Let not an eye look to'rd the vacant chair 
 We know, alas ! too well, is standing there, 
 
 like a dread presence chilling all our mirth ; — 
 
 Till now the seat of him who gave us birth. 
 
 The stern grey man, the man of toil and prayer, 
 In whose rich legacies 'tis ours to share — 
 
 Of bright example, and of moral worth. 
 
 The first black cloud looms up our summer sky, 
 Sad prelude of the dismal days to be, 
 And my heart shakes within my breast to see 
 
 That other lov'd one — knowing the time is nigh 
 
 She too will leave us, and that yearning eye 
 Tear-bright with love will look no more on me.
 
 112 
 
 ON READING OF THE EARL OF 
 DALKEITH'S MARRIAGE. 
 
 Dalkeith, your wedding bells assail mine ear 
 With gladsome music ; gladsome may you be ! 
 Though my own heart be not from sorrow free, 
 
 Yet can it thrill another's joy to hear. 
 
 God bless you both ! proud Earl and Fair Ladye ! 
 Long may you serve your country and your Queen ; 
 For true to both, your race hath ever been, 
 
 And, little doubt, I true 'twill ever be ! 
 
 But when long service leaves you old and gray 
 May you and yours be spared the bitter pain 
 We feel, whose sire's life-service could not gain 
 
 For our dear mother, in her widow'd day. 
 
 The lowly roof Buccleuch might well have given 
 
 To shield her till she pass'd from earth to heaven.
 
 1 1 
 
 OUR MARY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Ah ! my sweet sister, whose young tender feet 
 Fail'd on Life's rugged path long years ago, — 
 For loss of whom the bitter tears did flow, 
 Because we deem'd not then rest was so sweet, 
 Nor how thrice lovely was the bright retreat 
 Thy spirit sought ; how would this day of woe 
 Have wrung thy gentle heart, that doted so 
 On home and all that made its charm complete ! 
 But can we doubt that in thy new-found home 
 Thy careful hand will have prepared a place 
 Where we, the wayworn laggards of thy race, 
 After this life's probation ends, may come : — 
 That heavenly home, — illimitable — free, 
 Oh, to be dwelling in its halls with thee !
 
 114 
 
 MOTHERLESS. 
 
 I HAVE no mother ! O, ye ghostly winds 
 That wander in the gorges of the hills 
 As if ye sought and mourned for vanished friends, 
 Let me mourn with you ! Such a sorrow fills 
 My heart as never yet was known to yours ; 
 Though well the plaintive music of your voice 
 Accords with the sad wrecking of my joys, 
 And stricken Love that sorrows and endures. 
 What do you weep but smihng summers gone ? 
 Sweet blossoms withered that will blow again ? 
 But I am wounded in a vital part, 
 Smit through the heart's affections to the heart. 
 Which cries aloud for that beloved one. 
 But all its calling is in vain, in vain !
 
 lis 
 
 THE SPELL BROKEN. 
 
 Far from my native glen my years have flown : 
 Only at intervals, or in my dreams, 
 Have I revisited the pleasant streams 
 
 That strong affection bade me call my own. 
 
 Yet was I not unhappy, though the chill 
 
 Of exile pain'd me ; many a happy thought — 
 Many a message o'er the waters brought — 
 
 Told me I was a son of Wanlock still. 
 
 Now at one wrench the cherish'd tie is broken, 
 The pleasing bondage ended ; I am free 
 From all her spells save those of Memory— 
 
 (That ghost of dead things), and these give no token 
 
 That aught is left in hill or stream or plain 
 With power to draw me to their midst again.
 
 ii6 
 
 OUR PORTION. 
 
 Fathers will still toil here for those they love, 
 
 Though ours be gone; mothers will watch and pray 
 Though the beloved voice be still'd for aye 
 
 That breath'd our names before the throne above. 
 
 Around bright hearths, as in old happy days, 
 Dear friends, long parted, will be glad again ; 
 
 But nevermore for us the kindly blaze 
 
 Of Home will lighten Wanlock's lonely glen. 
 
 Less than the meanest flower beside the burn 
 (That dies to bloom again) is there of place 
 Or portion here for our far-scatter'd race ; 
 
 No future Spring shall welcome our return : 
 
 Naught have we 'neath these skies that bend above 
 
 Save Memory — and the graves of those we love.
 
 117 
 
 A SORROWFUL CHOICE. 
 
 Rather than see a stranger in the seat 
 Of my dear father, and irreverent hands 
 
 Profane the things my sainted mother's touch 
 
 Made sacred (should my wandering feet 
 Ever return from these far distant lands 
 
 To that lost home I loved and honoured much), 
 
 Methinks it were a lesser pain to find 
 
 The house in ruins ; all its old-time grace 
 Utterly vanished — nor a lingering trace 
 
 Of what it had been, in the wreck behind. 
 
 More like my own sad heart that home would be 
 Soulless and silent, dead to every tie ; 
 
 And the old hearth bereft of all its glee, 
 Staring through naked rafters at the sky.
 
 Ii8 
 
 ON WANLOCK DOD. 
 
 (after many years.) 
 
 My foot is on my native heath ; my nati\-e air 
 
 Blows freshly round me ; clear and sweet and strong 
 The hill-bird sings his old familiar song, 
 
 And as of old the summer skies are fair. 
 
 Glad thoughts and proud my bosom oft have fill'd— 
 Gazing upon this scene ; but Ah ! to-day, 
 The saddest words that human lips could say 
 Would little of the loneliness reveal 
 That on this solitary watch I feel : 
 
 For all the voices that I lov'd are still'd ; — 
 
 Gone are the dear ones that made Wanlock dear ; 
 
 A stranger stands within my Father's door : 
 So changed it is, I will not venture near — 
 
 'Tis not the Wanlock that I lov'd of yore !
 
 119 
 
 THE MYSTERY. 
 
 No place for me in Wanlock ! Vacant chair 
 At board or hearth await me there no more ; 
 Barring my entrance, the insensate door 
 
 That wont to welcome, opes not to my prayer. 
 
 Forth from this mystery I needs must fare, 
 Seeking sweet solace, as I did of yore 
 By whispering streamlet and on mountain hoar,- 
 
 But ah ! no longer find I comfort there. 
 
 Calmly as ever on grey Auchenlone 
 
 The gloaming falls ; the dear familiar rills 
 
 As sweetly in the solitude sing on : 
 But, dead to all the magic of the hills, 
 In me no wakening chord responsive thrills 
 
 As in my native wilds I walk — alone !
 
 120 
 
 CHANGED TIMES. 
 
 Time was when I could scarce restrain my pace 
 Upon thy mountains, Wanlock ; to and fro, 
 From sheer delight, fleet as the bounding roe 
 
 My eager feet thy winding paths would trace. 
 
 Now with a sober and deliberate stride 
 I move among them ; calmer now the eye 
 That notes the beauties of thy evening sky, 
 
 Tamer the glance that sweeps thy grey hillside. 
 
 Yet is it not advancing age alone 
 
 That quells my ardour ; far from thee and me 
 All the associates in that early glee — 
 
 Father and mother, sister, friend — have gone ; 
 
 And musing on the forms I meet no more 
 
 With slow sad steps I track thy mountains o'er.
 
 121 
 
 TO A LAVEROCK 
 
 (singing in the calm sheugh). 
 
 If thy heart were as sad as mine, sweet bird, 
 That sing'st in Wanlock like a thing inspired, 
 Methinks thy tender breast could ne'er be fired 
 
 To pour such strains — the sweetest ever heard. 
 
 Ay, sweet indeed they are ; and yet there seems 
 A note of sadness in their keenest joy ; 
 Is thy bliss too, then, not without alloy? 
 
 Do ghosts of dear ones haunt thy songs and dreams ? 
 
 Ah ! 'tis the common lot ; some day, some day, 
 
 Our heart's desire takes wings and flies away; 
 We cannot keep our lov'd ones, and our strains 
 
 Are weak and broken when the hot tears fall ; 
 But this poor comfort at the worst remains — 
 
 'Tis well for us that we can sing at all.
 
 122 
 
 TO REV. MR. BLAIR, WANLOCKHEAD. 
 
 Ev'n as a mist, that for a moment's space 
 
 Enshrouds some mountain, and then trails away 
 Leaving no token of that moment's stay, — 
 
 Nay, not a memory on the tranquil face, — 
 
 So I and mine from out our native place 
 Have pass'd away for ever : short our day 
 As the light mists that topp'd the mountain gray, 
 
 And leaving in our wake so little trace. 
 
 And yet perchance, some essence of that mist 
 Trickling to earth in solitude unseen, 
 Nourish'd a tiny plant and kept it green ; 
 So would I, that remembrance of the days 
 
 We liv'd in Wanlock- — though he scarcely wist — 
 Might lead some friend to love our name always.
 
 123 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF TIME. 
 
 How quickly do the hurrying years sweep by ! 
 It seems but yesterday that I was straying 
 O'er heath-clad hills with boyish comrades playing, 
 
 My childhood's home and all its lov'd ones nigh. 
 
 Now these are gone ; that sweet home life is shatter'd, 
 The home itself is home to me no more ; 
 
 'Neath many skies the friends of youth are scatter'd, 
 And I, a wanderer on this distant shore, 
 
 O'er mine own brood with care and toil am rearing 
 A sheltering rooftree ; but the same rude hand 
 That broke my idols in the far-off land 
 
 This latest refuge of my years is nearing ; 
 
 A little while and that same brood will cry 
 
 And shudder in the night to see me die.
 
 oeme anb Songe,
 
 127 
 
 MAY M O R I L. 
 
 We wonn'd in a lanesume muirlan' glen — 
 
 May Moril and me, 
 And little we kent o' the ways o' men — 
 
 May Moril and me ; 
 But if little we kent, far less did we care, 
 
 Sae couthie and vaunty can true love be, 
 For we ettlet nae joy in the warld sae rare, 
 But micht ha'e been match'd in the muirlan' there, 
 When the glamour o' love fillt a' the air 
 And we waded the brackens knee by knee. 
 
 Kings and their coorts micht founder or soom 
 
 On their shiftin' sea ; 
 But we wi' their fate ne'er fasht oor thoom — 
 
 May Moril and me. 
 We kent that the warld wad trintle and turn 
 
 Wi' mickle o' pleasure and mair o' wae, 
 Sae doon by the banks o' the wimplin' burn 
 We strayed i' the dawin' o' love's sweet morn, 
 And we nippet the blossom and jinkt the thorn 
 
 As the lang saft simmer row'd away. 
 
 9
 
 128 May Moril. 
 
 The brier rose grew on the open shaw 
 
 In the lown clear air, 
 And it and the milk-white blume o' the haw 
 
 I twined in her hair ; 
 And she sat on the brae like a gowd-croont queen 
 
 And fliskit her sceptre o' birk wi' pride ; 
 And I — I thocht that the joys we ken't 
 As lang as we socht them ne'er wad en't, 
 And e'en when oor hinmaist breath was spent 
 
 We'd sleep i' the muirlan' side by side. 
 
 But alas ! for the unkent weirds o' man 
 
 Are kittle tae dree, 
 And little we trow'd that oor gowden plan 
 
 Sae brittle wad be. 
 But the heaven aboon us nae doot saw 
 
 Our love was mair than it ocht tae be, 
 For we hadna been marriet a year and a day 
 When, sair forfeuchen, my winsome May 
 On the breist o' her dawtie dwined away, 
 
 And my heart-strings crack't when I saw her dee. 
 
 O hooly and wae I laid her doun 
 
 In her hinmaist rest, 
 And back i' the glen I lookit roun" 
 
 At oor herrit nest ; 
 And bare, bare noo were the muirlan's grey, 
 
 Where the licht o' her love gart a' things shine, 
 And I saw that nocht i' the warld wad be 
 The same as it was tae my joyfu' ee.
 
 May Moril. 129 
 
 When we wadit the brackens knee by knee, 
 And sweet May Moril was hale and mine. 
 
 The brier rose blumes on the open shaw, 
 
 As it did langsyne, 
 And the milk-white blossom hings on the haw 
 
 r the warm sunshine. 
 But blossom and bud hae tint their charms, 
 
 They may rot where they gether or fa' for me, 
 And O ! gin I hadna a thocht tae rise 
 Tae sweet May Moril ayont the skies, 
 Where my heart baith e'enin' and mornin' lies, 
 
 Hoo sad wad the lang grey muirlan' be !
 
 I30 
 
 FORGOTTEN. 
 
 BLESSINGS on thy bonnie face, 
 My winsome Mary Lee ! 
 
 And lang may fickle fortune trace 
 
 A flowery path for thee. 
 May joy bring dimples roon thy mouth, 
 
 Through a' the gowden years, 
 And never drink be near his drouth 
 
 That weets thy cheek wi' tears ! 
 
 1 hae been fain tae win the smile 
 That waukent in thine een, 
 
 And wrocht wi' mony a tentie wile 
 Tae please thee morn and e'en ; 
 
 And though I didna daur to speak, 
 My heart ne'er owned the fear 
 
 rhat thy young love wad ever seek 
 Anither joe to cheer. 
 
 But now they say thou'rt woo'd and won. 
 
 My winsome Mary Lee ! 
 They tell me thou art woo'd and won, 
 
 Withoot a thocht o' me ;
 
 Forgotten. 131 
 
 Withoot a memory o' the days 
 
 My heart will never tyne, 
 When thou and I amang the braes 
 
 Gaed linkin' blythe lang syne. 
 
 Mary, could thy heart forget 
 The kiss it yielded coy, 
 
 That nicht beside the plantin' yett, 
 
 When I was gyte wi' joy ? 
 Could it forget ? or did it ken 
 
 That mine thrill'd thro' and thro' ? 
 Thou should hae kept thy favours then, 
 
 Or no' withheld them noo ! 
 
 That nicht I vowed a solemn aith, 
 
 My winsome Mary Lee, 
 That nocht wad shake the simple faith 
 
 I had in love and thee : 
 
 1 pledged my soul upon the spot, 
 Whatever fate micht fa' ; 
 
 But thou that gied, as sune forgot, 
 And never lo'ed ava ! 
 
 And still I dinna curse the day. 
 
 When first thy face was seen ; 
 Though thou hast left me wauf and wae, 
 
 I'm glad that day has been. 
 In memory's casket where each gem 
 
 O' happiness is stored, 
 Nae days will ever match wi' them 
 
 When thou wert maist adored.
 
 132 Forgotten. 
 
 Fareweel ! may gladness be thy lot, 
 
 Without a grief to mar ; 
 A lanely wanderer clean forgot, 
 
 I bless thee from afar : 
 And may thy lover ne'er hae cause 
 
 A dule like mine tae dree — 
 Fareweel, I canna ca' thee fause ! 
 
 Forgetfu' Mary Lee !
 
 T 1 ^ 
 
 ATWEEN AND MENNOCK-HASS. 
 
 Atween and Mennock-hass 
 
 There is a cosy bid', 
 Whaur a bonnie lad and lass 
 
 Micht baud a tryst fu' weel ; 
 And gin ye like, May Moril, 
 
 As sune's the gloamin' fa's, 
 Ve're free tae share my plaidie there 
 
 Frae every blast that blaws. 
 
 The muirlan' may be bare. 
 
 And snell the norlan' breeze — 
 Little shelter rises there 
 
 Save what yon craigie gies ; 
 But in my heart. May Moril, 
 
 There is a blythesome glow. 
 And tae't sae fain I'll fauld your ain, 
 
 That cauld ye'll never trow. 
 
 Well hear the Untie sing 
 His sang o' love and pride, 
 
 Blabbin', silly, thochtless thing, 
 O' joys he canna hide.
 
 134 Atiueen and Moinock-hass. 
 
 But sweeter far, May Moril, 
 And tae nae ear but thine, 
 
 I'll whisper lown, hoo ye hae stown, 
 The heart that ance was mine. 
 
 I canna brag o' gear, 
 
 Tae deed and keep ye fine ; 
 Rough and raploch mountain cheer 
 
 Maun please gin ye'U be mine. 
 But pree and pruve, May Moril, 
 
 And think or ye decide ; 
 There's few sae fiel as them that biel" 
 
 Ayont a shepherd's side.
 
 :>o 
 
 THE DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 In the brave days of old, ere the falchion formed the 
 plough, 
 When courage steeled his sinew 'neath the banner and 
 the brand ; 
 When the haughty crest of chivalry was free to every 
 brow, 
 And prowess was the test in every land : 
 O ! then the heart was chainless as the wind, — 
 
 The mighty soul of Freedom scorned to pawn its pride 
 for gold ; 
 And manliness and glory were the mottoes of the mind, 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 In that grand reign of right, never coward kept a crown, 
 Nor cunning conquered valour with the supple guile 
 of brain ; 
 For the iron heel of honour held the wily serpent down, 
 
 And majesty was master in the main : 
 Then love and truth were foremost in the fight, —   
 
 The smile of blushing beauty was the guerdon of the 
 bold; 
 And the victor's brow was laurell'd in his king and 
 country's sight, 
 In the brave days of old.
 
 136 The Days of Old. 
 
 But that bright sun hath set, and the night that gathers 
 round 
 Is ahve with all iniquities that batten in the gloom ; 
 And vainly does the poet seek to sanctify the ground 
 
 With flowers that are but scattered o'er his tomb. 
 We hear no more the stirring trump and drum 
 
 That cheer'd the eager warrior when the strife around 
 him roird : 
 And the sweetest sounds that greet us are the memories 
 that come 
 From the brave days of old. 
 
 O ! would that we might wake, as from a hateful dream, 
 To wed the noble purpose that our ancestors have 
 shown ; 
 Our barks are ever drifting down upon a golden stream, — 
 
 Wealth is the only standard that we own ; 
 For it we pledge the dearest hopes of life, — 
 
 Brain and sinew, nay, the future of the soul is often 
 sold : 
 And we seek it as the warrior sought his glory in the 
 strife 
 In the brave days of old.
 
 ^7 
 
 THE CAIRN ON THE HILL. 
 
 Among the Lowther hills there is a grave, — 
 A cairn rough-shapen on the moorland lea — 
 And many a fond attempt I made to learn 
 To whose remains that mound a shelter gave, 
 And what of pride or strength might buried be, 
 Under the guardianship of such a cairn ; 
 But to no useful end, — it was a mystery 
 Unveiled in traditionary lore, 
 Passed over in the careless page of history. 
 Forgotten 'mong the glorious songs of yore ; 
 Yet on the fragrant heath I've often lain, 
 When the lone plover and the wild curlew 
 Startled the moorland with their mournful screams ; 
 Or, while the brooding gloom that wrapt the plain 
 Upon my soul its speechless glamour threw, 
 Sat pensively, and crooned my gloaming dreams. 
 
 O thou in whom death's peaceful slumber 
 
 Hath wrought the calm earth doth not know, 
 Round whom no more the wave shall flow. 
 
 That wearies with its constant cumber 
 
 All hearts that climb the climbing tide ;
 
 138 The Cairn on the Hill. 
 
 What perfect rest is it that comes, 
 Unsought, and all life's ache benumbs. 
 Here where the wander'd wild-bee bums 
 Along the mountain side. 
 
 II. 
 
 Not in the far heart of the city- 
 Broods such a silence as is here ; 
 There sculptur'd towers and tombs appear, 
 To nourish love or waken pity 
 
 With memories of the dust below ; 
 Forgetfulness of life is here. 
 The very Lethe of the bier, 
 And all along the moorland drear 
 The dreary sense doth grow. 
 
 III. 
 
 Meet resting-place it is, though lonely, 
 For mortal dead to name and fame ; 
 And sure thine outlaw'd bones can claim 
 No righting at our hands, but only 
 
 To lie where they have lain so long. 
 If song or legend rung with praise 
 Of thee, thine ashes we might raise, 
 And honour yet ; but blame or praise 
 Of thee is not in song. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The mountain peaks are bare and hoary 
 That sentinel thy lonely grave ;
 
 TJie Cairn on the Hill. 139 
 
 No tree doth spring, no branches wave 
 To catch the burden of the story 
 
 The breeze brings up the slumbering glen ; 
 And with its woful tale untold 
 The wind goes o'er the silent wold, 
 And all the secrets it doth hold 
 
 Are lost to mortal ken. 
 
 Perchance if on this naked mountain 
 
 Some pine had stretch'd its arms abroad, 
 And hawk or raven made abode 
 Within its crest, above the fountain 
 
 That flows unshaded as we see, 
 At night the harping wind had stay'd 
 Amongst its boughs, and music made, 
 And to some gifted bard betray'd 
 The secrets hid with thee. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But naught is known — the purple heather 
 Is speechless in thy blame or praise ; 
 The mourners who of old did raise 
 This cairn grown grey in wind and weather, 
 Say neither thou wert base or brave, 
 Conjecture — rumour — all are mute, 
 Tradition — legend — know thee not. 
 These stones that mark the lonely spot 
 But say — it is a grave.
 
 140 The Cairn on the Hill. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet do I yearn to know thy station ! 
 Perhaps upon the scroll of fame 
 Some kindly hand has traced thy name 
 A warrior in the Scottish nation 
 
 Whose actions show'd thee good and brave ; 
 If so — 'tis meet that thou shouldst sleep, 
 Among these mountains stern and steep 
 That saw thy fatal broadsword sweep 
 Tyrants to a bloody grave. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Perhaps thy lot was but the tending 
 Of fleecy flocks upon these hills, 
 Where the grey heath and noisy rills 
 Beneath a maze of mist are blending 
 
 Their features in the autumn gloam 
 Here while the summer hours flew by, 
 Wrapt in thy chequered plaid to lie, 
 And watch the clouds across the sky 
 Float on, like flakes of foam. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Or — higher thought — who knows but under 
 These bleached stones the dust may rest 
 That once was in the van to breast 
 
 The wave that dash'd itself in thunder 
 
 Against the rock of Scotland's faith ?
 
 The Cairn on the Hill. 141 
 
 A martyr falling, book in hand, 
 When the rapacious Highland band 
 O'erran the vext unhappy land, 
 And doom'd the good to death. 
 
 X. 
 
 Whate'er thou wert, forgotten sleeper, 
 Will alter not thy deep repose ; 
 Oblivion hides thy joys and woes. 
 And does not own a cavern deeper 
 
 Than shrouds thy life from light and me ; 
 For mists and mankind come and go. 
 Midnight shapes flit to and fro, 
 And, thinking not — unthought of — throw 
 Shadows o'er thy grave and thee. 
 
 This is the meed the earth doth render 
 To all except her brightest names ; 
 A little while their merit claims 
 Her pride, that cherish and defend her, 
 
 And then they're lost or toss'd away ; 
 'Tis surely lesson this to me, 
 From quest of earthly fame to flee, 
 And rest my wishes where they'll be 
 A treasure trove for aye.
 
 142 
 
 RETROSPECT. 
 
 It's oh for a cot 
 
 By the western main, 
 And a lowly lot 
 
 To be mine again : 
 To feel as I felt 
 
 When a dreaming boy, 
 And my fancy dwelt 
 
 In the realms of joy. 
 When I knew no care, 
 
 And I fear'd no foe, 
 Nor had thought to spare 
 
 On a coming woe. 
 But morning and night 
 
 Fresh pleasure would bring. 
 And my face was bright 
 
 As a gladsome thing : 
 And a gladsome thing 
 
 Of a truth was I 
 In that far-off spring 
 
 That will never die ! 
 
 I think of it now 
 
 With an eye tear-wet,
 
 Retrospect. 143 
 
 The passionless brow 
 
 And its crown of jet. 
 i think of it now 
 
 With my locks grown white, 
 With a furrow'd brow 
 
 And an eye's dim light. 
 I tliink of the change, 
 
 So thorough and bold ; 
 Of the wider range 
 
 In the thoughts I hold : 
 Of a life more known 
 
 To my fellow-men 
 Than it could have grown 
 
 In the narrow glen : 
 And well do I ween 
 
 That the powers I hold 
 Would never have been 
 
 In the life of old. 
 
 But balance the wealth 
 
 Of a merchant proud 
 With the rosy health 
 
 Of a boy snow-browed, 
 And up from the scales 
 
 Is the red dust toss'd, 
 And its magic pales 
 
 By the glory lost : 
 And fain would I give 
 
 All my manhood's gains 
 For the spells that live 
 
 In the bounding veins, 
 10
 
 144 RetrQspect. 
 
 To revel once more 
 
 In a region fair, 
 With power to explore, 
 
 And spirit to share, 
 In signs that are rife 
 
 In the earth and sea, 
 The mystery Hfe 
 
 Of the things that be. 
 
 What gladness it gave, 
 
 In the rosy morn, 
 Afar on the wave 
 
 To be lightly borne ! 
 Blown out from the land 
 
 On the sweet spring wind, 
 And leaving the grand 
 
 Old mountains behind : 
 Away and away, 
 
 Right out from the coast, 
 Till the hills grew grey 
 
 And the glens were lost ; 
 Till the full white sail 
 
 Dropt empty and free 
 In the lessening gale 
 
 Of the central sea : 
 And the trim wee bark. 
 
 To the eagle's view. 
 Was the only mark 
 
 In the world of blue.
 
 Retrospect. 143, 
 
 Sweet, too, the day long, 
 
 My shallop to oar, 
 And listen the song 
 
 Breathed round by the shore, 
 Where the long blue tide 
 
 Rolls in from the sea 
 With its voice of pride 
 
 And immensity : 
 Dim-telling of things 
 
 In the far-off climes, 
 In music that rings 
 
 Like a poet's rhymes. 
 And I listen'd, thrilled 
 
 As the music grew, 
 Till my heart was filled 
 
 With melody too ; 
 And that of the sea 
 
 Seem'd kin to my own, 
 And stirr'd me with glee 
 
 As I wander'd on — 
 
 Away 'mong the rocks, 
 
 Where the eagle broods, 
 And the raven croaks 
 
 To the summer floods : 
 ^Vhere the downy nest 
 
 Of the eider-duck 
 Hangs high on the crest 
 
 Of the sea-swept rock ; 
 And gulls on the beach 
 
 Have their lowly home,
 
 1 46 Retrospect. 
 
 Scarce over the reach 
 
 Of the climbing foam. 
 Where never was heard 
 
 Since the world began, 
 A grovelHng word 
 
 From the Hps of man ; 
 For the wondrous gleam 
 
 That hallows the whole 
 Steals in like a dream 
 
 On the tranquil soul. 
 
 But more than the bliss 
 
 Of the morn or day 
 Was the stolen kiss 
 
 When the skies were grey ; 
 And the thrill — felt yet — 
 
 By the waterfall, 
 Where the two hearts met 
 
 That were all in all. 
 Come back to my heart 
 
 O days that are gone ! 
 And bring me a part 
 
 Of the joy then known : 
 Come back, O ye days 
 
 Of gladness and mirth ! 
 And light with your rays 
 
 My desolate hearth ! 
 I'd barter a year 
 
 Of my after-gain 
 To breathe in the dear 
 
 Old boyhood again !
 
 147 
 
 I PU'D A ROSE. 
 
 I pu'd a rose in Mennock wuds 
 
 No lang sin', on my road gaun hame, 
 A mossy sprig wi' twa bit buds, 
 
 Ye'd barely thinic deserved the name ; 
 But graff'd acqueesh a sproutin' tree, 
 
 And eitlily tentit e'en and morn. 
 As bonny a blossom opened e'e 
 
 As ever busk't the laden thorn. 
 
 I woo'd a lass on Wanlock braes, 
 
 A winsome birkie, bauld and slee ; 
 Whase life gaed by like summer days, 
 
 Wi' lauch as licht and heart as free : 
 But sune the lowe that winna hide 
 
 Gart Tibby's een grow wondrous fain. 
 And syne I saw wi' joyfu' pride 
 
 Her heart was graffd acqueesh my ain.
 
 148 
 
 GIN YE LO'E ME. 
 
 Gin ye lo'e me, lassie, meet me 
 
 Up the Wanlock glen at e'en, 
 Where the wimplin' burnie wanders 
 
 Through amang the knowes sae green ; 
 Where the bonnie bloomin' heather 
 
 Sweetly scents the muirlan' air; 
 I will tell ye o' a secret, 
 
 Lassie, gin ye meet me there. 
 
 Ill wad set sae saft a story 
 
 Tae be tauld in open day, 
 Wi' your thrawart minny glowrin' 
 
 Qwre ilk dawtie word I say ; 
 But when e'enin' cranreuch airts her 
 
 Tae her couthie ingle-en'. 
 Meet me, and I'll tell you something 
 
 Some fowk wad be fain tae ken. 
 
 In the gloamin' glen the mavis 
 
 Tells his mate how leal he lo'es ; 
 A' forenicht the hills o' Wanlock 
 
 Hear how blythe the lintie woos ; 
 Ilka bird then nestles closely 
 
 Tae some ither heart as kin'. 
 But I'll never pree their gladness 
 
 Till ye come rnd comfort mine.
 
 149 
 
 THE LAST TOAST. 
 
 One more cup ere we rise from the board 
 
 Where we sit in the daylight so dim, 
 Let the last ruddy drops of the vintage be poured, 
 
 And bumper each bowl to the brim ! 
 We drank to our Queen and our Fatherland too, 
 
 While corks lay undrawn on our shelves ; 
 But this is the last, and give each one his due, 
 
 Let the toast be this — to " Ourselves." 
 
 Then, here's the last toast of the night, 
 
 For we've drained every tlask on the shelves. 
 
 Get up, then, and drink it with meaning and might, 
 And let the toast be — to " Ourselves." 
 
 England's Queen — we are proud, are we not. 
 
 Of the deeds that ennoble this name ? 
 And we pray that the dastardly coward be shot 
 
 That ever speaks light of her fame. 
 But Queens, at the best, are but seen from afar — 
 
 Little more of this earth than the elves ; 
 Their glory comes to us like light from a star ; 
 
 But we — we are facts to Ourselves. 
 
 Then, here's the last, etc.
 
 150 TJie Last Toast. 
 
 Scotland's hills of the heather and thyme 
 
 Are dear to the hearts of the true, 
 And fondly we yearn in a far away clime 
 
 To bring the wild peaks to our view ; 
 But chiefly they're dear from the worth of their sons- 
 
 From the prince to the peasant that delves, 
 And how do we know but this quality runs 
 
 In a trifling degree in — Ourselves ? 
 
 Then, here's the last, etc.
 
 i5i 
 
 MY AIN HILLS. 
 
 The bonnie hills o' Wanlock, 
 
 I've spielt them ane and a', 
 Baith laich and heich and stey and dreich, 
 
 In rain and rowk and snaw : 
 And owre a' ither mountains 
 
 Nane else e'er bure the gree ; 
 Nae peaks that rise aneth the skies 
 
 Can raise sic thochts in me. 
 
 I've warslet up Ben Lomond 
 
 When simmer deckt its side, 
 And grey Goatfell, that stan's itsel' 
 
 In soHtary pride ; 
 But frae their wildest grandeur 
 
 Wi' sma' concern I'd turn 
 Tae ae wee glen, wi' some I ken, 
 
 By Wanlock's wimplin' burn. 
 
 For there wi' chiels far sunder'd, 
 
 I roved in glee lang syne, 
 And never fit was lichter yet 
 
 Amang the muirs than mine ;
 
 152 My A in Hills. 
 
 And wi' sic shouts o' gladness 
 We startlet hill and plain, — 
 
 I'd tyne a year o' a' things here 
 Tae raise the like again. 
 
 But we are lads nae langer, 
 
 And time is gowd they say ; 
 The hills sae green are seldom seen 
 
 When ance we start tae stray ; 
 And mair than time is wantin', 
 
 For gin we a' were there, — 
 Wha kens ? the min' micht no incline 
 
 Its former sports tae share. 
 
 O, bonnie hills o' Wanlock ! 
 
 What pranks auld Time does play ? 
 I kent nae change in a' your range 
 
 When I cam' here the day : 
 But faces that I met wi' 
 , Are surely altert sair ; 
 And some I ken hae left the glen 
 
 We'll never meet wi' mair. 
 
 But though the fit may wander, 
 
 The heart can aye be true, 
 And mony a yin, I brawly ken, 
 
 Wad fain be here e'enoo ; 
 And mony a weary comrade 
 
 Like me fu' aften prays, 
 That the bonnie hills o' Wanlock 
 
 May see his hinraaist days.
 
 15; 
 
 THE SEA. 
 
 Bards sing the beauties of the deep, 
 The ever-shifting wondrous main 
 
 Makes many a hand the harp-strings sweep, 
 And Hves in many a sounding strain, 
 
 But I, what beauty can I see 
 
 In that which parts my love and me ? 
 
 I own its face may oft be fair, 
 
 When summer skies are smiHng o'er, 
 
 Or grand, when tempests gather there, 
 And mad waves lash th' embattled shore, 
 
 But cannot view these sights with glee 
 
 The while it parts my love and me. 
 
 No other cause have I for hate. 
 
 No friend of mine bemoans its power ; 
 
 No hearts I loved have met their fate 
 Upon it in the stormy hour ; 
 
 Did it not part my love and me, 
 
 I too might sing the sounding sea. 
 
 But with such bar as this to break, 
 How shall I teach my song to flow ?
 
 154 T^Ji^ Sea. 
 
 The only music I can make 
 
 Dies in a dismal plaint of woe ; 
 I cannot bid that roll in glee 
 That rolls between my love and me. 
 
 And shall I therefore curse the deep ? 
 
 Nay — for a whisper in mine ear 
 Makes all my pulses gladly leap, 
 
 And tells me that the day is near 
 When o'er this wide mysterious sea 
 The waves will waft my love to me. 
 
 So, till that happy day shall dawn, 
 Nor blame nor praise have I for thee, 
 
 Weird waste, whose witchery has drawn 
 Music from every bard but me ; 
 
 But safely guide her bark along, 
 
 And I will thank thee in a song.
 
 155 
 
 IN THE FOREST. 
 
 When the red leaves fell on every side, 
 
 And the straggling boughs were nearly bare, 
 
 I wander'd far through the forest wide, 
 In the settled calm of the evening air. 
 
 The strong, fierce heat of the day was gone, 
 The light winds folded their wings in rest. 
 
 And softly the streamlet murmur'd on 
 With a childlike joy to the open west. 
 
 I follow'd the stream, for my heart inclined 
 To list its tale to the witching close ; 
 
 And peace grew up in my musing mind 
 As the gurgling melody wan'd and rose. 
 
 How sweet, I thought, to be always here, 
 Away from the garish, noisy day ; 
 
 And my life to glide like the streamlet clear 
 In the thrall of the flowery forest brae. 
 
 No chafing with rocks, no surging foam ; 
 
 Naught but the flowers, the buds, and me ; 
 And the only change when I sought my home, 
 
 As the stream must do, in the parent sea.
 
 156 In the Forest. 
 
 And even at last my spirit would crave 
 No boon that Nature is scant of here, 
 
 For the birds might mould me a leafy grave, 
 And whistle a dirge at my lonely bier. 
 
 But lo ! as I plann'd in a blind content, 
 With never a thought beyond the trees. 
 
 To the edge of the forest my footsteps bent. 
 Led on by the rush of the nearing seas ; 
 
 And right through the struggling arms of pine 
 The broad, red sunset smote my brow ; 
 
 And I halted, abash'd, in the light divine 
 
 While the old dream fell like a leaf from the bough. 
 
 For I saw, what erst I had fail'd to see. 
 In the depths of the forest's rayless gloom. 
 
 That the stream might end in the parent sea, 
 But not my soul in the sealike tomb. 
 
 " And yonder," I cried, " is the goal for me ! 
 
 The depths of the forest may suit the stream. 
 But I, with a future over the sea. 
 
 Have more to do than be here and dream."
 
 157 
 
 CARRON WATER, 
 
 BoNNiLiE blinks the moon on Carron — 
 
 Wimplin' awa, 
 Doon frae the hichts sae stey and barren, 
 Worn, \vi' the rocks in the lang linns warrin', 
 
 Sleepily slidin' by hamlet and ha', 
 Through the woodlan's free ; 
 
 O, bonnilie blinks the mune owre't a' ! 
 But never a blink that she cuist on Carron 
 
 Could equal in witchery them that fa' 
 Frae my winsome May on me. 
 
 Merrily lilt the birds on Carron, 
 
 Deavin' the glen ! 
 Nae note o' the lark's wi' the linty's jarrin' — 
 Nor the merle the mellow-tuned mavis marrin'- 
 
 A' like a dream to the raptur'd ken 
 As the lays are sung ; 
 
 O, merrily lilt the birds ilk yin ! 
 But never a sang that they sung on Carron 
 
 Was half sae sweet as the words that rin, 
 Like hinny, frae my love's tongue.
 
 158 Carron Water. 
 
 Sweetly the wild flowers bloom on Carron, 
 
 Buskin' the brae ; 
 Blue-bell and primrose the greenwood starrin' — 
 Wild briar, rich as the roses o' Sharon — 
 Violets and pinks frae ilk woodland way 
 
 Fling balm on the gale ; 
 O, sweetly they bloom through the lang summer 
 day ! 
 But the sweetest flow'r on the banks o' Carron 
 Is my rose-lipp'd, hazel-eyed, lily-brow'd May, 
 The pride o' her native vale. 
 
 Dear to my heart are the links o' Carron ; 
 
 But far mair dear 
 Than the richest floweret the greenwood starrin'. 
 Or the bonniest blink o' the mune on Carron, 
 
 My May, wi' a voice as saft and clear 
 As the wild bird's tongue ; 
 
 O, what do I care ocht else to hear ! 
 Her love is mair to my heart than Carron, 
 
 And weel do I trow that voice mair dear 
 Than the sweetest sang e'er sung !
 
 159 
 
 GLENBALLANTYNE ; OR, MY LAST 
 LOOK O' HAME. 
 
 I HAE wander'd far i' the wilds this day, 
 
 Owre heichts bent-clad, and in howes sae green ; 
 
 I hae heard weird words that I daurna say, 
 And sichts that were not o' the yird I've seen. 
 
 And sair I misdoot I hae lookit my last 
 On bonnie green howm and on brairdit lea, 
 
 For a freit, like a chirt o' the norlan' blast, 
 Lies cauld, lies cauld at the heart o' me.   
 
 O, licht is the fitstep, leisomely fain, 
 Tho' weary wi' raikin' and stiff wi' toil. 
 
 That the gloamin' o' life brings back again 
 To the kindly touch o' its native soil ! 
 
 To spiel ance mair the stey green hills 
 
 Sae lichtly esteem'd when the heart was high, 
 
 And dauner again by the wimplin' rills 
 That croon sae sweet o' the days gane by. 
 
 Cauld maun the heart be, twin'd o' its joys, 
 And weary the weird that heart maun dree 
 
 That comes to the scenes o' its youthfu' ploys 
 Wi' never a spark o' its youthfu' glee. 
 
 II
 
 i6o Glenballantyne. 
 
 For me — the blude i' my bosom lap 
 
 Wi' a schule-bairn's joy turn'd lowse to play 
 
 When I lookit again on the lane hill tap, 
 And the glen where I spent life's early day. 
 
 And never sae fair did the auld hills seem 
 I' the years langsyne as they did this day, 
 
 When I cross't at the heid o' the Wanlock stream, 
 Wi' the bird i' the lift, and the blume on the brae. 
 
 I hadna been gane on the muirs a mile, 
 A mile on the muirs, but barely twa, 
 
 When the sun o' the simmer ceas'd to smile. 
 And the sweet hill win' it was airtit awa' : 
 
 And a'thing grew sae eerie and lown 
 
 By Enterkin-Hass and the Lowther Brae, 
 
 I made for the heichts, as I wad hae flown. 
 For laich i' the glens I couldna stay. 
 
 I hadna been oot on the heichts a mile, 
 A mile on the heights, but only three. 
 
 When a mist row'd doon on the braid Steygyle, 
 And happit his buirdly bouk frae me. 
 
 Sae wan were its faulds, sae dern and wan, 
 'Twas mair like a flowther o' drivin' snaw. 
 
 And I neither could see where the burnie ran. 
 Nor catch ae note o' its lilt ava'.
 
 Glen ba II a n tyne. 1 6 r 
 
 And in the glenheid, or ever I wist, 
 
 Where the lang witch-bracken is stiff and still, 
 
 I yokit wi' them I wad fain hae miss't — 
 The dreid white faces that haunt the hill. 
 
 For, richt i' my gate, a' waesome and worn, 
 The yirdit deid, whase name I beir, 
 
 Were waitin' for me, by the muirlan' burn —   
 An awsome trystin' o' dule an' fear. 
 
 The dear deid faces — the lips I've kiss't — 
 The een that langsyne look't luve i' my ain — 
 
 They gapit and glowre't frae the muirlan' mist, 
 And they fley'd me, and into the mist again : 
 
 And up on the heichts I could hear their cries ; 
 
 I can hear them yet ! I sail never tine 
 The gruesome dreid at my heart that lies 
 
 Sin' the sauls o' my kinsfolk spak' wi' mine ! 
 
 Ye may busk i' yer brawest, Glenballantyne burn 
 (And o' lown sweet beauty ye hae your share) ;: 
 
 But a' my thochts frae your memories turn, 
 And I'll taigle at e'en i' your neuks nae main 
 
 Farewell, green Lowther — corn'e and brae ! 
 
 A lang fareweel ye may tak' o' me ; 
 I hae hauden a tryst i' your wilds this day, 
 
 That'll keep me fey till the day I dee.
 
 l62 
 
 AMANG THE BRUME. 
 
 DoON amang the brume, in yon dowie glen yestreen, 
 
 I heard a safter melody than mavis ever sang ; 
 And I couldna fen' but listen tho' a mist cam' in my een, 
 
 And ilka word gaed through me like a stang — 
 *'0 bonnie rides the boat when the simmer win' is lown, 
 
 And the gowden lift abune her is nae sooner than the 
 sea; 
 But when the win' is waken't, and the wave has gurly 
 grown, 
 
 What troubles maun the weary boatie dree ! " 
 
 Doon amang the brume, when the eerie wail gaed by, 
 A dwawm cam' owre my kennin', and I saw a boat 
 gaun doon ; 
 And I wist the warst had happen'd, for I heard a waefu' 
 cry. 
 And again the voice gaed through me wi' a stoun — 
 *'0! bonnie is the lift when the storm has cleart the 
 blue, 
 And bonnie is the water when it settles braid and fair ; 
 But the bonnie face o' somebody will smile nae mair on 
 you, 
 His boat will ride the waters nevermair."
 
 1 63 
 
 THE POET AND HIS THEME. 
 
 Forever o'er the sea of song 
 The poet's fairy shallop glides ; 
 
 In mirth and music borne along, 
 It lightly breasts the bounding tides. 
 
 From morn till night awake, asleep, 
 
 He threads the bay, or skirts the shore ; 
 
 The rolling numbers of the deep 
 Are in his heart for evermore. 
 
 No stormy gust invades the calm 
 
 That broods between his sea and sky ; 
 
 But silent, low, and rich with balm 
 The slumbrous zephyr wanders by. 
 
 He lives in love with all around ; 
 
 He changes as the seasons fill ; 
 His heart — a lyre of sweetest sound —   
 
 Is strung and swept by Nature still. 
 
 The memories of the olden lime 
 Are wafted to him down the wind ; 
 
 He knows the songs of every clime, 
 And sets them to each mood of mind.
 
 164 The Poet and Jns Theme. 
 
 And when the night is near at hand 
 He cons them over one by one ; 
 
 And far across the listening land 
 The magic of his lay is blown. 
 
 He sings of life, and love, and death, 
 Of all things bright and fair to see ; 
 
 And in the pauses of his breath 
 The waves complete the melody. 
 
 But, most of all, he loves the theme 
 Of years to come when sin is dead ; 
 
 Then rolls his music in a stream 
 
 Impassioned, chaining heart and head. 
 
 For, more than all things great or dear 
 The ages leave us as they roll, 
 
 This longing for the golden year 
 Is centred in the poet's soul. 
 
 Oh, gentle bard, that longs to greet 
 
 The day when all hearts throb like thine ! 
 
 How many weary years must fleet 
 Across the land in storm and shine ? 
 
 How many loves that now are bright 
 Will darken into worse than scorn 
 
 Before we burst this dismal night 
 
 That drags us from the golden morn ?
 
 The Poet and his Theme. 165 
 
 So deep the shade on hut and hall, 
 
 So seldom glints the fitful gleam, 
 Alas ! I fear that, after all. 
 
 It lives but in the poet's dream !
 
 1 66 
 
 AT THE GARDEN GATE. 
 
 The moon, like a shepherdess, dimbs the steeps 
 
 Where her silent flocks of stars are straying, 
 And lightly down through the dark blue deeps 
 
 Her cloudy robes on the breeze are playing : 
 The spell of the night is on mountain and main, 
 
 Woodlands and waters are swathed in sleep; 
 And fitful and faint on the night wind's wings 
 Is wafted the dirge that the streamlet sings. 
 
 As it glides through the glen to its grave in the deep. 
 
 Alone by the garden gate as I stand, 
 
 I think of a night — just such another — 
 When I waited here to touch the hand 
 
 Dear to me yet above all other : 
 Just so — did the moonlight tip the trees ; 
 
 Just so — the night wind rose and fell ; — 
 Ah me! how long should I linger now. 
 With the night-wind stealing across my brow, 
 
 Ere the touch of that hand would break the spell
 
 16/ 
 
 WALLACE. 
 
 On the page of Scottish story, 
 
 Red v^ith valour though it be, 
 Who can lay such claim to glory 
 
 As the knight of Elderslie ? 
 Wallace, first of all the warriors 
 
 Ever belted blade on thigh. 
 May the heart that slights thy greatness 
 
 Droop in dungeon dark and die ! 
 
 Bruce was wise, and Douglas daring ; 
 
 Randolph's heart was stout and bold ; 
 Stern Kirkpatrick's sword unsparing ; 
 
 Fraser loved by young and old : 
 But in thee alone, proud Wallace, 
 
 Burn'd the quenchless patriot flame : 
 All the rest had stooped to England, 
 
 Borne awhile a traitor's shame. 
 
 Well their after-deeds absolved them 
 From the stain that dirnm'd their shield, 
 
 And when England's king resolved him 
 They should die or meanly yield,
 
 1 68 Wallace. 
 
 O how leapt each manly bosom, 
 Thrill'd by Bruce's gathering cry, 
 
 And beneath his glorious banner 
 Took the field to do or die. 
 
 But in thee no stain existed. 
 
 Oath of thine no king could claim ; 
 Evermore thy sword resisted 
 
 All that spoke in Edward's name. 
 How could then the doom of traitor 
 
 Be assigned with truth to thee, 
 When thy soul disdained to own him 
 
 For a king — in chains or free ? 
 
 But the fools who deem'd thee traitor 
 
 Knew not then as we know now, 
 That thy death has made thee greater, 
 
 Wreath'd fresh laurels round thy brow 
 For although to live a patriot 
 
 Tries the strength of heart and will. 
 He who dies a patriot-martyr 
 
 Proves devotion deeper still. 
 
 Spotless as the vault of heaven 
 
 Was thy soul's untainted glow ; 
 And to such alone is given 
 
 Power to check the tyrant foe : 
 Down through all the after ages 
 
 Beams that radiance full and clear,- — 
 Who shall say it doth not reach us. 
 
 Seated in our freedom here ?
 
 169 
 
 P A I R I N G - T I M E . 
 
 I HEARD the muirhens in the dawin', 
 
 And siccan a rippet they raised ! 
 Sae crousely the muircocks were crawin', 
 
 I glowert as the birds had been crazed ; 
 For I thocht that the hamely employment 
 
 O' biggin' a nest had been quiet ; 
 But gin it can yield sic enjoyment, 
 
 What say ye, young lassie, to try't ? 
 
 The muircock is blithe wi' his dearie, 
 
 A' nicht in the howe o' the hill ; 
 But lang were the gloamin' and eerie, 
 
 If spent on the muir by himsel' : 
 And what is a man withoot woman, 
 
 But a muircock that hasna a hen ? 
 Sae bide wi' me noo in the gloamin'. 
 
 And shorten my nicht in the glen. 
 
 A cozy wee cot and a cannie, 
 
 Is ready whenever ye will, 
 Weel plenished wi' plenishin' bonnie. 
 
 And wantin' for nocht but yoursel' : 
 Then come in the gloamin', my treasure ! 
 
 For troth I am weary tae ken, 
 Gin pairin'-time brings the birds pleasure, 
 
 What wonderfu' joys it gies men.
 
 170 
 
 THE DEATH-SONG OF TIME. 
 
 In the empty years that loom upon the world 
 
 Ere the mountains shall be levell'd with the sea, 
 Or the blackening bolt of thunder shall be hurled 
 
 From the caverns of the life that is to be, 
 Mute and haggard on the margin of his power, 
 
 'Mong the nations that are crumbling in his shade. 
 Robed in all the passing splendour of the hour. 
 
 Time is leaning like a warrior on his blade ; 
 And he feels the sickly flaring of the sun, 
 
 Hears the slogan of the breeze that rushes past, 
 And marks the ebbing ages as they run 
 
 Among his fingers, wearing quickly to the last ; 
 Then, rising to the fulness of his form. 
 
 He passionately clamours to the throng, 
 And louder than the roarings of the storm 
 
 Comes the music of the mighty wizard's song : — 
 
 *' Get ye hence and be forgotten ! Who are ye 
 
 Clinging wonder-stricken round the skirts of Time ? 
 Have ye left your homes in idleness to see 
 The shadow that will blast ye in your prime ?
 
 TJie Death-Song of Time. 171 
 
 Do ye think the lion leaves his cave to die, 
 
 That the meaner beasts may triumph in his pain ? 
 
 Though the hght be fading surely from mine eye, 
 It will burn till yours can naver glint again ! 
 
 *' Mine arm hath been against ye all my days, 
 
 I have conquer'd and will conquer to the end ; 
 There is no mortal force that ye can raise 
 
 But the iron guard of Time will turn and bend. 
 Ye are not what ye were no more than I, 
 
 I have worn away your nerve and sapp'd your will ; 
 It is not long to linger — surely I 
 
 That have borne so long can bear a little still. 
 
 '& 
 
 " O the tooth of dull decay hath toucht the hills, 
 
 And soon their flaunted pride will be no more, 
 And wearily the wrinkled ocean spills 
 
 The weepings of his dotage on the shore ; 
 All things which were of old are waxing grey. 
 
 And if such things as these can cease to be, 
 What hope have ye, the insects of a day, 
 
 To wrestle through this weary war with me ? 
 
 " It is not many days that I must wait 
 
 Till the fulness of your time be come and gone, 
 I will leave ye, drawn together, to your fate, 
 
 And the spell will settle o'er ye one by one. 
 Man and matron, prince and peasant, young and old, 
 
 The coward's dust shall mingle with the brave ; 
 Many flocks are penn'd together in a fold 
 
 When the world is not a dwelling but a grave.
 
 172 The Death- Song of Time. 
 
 " And when ye walk no more upon ihe earth, 
 
 And your feet have left no traces where they trod, 
 When the stately halls that echoed with your mirth 
 
 Are not left to tell the future your abode ; 
 When the very name of man has been forgot, 
 
 And all the fierce emotions of his prime, 
 The longings and the labours of his lot 
 
 Are like mists upon the memory of Time ; 
 
 " When the mountain and the meadow shall be one. 
 
 And the glamour of the glen hath ceas'd to be ; 
 When the mystery of the midnight and the moon 
 
 Cannot rouse the slumbering madness of the sea ; 
 When the sun that shines so feebly shines no more, 
 
 And the primal darkness settles o'er the deep, 
 I will push my silent shallop from the shore, 
 
 Glide away into Eternity — and sleep ! "
 
 /j 
 
 EL DORADO. 
 
 Where is the land of the sunlight and shadow, 
 
 Rivers of silver and mountains of gold ; 
 The beautiful province yclept El Dorado, 
 
 Imaged erewhile by the dreamers of old ? 
 Seek it no more where the sounding Atlantic 
 
 Murmurs its mystical tales in your ear ; 
 Come, I will show you the region romantic ! 
 Listen, the true El Dorado is here. 
 A silent wind from a far blue sky, 
 
 A bark on the lake in the clear moonshine, 
 The first look of love in a merry blue eye, 
 And a dear little hand in mine. 
 
 Say not 'tis false that the country we live in, 
 
 Old mother England, the free, may contain 
 The peace and the plenty for which ye have striven, 
 
 Deeming them far in the orient main ; 
 Back from the lands of the sun to our valleys ! 
 This is the haven to which ye should steer ; 
 The light and the gloom of the magical palace — • 
 Treasures uncounted and countless are here : — 
 A silent wind from a far blue sky, 
 
 A bark on the lake in the clear moonshine, 
 The first look of love in a merry blue eye, 
 And a dear little hand in mine.
 
 174 E.I Dorado. 
 
 Love is the " sesame " that opens our nature, 
 
 Gifting our vision with power to behold 
 The fair face of earth, with a smile on each feature, 
 
 Making it truly a region of gold. 
 Come, then, ye hearts that with longing are weary, 
 
 Think not the world is faded and sere. 
 Much that we know may be gloomy and dreary, 
 But surely the true El Dorado is here : — 
 A silent wind from a far blue sky, 
 
 A bark on the lake in the clear moonshine. 
 The first look of love in a merry blue eye. 
 And a dear little hand in mine.
 
 175 
 
 ENTERKIN. 
 
 There's a glen, i' the far-aff hills o' my hame, 
 
 I'll ne'er forget ; 
 A glen wi' a sweet auld-farrant name 
 
 That thrills me yet ; 
 Thrills me, and fills me wi' nameless joy 
 As the sicht o't did when a dreamin' boy, 
 And I lay at e'en on the grey hillside, 
 My young heart loupin' wi' stouns o' pride 
 At thocht o' the ferlies ye hae seen,- 
 Warrior and martyr, lover and freen — 
 A' tint noo to the hill folk's e'en ! 
 
 Oh, Enterkin ! I hae wander't far 
 Owre land and sea ; 
 
 But sweetest o' a' sweet memories are 
 My dreams o' thee ! 
 
 Then streikit at ease on the lane glenheid, 
 
 Oor cracks wad be 
 O' the dauntless word and the baulder deed 
 
 That set men free ; 
 Free to meet i' the wilds and pray 
 To God, i' their ain sweet simple way. 
 Peacefu' and happy is Enterkin — 
 A lowner glen ye wad hardly fin' : 
 
 12
 
 1 76 Enterkin. 
 
 A'body comes and gangs at will, 
 Safe as the sunlicht on the hill — 
 Never a heart taks tent o' ill. 
 
 Oh, weel may the auld days fill wi' thocht 
 Ilk pensive min'. 
 
 For the freedom and safety there were bocht 
 Wi' blude, langsyne ! 
 
 For there, i' the gowden youthfu' days 
 
 O' love and pride, 
 When a Sabbath calm had husht the braes 
 
 At gloamin' tide ; 
 The forms that I loe'd best to see 
 Were wont to dauner at e'en wi' me ; 
 The kindly auld folks led the way. 
 But watcht that we didna jouk or play ; 
 Sister and brither, and comrade dear, 
 And aiblins a sweet young stranger here, 
 Borrow'd frae Lunnon ance a year : 
 
 Oh, blaw thou saft in her bonnie face. 
 Thou westlin' win' ! 
 
 For a winsomer sicht did never grace 
 Grey Enterkin ! 
 
 Though lanesome and laich be the soun's that creep 
 
 Through Enterkin, 
 Nocht waur than the bleat o' the wild hill sheep 
 
 Disturbs the glen, 
 The sugh o' the win', the burnie's moan, 
 Or the cry o' the whaup on Auchenlone ;
 
 Eiiterkin. 1 77 
 
 Little ye'd dream o' the fearsome day 
 When the red-coats fiU'd yon narrow way 
 Where the men o' the Covenant took their stand 
 For the martyr-faith o' their native land, 
 And stern MacMichael led the band : 
 
 Oh, sweet be his slumber in auld Kirkbride, 
 That warrior grim ; 
 
 For the feck o' the charm o' yon grey hillside 
 Was wrocht by him ! 
 
 Oh, bonnily there on the muirlan' heicht 
 
 The sun looks doon, 
 And bauldly up i' the warm sunlicht 
 
 Ilk bauds his croon : 
 Lowther and Steygyle, Auchenlone — 
 Daintiest hill that the licht looks on : 
 (Aft hae I spiel'd its benty side 
 Wi' freens noo sinder'd far and wide), 
 While bonnily owre baith burn and brae 
 The sklentin' shadows o' e'enin' play, 
 And syne hap a' at the close o' day : 
 
 Oh, surely the weird, uncanny skill 
 O' elfin' wand 
 
 Ne'er cuist mair glamour on howe and hill 
 In fairy-land ! 
 
 Oh, saftly blaw, thou win' o' the west 
 
 Through Enterkin ! 
 And shine oot. Sun, in thy splendour drest, 
 
 On Enterkin !
 
 178 ' Enterkin. 
 
 A' things bonnie and heartsome be 
 
 Aye like a halo o' peace roon thee : 
 
 And i' the hearts o' warldly men 
 
 That come to look on this lanesome glen, 
 
 Peace, like the peace that slumbers there — 
 
 Peace, like the peace that follows prayer, 
 
 Fa', like the dewdraps, unaware ! 
 
 Oh, fain wad I niffer a towmond's joy 
 This side the sea 
 
 To feel as I felt when a dreamin' boy 
 Langsyne in thee !
 
 1/9 
 
 THE CRY OF THE HILLMEN 
 
 God o' the Hameless, shield Thy bairns ! 
 
 Loutt laich frae oot Thy halie hauld, 
 And i' the bield o' Thy wicht airms 
 
 This remnant o' Thy flock enfauld ; 
 Else ane by ane we'll dwine awa' 
 
 Like lilts o' sang-birds frae the hill, 
 When e'ening mirk begins to fa', 
 
 And gleds and hoolits work their will. 
 
 For never did the lintie's held 
 
 Clap closer to the bien hillside 
 While owre her swept that form o' dreid, 
 
 Than God's ain folk are fain to hide ; 
 A' day we shun the licht ; at e'en 
 
 We seek the dusht and darksome glen, 
 Weel, if the midnicht's murky screen 
 
 But hap us frae oor fellow men ! 
 
 Here, stowlins, amang craigs and how^es, 
 In cauld and weet, we're forced to bide ; 
 
 Oor only feres the tods and yowes 
 That raik alang the mountain side ;
 
 i8o TJie Cry of the Hillnien. 
 
 The wild bird's wheeple frae the hft 
 The only leevin' voice we hear, 
 
 Save when in some lane glen we lift 
 Oor ain to Thee in dule and fear. 
 
 Nocht ken we o' the joys of life, 
 
 The ingle-neuk, the heartsome ha', 
 Oor bonnie bairns and blithe gudewife, 
 
 For Thy sake, Lord ! we've tint them a' ; 
 Yet wad we coont oor losses, gains, 
 
 Gin Thou in mids' o' us wad be 
 To ease us o' the skaith and pains 
 
 That we maun for oor Covenant dree. 
 
 It's oh that we micht bauldly stan' 
 
 In Christ's ain kirk amang oor kin, 
 Thy halie Book in ilka han', 
 
 Thy praise ilk gledsome saul within ; 
 For this oor Covenant we mak'. 
 
 For this we thole, for this we dee ; 
 Oor ban's are on the pleugh, and back 
 
 Ae wistfu' glance we maunna gie. 
 
 Hoo lang, oh Lord ! wilt Thou abide 
 
 In Thy heich-hadden withoot sign, 
 While ravenin' wolves on ilka side 
 
 Herry and rive this fauld o' Thine ? 
 The bluid o' mony a martyr'd saint 
 
 Cries to Thee frae the muirlan' sod ; 
 Oh, loutt and listen to oor plaint, 
 
 Bare Thy wicht airm and bield us, God !
 
 i8i 
 
 HAME'S AYE HAME. 
 
 (the lintie's defence of the imoorland.) 
 
 " Bonnie wee bird wi' the blithesome e'e, 
 Happin' aboot on the bare hillside, 
 Liltin' yer sang wi' a heart as free 
 
 As the breeze that scatters it far and wide. 
 What can hae ta'en ye — if I may spier — 
 That ye suld bide i' the muirlan' here ? " 
 
 
 " What can hae ta'en me ? Whaur wad I gan 
 Tae look for a joy I lack e'enoo ? 
 Is there a spot thir hills amang 
 
 Wi' heather as bonnie or lift as blue? 
 Tell me the marrow o' Arthur's Grain, 
 This lane lown corrie I ca' my ain." 
 
 " Arthur's Grain is but scraggy and bare, 
 
 Hardly a bracken tae bield ye here ; 
 
 Mennock has wudlan's bonnie and fair 
 
 Whaur ye micht shelter the leelang year. 
 And join wi' the lave o' the feather'd thrang, 
 Deavin' the wuds wi' yer joyfu' sang."
 
 1 82 H aim's Aye Hanie. 
 
 " Mennock is bonnie, and fair, and fine, 
 But mony a blither than me is there : 
 And wha wad listen tae sangs like mine 
 
 When the wuds are ringin' wi' soons sae rare ? 
 On the bleak, bare muir, or the misty glen 
 Ye bless the voice ye wad ne'er hear then." 
 
 " But glads come whiskin' athort the muir, 
 Yer wee heart loups tae yer neb wi' dreid ; 
 Ye ken thae brackens are no secure, 
 
 Ilk wauf o' the win' niicht shaw yer heid ; 
 And what wad become o' yer artless glee 
 Gin ye catcht the tail o' his ruthless e'e ? " 
 
 " The gleds come roun' by the muir, as ye say, 
 And oh, but their glance is gleg and keen ; 
 But better a gled in the open day 
 
 Than a hoolit's skraich i' the mirksome e'en ; 
 When the heart's warm bluid begins tae creep 
 Wi' an eerie chill, and ye daurna sleep." 
 
 " But think o' the storms ye maun endure, 
 And the faucht ye hae for a pyke betimes. 
 It's hard, dry fare on a barren muir. 
 
 And little ye get for yer winsome rhymes ; 
 And sangs come best frae a singer's heid 
 That ne'er maun think on claes or breid." 
 
 " Storms at the warst maun e'en blaw by, 
 
 And the young ling blumes are sweet tae pree ;
 
 H aim's Aye Hame. 183 
 
 And then sae fair is the simmer sky, 
 
 Ye'd sing for pleasure as weel as me. 
 Claes, I'll be thankfu', come aff haun, 
 And a gey wee mouthfu' keeps me gaun." 
 
 " Aweel, wee bird, I hae said my say. 
 
 Ye may bide i' the cauld, bare muir for me ; 
 
 Ne'er think I'd be fain tae see ye away, 
 'Twas a' for yersel' I made sae free. 
 
 The muir wad be dowie and deid I troo 
 
 Gin it hadna a leevin' voice in you." 
 
 " Nae mair ; gin the voice o' the muir be sweet. 
 
 Still let it be as it aye has been ; 
 In simmer or winter, cauld or weet, 
 
 The hills are dear to my constant een ; 
 For wi' birds, as wi' mair things I could name, 
 Nae maitter hoo lowly — hame's aye hame."
 
 1 84 
 
 LITTLE THINGS. 
 
 Long have I revelled in the book of nature, 
 
 Those wondrous pages that were penned of old, — 
 And sought to fathom in each varying feature 
 
 The mystic lore its hieroglyphics hold : 
 And more convinced am I the more I ponder, 
 
 That lessons meant for us are seldom found. 
 While we sit tranced in a grateful wonder 
 
 To see the everlasting wheel go round. 
 Though not with soul quite dead to all the glory 
 
 That breathes around us in the open day, 
 'Tis but the main points of the sounding story 
 
 We catch, blown down upon our dusty way. 
 The grand old hills that rear their crests to heaven, 
 
 The stately streams that ever seek the sea, 
 The deep ravines with echoing thunder riven. 
 
 The golden glory of the harvest lea, — 
 These all men know,: but few without emotion, 
 
 Alone within the mellow eventide, 
 Could pace the limit of the sounding ocean. 
 
 Or rest upon the silent mountain side. 
 But though we note the lesson thrust before us 
 
 In the long biding awe such presence brings. 
 We mostly fail to catch the joyous chorus 
 
 Rung ever in our ear by lesser things.
 
 Little Things. 185 
 
 The little flower that blooms beside the highway, 
 
 The little brook that wimples through the glen, 
 The little bird that sings in every bye-way, — 
 
 All have their little tale for heedful men. 
 They are the gentlest outcomings, the feehngs 
 
 With which great Nature's heart doth overflow ; 
 They touch our sense with plaintive fond appeaUngs 
 
 At every corner, as we come and go. 
 They are the antidotes to all our fretting 
 
 And paltry httle cares of every day, 
 And in the heart, past chance of all forgetting. 
 
 Memory should treasure every word they say.
 
 1 86 
 
 LIKE THE RIVER. 
 
 O THE glad voice of the river 
 
 Flings its music round and round, 
 And the glen is filled for ever 
 
 With the waters' pleasant sound ; 
 But by neither wood nor meadow 
 
 Will the rolling river bide — 
 Never rest in shine or shadow 
 
 Till it reach the ocean wide. 
 
 And not surer does the fountain 
 
 Send its waters to the sea, 
 From beyond the distant mountain, 
 
 Than my heart its thoughts to thee. 
 Other eyes may catch unwitting 
 
 Fitful glimpses here and there, 
 But to thine alone, love-litten, 
 
 Is my inmost bosom bare. 
 
 Far among the upland hollows, 
 
 When the gladsome stream was )Oungy 
 
 Brighter flowers adorned the valleys, 
 Louder mirth around it rung.
 
 Like the River. 187 
 
 But through all their pride the river 
 Lightly wandered fancy free, 
 
 Till it found its home for ever 
 In the bosom of the sea. 
 
 So, in youth, I made each pleasure 
 
 For a while my guiding star ; 
 Sought it, as they seek for treasure, 
 
 Late and early, near and far ; 
 Till the silver starlets perished 
 
 On the pallid marge of day, 
 And the hopes so fondly cherished. 
 
 Like the stars had passed away. 
 
 Then I came, as comes the river, 
 
 Leaving all the past behind ; 
 All the toil and the endeavour 
 
 Of the restless youthful mind. 
 And with calmer voice and feeling, 
 
 Here beside the peaceful sea. 
 To thy tender heart appealing, 
 
 Left my happiness with thee.
 
 i88 
 
 ONLY ADREAM. 
 
 I DREAMT that the veil was drawn 
 That screens the coming days, 
 And all the future folded there, 
 In the book of mystery laid bare. 
 Before my wilder'd gaze. 
 
 And methought I seized the book, 
 
 And read it page by page, 
 And I saw that life for me was still 
 A weary climb on a pathless hill, 
 
 From youth till doting age. 
 
 There was no poet's wreath 
 
 To ring my throbbing brow, 
 No sacred calm when the din was by. 
 Nor light to hallow the even' sky — 
 All dreary then as now. 
 
 And I thought if this be truth. 
 
 And the end is as I see, 
 'Tis surely a wilful waste of time 
 Striving to reach that radiant clime. 
 
 Whose sweets are not for me.
 
 Only a Dream. ' 189 
 
 Then I woke — and lo ! the dream 
 
 Fell from me as the snow 
 Falls from the branch in the early morn, 
 When the first keen glance of the sun has worn 
 
 Its hold, and it slips below. 
 
 And as the branch breaks out 
 
 And buds in the open day, 
 A nobler thought possessed my soul, 
 When the searching light of the sun did roll 
 
 My snow-like dream away. 
 
 For I knew that the thing I saw 
 
 Was born of the restless brain, 
 And not God-sent to bear me back, 
 With a sense of the many gifts I lack, 
 
 Ere I a goal might gain. 
 
 So I work with earnest will, 
 
 And a heart that still hopes on ; 
 And if no crowning wreath appears 
 At least I know in the rolling years 
 
 Some faithful work is done.
 
 I go 
 
 THE BURN'S ANSWER. 
 
 Bonnie burn, that rins 
 
 Tae the roarin' sea, 
 Hae ye no a word ava 
 
 Frae the hills tae me ? 
 
 Ye row'd by a shiel, 
 
 In a far-aff glen, 
 Whaur a bonnie lassie bides 
 
 That we baith suld ken. 
 
 For aft hae we roved 
 By your bosky braes ; 
 
 Ye tentit a' oor love dream, 
 Its joys and its waes. 
 
 That gowd glint o' heaven 
 
 Ye never wad forget. 
 O, tell me, bonnie burnie, 
 
 Is her heart mine yet ? 
 
 The bonnie burn grat. 
 
 " O, bairn ! I wad fain 
 Bring the news that ye spier for, 
 
 To cheer ye again :
 
 The Burn's Answer. 191 
 
 " That shiel in the glen 
 
 Still Stan's by my side, 
 And the lang and bosky howms 
 
 In their simmer pride ; 
 
 " But the lass — wae's me ! — 
 
 She's a wife lang syne, 
 And the gowd dream has faded 
 
 In your heart and mine ; 
 
 " There's nocht yonder noo 
 
 Brings gladness tae me. 
 And I'm fain tae hurry by 
 
 Tae the roarin' sea." 
 
 13
 
 192 
 
 SCOTLAND'S CHARMS. 
 
 O LIGHTLY laughs the sailor lad 
 That knows my pride and me, 
 And straight he speaks of wondrous lands 
 
 Beyond the sounding sea ; 
 But never a tale I've heard him tell 
 
 Could force my heart to own, 
 There ever were hills like Scotland's hills, 
 Where Freedom has fixed her throne. 
 Then here's to the hills of Scotland, 
 Where the heather is waving free, 
 There are no hills like Scotland's hills, 
 Nor any so dear to me ! 
 
 O proudly boasts the soldier bold. 
 
 Who shows a victor's scars, 
 That none can match the dauntless foes 
 
 He faced in foreign wars ; 
 But something more than a soldier's boast 
 
 Should force my heart to yield. 
 There ever were men like Scotland's men 
 Drawn up on a tented field. 
 
 Then here's to the men of Scotland, 
 Wheresoever their footsteps stra}', 
 There are no men like Scotland's men, 
 No nation so bold as they !
 
 Scotland's Charms. 193 
 
 O softly sighs the gallant gay, 
 
 For some dark beauty's smile, 
 Whose charms still keep his fancy fixed 
 
 On her lone flowery isle ; 
 But say, shall an idle gallant's flame 
 
 Have power to make us know 
 There ever were maids like Scotland's maids, 
 As far as the winds can blow ? 
 
 Then here's to the maids of Scotland, 
 
 With their eyes of the heaven's own blue. 
 There are no maids like Scotland's maids, 
 No hearts that are half so true !
 
 194 
 
 SOMETHING WRANG. 
 
 Saft is the note o' the roguish bird that sits in the 
 flowery thorn, 
 When he woos some jaud frae the neebor shaw tae lie 
 a' nicht at his side ; 
 Blithe is the bhnk o' his gleg wee ee when it opes in the 
 mirk o' the morn, 
 And sees the dear thing cuddlet sae close he canna 
 but chirrup for pride. 
 But never did lovesick bird on the bough e'er pipe sae 
 sweet for a mate, 
 Never sic joy in a feathered breast has been sin' the 
 warld begun. 
 As I saw unseen when my winsome wife cam' oot tae 
 the door and flate. 
 That Willie suld leave her a day for the waters, Willie, 
 her favourite son. 
 
 II. 
 
 *' Gie me your rod," quo she, "and bide ye at hame, I 
 hae muckle tae say ; 
 Ye come like a glouf o' the winter sun, yin hardly 
 kens ye are here,
 
 Something Wrang. 195 
 
 Till the wee short fortnicht has worn tae an end, and 
 then ye're aff and away ; 
 And we seena the glisk o' your bonnie face maybe for 
 anither year ; 
 Forbye ye ken o' the tryst I made wi' the neebors up by 
 in the glen, 
 That sax in the e'enin' wad bring them your faither, 
 and me, and yoursel' ; 
 It never wad dae tae begunk them noo, especial, for 
 weel ye maun ken, 
 That the wish o' my heart and your faither's is bent 
 on your matin' wi' Nell. 
 
 III. 
 
 " She's a trig lass Nell, and a bonnie, her marrows are 
 no tae be fun' 
 For parishes roun' though mony are in them bonnie 
 and braw I 
 At this the rogue leuch till I thocht he wad fa'n tae the 
 grun'. 
 And cryin' oot, ' Mither, that's gospel,' he hirselt 
 aboot tae gae wa' ; 
 She, shakin' her nieve at the laddie, ance mair bade him 
 think on the time, 
 And then stood watchin' his buirdly make as he 
 snoov'd in the dawin' alang. 
 Till he cam' tae the neuk where the fitroad dips, and he 
 took tae the heather tae climb. 
 When he turnt for a moment and shouted, ' I'll be, if 
 there's naething gaes wrang.'"
 
 196 Something Wrang. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Back tae the cottage she turnt her aboot, wi' the Ucht o' 
 her love in her ee, 
 And I met her fair i' the teeth and spier'd gin the tryst 
 she made wad be held ; 
 And she, yet warm wi' her darlin's words, in simple and 
 mitherly glee, 
 Gade by wi' an answer that left me wauf, like a 
 staggerin' stirk half-fell'd ; 
 For whether it was that the voice unkent had something 
 o' dreid in itsel'. 
 Or whether my heart got a hand o' the words, like the 
 owrecome o' some auld sang, 
 I never took tent, but an awsome chill on the heat o' my 
 heart-strings fell. 
 And I shook like a three days' bairn when she said, 
 " He'll be, if there's naething gaes wrang." 
 
 " If there's naething gaes wrang," quo' I tae mysel ten 
 times in the coorse of the day. 
 What nonsense is this I'm wastin' my heart tae cherish 
 sae constant and keen ? 
 I'm certain that nocht can gae wrang wi' the lad, let him 
 rove where he may, 
 Aneth the blue dome o' the lift, in the howe o' the 
 mountains sae green ; 
 But aft as I banished the gruesome thocht that folio w'd 
 the words like a shade, 
 As aften the feelin' cam' till me unsocht, and wrocht 
 on my mind like a spell.
 
 SornetJiing Wrang. 197 
 
 Till substance could beir it na langer, and quatin' my 
 darg at the spade, 
 And sayin', " I'm gaun tae meet Willie," I made for 
 the road tae the hill. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A dour black clud owre the wedderglim darkent the lift 
 and the glen, 
 I kent it had shapit for something like this for nearly 
 a fortnicht gane by, 
 But thocht it wad keepit a day or tvva mair, else Willie 
 wad need made a fen', 
 Tae bide at the cottage contentit, and haud himsel' 
 cosie and dry ; 
 For though it be nocht for a shepherd like me to be oot 
 in the weet or the storm, 
 Wi' never a bield frae the angry blash, but the bouk 
 o' an auld grey cairn ; 
 Thae whitefaced toon's fowk gree far best wi' the air 
 weel tempert and warm. 
 And needs maun look after their tender hides like a 
 shilpit lass or a bairn. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And weel did it heppen for me that day I carena'd for 
 
 weather or win', 
 For juist as I managed the Wingate brae-heid the 
 
 black clud broke wi' a roar. 
 And a' doon Daur tae the Hass o' Benuff, wi' an unco-like 
 
 deafenin' din ;
 
 198 Something Wrang. 
 
 The claps o' the thunner seem'd chasin' ilk ither like 
 
 waves on a storm-lasht shore ; 
 And oot o' the mids' o' the collied lift richt doon on the 
 
 howe o' Petrail, 
 The raid jagg'd bolts o' the fireflaucht flichtert and 
 
 skirr'd alang, 
 And a lownness deeper than ocht but death had fa'n on 
 
 the mirksome dale, 
 Afore the big draps cam' tae the grun', and I thocht 
 
 on the something gaun wrang. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " The Lord look efter my storm-sted lad, and baud him 
 a wee in Thy care ! " 
 My heart broke oot wi' the wilyart cry, as I saw, far 
 doon in the glen, 
 A something that lookt like the shape o' a man come 
 owre frae the dazzlet muir, 
 And crossin' Petrail at the Peden burnfit, come on 
 tae the hill at a sten' ; 
 I kent it was nane but the laddie I socht, in pairt by his 
 lassie-like gang, 
 As far frae the lamp o' the muirlan' herd as the mirk 
 is far frae the mune ; 
 And I thocht tae mysel', "Thank God for His care, he's 
 safe, and there's naething gane wrang, 
 And Jean'll be prood o' us baith this nicht, let oor 
 comin' be syne or sune."
 
 Something Wrang. 199 
 
 IX. 
 
 But juist as the gled words loupt tae my lip a flash hke 
 a furnace gade by, 
 And I trow'd that the Uft wad be riven in bits by the 
 horrible crack owreheid, 
 And the bolt o' the levin had whizzed sae close it left 
 me birselt and dry, 
 And the din o' the thunner had dung me sae I stood 
 for the moment deid ; 
 And the first wild look I gat at the howm where Willie 
 had ta'en tae the hill, 
 The turf had been plewt wi' a fiery cou'ter deep as a 
 drain in spring ; 
 And oot in the saft green hollow his corpse was streekit 
 stiffly and still, 
 And a' that was left o' my bonnie bairn was a blackent 
 and gruesome thing. 
 
 God o' the thunner ! forgie me the aith that stertled the 
 
 hills o' my hame, 
 When I saw Thy creature, the pride o' my life, struck 
 
 doon i' that fearsome day ; 
 I coo'r at the fit o' Thy gowden throne, and own wi' a 
 
 heart o' shame, 
 That my spirit gade up in a desperate word, mak's 
 
 mortal rebellious tae say : 
 But Thou kens only — as ken Thou maun — that mair 
 
 than my ain wild wae.
 
 200 Something Wrang. 
 
 I thocht on the mither that sat by the ingle wi' heid 
 
 boo't forrit tae hear 
 The fit that wad nevermair hchten her look as she heard 
 
 it climbin' the brae, 
 The voice that mair than a lover's vows had charms 
 
 for her eager ear. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Thou kens, O Lord ! what treasure was set on the young 
 life nippet sae sune, 
 Thou kens hoo bitter a weird Thy will has laid on us 
 baith tae dree, 
 And Lord ! Thou kens Thy servant's heart ne'er carps 
 that Thy will be dune, 
 Though the daein' o't whiles brings little but wae on 
 mine as weel as on me : 
 And e'en as the knowledge o' a' that is can never be tint 
 tae Thy sicht, 
 And Thy strong richt airm that is swift tae strike is 
 aften as swift tae save. 
 I bide in the faith that ae black blot '11 fade in the 
 bleezin' licht 
 That gies me a look o' my bonnie bairn on the tither 
 side o' the grave. 
 
 XII. 
 
 I seldom can think on the wearifu' past — I maistly leeve 
 in a dwawm ; 
 The ills o' the warl are little tae thole when the first 
 sair bruilzie is bye,
 
 Something Wrang. 201 
 
 And the terrible sicht, that day in the glen, has left me 
 donart and calm, 
 Sae calm that aften I ferlie sair gin the springs o' my 
 passion be dry, 
 For even when Jeanie, my winsome wife, had follow'd 
 her son to the grave, 
 The never a tear-drap saftened my cheek, but aye like 
 an auld auld sang 
 That weird ghaist murmur grew in my heart as dour as 
 the sough o' the wave. 
 And I ken that the best o' my life had en't when I 
 grued at the " something wrang."
 
 202 
 
 A SPRIG O' HEATHER. 
 
 I. 
 
 It cam' in the faulds o' a lovenote true — 
 
 This sprig o' heather, 
 Straucht doon frae the mountains whaur it grew 
 
 In the warm spring weather ; 
 Fresh, wi' the fresh wild air o' the glens, 
 Dear, frae the dear young thing that kens 
 Hog fain my wearifu' heart wad be 
 Tae bide wi' her ain on the muirland lea, 
 
 Amang the heather. 
 
 II. 
 
 It brings me a glisk o' the hichts and howes 
 
 Whaur grey mists gather, 
 Whaur blithe birds sing and the wee burn rows 
 
 In the wilds o' heather ; 
 The scent o' the sweet thing fills my min' 
 Like the croon o' an auld sang kent langsyne, 
 And my heart gangs back to the joyfu' days, 
 When its beat was licht as the breeze that strays 
 
 Amang the heather.
 
 A Sprig d' Heather. 203 
 
 III. 
 
 O bonniest gem o' the treeless wild ! 
 
 I carena whether, 
 As neither a flow'r nor a tree thou'rt styled, — 
 
 Thou art dear as either : 
 And lang as the linty bigs her nest 
 In the bield o' thee on the mountain crest, 
 Sae lang will the muirlan' heart o' me 
 Hae a nameless joy it can only pree 
 
 Amang the heather. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The lily sae mim or the blude-reid rose 
 
 May charm anither, 
 But a Scotsman's heart in his bosom glows 
 
 At the sicht o' heather ; 
 Whether it wave on the breezy hills. 
 And a' the air wi' its fragrance fills, 
 Or comes as a token that some sweet face 
 Is missin' his ain at the trystin' place 
 
 Amang the heather. 
 
 V. 
 
 And oh, tae hae baud o' that face e'enoo ! 
 
 Row'd close thegither. 
 Where nocht but the sun e'er dichts the dew 
 
 Frae the wavin' heather ; 
 Row'd close thegither aneth ae plaid 
 When lichts were gloamin' and winds were laid ; 
 And never a tongue but the bird's abune 
 Could speak o' the ferlies said or dune 
 
 Amang the heather !
 
 204 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Lo ! the languid Summer lies 
 Down upon her couch of pain, 
 
 And the look that's in her eyes 
 Says she will not rouse again : 
 
 Tend her well, sweet love, for you 
 
 Will mourn her all the Winter through. 
 
 Was not this a wondrous web, 
 Woof'd with happiness she wove, 
 
 Ere her power had reach'd the ebb, 
 And her arm with Winter strove ? 
 
 But she claims the gift she gave 
 
 To fold around her in the grave. 
 
 We must yield, alas ! ye know. 
 Ere the fields have lost their green, 
 
 I must with the Summer go 
 
 Where the wave will roll between ; 
 
 But, when birds again do sing, 
 
 I will come and crown the Spring.
 
 ^o5 
 
 UNFULFILLED RENOWN. 
 
 The history of our island rings 
 With praises of its great of old, 
 
 And slumbering loyalty upsprings 
 
 Where'er their valiant deeds are told ; 
 
 With swelling heart and sparkling eye 
 
 We mouth the names that cannot die. 
 
 Their fight is fought, their victory won. 
 Their meed is at the hands of fame ; 
 
 They win the wreath by what is done. 
 And wear it, and no man can blame ; 
 
 Nor do we grudge the grateful praise 
 
 That wafts their name to later days. 
 
 But who shall say that on the roll 
 Oblivion hides there was not one 
 
 As mighty ? — nay, a mightier soul. 
 
 Than these dame Fortune smiled upon ? 
 
 A man whose single sword and shield 
 
 Had turned the chances of a field. 
 
 Who knew the weight and worth of will, 
 And prized it as all leaders do ;
 
 2o6 Unfulfilled Renoivn. 
 
 Nor lacked the aids of strength and skill 
 To place him 'mong the favour'd few ; 
 But whose young fame and budding wreath 
 Were blasted in the frost of death. 
 
 While yet the horn was at the lip 
 
 To sound his name through all the land, 
 
 One fatal moment wrought a slip, 
 
 The horn fell from the faltering hand, 
 
 And the proud prelude's opening tone 
 
 Failed in an instant and was gone. 
 
 t>^ 
 
 And in the flight of such a soul 
 Our loss is greater than we know, 
 
 For victory's tide unchecked may roll. 
 And mighty hearts still guide its flow ; 
 
 And so we hail their power with pride, 
 
 Unconscious that a greater died. 
 
 The bud that's nipt beneath the gale 
 Might shape to show the fairer flower ; 
 
 But whoe'er thinks of buds that fail, 
 When seated in the Summer bower. 
 
 Where those that braved the tempest stand. 
 
 And hallow all the fragrant land ? 
 
 So with the past ; great men enthrall 
 The wondering gaze of after-time : 
 
 But seldom are the tears that fall 
 
 For those who perished ere the prime.
 
 Unfulfilled Renozvn. 207 
 
 We own their meed might not be less, 
 Yet yield a greater to success. 
 
 But in the world beyond the grave, 
 Their guerdon will be rightly given ; 
 
 The unfought combats of the brave 
 
 Shall work their recompense in heaven ; 
 
 And the nipt bud at last disclose 
 
 The beauties of the perfect rose. 
 
 14
 
 208 
 
 TIRED. 
 
 Come to me, Sleep — for I am faint and worn ; 
 
 All night my brain hath dived deep 
 For pearls of fancy to adorn 
 These waifs of song ; until at morn, 
 Of all its eager impulse shorn, 
 
 How willingly it comes to steep 
 
 Its languor in the balm of sleep. 
 
 Come to me, Sleep — behold I cast away 
 At last the book whose witching lore 
 Hath kept thee from thy rightful sway, 
 And made the night as rough as day 
 With toil ; but thought no more will stay, 
 Its wing that late could proudly soar, 
 Droops, jaded with the strain it bore. 
 
 Come to me, Sleep — I have a traitor been, 
 But now repentant crave thy kiss ; 
 
 As lover woos who once has seen 
 
 His mistress wrongly slighted, lean 
 
 I now upon thy love serene, 
 That sees through negligence like this, 
 And yields at last its balmy bliss.
 
 Tired. 209 
 
 Come to me, Sleep — I yield thee up my soul, 
 Do with it as thou wilt ; it seems 
 
 There are no arms like thine ; O fold 
 
 Them softly round my frame, and hold 
 
 My head upon thy bosom old ; 
 For happiness my spirit deems 
 Nowhere but in thy world of dreams. 
 
 O ! gentle Sleep, I feel thy kindly glow, 
 
 I feel thy balmy presence near ; 
 Already faint the noises grow 
 That sound so fitfully below. 
 One after one the last lights go, 
 
 And I who neither see nor hear 
 
 Have comfort in another sphere.
 
 2IO 
 
 A SONG OF PAIN. 
 
 Turn me aboot wi' my face to the wa', 
 
 O mither, till I dee ! 
 I canna look intae your een ava 
 
 That wont to be dear tae me : 
 I want to be dune wi' the licht o' day 
 
 And the weariesome fauchts o' life, 
 For little o' pleasure or promise hae they 
 
 To the mither that ne'er was a wife. 
 
 Gie me a kiss or a heartenin' word, 
 
 O mither, or I gang ! 
 Ye mind hoo ye ca't me your winsome bird 
 
 Lang syne when I kent nae wrang : 
 And never had I sic need o' your love 
 
 In the far away time as noo : 
 I hae nane but yoursel' and the God above, 
 
 Whase mercy I'm fley'd tae sue. 
 
 Comfort the bairn I'm leavin' ahin', 
 O mither, when I'm gane ! 
 The puir thing 'ill thole for his mither's sin 
 
 As bitterly as his ain ; 
 And dinna be hard wi' his faither, min', 
 
 Suld he come when I am awa', 
 But think on the joyfu' days lang syne, 
 
 When he liket me best o' a' !
 
 21 I 
 
 REAR OUR FLAG ON HIGH! 
 
 Rear our flag on high ! 
 
 That gift which Freedom gave, 
 'Twill stream above our victory, 
 
 Or shroud us in the grave. 
 There's pride of heart and strength of arm 
 
 Rank'd at the guns below. 
 And he that weens to work it harm 
 
 Must be a dauntless foe. 
 
 Rear our flag on high ! 
 
 And when it flies unfurl'd, 
 Mark how it stands against the sky, 
 
 And seems to dare the world ! 
 The light winds proudly lift its folds 
 
 And toss them far and free, 
 And forth the good ship fares, and'holds 
 
 Old England on her lee. 
 
 Pour your choicest wine, 
 
 And pledge the vessel round, 
 
 And pray that she may plough the brine 
 For years with timbers sound :
 
 212 Rear Our Flag on High. 
 
 In peace or war, in shine or storm, 
 Unconquered as of yore. 
 
 With England's banner standing firm 
 Through all the tempest's roar. 
 
 Then, should Heav'n decree 
 
 This flag of ours must fall, 
 In terror men may look to see 
 
 The dismal end of all ; 
 And even in that hour 'twill seem, 
 
 When sinks the vessel low. 
 To flutter on the 'whelming stream 
 
 In triumph to the foe !
 
 213 
 
 TINTOC-TAP. 
 
 AN OLD SAW, WITH A RUNNING COMMENTARY. 
 
 On Tintoc-tap there is a mist, 
 
 (Gin ye misdoot me — gang and see ;) 
 And in the mist there is a kist, 
 
 (A queer place for a kist tae be !) 
 And in the kist there is a caup, 
 
 (As fine as e'er held barley-bree ;) 
 And in the caup there is a drap ; 
 
 (A wee drap screigh, it seem'd tae me.) 
 Tak' up the caup and drink the drap, 
 
 (If ye're a Scot, ye'll dae't wi' glee,) 
 And ye'll fa' doon on Tintoc-tap 
 
 (Sic dule does every drunkard dree !)
 
 214 
 
 EPISTLE TO NELLIE. 
 
 IN REPLY TO HERS IN THE Friend OF i8th august. 
 
 The English mail cam' in yestreen, 
 A welcome sicht for langin' een, 
 Wi' news o' mony a far-aff freen', 
 
 Tae touch the hearts 
 That under weary exile grien 
 
 In foreign parts. 
 
 I gat some paper wi't mysel', 
 
 Some business letters, sharp and fell ; 
 
 And ane that, by the very smell 
 
 And grup thegither, 
 The toomest-heided loon could tell 
 
 Was frae the heather. 
 
 Nane o' yer sma'lly, formal mites 
 A warldly chield in haste indites, 
 But siclike as a mither writes 
 
 A son she loes — 
 Sax sheets, weel cross'd in black and white. 
 
 And pang'd wi' news.
 
 Epistle to Nellie. 215 
 
 And though the sheets were lang and wide, 
 
 The cover yet had room tae hide 
 
 Ae scrap that gart me dance wi' pride, 
 
 Richt fain, I tell ye — 
 A rhymin' note, fu' bravely tried, 
 
 Frae ane ca'd Nellie. 
 
 She roos'd my hamely muirlan' skill 
 In stringin' blauds o' rhyme at will ; 
 But fear'd that lately I'd been ill. 
 
 Or ceas'd tae min' 
 O' freens at hame, wha used tae fill 
 
 My thochts langsyne. 
 
 " And wad I no," she'd kindly spier, 
 " For sake o' them wha loe'd tae hear, 
 Though far frae a' I reckon'd dear, 
 And owre the main, 
 Juist kittle up my harp, and cheer 
 Their hearts again ? " 
 
 I'm sure I needna blush tae tell 
 
 That I thocht meikle o' mysel' 
 
 When her sweet lines, sae frank and fell, 
 
 I croon'd wi' care, 
 And heard her say she likit well 
 
 My rhymin' ware. 
 
 And, by my word, I'll dae my best 
 Tae grant the lass her sma' request ;
 
 2i6 Epistle to Nellie. 
 
 I'll court the muse, and never rest 
 
 Till she be kin', 
 And screed me aff some fancy, drest 
 
 In language fine. 
 
 Meantime, dear Nellie, never fear 
 
 That ocht I ever see or hear 
 
 Can quench the deathless love, I bear 
 
 For Scotia's shore, 
 Or for the freen's sae leal an' dear 
 
 In days o' yore. 
 
 I've seen Niagara's waters dashing 
 In headlong fury — roaring — splashing, 
 And Montmorency's torrent crashing 
 
 Its rocks below. 
 While high in heaven the spray was flashing, 
 
 A burnished bow. 
 
 But though the sichts and soun's be grand 
 That greet me in this noble land, 
 I'd niffer a' for that lane strand 
 
 Attour the sea ; 
 Oh, airt me hame tae auld Scotland, 
 
 Ye powers that be ! 
 
 And when I sing, as I hae said, 
 Thinkna the scene will e'er be laid 
 Save in the kintra o' the plaid 
 
 And bonnet blue, 
 Whaur man is bauld, and wife and maid 
 
 Are leal and true.
 
 217 
 
 A GUST ON THE LAKE. 
 
 Yesterday I lay at rest 
 In the heather upon the mountain's breast 
 And watch'd the little lake below 
 Unmov'd by tidal ebb or flow ; 
 Mirror'd in which high Heaven was seen 
 With all its flecks and bars between — 
 A beauteous sight ; a sight to give 
 Delight as long as one might live, 
 For years of toil will not efface 
 
 The memory of that winsome scene ; 
 The stillness of the lonely place, 
 
 The perfect peace, the calm serene. 
 
 Suddenly out of the mountain gorge 
 A wandering wind its way did urge : 
 It came from white clouds far away ; 
 It was only a gust — and it did not stay, 
 But it smote the face of the little lake. 
 And the beauteous mirror shiver'd and brake. 
 It was only a gust — and it soon pass'd on. 
 But the glamour that fill'd the glen had gone ; 
 And long did I linger on the hill 
 
 And watch, with desire that was almost pain, 
 Ere the troubled heart of the lake was still, 
 
 And peace return'd to her home again.
 
 21 8 A Gust on the Lake. 
 
 A storm surged up in my mind to-day 
 An angry storm — but it did not stay, 
 A slanderous whisper had swept the glen, 
 And stirr'd the blood of the mountain men ; 
 And mine too rose, — but I went apart 
 And commun'd in solitude with my heart ; 
 And I said " O heart ! wilt never learn 
 The lessons that face thee at every turn ? 
 Hast thou forgotten the little lake 
 
 That slumber'd so sweetly yesterday. 
 And yet how swiftly the storm did take 
 
 Its fairy beauty and peace away ? 
 
 " The storms and eddies that vex the world 
 Will keep thee ever in torture whirl'd 
 If like the little mountain lake, 
 The impress of each wind thou dost take. 
 But the mind of a man should meet the storm,. 
 Nor take from the blustering tempest harm ; 
 Glassy and calm its face should show 
 No matter how fiercely the whirlwinds blow ; 
 And only resemble the lake in this : — 
 
 That in all seasons it lowly lies. 
 At peace with itself and all that is, 
 
 Reflecting the calm of its natal skies."
 
 flDiscellaneous Sonnct0»
 
 221 
 
 POESIE. 
 
 Whence comes the charm that broods along thy shore, 
 O sunny land of song ? What potent thrall, 
 Reckless of ocean's rise, or flow, or fall. 
 
 Holds us about thy marge for evermore ? 
 
 Here, where the long wave breaks in measured time, 
 And fills our being with its rhythmic moan, 
 From far inland the glories of thy zone 
 
 Burst on our view, and beckon us to climb. 
 
 Shades of the mighty dead ! whose snowy towers 
 Stud the deep gorges and the wooded braes. 
 
 Is there no nook for cots so small as ours ? 
 No tree whereof we yet might gather bays ? 
 
 But to be with thee, and to hear the wave 
 
 Roll music round the land, is all we crave.
 
 -7'>9 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Where is the height at which the poet's soul 
 Will cease to soar ? beneath the boundless sky, 
 By sea or shore peaks do not point so high 
 
 But it may scale ; or by the frigid roll 
 
 Of Greenland's waters, or the desert lone 
 Of utmost Ind ; in calm, or cloud, or storm. 
 Earth opens to its " sesame " kind and warm 
 
 The hidden beauties of its every zone. 
 
 Then with a limitless survey like this 
 
 Tell me, my heart ! what magic doth thee thrall 
 That thou canst find a comfort more than all 
 
 Earth's wonders yield in one slight maiden's kiss ? 
 
 O reckless heart ! dost think thou findest there 
 
 The charm that keepeth these forever fair ?
 
 223 
 
 FAME. 
 
 In the cool watches of the silent night 
 My soul was wafted to the land of dreams 
 
 And moved in ecstacy of calm delight 
 Along the margin of its silver streams. 
 
 With raptured eye it saw the bright array 
 Of goodly gifts for mortals held in store, 
 And, faint with passion, hunger'd more and more 
 
 To win some token of its favoured stay. 
 " Choose what thou wilt," a passing voice did call ; 
 At once my spirit made a snatch at Fame, 
 
 But with the bauble in its grasp did fall. 
 Nor ever after could its ground reclaim. 
 
 Alas ! that wish of mine should yearn to clasp 
 
 A gawd that brings such troubles to the grasp.
 
 224 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 There's not a month in all the rolling year 
 So true to life as April ; sun and shower 
 Change rule so quickly that the trembling flower 
 
 Begins to smile before it sheds the tear. 
 
 In me as well some darker hours of fear 
 
 Mix with the lightsome joy that fills the day, 
 
 But less and less these cloudy thoughts appear, 
 Sweet winds of hope do waft them all away ; 
 
 Already in my soul the breath that brings 
 
 The bud and blossom has been gently blown ; 
 And at its touch awaken'd thought has grown 
 
 Beyond the limit of these sluggish springs : 
 
 So blow, sweet wind ! and clear the sky above 
 
 And all my soul will blossom o'er with love.
 
 225 
 
 BANISHED. 
 
 As some lone dweller in a distant land 
 Chooseth to linger by the restless sea, 
 And counts the leagues of shifting waves that be 
 
 Between him and his home, while fancy's wand 
 
 Brings for one moment to his gloating view 
 The happy times that he can know no more, 
 
 Then blinds him, weeping — till each scene he knew 
 Fades on his eye along the dismal shore, — 
 
 So I, forever banished from thy presence, feel 
 A momentary gladness in the thought 
 That eyes so bright as thine at one time brought 
 
 Heaven down to me, and glow'd to list my weal. 
 
 Alas ! for broader than the exile's sea 
 
 'S the gulf now stretched between those eyes and me.
 
 226 
 
 HEROISM. 
 
 Not only in the time and garb of war 
 
 The hero breathes ; not only now and then 
 We catch bright glimpses of this man of men, 
 
 The labour of whose hands is nois'd afar ; 
 
 But even now, in these degenerate days. 
 As noble hearts do beat as those that bore 
 The invader backward in the days of yore, 
 
 And earn'd the guerdon of a deathless praise. 
 
 Wherever human hearts do war with wrong. 
 Or maiden virtue shuns the fowler's guile, 
 
 Where honest hands to humble toil belong. 
 Or wealth assists the trodden poor to smile — 
 
 There throbs a soul which wins the highest claim 
 
 To ring — remembered — in the song of Fame !
 
 22/ 
 
 DISCONTENT. 
 
 There's not a bliss in all the joys we clip 
 
 Can match the charm of those in whose rich glow 
 We clothe the future — joys we never know, 
 
 Yet long so much to finger that we slip 
 
 Substantial pleasures lying round our feet, 
 For these same glimpses, beckoning far away. 
 
 Which, when we chase, as speedily retreat : 
 
 No charm we hold can bid their brightness stay. 
 
 We reach the spot where all was deemed so fair, 
 From yon far mountain where we made our moan, 
 But ah ! the gleam that lit the land is gone. 
 
 And the lone moorland stretches waste and bare ; 
 While onward still, amid the gathering gloom, 
 Flits the weird glow that wiles us to the tomb !
 
 228 
 
 SINGING. 
 
 To-day I heard a singer in the crowd 
 
 Discourse sweet melody, and could not choose 
 But stand and listen ; for that she did use 
 
 The gift she bore by Nature's hand endowed 
 
 So sweetly, and her notes both low and loud 
 Thrill'd with such passion that I could not pass, 
 
 But paused, half conscious that my heart avowed 
 A sudden yearning for the comely lass : 
 
 And in that thrill of sympathy I knew 
 
 That here was one whose maiden soul was flung 
 In all its richness thro' the lay she sung, 
 
 And here, if still on earth, one heart was true ; 
 
 And mine had been apart from such so long 
 
 It bless'd the wanderer for her welcome song !
 
 229 
 
 ROMANCE. 
 
 O THAT some touch of elfin power might glance 
 
 Along the strings of this my lowly lyre ! 
 
 That more than mortal ardour might inspire 
 This song of mine to thee, far-famed Romance ! 
 Lone land, upon whose tracts no sun doth beam 
 
 That heats our nether globe, though faint and far 
 
 The mellowed lustre of one drowsy star 
 Yet haunts thy limit with its hallowing gleam — 
 (The star of song). Against thy faery shore 
 
 Its rays are rolled, as the long tide is rolled 
 Against the unconscious beach for evermore ; 
 
 While we — rapt watchers — through the gloom behold 
 Thy wondrous heights, and long therein to soar, 
 
 And scatter broadcast all the gems they hold.
 
 2^0 
 
 REALITY. 
 
 Star-struck, and throbbing with such thoughts as these 
 
 I turned me towards the town ; for all night long 
 
 With poet frenzy I had timed my song 
 To the deep swinging of the listless seas. 
 And O, my God ! what creatures found I there 
 
 To listen lore like this ; in vice grown bold 
 
 And misery mad, their haggard features told 
 Their higher need. My dream dissolved in air, 
 And in its stead this thought engrossed my mind — 
 
 That if the poet's mission be to bring 
 Earth nearer Heaven, a way more sure and kind 
 
 Than prating starry nonsense is to fling 
 One ray of light upon the wretched, blind, 
 
 Seared souls that thread the dark streets grovelling.
 
 231 
 
 LOVE-WEARY. 
 
 What shall I do (love being dead) to bring 
 Back to nay heart the rapture and the joy, 
 The glorious fancies of the dreaming boy 
 
 That made my early life eternal spring ? 
 
 Red lips, soft eyes, the spell of woven arms — 
 All these have failed, embraces are grown cold, 
 Eyes thrill me not as they were wont of old, 
 
 Nor at the red lips' touch my bosom warms. 
 
 I am love-weary ; come, O radiant Spring, 
 And in the lonely places wake delight. 
 
 For I at large would fain be wandering 
 With thy glad presence evermore in sight ; 
 
 Thence might I turn upon the world to prove 
 
 Thy touch doth make a substitute for love.
 
 232 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Who has not felt thy witching presence, Spring ? 
 Upon the mountain top and in the glen 
 Thy rapid coming is foretold to men 
 In diverse ways : the wandering breezes fling 
 Gladness around us in our outs and ins : 
 Aloft, the opening sky is deeply blue. 
 And the bright orb of morning glistening through 
 Smiles on the fearless songster that begins 
 To hail thy reign : the earth, no longer coy, 
 Arrays herself as might a beauteous bride. 
 While smiles and songs of mirth reveal the joy 
 
 And fulness of her wondrous mother-pride. 
 O happy man unto whose heart these bring 
 The dewy freshness of thy spirit, Spring !
 
 -00 
 
 GIFTS. 
 
 If I unto my kindred dust should go, 
 
 With but one gift of fortune, and that gift 
 Of my own choosing, do ye think I'd lift 
 
 A longing eye on wealth, or worldly show, 
 
 Or beauty, or the higher meeds of fame ? 
 No ! one by one I'd set these gifts aside 
 As scarce worth having, and with poet-pride 
 
 I'd wreathe this chaplet round my deathless name : 
 
 One little song — one little rapturous lay. 
 Simple, perhaps, and sad, but true to all 
 
 The best in Nature, of which men would say, 
 " Here truly is a charm whose linked thrall 
 
 We may not break— it breathes the heart's pure play. 
 And till this ends it cannot pass away."
 
 234 
 
 PLEDGED. 
 
 Friends, I have sworn a vow. The terrible bond 
 That Jephtha, flush'd with vict'ry, register'd 
 Was not one whit more certain to be heard 
 
 And sealed in heaven, than this one now beyond 
 
 My revocation ; and although to his, 
 In point of magnitude or pain to keep. 
 Mine be as streamlet to the boundless deep, 
 
 Yet, calmly pondered, it amounts to this — 
 
 That in the judgment of Almighty God 
 And interest of my particular soul. 
 This bond requires fulfilment just as whole 
 
 And faithful as that found : therefore beware 
 Lest ye should swerve me from the narrow road,. 
 
 And mar a heavenly covenant unaware.
 
 235 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 The sweetest intercourse of kindred souls 
 Is not all sweet : harsh words will intervene 
 To mar their joy, as o'er the blue serene 
 
 Italian heaven a black cloud often rolls, 
 
 Flinging long glooms on earth ; so all that springs 
 'Tween man and man at best is incomplete ;— 
 Bitters flow close upon his choicest sweet, 
 
 And love, like riches, is not void of wings. 
 
 But with the constancy that doth belong 
 To every motion of the moon-drawn sea 
 My heart is led in willing thrall of thee — 
 
 Spirit of Nature, whose sole voice is song ! 
 
 In whose pure love nor hitch nor flaw doth bide, 
 
 But rolls for ever an unbroken tide.
 
 236 
 
 L ' E N V O I . 
 
 Dear Jack, the posie is made up I pull'd — 
 
 The wild hill blossoms wrought in wilder rhyme ; 
 
 Is there aught in it has the scent of thyme 
 And freshness of the moors ? or has my spirit, school'd 
 In deadening cities, lost the power to throw 
 
 Their natural charms around the scenes we love ? 
 Mayhap it has ; yet would I have thee know, 
 
 Nature was still my theme ; the gentle dove 
 Mourns not her absent mate with moan more sad 
 
 Than I, pent in the smoke these cheery days 
 
 At losing her ; and O if any lays 
 Of mine do breathe her music, I am glad ! 
 And in contentment leave them at thy feet, 
 Knowing thy heart will own that music sweet.
 
 237 
 
 JAMES M O R G x^ N . 
 
 {Inscri/yed, ivith affectionate regards, to James Morgan^ Jr. ) 
 
 Weep not for him, thy dear one gone to rest ; 
 
 Weep not for him, — he hath no need of tears ; 
 
 But if the dismal future's emptier years 
 Appal thee, then relieve thy laden breast 
 For sole self-comfort ; they that mourn are blest. 
 
 Little he recks of all thy anxious fear ; 
 
 He hath obey'd the edict of the spheres, 
 And lacks not pity, ev'n Love's tenderest. 
 
 This was no sapling, broken of the storm 
 
 An hour before its time ; nay, but a goodly tree, 
 
 That in the hght uprear'd its noble form. 
 
 And to the winds spread out its branches free ; 
 
 And full of years, to mother earth has come 
 Ripe, as a sheaf of wheat at harvest home !
 
 238 
 
 THE LAST ENEMY. 
 
 How will he take me, — this dread foe, — and when ? 
 
 Will he assail me in the noonday light, 
 
 Bearing down on me in embattl'd might, 
 And sweep me from the ways and gaze of men ? 
 Or in the solitude of some deep glen 
 
 Will he, when I am far from human sight, 
 
 Creeping, upon me like a thief at night, 
 Stab in the dark and drag me to his den ? 
 What matters it ? I neither know nor care. 
 
 Come he like Judas with his false embrace, 
 Or seeking to overwhelm me with his air : 
 
 Indifferent alike to time and place 
 His dart I'll welcome with my bosom bare, 
 
 And fearless, yield me ; smiling in his face.
 
 239 
 
 REST. 
 
 Coming — he knows not whence, and going soon- 
 He knows not where ; uncertain of his years ; 
 Certain of nought, alas ! save toil and tears- 
 Tears in the night and weary toil at noon — 
 What profiteth a man Life's doubtful boon ? 
 What recompense is there for all his fears ? 
 His slavish terror of the despot spheres ? 
 And all his thousand woes beneath the moon ? 
 There is but one : only the great sweet Rest 
 To which he hasteth ; sweet it needs must be 
 When fretted with the life-long bondage, he. 
 Like a tired infant on its mother's breast 
 Shuts weary eyes, and from life's fading strand 
 Follows his fathers to the silent land. 
 
 i6
 
 240 
 
 I WOO'D MY LOVE. 
 
 I woo'd my love in the merry spring time, 
 
 And O ! sae cheery sang the laverock frae the sky ; 
 
 Wi' the world fair before me and my spirit in its prime, 
 Never laverock held a heicher head than I. 
 
 I won my love in the lang simmer day. 
 
 And O ! sae sweetly sang the lintie on the lea, 
 
 An' my heart — as blithe's the lintie's — had but little 
 thocht o' wae — 
 Heaven seemed tae ope its gowden gates to me. 
 
 I lost my love in the dowie back-en', 
 
 And O ! sae sadly sang the mavis on the hill : 
 
 Hoo I warslet through the autumn by mysel' I hardly 
 ken, 
 Never herriet mavis dreept sae lane and chill. 
 
 I mourn my love a' the hale winter through. 
 
 And O ! sae lanely sings the snawbird in the snaw ; 
 
 But the bird will whistle bonnie when the simmer sky 
 is blue, 
 And my weary heart maun break, or hear it a' !
 
 241 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 I CANNA thole the breeze that springs 
 
 Ayont the wastUn' sea, 
 Its lown saft music only flings 
 
 A dowie dwawni on me ; 
 Far liefer wad I hear the blast 
 
 Roar owre the norlan' main, 
 For Winter's fury smoors the past. 
 
 And lea's me man again. 
 
 In pleasure's lap I lay and slum'd 
 
 The leelang simmer through, 
 Where nocht but weeds o' idless blum'd, 
 
 And the whimprin' wast win' blew. 
 But like some moth, attour the slugh 
 
 I lap at Winter's ca', 
 And leuch tae hear his lanesome sugh 
 
 Come thro' the driftin' snaw. 
 
 Then blaw thou blast, baith lood and snell, 
 
 Thy breath but wauks my glee ; 
 The reid blude risin' frank and fell. 
 
 Comes dinlin' tae my bree. 
 And on the stey storm-blaudit hill 
 
 Defying nicht and thee, 
 I gether mair o' wit and will 
 
 Than simmer e'er could gie.
 
 24: 
 
 IN LOV E. 
 
 I THINK of thee, when morn bestows 
 Her kiss upon the waking rose ; 
 When song-birds carol, clear and loud, 
 High up beside the sunny cloud : 
 And sure those sights and sounds so rare. 
 The very freshness in the air, 
 Give new delight and joy to me, 
 Born of the touch they take from thee. 
 
 I live for thee, when man with man 
 
 Is working out the fated plan ; 
 
 When fears and hopes, and woes and joys 
 
 Distract the sense with jarring noise ; 
 
 And in the melee, ringed with foes, 
 
 More fiercely fall my eager blows, 
 
 Because that in the end I see 
 
 Their weight will hew my way to thee. 
 
 I dream of thee — when night hath hung 
 Her chain upon the gladsome tongue 
 That cheer'd us in the rosy dawn, 
 When light was clear on lake and lawn : 
 And though the dreams that come be sweet 
 As ever fell at mortal's feet, 
 I fling them from me, glad and free. 
 And wake again to life and thee.
 
 24: 
 
 FARE W EEL 
 
 I'm leavin' thy gray glens, Wanlock, 
 
 VVi' a heavy heart and sair ; 
 I'm sayin' Fareweel to the dear auld hills 
 
 I'll aiblins see nae mair : 
 The bee may come back to the heather blumes, 
 
 And the crake to the clover lea ; 
 But the hinny and perfume a' are gane 
 
 That hae drawn me aft to thee ! 
 
 II. 
 
 I've been to the green braes, Wanlock, 
 
 That rang wi' oor youthfu' glee ; 
 I've keekit ance mair at the slee wee neuk 
 
 Where my first luve trystit me : 
 I've boo't my held on the cauld heid-stane 
 
 Where the kindly auld folks lie ; 
 And I've grutten sair at the herriet nest 
 
 That was hingin' empty by.
 
 244 Farewell. 
 
 III. 
 
 It's waesome wark this, Wanlock, 
 
 Takin' leave o' the things we lo'e ; 
 It's this that whitens the haffet locks, 
 
 And runkles the brentest broo ; 
 And it's seldom we meet in oor later years, 
 
 'Mang their pleisures and their pain, 
 The freenships rare, and the leal true luves 
 
 We kent i' the days bygane. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The whaup i' thy mirk lift, Wanlock, 
 
 Has skirl'd me a wild Fareweel ; 
 The bonnie wee lintie sabbit sair 
 
 As she cour't in her heathery biel' : 
 And ilka bit floo'r on the lanesume heichts 
 
 Had a blab o' weet in its e'e. 
 As tho' it bude greet at the cruel fate 
 
 That was pairtin' it and me. 
 
 I've spiel'd thy stey heichts, Wanlock, 
 
 For the hinmaist time I troo ; 
 I'll dauner nae mair by the wimplin' burn, 
 
 Nor rest on the mountain's broo ; 
 For I'm aff and awa to the wastlin' warl' 
 
 Where my wife and bairnies bide ; 
 And I'll never set fit i' thy boun's again. 
 
 At dawin' or gloamin'-tide !
 
 Farewell. 245 
 
 VI. 
 
 But in that far hame, Wanlock, 
 
 I'll aften sit at e'en, 
 And muse on the joys I've tasted here 
 
 Wi' monie a trusty freen ; 
 And I'll bless ilk honest heart that bides 
 
 r thy cots sae bien and sma' ; 
 And the auld kirkyaird i' the howe, that hides 
 
 The dearest hearts o' a' !
 
 HppenMy.
 
 249 
 
 TO ROB WANLOCK. 
 
 {Aiit/ior of " Moorland Rhymes^' 7W7u in Canada.) 
 
 BY ALEXANDER G. MURDOCH. 
 
 Bright Wanlock ! master of the moorland harp, 
 Whose clear and fine-toned melody recalls 
 The open moors, with woods and waterfalls, 
 
 And breezy uplands — outlined, clear, and sharp ; 
 Thou worthiest of our living Doric bards, 
 
 I bring the tribute of my muse to thee. 
 My swimming eyes in fancy turn'd towards 
 
 Thy new-found home across the wave-strown sea ! 
 Canadian Scots, who love the muse's swell, 
 Wreathe ye a chaplet for his poet brow, 
 That he, once more song-taken, wild and well. 
 May thus redeem his early honour'd vow, 
 
 And win a guerdon nobler than a crown — 
 
 The heritage of a fulfill'd renown.
 
 250 
 
 TO ROB WAN LOCK. 
 
 (Found among the papers of the late Lord Macau lay, a fid 
 supposed to be first draft of " The Battle of Lake 
 Regillusr) 
 
 BY ALEXANDER ANDERSON ("SURFACEMAN.") 
 
 The rough Lars Andersonius, 
 
 By the nine gods he swore, 
 That he would go to Glasgow 
 
 And see his friends once more. 
 He swore by pick and shovel, 
 
 He swore by ink and quill, 
 He swore by the nine Muses 
 
 On the Parnassian Hill , 
 He swore by all the goodly tomes 
 
 That he would yet indite, 
 That he would see Murdochius, 
 Stewardus and Wanlochius, 
 
 And grasp their hands full tight. 
 
 So he sent letters east and west. 
 
 He sent them far away, 
 He sent one to Stewardus. 
 
 Where rolls the lordly Tay ;
 
 To Rob Wanlock. 2 5 1 
 
 He sent one to Wanlochius, 
 
 Bleak Wanlock's boast and pride, 
 He sent one to Murdochius, 
 
 The bard by Clutha's side. 
 And each and all he bound them, 
 
 And how could they refuse ? 
 To meet him at Dunlop Street, 
 
 And battle for the Muse. 
 
 The rough Lars Andersonius, 
 
 When he had sworn this vow, 
 He girded on his armour, 
 
 And helmed his massive brow. 
 He called for pick and shovel, 
 
 To serve as sword and shield. 
 He called for his war-chariot. 
 
 And proudly took the field. 
 
 Hurrah for the bright shovel 
 
 In a strong navvy's hand, 
 Hurrah for the wide whirling pick 
 
 That heads the rugged band ; 
 Hurrah for the war-chariot. 
 
 That hath a heart of flame, 
 And clanks along on iron feet. 
 
 On pathways of the same. 
 
 By many a tower and hamlet 
 
 Snorted his mighty steed. 
 He sprang from echoing hill to hill, 
 
 Nor halted in his speed;
 
 252 To Rob Wanlock. 
 
 Men sprang from his dread pathway, 
 
 And maidens ran away, 
 While in their fear they questioned 
 
 " Who rides so fast to-day ? " 
 But on went Andersonius, 
 
 Nor looked he back on home, 
 But cried, " He cannot ride too fast 
 
 Who rides to Friends and Rome." 
 
 My Dear Wanlock, — Will leave here on Friday night, and 
 reach Dunlop St. somewhere about 8.20. Can you be on the 
 platform ? I expect Murdoch there. 
 
 A. Anderson ("Surfaceman"). 
 
 P.S. — This in great haste.
 
 253 
 
 TO ROB WANLOCK 
 
 BY NISBET NOBLE. 
 
 Bold singer, 'neath thy ringing tones our being all is 
 
 stirred ; 
 We feel thy soul in every thought, thy heart in every 
 
 word ; 
 Be it of moorland loves thy song, or rising bold and 
 
 grand, 
 It sweeps away on eagle's wings across our mountain 
 
 land ; 
 Our hearts grow grit, our pulses beat, fierce as becomes 
 
 the free ; 
 And bounding to our throbbing feet we greet thee o'er 
 
 the sea ; 
 Here 'mid the hills we chant thy lays, and crags and 
 
 cliffs give voice ; 
 We croon them on the heathery braes, and woods and 
 
 winds rejoice ; 
 The moorland tarn, the mountain burn, the stirring 
 
 strains have known ; 
 The echoes, warring clouds, return with voices of their 
 
 own.
 
 254 T^o Rob VV unlock . 
 
 Sing on, sing on, for all the land from rugged shore to 
 
 shore 
 Is thrilling with the notes that come three thousand 
 
 miles or more ; 
 The spirits of the past are up, their viewless forms speed 
 
 by, 
 
 And pour from Freedom's flowing cup its nectar from on 
 high. 
 
 The grey old cairns seem to move their blood-cemented 
 stones ; 
 
 Dead heroes stir — we think we hear the rattling of their 
 bones ; 
 
 Such magic words it was that made them bear the trench- 
 ant brand 
 
 In those far days when death and dool swept o'er our 
 stricken land. 
 
 Canadian soil may claim thy form, but still thy heart we 
 
 know 
 Is where the Highland heather blooms, and Scottish 
 
 thistles grow ; 
 Each line of our historic page is open to thine eye ; 
 Thou mark'st the Northmen's ravens rage, the Roman 
 
 eagles fly ; 
 And England's men-at-arms sweep on before thy eager 
 
 ken, 
 And Bruce and Wallace rise from sleep, and tread the 
 
 hills again.
 
 To Rob Wanlock. 255 
 
 And lo ! around thee where thou art the hillsmen's spirits 
 
 rise ; 
 The bloody heights of Abraham mayhap have met thine 
 
 eyes ; 
 Canada's silent solitudes have heard the bagpipes' wail ; 
 And through her trackless woods hath rung the slogan 
 
 of the Gael. 
 We know thou hear'st the ringing tones of merry 
 
 mountain maids ; 
 And feel thy leal Scotch heart grow grit at sight of tartan 
 
 plaids ; 
 Track after track of hill and glen now greets our sad 
 
 eyes here ; 
 Swept of their warlike warrior men to feed the sheep 
 
 and deer. 
 The bones and sinews of our hills are thrust across the 
 
 brine ; 
 Their horny hands and iron wills, Canada, now are thine ; 
 The big, broad breast that gave them room, that room 
 
 shall ne'er regret ; 
 The wilds and wilderness shall bloom beneath their 
 
 footprints yet. 
 
 Hail to thee, brother bard ! To thee and such as thee 
 
 belong, 
 O'er those far miles of pathless sea, a bright new realm 
 
 of song : 
 Strong arms are there and earnest hearts, that fear nor 
 
 force nor foes. 
 See how the forest giants reel beneath their sturdy blows; 
 
 17
 
 256 To Rob Wanlock. 
 
 And cities rise where erst the feet of the lone Indian 
 
 trod, 
 And his fierce Manatow hath fled before the Christian's 
 
 God. 
 The ploughman's whistle charms the ear where war- 
 whoops shocked the skies, 
 And o'er the buried tomahawk the harvest riches rise : 
 And there, where swept the light canoe, the mighty 
 
 steamship rides. 
 The churning waters deep and blue foam fierce around 
 
 its sides ; 
 The solitary savage stands, with awed and wondering 
 
 glance. 
 As civilization's teeming bands resistlessly advance ; 
 And, plunging in his woods again, he tells the wondrous 
 
 tale 
 Beside the camp fire's lurid glare, and dusky cheeks 
 
 grow pale. 
 
 And ere the tale is done they hear the clearing axe's 
 
 sound — 
 The voices of the pioneers fill all the wilds around. 
 Where can he fly to shun their gaze ? when will their 
 
 march be done ? 
 Ne'er till adown far distant days the whole fair land is 
 
 won. 
 What though he chafe and rise in wrath, and rush in 
 
 reckless ire 
 Along war's ruthless, blood-red path, and light the land 
 
 with fire ;
 
 To Rob Wanlock. 257 
 
 The grim-browed borderer replies with deadly rifle 
 
 sound, 
 And soon his tented village lies all trampled on the 
 
 ground. 
 Away, away, far inland yet, their homeless way they 
 
 wage. 
 And mourn the fatal day they met, and woke the white 
 
 man's rage. 
 
 O ! civilization, many a crime thy name hath fathered, 
 
 lust 
 And rapine load the tides of Time o'er thy down-trodden 
 
 dust ; 
 The message of the Prince of Peace the heathen laugh 
 
 to scorn ; 
 We bore the Bible o'er the seas, then blared the bugle 
 
 horn. 
 And all the dogs of war let loose, untutored hearts to 
 
 move, 
 With sword and brand to understand the mysteries of 
 
 Love. 
 
 From here to yon Canadian strand, up, singers, all arise, 
 See Wanlock, thy adopted land, uplifts her pleading 
 
 eyes. 
 And bids thee tune thy voice to song, until the ringing 
 
 chords 
 Of earth's great heart swell out in wrath at thy indignant 
 
 words.
 
 258 To Rob Wanlock. 
 
 A grander theme has never yet awoke the poet's strain, 
 Though avarice may frown or fret, let Truth and Justice 
 reign. 
 
 All hail ! again, far distant bard, to grasp thy hand in 
 mine 
 
 I'd gladly leave our storied land, and hie me o'er the 
 brine ; 
 
 But I am powerless all, yet still, in spirit I can take 
 
 A friendly clasp, and every hill will keep thy name 
 awake ; 
 
 And I can hear thy voice within the Friend's clear pages 
 sound, 
 
 There, though thy manly face be hid — we meet on com- 
 mon ground.
 
 259 
 
 EPISTLE TO ROB WANLOCK (REID). 
 
 (Author of '■'■ Moorland Rhymes.'") 
 
 BY JOHN ARBORY. 
 
 Hail ! brither bard attour the sea ! 
 A hamely auld Scots sang frae thee, 
 Blythe wi' thy ain wee lintie's glee, 
 
 I'd suner hae 
 Than hauf the rhymin' ware ye see 
 
 In prent this day. 
 
 Aft hae I croon'd that winsome lay — 
 
 The lichtsome bird, the benty brae. 
 
 The gowd-broom touch'd and ting'd wi' blae, 
 
 Abune — the lift 
 Cauld wi' the licht o' closing day, 
 
 O' sun bereft. 
 
 And yon weird blink o' sang divine, 
 The weary dree o' " Auld Langsyne," 
 Soughs owre the waefu' wanderer's min', 
 
 Boo'd doon wi' cares — 
 I ferly gin sic fate be thine, 
 
 Bard o' the muirs.
 
 26o To Rob Wanlock. 
 
 When eerie whaups, adoon the win', 
 Their lanely cry sen' driftin' in, 
 Frae moss an' fell — owre hag an' linn, 
 
 I think o' thee. 
 Ne'er sichtin' hill or barren whin 
 
 On muirlan' lea. 
 
 And e'en when heather blumes are young,, 
 I miss the music o' thy tongue ; 
 Sae sweetly aye thy lyre was strung, 
 
 Sae pawky — slee, 
 The hamert heart was douner't dung, 
 
 An' dim't the e'e. 
 
 But, aiblins yet, for wha can tell ? 
 When simmer blauds the burstin' bell. 
 We'll welcome back thy singin' sel' 
 
 To Wanlock gray, 
 And sweetest flowers suld deck the dell 
 
 That bonny day. 
 
 Scotland, Aug., 1879.
 
 26l 
 
 TO ROB WANLOCK. 
 
 BY WALTER CHISHOLM. 
 
 Sweet singer o' the breezy hills 
 
 Where grows the purple heather, 
 Where wimplin' rowe the muirlan' rills, 
 
 And grey mists aften gether ; 
 A verse or twa to let ye ken 
 
 Hoo weal your ditties please me, 
 I here indite wi' rhymin' pen. 
 
 An' trust ye will excuise me. 
 
 Whene'er your heather sprigs ye twine 
 
 In fresh poetic posies, 
 I hum as lang frae line to line 
 
 As bees 'mang bloomin' roses. 
 Altho' your face I ne'er hae seen 
 
 I aiblins yet may see it, 
 Weel wad I like to ca' ye freen 
 
 If fate wad sae decree it. 
 
 I am a heather bird mysel', 
 And weel I loe the mountains. 
 
 The yellow furze that decks the fells, 
 The moss that deeds the fountains ;
 
 262 To Rob Wanlock. 
 
 An' tho' the noo I've bad adieu 
 
 To ilka charm o' Nature, 
 Wi' memory's e'e I still can view 
 
 Their ilka form an' feature. 
 
 Adieu ! an' may your sweet-voiced muse 
 
 Ne'er jilt ye nor forsake ye, 
 May still her freaks your fancy roose, 
 
 An' up Parnassus take ye ; 
 An' while ye lilt o' plaidies grey, 
 
 An' lovers happ'd thegither, 
 Let critics say whate'er they may — 
 
 Ne'er slicht the hills o' heather !
 
 263 
 
 TO ROB WANLOCK, MONTREAL. 
 
 BY NELLIE. 
 
 A HAMELY lilt, in hamely rhyme, 
 
 I pen wi' heartsome glee, 
 To thee, sweet bard of Wanlock Glen, 
 
 Across the Atlantic Sea. 
 
 It comes frae ane wha canna boast 
 
 O' classical book lore. 
 But frae a heart that lo'es thy lilts. 
 
 And cons them o'er an' o'er. 
 
 On freen's in bonnie Scotland 
 
 You've surely ceased to min', 
 Wha lo'ed your moorland rhymes sae weel 
 
 In days o' auld langsyne. 
 
 Oh ! Wanlock's Muse, I pray you come, 
 
 Roun' him a halo fling. 
 That he may joyously burst forth 
 
 An' sweetly, gladly sing. 
 i8
 
 264 
 
 To Rob Wanlock. 
 
 Dear Wanlock, in your far off hame, 
 Hear my request sae sma'. 
 
 An' write some verses for the Friend^ 
 Altho' you're far awa'.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.
 
 PR Reid - 
 
 52 1 9 PnpmQ^ Qong?^ 
 
 R 265a 17 and sonnets. 
 
 Bah 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 PR 
 5219 
 
 R265A17 
 1894