LIBRARY Unrvmity of IRVINE POEMS AND SONGS BY JOHN S. RAE WITH INTRODUCTION BY D. H. EDWARDS, F.R.H.S., &c., Editor of " Modern Scottish Poets " BRECHIN : PRINTED AT THE ADVERTISER OFFICE. EDINBURGH: JOHN MENZIES & CO. 1884. A'1 PKEFACE. *Tf N laying this selection of my Poems and Songs before gJH my fellowmen, I have not been actuated by the vain- glory of mere authorship, nor the desire of gain. Were these the only motives that prompted writers to bring their musings to the light, they might naturally be expected to be of such a nature as would fit them more to feast the moth than feed the minds of men. The pleasure I have found in " courting the Muses, 1 ' began to shed its charms around my path when about midway in my teens ; and whether in the peaceful seclusion of the country, or amid the smoke-dimmed haunts of busy cities, vocal with the thousand-tongued voice of commerce, that pleasure has been my soothing companion at all times ; and if these fruits of my lonely leisure hours, embodied in song, . . . Can cheer one heart That listens to my strain, I cherish will the sweet belief I have not sung in vain. Mine have not been days of rural quiet, spent in sylvan nooks " far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife," still the Muse deigned to find me and cheer me amid " the busy haunts of men ; '' and although what she breathed may not be faultless, I, as her interpreter, must bear the blame, being through lack of leisure at times compelled to hastily clothe these children of my mind lest they should perish of neglect. These Poems and Songs have therefore the merit at least of being the spontaneous effusions of a son of " Caledonia stern and wild," whose love for her rugged hills and spreading moorlands, for her name and fame, her history and traditions, shall only cease with Ids own existence. JOHN S. RAE. BURNGRAINS, ALVAH, BANFF, November, ISSlt. CONTENTS. nun. Scotia, ... ... 17 Man Was not Made to Mourn, 25 The Holy Mills, 26 Winter, 29 Manhood, ... 31 Yule Night, 36 The Minstrel, 37 London 39 Jock o' Heather-Faulds, 44 Vanity Fair 52 Jeanie (A Ballad of Sauchieburn), ... ... .. 58 Bannockburn, 61 Charge of the Light Brigade, 64 The Huntly Soldier, ... ' 65 Burns' Anniversary, ... 67 TheSmiddy, 70 The Heights of Alma, 71 Holyrood, 74 The Ploughman's Evening, 75 The Scot Abroad, 77 Eviction, 79 Porter Fair 82 Peter o' Berbithill, 84 Johnny Pirrie, ... 85 The Pibroch, 86 Muckle Geordie, 88 The Dying Fireman, ... ... .. 89 The Wanderer's Return, 91 The Harvest Home, 92 Faith and Reason, ... ... ... ... ... 95 Vision of Hell, 97 An Evening Muse, , 99 vi. C0NTBNTS. Lines to Erring Sisters, 102 Modesty, 104 Love, 104 Woman's Kiss, 105 The Sisters Three, 106 To Nameless Bards, 108 The Poet's Dream, 109 The Thames Ill Verses, .. Ill The Spirit of Freedom, The Grandeur of Labour, ... ... .. 113 The Tartan, 114 Holiday Song, 116 Farewell, Old Scotia, 116 The Forest Camp, 118 Morning Beauties, ... ... ... 119 By the Sea, 120 The Bain, 121 The Lovers' Star, 123 The Dying Day, 123 Charms of Nature, 125 A Northern Sunset, .'.. 126 Spring, 126 Spring Song, ... ... .. ... ... . 127 Spring, ... 128 A Springtime Song. ... ... ... 129 April 130 Flowery May,. 131 Leafy June, 132 Autumn, ... ... ... ... ... 133 My Sailor Boy, . ... .. ... ... ... 13g Love's Eden, ... ... . . 134 Nonsense, ... ... ... ... ... 136 Boldie (A Canine Friend) 136 The Jolly Tailor, 138 The Traveller, 140 The Irish Exile, 141 Caledonia, ... ... ... ... ]42 Lines on Inkermann, ... ... ... ... ... 143 The River of Death, 144 Maggie Bella, ... ... 145 Sons of Britain, ... ... ... ... ... ... 145 More Coals, ... .. 146 Britain's Seamen, ... ... ... ... ... 147 After a Jealous Moment, ... ... ... ... ... ]48 Slander, ... ... 149 CONTENTS. vii. Hope, 150 Time, 151 The Spectre Boat, 153 Labour's Song, ... ... ... .- .. 154 The Badge of Blue, 155 Youth 157 Memories, ... ... ... ... ... 158 The Cuckoo, 159 The Soldier's Grave, 160 The English Maiden's Welcome, 160 The Hermit, 161 My Home, 162 Earlston, 163 Bonnie Banff, 164 Alvah, 165 The Majesty of Law, 165 The Lament, 167 Human Life, 167 A Sad Incident, 168 I Love, 168 Willie's Adieu, 169 The North Countrie, 170 Bonnie Blue-E'ed Annie, 171 Dear Blue Eyes, 172 The Brave Old Thistle, 173 How Fair in the Dawning, ... ... ... ... 174 The Emigrant's Song, 175 'Mong Yonder Knowes, ... ... ... ... ... 176 War- Song of Erin, .. ... ... ... .. ... 177 My Heart's Delight 178 The Corn -Spirit's Song, 179 Dreams, 180 The Fame of "Tain o' Shan ter," 181 Ever Thinking, 182 I Wove My Love a Garland, . . ... . ... 183 Ann of Aberdeen, ... ... . . ... ... 1 84 A Psalm-Song, 185 Love's Fond Kiss, ... ... ... ... ... 186 The Far Countrie, l(i The Yule Log, 188 Merry Jamie Ritchie, ... ... ... ... ... 189 Love's Doubt A Duet, 190 My Soldier Lad, ]91 Love's Melody, 192 The Burn, 193 London Scots, ... ... ... ... 194 Vlll. CONTENTS. Thy Gallant Hearts, Britannia, 196 The War o' Life, 196 My Dearie, O, 198 Our Volunteer Review, ... ... 199 A Christmas Morning Wish, ... ... ... ... 201 Song, 201 Do You Remember ? 202 Aberdeen, 203 The Hill o' Cranna, 204 Death of Saul, 205 A London Warehouse Sketch, 207 The Black Watch, Endymion, ... ... ... 216 The Wedding, 217 Farewell to England's Daughter, ... 218 Marriage Bells, 219 H.R.H the Prince of Wales, K.G., 220 Gladstone, ... 221 The Forglen Ball, 223 Forglen House 224 The Lark 226 A Holiday Sketch, 227 Maggie, Flower of Cornhill, 229 Lines, 230 Epistle to a Friend, 231 Letter to Mr James S., ... ... ... ... ... 233 To Mr A. H. P., 235 ToR. S. M., 236 Letter to Mr James Smith, ... ... ... 237 To a Couple of Young Ladies, ... ... ... ... 239 Humorous Epitaphs, 239 Boldie's Epitaph, 239 Gladstone's Epitaph, 240 INTEODUCTION. " A drainless shower Of light is poesy ; 'tis the supreme of power ; 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm." |B|N these lines Keats expresses his belief that poesy is the gA| regal faculty of human nature a faculty so powerful that it can afford to " slumber on its own right arm." Men have been criticising and denning poetry for more than two thousand years, yet to-day it is by no means a settled point that its radical characteristics are this or that. To define it anew is not at this time our object, nor do we presume to be a cham- pion of any critical school. Poetry, by its nature, holds by faith, and works by love. Whether as feeling in the human breast, or as the music that ravishes or overcomes, poetry does not deal with proof, but with acceptation. Poetry is the daughter of imagination not of the faculty that reasons and discovers, but of that which sees and frames. It is the carol- ing and leaping of the child when the heart is full of joy ; the dirge of the hero, chanted to sky and ocean when the grief that lies on his soul can roll off only in waves as of a swelling sea. The feeling scorns bounds and measurements. The ex- pression leaves the common prose-road, enters the sun-chariot, and rhythmically rolls along. The god of Poetry did not tread on the plain ground. Apollo rode through the azure in his car of fire. According to Lamartine, " Poetry is man himself, the instinct of all his epochs, the eternal echo of all his human impressions, the voice of thinking and feeling humanity, re- sumed and modulated by certain men." X. INTRODUCTION. Poetry is not a quantum of intelligible propositions ; it is not to be apprehended through the logical understanding, but through the feelings. To him who does not feel a poem for himself it is hopeless to explain its meaning ; the most intelli- gent may be as dull to poetry as \)r Johnson was to Milton's sonnets, of which he wrote that ' ' the only thing to be said about the best was that they were not bad." Yet, though poetry, as Mark Pattison says, " is to be apprehended by the feelings, it does not follow that every one is born with or without the feelings that can enjoy poetry, and that a reader of poetry, like a poet, is born, not made." The first qualifi- cation for the reading of a book of poetry is a quick and ready sympathy for actualities. What the poet, in fact, does for us is to express with greater vividness, keenness, and passion our experiences. We admire him because he has a wide horizon of vision, and a more intense capacity of being moved by the same objects which, in a less degree, move ourselves. What is colouring without eyes, melody without ears, or fragrance without the living sense to appreciate ? The glories of the world without, whether of art or of Nature, are but the glories of the world within, kindled and reflected, and made alive in the sentient, imaginative soul. A happy, lively, and warmly susceptible spirit, in contact with the beauties, and odours, and harmonies of Nature, cannot but feel that it is ever melodious, and welling over with freshness, lightness, and emotional joy. George Sand, the celebrated French author, says : "They tell us that Poetry is dying but Poetry cannot die. Had 1 she for place of sojourn one human heart, there would still be ages of existence before her ; for she would issue thence like the lava of a volcano, and strike out a path to herself. Weary of uttering a language which the great no longer comprehend, she will murmur, in the ears of the humble, words of affection and sympathy. " And has not this been so in Scotland in modern times? In many cases Poetry has taken refuge with the humble. She lias cradled in her arms the children of the poor, and intermingled herself with the simple INTRODUCTION. XI. details of their daily life. It is, indeed, one of the most pleasing characteristics of our present-day national poets that they aim at interpreting in verse the common interests of the common day, and the equally common, but withal eternal, instincts of the human heart in those endless manifestations which make up the many-threaded web of life. And is it not the case that the man of sympathetic feeling does more to fulfil " man's chief end " than he who, amidst the smoke of battle, earns a wreath to deck his crown? Ever since the human soul was first capj able of feeling the alternate impulse of pain and pleasure, happiness and sorrow, or hope and despair, a poetical effusion naturally gives it relief. All whose hearts are in the right place who can realise that "under the snow-drifts the flowers are sleeping'' have felt this influence, and acknowledged this power of Truth ; and the Sacred Word itself the foundation of Truth is vastly indebted for its sublimity to the inspira- tion of the Poet. In this age practical, mechanical, and speculative beyond precedent the bustle of commerce and the spread of enter- prise have not been able to divert the public mind from the products of the imagination. Scotland is as proud of her large company of really gifted modern bards and versifiers as she is of her great and glorious roll of distinguished men of literature, science, philosophy, and invention. As children of the North, the names of our poets Thomson, Scott, Burns, Campbell, Hogg, and a host of others are known throughout the world. The same might be said in philosophy, of Hume, Stewart, and Macintosh ; in science, of Playfair, Watt, and Leslie ; in history, of Buchanan, Irvine, Gillies, M'Crie, and Alison ; in criticism, of Jeffrey, Wilson, and Carlyle ; in theology, of Knox, Blair, Chalmers, Irving, and Guthrie ; in painting, of Ramsay, Raeburn, and Wilkie. As travellers, what brighter names are there than Park and Livingstone ; in general literature, than Hugh Miller and Robert Chalmers. We have, in philological lore, the names of Chalmers and Jamieson, and in the Xli. INTRODUCTION. mechanical arts time would fail us to speak of the Watts and Bells, and hundreds of other "Scots Worthies" to whose names our mills and factories and steam-shops are offering up continually their hoarse hymn of praise. But we have enu- merated enough to prove that no country in proportion to its size has contributed so much as Scotland to the stock of intellectual wealth which is constantly accumulating in the world. The lowly homes of Scotland in rural retreats as well as in busy towns have furnished a long list of honoured names that have shed a bright lustre over the walks of literature ; and no previous period of the world's history has produced so large a company of really gifted minor poets. In our work on "Modern Scottish Poets" we have seen that the minstrel breeze not only floats its music through the corridors of the palace, but also through the chinks and crannies of the cottage flapping the tasselled curtains of the mansion, and even blowing in the rags which stuff the panes in the domiciles of squalor. Of our modern band of Scottish bards, the author of this volume is not the least true or the least tender amongst the sweet choristers. John S. Rae was born on the 25th January, 1859 the hundredth anniversary of the birth of Burns and was con- sequently ushered into the world amid a blaze of illuminations, and the general rejoicings of all Scotland, and her wandering sons " the wide war Id ower." The place of his birth was an unpretentious farm-house at Cross Gight, New Deer, Aber- deenshire. Three or four years after the date of his birth his parents removed to Burngrains, Alvah, BanfFshire, where they still reside. At an early age John devoured the chapman literature in which the north was so rich warlike ballads and tender tales of love in "ye faire ladye's bowers." He still delights in tales of superstition, scraps of folk lore, and any anecdote illustrating our national peculiarities, and the study of such matters has given a rich, ballad tone to several of his poems and songs. INTRODUCTION. Xlll. It was designed to make Mr Rae " a son of the soil," but holding the plough not being exactly suited to his frame of mind and body he resolved to try the wider fields of com- merce. Accordingly he learned the drapery business, but only to find that life behind the counter was not so congenial to his taste as he had anticipated his love of literature being still pre-eminent. However, he manfully toiled onwards. After being employed several years in Glasgow he removed to London, and entered one of the great wholesale houses. Delicate health, however, compelled our poet to leave London ; and again, through the same cause, and after being a few months in Dundee, he has had to return to his native Burngrains, hoping to recover his strength amid the beauties and salubrities of Nature. He has cultivated with much success his favourite Muse in his spare moments after the bustling business of the day was over A bardic son of commerce I, And here amid the strife Of cities with their turrets high, I note the tide of Life ; And on this tide the man must float Who lives amid the throng, With little time to raise the note Of sad or joyous song. Many of the pieces that Mr Rae has given to the public through the medium of the newspaper press and literary ournals have met with a very favourable reception. In all these it is quite evident that he is a " Scotchman to the heel. " There is a fine patriotic ring about his poems that relate to Scotland ; while those on the subject of his early home and youthful haunts are charmingly touching. The critical reader will doubtless find an occasional inequality, lack of finish, evidence of hasty writing, and passages where the realism is too pronounced, but will ever find present the culti- vated taste. His poetical imagery is natural, pleasing, and singularly felicitous, giving evidence of the eye, the heart, the spirit, and the expression of the poet. His poems are the xv. INTRODUCTION. effusions of an earnest heart the truthful expressions of de- votion to his kin and country, glowing word-pictures of brae- sides, and happy sketches of the joys and sorrows of humble life. He invests every spot and object around the home of his youth with the charm of poetry, and finds in the beauteou scenes of nature the rich azure of the skies, the magnificence of trees, and the retired haunts of the feathered songsters, as well as in the melody of rivers, and in the sound of the wimp- ling burn, " That true delight Wealth cannot purchase, nor a sceptre yield." To prove this, we might refer to many passages of much sweetness ; but these cannot escape the most careless reader. He finds the spirit of poetry by the couthie fireside, in the London warehouse and the noisy workshop, amid the rustling leaves in some fairy nook, or when whispering warm words in the ear of some "kind dearie." Heart speaks to heart in some of his tender love- words ; while in several of his poems on city life, guilt and shame are depicted with startling vivid- ness, and touching sorrow. This volume gives evidence of versatility on the part of the poet. We here find the sentimental, the patriotic, the humor- ous, and the pathetic. We have the poetry of the individual heart its aspirings, its resolves, its hopes, and its fears ; the first swellings of youthful love that break forth in music, the colours which lie in the enchanted distance, the secrets of the trysting tree, the glad song of the bridal, the love of the domestic circle, the parting embrace when the circle is first broken, and the welcome return all meet us here. As we have already hinted, Mr Rae is imbued with great national enthusiasm, and his thoughts often burn with noble and patriotic aspirations, without affecting the mystical or straining after mere ornate effect, while present-day topics are treated with frank out-spokenness. He celebrates with fire, spirit, and originality the fame of our ancient warriors, kuights, nobles, and ladies, reminding us that in the middle ages the reigning idea of poetry was devotion to the INTRODUCTION. XV. gentler sex, which, allying itself with martial fire, produced what we call chivalry. It was then that the sword-point was lowered at the glance of a bright eye ; and castles embosomed in dark woods, terrific dragons, and superhuman beauties all that we mean by the word romance these formed the staple of the songs of the minstrels and troubadours. We have referred to Mr Eae's " out-spokenness " on several present-day topics, only a very few specimens of which ap- pear here. The theme of a vigorous poem we have seen is the interview of Andrew Melvin, James Melvin, and his cousin, Thomas Buchanan, with George Buchanan the Dr Johnson of Scotland. Buchanan's "History of Scotland" appeared almost the very moment of his death. Indeed, by the time the print- ing was finished, and the work hailed with loud applause, the soul of the historian was stepping into a grander theatre to re- ceive " a Crown of Life." Buchanan showed them his dedica- tion of the work to the King, and saidhecouldmakeitno better, having a higher business to attend to. He was asked what that was, "To die," was the solemn answer. They went thence to the printing-office to glance over the sheets of his history. Finding an unguarded passage in reference to Eizzio's funeral, they hurried back to remonstrate with the author, whom they found now in bed. They told him the expressions he used would anger the King, and perhaps lead him to suppress the whole work. " Tell me, man," said Buchanan, " if I have told the truth." " Undoubtedly, sir," replied his cousin. "Then," rejoined he, " I will abide his feud, and all his kin's." Thus spoke the spirit of an ancient Gael, and of one who, like John Knox, never feared the face of man. In our own age from Burns to Tennyson almost every poet has sung of man as man, as deriving what honour he de- serves from what is in his bosom, and not merely what is on his back. It was our own peasant bard who first sang the great song that voiced the glory of man as man, which had XVI. INTRODtJCTION. been spoken of but never sung with real rapture till he poured forth the coronation ode " A man's a man for a" that." Tennyson is spoken of as the poet of ripe civilization. Al- though he writes for those of cultivated tastes, most of his heroes and heroines are the daughters of millers and gar- deners, and the sorrows and resolves of a soldier are the subject of one of his most powerful poems. He thus acknow- ledges what makes all men of kin to him the natural beating of the heart, the nobility of labour, and the might of individual effort. Thus he hails " Men, my brothers ; men the workers, Well I know That unto him who works, and feels he works, This same grand year is ever at the doors. And our bard, too, in the present volume, in "Manhood," thus sings : The fearless eye and forehead high. The heart aglow with honour's soul These are the marks of heraldry That blazon Heaven's peerage roll A chart whose lines divinely high Outvie the world's most regal scroll. Let us hope we are not many centuries away from the era thus prophesied by Mrs Browning : "Drums and battle cries Go out in music of the morning star And soou we shall have thinkers in the place Of fighters ; each found able as a man To strike electric influence through a race, Unstayed by city wall and barbican. The poet shall look grander in the face Than ever he looked of old, when he began To sing that Achillean wrath which slew So many heroes seeing he shall treat The deeds of souls heroic towards thejtrue." November 1881,. .POEMS AND SONGS. JHHP? thee, Scotia, would I fondly sing, jjjj$ And pray the Muses for a time to fliiig Their sacred shades across my humble way, And tune my lyre to sing this rustic lay. While all unworthy my untutored pen To sketch the beauties of the hill and glen, 1 pardon crave for this, myself, and Muse, Which kindred Scots will surely ne'er refuse. When patriot ardour in the bosom springs, And unrestrained will touch the silent strings Of musing fancy till they throbbing raise Their voice impulsive in a song of praise, Why should that bosom in its depths retain The swelling cadence of the prompted strain ? 'Tis better, surely, that its note should rise, Though 't pass unheeded as an echo dies. Such is my song, and such its fate may be, I claim no merit from its measures free ; The honest Scot of independent mind Who'd stoop for favour would disgrace his kind. To Scots at home, and brother Scots away, I humbly dedicate my simple lay, And feel rewarded if this strain of mine But wakes one memory of " Auld Laiig Syne." 18 POEMS AND SONGS. Sweet " Auld Lang Syne," thou dear familiar phrase, The joys and sorrows of the bygone days Rise at thy mention from the long ago, And through the gates of memory surging flow. The scenes that blest our youth rise up anew, Old faces, mingled in the long review, With forms beloved, mayhap long passed away, That shone refulgent in our life's young day. Thus "Auld Lang Syne" to Scots is ever dear, And in their hearts they lovingly revere Old Mother Scotia, first of lands on earth, 'Mid whose wild hills and lakes they had their birth. How oft the wanderer on some distant shore Draws sweetest solace from his dreams of yore, When fancy lovingly doth homeward stray Across the weary waste of watery way ; And climbs once more the rugged mountain steep, Thick dotted over with the bleating sheep, And sees around the fields of yellow grain With plenty crown the fertile spreading plain. While sings the linnet 'mong the whin-clad braes The song familiar to his early days, When care was stranger to his boyish heart, With all the sorrows that it can impart. But swiftly sped those happy days along, And youth soon ripened into manhood strong, And brought the hour he said farewell to home In climes far distant for a time to roam In labour's mart with toiling hand to gain The gold, perchance, for which he crossed the main, Since independence is the dearest charm That nerves to industry the freeman's arm. Go range the globe, in climes of sun or snow, You'll find your countrymen where'er you go SCOTlA. 19 Still brave, unflinching, at their various posts, In peace aye foremost as in war's red hosts. Bravo ! brave children of a noble land, Te are indeed a world-honoured band In whom the virtues that our sires maintained Shall live and flourish to the end unstained. Each spot is sacred of the dear old land That nursed and nourished the devoted band Who bled for Scotland, for their homes and right, And stood invincible 'gainst England's might. The deeds of valour wrought by them of yore Still live undying in tradition's lore ; And while the thistle shall triumphant wave The homes of Scotland shall uprear the brave. For should the hour e'er wait upon her men In arms to muster on the field again, That hour should find them in their close array, If danger loomed in golden freedom's way. When cursed bigotry with iron hand Of old stalked rampant o'er the bleeding land To crush pure worship with a tyrant rod, And hush the praises of our sires to God ; Each hill and glen by martyrs' blood besprent, To hearts still faithful newer courage lent ; The hunted preacher 'mid the wilds so drear Still taught his followers the truths so dear ; Then rose from silent glens the holy psalm, Renewing fainting souls like precious balm ; And fervent prayers on wings of faith arose To Israel's God, to shield them from their foes. He heard their voices ; and His mighty hand Swept dark oppression from the groaning land, And raised again His faithful from the mire, Refined and purified, as gold by fire. 20 POEMS AND SONGS. Is there a Scot whose bosom never thrills With proud emotion as he scans those hills That tower eternal with their peaks of snow, And streams wild dashing to the glens below ? Where lie the clachans and the cosy farms, In beauty circled by their rural charms 'Mid sweet retreats where lovers fondly stray When twilight dim bespeaks the closing day ; And far o'erhead the wheeling eagle screams, While parting sunlight on his bosom gleams, Revealing clear the mighty pinions sweep That bear him swiftly to his mountain keep. How oft of old those hills with battle rang, And steel on steel with fiercest hate did clang, When Scot met Scot, as Greek met Greek in war, And sent the echoes of the fray afar. Or when wild Dane or Norseman on our coasts Did pour, to ravish with their dreaded hosts ; If those mute hills their secrets could upyield They'd tell of many a carnage-covered field, Where our brave sires with hearts and courage true Did meet those rovers of the ocean blue, And bear them down like sand before the tide, While in their wake lay death and ruin wide. The daring valour Scots of yore displayed (Though great the odds they never were dismayed), Still springs anew in each succeeding race, And stamps its presence in each martial face. On that dark morn of deadly Waterloo Our gallant regiments, though in numbers few, Hedged round with bayonets, stood each attack, And hurled the mail-clad legions back. Behold, the Cuirassiers in pride advance The chosen horsemen of the flower of France ; SCOTIA. 21 And hark ! the thunder of the " Greys' " wild cheer, Which tells the tyrant his defeat is near. For swift as lightning on the French array Down bore those troopers and their chargers grey, And 'neath their swords the Cuirassiers went down Like forest leaves when autumn winds are blown. They who, amid an hundred fields' alarms, Had proved their valour and their boasted arms, And ne'er had charged but victory bore them through, In death lay scattered now on Waterloo ! Beneath the deluge of that living flood The star of victory did set in blood, That led the conquering Napoleon on O'er ravished empires to usurp a throne. A hinge of destiny was that famed plain, The ghastly sepulchre of thousands slain, Whose tale shall live in peaceful days to come, When hushed for ever is the martial drum ; When warlike navies shall no longer sail, Some coast to devastate with deadly hail ; When men shall blush to think the law of right Their sires subverted to the law of might. / But we who flourish in this age must stand, And ward oppression from our native land ; For still the wolf will make the lamb his prey, As from the first of time hath been his way. But clearly looms a-head that blissful time When meek- eyed peace shall rule in every clime, And nations, nobler grown, shall right decree At honour's call with love and pleasure free. Then shall the clarion of justice sound This was her home when nations all around Knew not the science of her golden rule, For this brave Island was her early school, 22 POEMS AND SONGS. The nations learned to venerate the might "We wielded only in the cause of right ; And tyrants shrank before our dreaded frown, And licked the hand upraised to smite them down. Imperial Csesar in his greatest hour Ne'er knew the glories of our honoured power ; In every land our flag hath been unfurled, Our voices sway the councils of the world. Far, where the Himalays to heaven uprise, Our sceptre rules beneath those arid skies ; Where graceful palms uplift their feathery arms, And changing Nature showers her Orient charms; And where Australia's fertile tracts expand, With wealth of gold deep in her favoured land ; Where broad Pacific's glittering waves do roll For many a league unbroken to their goal ; Where Afric's blazing sun darts scorching ray On plain and swamp, and jungle's tangled way, And spreading deserts, with their sands of fire, Where Nature's self doth languish and expire. Even there the children of our hardy land Are toiling distant from their native strand ; But softer climes and skies of brighter blue Can ne'er estrange them, Scotia dear, from you. Ah ! no, ah ! no ; where'er a Scot may roam His heart unchanging ever turns to home ; Those sunny scenes that deck a brighter clime But claim his fancy for a passing time. The land of heather and of laughing rills, The land of valleys and of towering hills, Where sweet blue-bells and bearded thistles wave, Alike the emblems of the fair and brave ; The land that's girded by the rolling deep, Where liberty, enthroned on mountains steep, SCOTIA. 23 Smiles down on fields deep furrowed by the free That is the land of every land for me. Then let us pray that still the Powers above May fan the flame of patriotic love, And raise the warrior, the bard, and sage To guide the people in each coming age. Here noble Burns, king of bards, did reign, And pour divinely his enchanting strain ; Still rolls the echo of his mighty song The vasty corridors of time along. His name, revered like quenchless beacon, glows, And o'er the past a sacred halo throws, A household word all potent to impart A thrill of pride to every Scottish heart. The springing flowers recall his living name, The wild birds pipe of his immortal fame, And soft winds whisper as they steal along Some fancied fragment of his magic song. Now fiercely stern, anon his strain doth melt, And breathe that tenderness and love he felt ; While laughing humour runs along his page, With gravest thoughts all worthy of a sage. He loved old Scotia, and he tuned his lyre To sing her praise with true poetic fire ; Our homely Doric he has raised to fame 'Twill live immortal with his lasting name. And great Carlyle, the prophet and the sage, The lettered genius of a lettered age, His works, colossal as they are sublime, Shall stand as monuments of worth through time. He sleeps not proudly 'mong the gilded urns, But rests obscurely, like his country's Burns, In humble tomb his noble mind but chose A lowly place 'mong those from which he rose. 24 POEMS AND SONGS. Oh ! Scotia, sacred be the narrow bed Which holds the ashes of thy mighty dead ; Thy prophet son his work hath ably done, His task is over, and his laurels won.* Well may a Scot with honour play his part, While live those inem'ries in his inmost heart ; Well may he love his wild and northern home, The best of lands wherever he may roam. Domestic love sits by each lowly hearth, Inweaving happiness with humble worth ; And sterling principles are early taught, While yet young minds with innocence are fraught. From sire to son each cherished tale descends, And to the mind a noble impulse lends ; Upstirring there the old heroic fires That shone so brilliant in our hardy sires. Long may the heath wave purple on our hills, Clear flow the currents of our silvery rills ; Bright be the blossom on the broomy braes, Where birds pipe gaily through the summer days. May modesty and grace adorn our maids, And valiant manhood woo them in our glades ; And long the thistle with the rose entwine, Both fraught with memories of ' Auld Lang Syne. 1 _NOTB. The verses on Carlyle were inserted in the poem at the time of his death. The remainder of the poem was written about a year previous. MAN WAS NOT MADE TO MOURN. 25 Jttati SSas JJot Jftafce to Jttxmrtt. jiHAT though thy feeble frame, Man, By sorrow oft is torn, And Life seems but a dreary span A trackless waste forlorn, Yet think not only to despair And trouble thou art born ; 'Tis vain to cull the roses fair And murmur at the thorn. Look higher still beyond the mire Which clogs thy footsteps here, And soon thine eye with brighter fire Shall glow divinely clear ; For though the Summer leaves may fall And flowers to ashes turn, They spring anew at Nature's call And gaily earth adorn. Out shame ! upon the dwarfish minds That shrink from noble life ; Poor soulless ape is he that finds No pleasure in the strife. With courage true stand in the lines Of higher life and spurn The cynic who despairing whines That " Man was made to Mourn." Up ! mighty Man, assert thy power, And wrestle for the right, Thy noble soul, great Heaven's dower, Shall bear thee in the fight ; For he that wills may vex his mind, No matter where he turn, And sorrows not his own he'll find And o'er them pensive mourn, 26 POEMS AND SONGS. Behold the twittering warblers gay Make vocal all the bowers, Their happy hearts but pipe the lay That we restrain in ours ; The laverock high upon the wing, The blackbird on the thorn, They but the song of Nature sing, Man was not made to morn. Look round and mark the silent prints Of ages gone before, A radiance from their pathway glints, Revealing men of yore, Who tuned their chords in measures strong To cheer the heart forlorn, And teach the sinking soul the song Man was not made to mourn ; And we who in these latter days No longer darkly grope, But clearer see ahead the ways To pleasure peace and hope, Know that the power which made us all Shall leave us not forlorn, For He that notes the sparrow's fall Ne'er made Mankind to mourn. jy?OME preach because it is their trade, Hf An' some by special callin', An' some because their lungs were made For showman sort o' bawlin', THE HOLY MILLS. 27 Some holy preachers act the priest By hecklin' an' by speirin', Among the folk, frae west to east Aye constant interferin'. Some ministers can sing a psalm, An' some can tell a story ; An' some there are can tak' a dram As lang's its to the fore aye. Auld Zion sits upon a hill, The State her seat supporting An' tak's a' grist into her mill, Wi' unco little sortin'. She bauds on high her ancient flag The Westminster Confession ; An' a' the corn in her bag Is gratis frae the nation. Within her crap nae chuckie stanes Hae ever found a restin' ; She feeds on beef, an' picks the banes To baud the lave frae tastin'. The " Freemen " roun' aboot her pray, Her heathen state deploriu' ; " She's dead asleep in sin," they say, An' swear they hear her snorin'. But she's at heart a couthy dame, Although she's sair misca'd aye ; An' though she's auld, she's nae sae lame She is a supple jade aye. The other Mills that roun' her stand By folks they're ca'd Dissentin' ; Their wheels are heard a' owre the Ian' Wi' din that's fair dementin'. Nae fear there is that e'er their wheels Gret time to stop an' freeze, ; For roun' them run a' kin' o' chiels, Aye haudin' in the greese, 0. They swear its purest oil o' faith 28 POEMS AND SONGS. About their Mills they're pourin' ; It maun be cheap, for by my aith In floods they keep it stourin'. An' some gang roun' at sic a rate To winnow guid frae evil, The chaff keeps fleein' ear' an' late In clouds wad blin' the Devil. Some think salvation comes to all When they hae got a steepin', Nae matter though they tak the caul', A' shiverin' an' dreepin'. These water billies think a chiel Is better for the washin' ; A guarantee against the deil In future wi' him fa shin'. I doot it sair, for filth o' sin Beneath the hide aye lies, ; An' how they get the water in My knowledge clean defies, 0. An' some believe that certain folks For heaven are elected ; This doctrine may be orthodox, But I wad hae't rejected. It disna gang wi' common sense, Nor does it fit wi' reason ; Although I may be tauld at once That this is holy treason. Auld Zion's Mill may need a men', This truth I'm nae denyin', But some hae need to sort their ain, Wha holes in her are spyin' She is the root to ane an' a', An' he's a shamefu' wether Wha, when he's fit to box an' craw, Wad turn against his mither. The meal that's grun' at other mills, Oa'd roun' wi' better water, WINTER. 29 Should stap the mou's o' them it fills, An' lay their jealous clatter. The Millers a' should mak a league To work beneath ae riggin' The Mills combined, the deil wad fleg Entirely frae the biggin'. Then if the Pope should venture in, The holy Millers' quorum Could throw the rascal i' the bin, An' there completely smore him. HJ||HE skies are noo o' leaden hue, =Jjii| Wi' nae a tint o' azure blue In a' the scene, An' bitin' showers go drivin' past Upon the surly winter blast Sae chill an' keen. The naked trees like spectres bare, Noo stripped o' a' the glory fair 0' summer gay, Bend creakin' in the fitfu' gale That 'mong the branches bleak doth wail A mournfu' lay. 'Tis Winter's dirge falls on the ear, An' dark December's sough sae drear, Wi' eddyin' snaws, Gars ilka creature seek some bield, Themsel's frae Nature's wrath to shield Till it ower-blaws. fOEMS AND SONGS. When cosy by the ingle cheek Hoo' little do we ever reck 0' beast an' bird Exposed to Winter's wildest breath, Which freezes them mayhap to death On the cauld yird. Where are the birdies noo that sang Sae sweet when summer days were lang, An' sunshine bright ? They piped their notes by stream and wood, An' stirred the soul o' Bardic mood To poesy's flight. In some bit neuk they'll be at rest, For birds an' beasts are guided best By Instinct's law, An' He will sure for them provide Whose hand controls the wind an' tide, An' gently guides us a'. The wanderin' poor wha hae nae hame, When they thy help an' pity claim, O'erlook them not ; Ye wha wi' goods are favour'd well Hear not wi' sneers their wofu' tale, Nor scorn their lot, But gie according as you're bless't Wi' plenteous store, you'll never miss't, An' when you're gone Those kindly deeds will pass before, An' help to open Heaven's door, An' sins atone. True charity, an' kindly word Will hae their due an' full reward Sae Scripture says ; MANHOOD. An' he wha helps a fellow maji Wi' generous heart surpasses one Wha graspin' prays. ! ye wha wear deceitfu' mask, An' in the sun o' favour bask Wi' Kirk an' State, Just call poor Lazarus' case to mind, Wha helpless lay distress'd, we find At rich man's gate ; An' he wha was sae grand arrayed, His deeds when in the balance weighed Were found to fail, Nor could his sumptuous riches save Him from destruction an' the grave, His end was Hell. An' think not that the changing age Can blot the record of that page, Nor right abate, For Heaven high to great an' sma', Gie's the same universal law And entrance gate. " An honest man's the noblest work of God." BARD am I whose highest thought Is centred in the wish sublime, Some goodly influence to have wrought For humankind of every clime Some effort lasting as the years, To teach them truly what they are POEMS AND SOtfGS. Some balm to give to stay earth's tears, Till eyes grow bright as morning star, And gloom and doubt and rending fear Are banished 'yond life's ocean bar. When passion's power hath had its hour, And crumbled is this frame of clay, Man's soul shall wield a grander power Beyond the span of mbrtal day. Then live, my brother, not as tho' The present time were all to thee, Those hours of life are but the glow Of dawn to thy eternity, Fear man nor fiend, to God but bow, He gave thy life and thou art free. Behold the tyrant, see him rise A slave to fierce malignant will, The darkling glare within whose eyes Might light some dusky cave of hell. Stand not afar in abject fear, Nor trembling meet his scowling face, But mock his threats with calmest sneer, And dare the villain of thy race With manly eye serene and clear, As thou would'st brave some beast of chase. When ravening wolves harass the fold, How swift at morn or night or noon The watchman meets th' invaders bold, And deals his vengeance sharp and soon ; And why should beasts in human guise Through years harass the race of man ? The blame with you my brothers lie, Whose Heavenly guerdon everyone Is liberty, right to defy The tyrant wretch and live say I, MANHOOD. 33 So that as one great camp, the earth In peace and plenty may repose, And strife and envy banished forth Shall leave your life a thornless rose Within a fair and radiant clime, Whose air for ever feeds its bloom through all the circling change of time 'Neath skies that know no cloud of gloom ; Who makes of life this scene sublime Can never know oblivion's tomb. No mortal unit can alone This empire of the earth create, Thus none are worthy of the throne To singly rule this mighty State, But hand in hand with hearts agreed Let humankind together draw The chart by which they will be freed, And frame in peace the golden law Of Brotherhood, whose precious seed Each fellowman hath power to sow. The poorest of the earthly poor, If they but own a noble mind, Hath lineage and rank more pure Than all the kings of humankind. The fearless eye and forehead high, The heart aglow with honour's soul, These are the marks of heraldry That blazon Heaven's peerage roll, A chart whose lines divinely high Outvie the world's most regal scroll. I'd rather be an honest man, And honest poverty my share, Than be a lord and bear the ban Of hollow-hearted mammon fair, o 34 POEMS AND SONGS. If allied with a barren brow, And heart's unsympathetic chord ; An empty name it is I trow To be a mindless titled lord, And like a drone to live, I vow, Upon an ill-begotten hord. That one who thrills the chords of life, Who gives the aching bosom rest, And stills the rancorous tongues of strife, Is surely to be loved and bless 'd. Where such there is, then such a one, Though poor and meek, obscure from fame, Stand proudly up thou art a Man, And worthy of the noble name A leader in the world's van, True earner of a diadem ! Let such a one stand forth, say I, And cast his seed on every breeze, And sowing let him sing full high Strong songs to elevate and please His toiling brothers far and wide, Till earth its rivers, hills, and seas Are vocal with the notes that glide Like murmurs 'mong the forest trees, Soft floating far on echoing tide, Of strange and wondrous melodies, Till countless throats sing this refrain In Hope's prophetic mystic strain : HOPE'S PROPHETIC SONG. I can see far down the vista Of the years that are to be, From the womb of time come trooping Forth a mighty race and free MANHOOD. 35 To a higher field of labour, To a vantage ground of On their brows a nobler manhood, In their eyes a purer light. They will scan the misty records Of the ages left behind, Adding lore of Greek and Roman To their miracle of mind. With their march still on and upward Till they blend the god in ttfan I can see them nobly fighting In the world's serried And the powers now hid in darkness They will bring forth to the light, And shall gird them with their knowledge In one Brotherhood of might, Shaping all things to their uses Till they reach the golden goal, When the man shall stand triumphant, Worthy of his mighty Soul. Then the world's song of victory In a Psean grand shall rise- In one noble swelling chorus- From the nations to the skie. Fellow- workers labour onward. Nearer, clearer, shines the light Of that glorious day, whose dawning Shall dispel the world's night. 36 POEMS AND SONGS. fttle JJight p.K[ I'he ancient custom of observing Yule-Tide, once so popular in Scot- land, is now almost extinct, except in some of the northern coun- ties, and even there it is fast becoming a relic of the times that were. It was customary among the peasantry on this night to convene to drink "sowens," which is the juice or " bree" of the outer shell of the corn after being ground for meal. On these occasions dancing, singing, and legendary lore made up the simple programme of rustic amusement.] merry Yule, and fu' o' glee, The folks convene to baud a spree, An' hae a jolly splore, Just as their fathers aye hae done, For weel they relished mirth an' fun In happy days o' yore. This nicht the famous sowen bree Is ladled oot wi' measure free In dishes big an' sma', A mellow, liquid feast sae gran', Peculiar to oor northern Ian' Spartan stamachs a'. Ben in the neuk the orra loon The fiddle scraips an' puts in tune Wi' great palaver sair, An' aye he gies some pin a screw, An' rosins up the bow anew, Wi' muckle skill an' care. The best o' fiddlers roun' an' roun', Without a doubt's the orra loon, He beats a' rivals clean. Wi' haughty scorn o' other's ways He grips the bow, an' wildly plays Wi' native genius keen. Noo he has got it richt at last, An' wi' the dancers trippin' fast The very rafters ring ; THE MINSTREL. 37 An' 'mid the capers and career That stirring Scottish tune I hear Ca'd " Huntly's Heilan' Fling," The " Brig o' Banff," the " Braes o' Mar," An' lilts that stir in peace or war Are fiddled ane an' a', Till e'en the auldest folks grow fain To wish for supple shanks again In spite o' Nature's law. An' sangs are sung an' stories tauld, While fast the nicht is wearin' auld, Unnoticed 'mid the fun, For lads an' lasses when they meet Nae heed they gie to time sae fleet The hours like minutes run. Lang cherished by those rural ways The relies o' departed days, Inwoven wi' the fame, Oor fathers won in years gone by, Sae let their memory never die While Scotland bears its name. JEin0trel. WANDERER of the minstrel train, With ancient garb and locks of grey, Stood 'mid the hushed and listening throng, Which paused as he began to play. His eyes did glisten as his hand Swept swiftly o'er the wonderous thing That poured the gushing sounds so sweet, Like angel voice it seemed to sing. 38 POEMS AND SONGS. Upon the busy street he stood, While rose the swelling music sweet In wildly thrilling magic strains Above the din of hurrying feet. Now Spring seemed in each warbled note, With greening groves and springing flowers, As bird-like forth the music streamed Like echoes from the woodland bowers. Then Summer's sultry skies seemed near, With lightning's flash and thunder's roll, While soft and airy zephyrs rose And winged around the raptured soul. And Autumn's hollow winds would sigh, And shower the fading forest leaves ; Anon the changing strain would seem The rustling grain in golden sheaves. Then wintry blasts with dreary moan, And silvery sledge-bells tinkling near In bursts of grandest music fell Upon the listening ravished ear. That wonderous power, immortal dower, Which gave the minstrel's hand its skill To thrill the heart and move the soul, Obedient to the wanderer's will Threw over all a magic spell Who heard those strains divinely sweet, In measured melody that rose, And stayed the busy passer's feet. The minstrel ceased, and with the throng He mingled as he moved away ; I look in vain for him again, With ancfent garb and locks of gray. LONDON. 39 I AIL, London ! " Babylon " of modern times, Let great St Paul's ring out its wonderous chimes In giant notes of mighty melody, Grand waves of music o'er a human sea, For lo ! a singer of these latter days Now lifts his voice amid thy mighty maze To sing thy glories and thy sombre gloom, Thou seat of revelry and living tomb. There's magic, London, in thy regal name ; ! City vast, thy glory and thy fame Have travelled far to Earth's remotest bound Where'er the pulse of human life is found. When Rome in ages that have passed away, O'er infant England held Imperial sway, The native huts that straggled o'er thy site Were they the shadows of thy coming might ? And could a Roman in his martial pride Have drawn time's veil inscrutable aside, And viewed the London of this later time A great Metropolis to every clime. Had he beheld the ceaseless human tide That flows and surges like an ocean wide, And heard the wheels of traffic's golden car Like thunder rolling ever near and far, His soul, amazed, had leapt with wonder's thrill As at the moving of a "magic spell," And all the visions of a Caesar's might Waned from his mind like stars 'fore morning light. See, great *St Stephen's first ai*rests the eye, Its towers majestic and its turrets high ; Their gilded spires shoot upward as to shade The grey old Abbey and its mighty dead. * Houses of Parliament. 40 POEMS AND SONGS. There sits the Parliament whose sovereign hand Gives law and equity to all the land, Whose voice 'mong nations is a sound revered, And by the enemies of freedom feared. This high assembly of the noblest worth Is Britain's pride, and famed throughout the earth ; The people's will is represented there, And liberty and right sit mated pair. In bygone days the Tories and the Whigs In antique garments and in powdered wigs, Awoke the echoes of those mighty halls With sturdy argument and party brawls. The noble leaders in the mental fray Have lived and died and passed from us away, But name and fame in history survive, And yet, though dead, those heroes are alive. The Pitts, the Foxes, and the Peels are gone, Those mighty orators that brilliant shone ; They fought for Britain, and their bloodless war Of all her victories the noblest are. But later times have brought us names renowned A witty Beaconsfield with honours crowned, A mighty Gladstone with a giant power Of noble intellect as Nature's dower, And honest Bright with flag of peace unfurled, He preaches freedom to the list'ning world, Free trade and liberty to every land, This is the motto of the Quaker grand. Such are the men whose eloquence has shed A fadeless lustre on Britannia's head, Whose lasting " footprints on the sands of time " Shall guide our nation to its goal sublime. But leave not Westminster till we have seen The grey old Abbey and its niches green, Those silent tombs ye Britons all revere, Our nation's mightiest and best are here. LONDON. 41 Her warrior sons, their victories all past, In this famed cemetery repose at last, 'Mid mourning pageants and Britannia's tears Fame laid them lowly on their honoured biers. Some fell in glory on our fields afar 'Mid charging squadrons and the clash of war, And on our decks some fell amid the fray When Britain's " tars " to triumph fought their way. At duty's post they bravely took their stand, And fell unflinching with the sword in hand ; Thus fell brave Nelson 'mid the battle's roar, He'll steer to fame our " wooden walls " no more. He rests not here, but tranquilly he lies By noble Wellington, the great and wise ; Beneath St Paul's revered and sacred shade Their honoured bones in brotherhood are laid. The roll of drums and tread of martial feet To " Iron " Wellington was music sweet, The glittering bayonets and the columns wide Imbued his bosom with a patriot pride. Shall Britain's greatness or her glory fade, Tho' those bright ones are numbered with the dead ? Do not their memories and deeds survive And stir their countrymen to nobly strive, And work as patriots in every field, Whate'er the weapon 'tis their lot to wield, With heart and will till victories are won, And honoured laurels lie their brows upon. From tombs of fame doth inspiration spring, That fires the patriot to war or sing, % Or raise his voice 'mid legislation's throng, To strengthen justice and to censure wrong. The years are pregnant with the germs of strife Such wars as meet us in our daily life, And shades of heroes from the past wave on Stout hearts to battle in life's Marathon. 42 POEMS AND SONGS. Advance the banners then of civil fray, Ye leaders valiant of the ranks to-day Fight strong and well each nobly as he can, To make a pathway for the world's van. In " Poet's Corner " of this hallowed glade The Muse's votaries of song are laid, Whose noble thoughts from heaven-inspired pen Flowed forth to teach and charm their fellow-men, Their's was the art to flash the flowing rhyme In golden numbers from their lyres sublime, To please the ear and educate the heart, And lofty sentiment to all impart. But other scenes, alas ! and other sounds, Are found, great Babylon, within thy bounds Where wealth and worth and nobleness all flower, There too doth misery and vice uptower. The hollow thrones of folly and of pride In fashion's halls rise gaily side by side, And thousands flutter in those gilded bowers, Where health and sustenance decay like flowers. Exalted Vice her gaudy chariot drives 'Mong wrecks deplorable of ruined lives That woo'd her once with fortune in their hand And drove her gaily through the brilliant Strand. At Drury Lane in boxes highest priced They viewed the drama and had vintage iced, While scented fans drove airy cyclones rare 'Mong eye-glassed beaux and powdered maidens fair. Or at the Lyceum of tragic fame Frequented nightly by the London creme, They ogled Irving as he strode the stage, The king of actors of the present age. Aglow with diamonds, rings, and jewels The lavish ornaments of monied fools, Gay pleasure's votaries they had their swing For a brief time ere shuffled from the ring ; For vicious folly had their purses reft LONDON. 43 Of all they'd gained, or luckily been left By some relation who, thro' virtuous life And ceaseless industry in business strife, Had lived in comfort and his needs supplied, Then willed the surplus to his friends, and died. Who that has wandered in the great West End, Where London grandees with their stiffness lend An air that's regal to the famous " Row," But well remembers of the costly show, When vanity and rank vied each with each Great fashion's lessons to the mob to teach, Parading milliners' and tailors' skill, But hiding carefully the unpaid bill. Of course they were not all of this degree, Some were real turtle in entirety ; And Wests and Langtrys as the reigning belles Swelled up the ranks of sounding titled " swells." The wealthy merchant in the City bred, Is now an alderman, and aims to wed His charming daughter to an Earl's son Who dangles after her for wicked fun. The brilliant ball-room and its waxy floor, With Amouretta how he trips it o'er, And many a squeeze in secret he has given, That made his lady love feel half in heaven. Ah ! mighty London could the world see Beneath thy guise of pleasant gaiety, Or know the springs of sorrow's bitter tears, That flow forever thro' the weary years. Could I lay bare the deep philosophy Of all the movings of that human sea ! This rare old world would stop in sheer auinze, Or break its axis in a startled craze. 44 POEMS AND SONGS. Jack 0' Deather- JfauU)0. famous market toon o' Turra, A risin', thrivin', thrifty burgh, Kent far an' near for pork an' leather An' cooncillors that fecht thegither, Ae nicht beheld a fearsome scene, The like o' which has never been ; But this the subject o' my tale To show in rhyme what here befell. For drunken Jock o' Heather- Faulds That day had sell't his twa-year-aulds, An' ower the sellin' o' the stots Had filled his pouches weel wi' notes. Noo Jock could ne'er conclude a bargain. Nae e'en for drainin' or for dargin' But owre it he wad hae a drappie To keep his wame an' wizzen sappie ; An' mair especially on a day That fortune blew the win' his way Did Jock delight to draw the cork, An' set the wheels o' fun to work. At cattle markets, trysts, an' roups His average was a dizen stoups, But when the win' was i' the east He aften took a score at least, To kill the cauld an' raise the heat, An' ease the corns upon his feet ; An' though he was a grippy chiol The drouthy birkies kent him weel, An' i' the Black Bull aften met Wi' him to hae a whisky spate. Sae on this nieht o' which I speak, Half hid wi' pipe an' toddy reek, Jock an' his cronies sat thegither, An' gleyed an' blinked at ane anither, While empty stoups an' glasses rang JOCK O 1 HEAXHER-FAULDS. Upon the board wi' mony a bang. A sma' affair when men are bousin' Is aft the theme o' muckle newsin', Sae on this nicht, frae drunken toasts The subject changed to deils an' ghosts, An' Jock, wha had the " Horseman Word," Declared fu' stoutly by the Lord That he had seen baith ghosts and deevil An' haill machinery o' evil. His cronies mutely sat wi' fear, Prepared some awfu' tale to hear, As he began, wi' solemn face, To gi'e partic'lars o' the case. Ae market nicht, 'twas gey an' late Weel on to twal at onyrate When canterin' hame frae Muir o' Ord, As sober as a judge or lord, He saw approachin' frae a' airts What seemed to him like strings o' cairts ; But what was maist infernal queer, Nae soun' o' wheels cam' to his ear. His frichtened mare began to swerve, Although a beast o' powerfu' nerve, An' like a tottum whirlin' roun' She heaved him clean upon his croon. A thousan' sparks flew in his sicht Like shootin' stars in wintry nicht, An' when he sprachled to his feet A fearsome sicht his orbs did meet. His guid auld mare, like flash o' licht, Was disappearin' fast frae sicht ; While roun' him, close on ilka han', A thousan' hearses took their stau', Wi' each upon't a grinnin' figure As black an' grim as ony nigger. Frae oot the hearses bodies crowded, In sheets o' linen wrapped an' shrouded, POEMS AND SON(JS. Wi' een like ghastly stars that burned, As in their sockets lean they turned ; While maiths an' worms an' giant fleas Upon them crawled as thick as bees. Jock's fear, my words are weak to paint it ; He roared aloud an' nearly faintet, Ait' syne he tried a prayer to soun' His mither learned him when a loon, But deil ae word did he noo mind o't Except the ane just at the end o't, Yet, better that, thocht Jock, than nane, As solemnly he gasped Amen ! Auld Nick himsel' at last appeared, An' through the corpses wild careered, Wi' mony a fiendish howl an' yell, Like echoes frae the vaults o' hell. He looked a weird an' monster brute 0' sooty hue frae head to foot, As hairy as a heilan' stot, Or shaggy bearded billygoat. He waved aloft a flamin' cowe 0' whin, that shed a flarin' lowe Amang the ranks he capered through At this grim midnicht hour review. Attendant devils here an' there As sentries travelled pair an' pair Around the silent host o' dead Thus mustered for the deil's parade. At signal frae their sable lord, The silent ranks with one accord Began to madly dance an' shout, An' throw the loathsome worms about. They grinned in ane anither's faces, An' tore an' tugged at ither's dresses, An' kicked an' sprauled an' boxed an' battled, Till banes an' joints like pea-cods rattled. Thus, roun' an' roun', they ran fu' nackie, JOCK O' HEATHER-FAULDS. 47 Like idle loons when playin' tackie, Syne fell on Jock, wi' fiendish glee, And dragged him through the wild melee. In vain he roared, his mou' they stappit, An' in a hearse his body clappit A hearse that smelt o' coflins mony, Then a' was owre wi' drucken Johnny. He kent nae mair, till on the morn, Wi' dubby claes an' breeks a' torn, He wakened, wi' an achin' croon, Just where auld Susie threw him doon. Amazed wi' fear, his cronies pale Had hearkened to the dismal tale ; Nae single word they dared to speak, An' ilka pipe had ceased to reek. Yet still they sat aroun' the board And glowered, but uttered not a word, Till Jock mistook their fear for doubt, An' roused them wi' an angry shout, An' struck the table wi' sic bang That jugs an' glasses reeled an' rang, As oot he bellowed wi' an aith It's fact, as sure's I draw my breath. Again the social pipe was lit, An' confidence began to sit Ance mair on ilka merry wight That late sat dumb wi' awesome fright, An' pleasure took her throne again Amid a circle a' her ain, Whase sangs an' jokes an' stories droll, Wi' humour pregnant, stormed the soul 0' ilka chiel, wi' rantin' roar, That shook the gravest to the core. But Father Time, the tireless loon, By day an' nicht keeps movin' roun' Nae power o' human art an' skeel Can over clog the rascal's wheel. 48 POEMS AND SONGS. Alike in hours o' woe an' mirth, At funeral, wedding, an' at birth, The human race may creep or hurry, But time they canna stay nor flurry. When noddin' owre the frien'ly bowl, The clay-encircled human soul Its earthly sark may throw aside An' reck a while for time nor tide ; But short an' fleetin' is the pleasure That springs frae Bacchus' brimming measure, Like glory's grandest, proudest flashes, A minute's blaze expires in ashes. But leavin' sarks an' souls an' glory As subjects for some ither story, We'll cast oor e'e again on Jock, Wha's noo as fou's a puddin' pock, " The malt was fairly owre the meal," An' wi' a rare domestic zeal, Just as the clock, wi 1 whirrin' clang, The fatal hour* to drinkers rang, He slittered up to mak' for hame, To soothe his irefu' waitin' dame. Experience taught him weel the lesson O' Maggie's wrathfu' curtain dressin', An' hoo ae nicht, when late he cam', As usual fuddled wi' a dram, His angry wife, wi' scold an' clatter, Had ducked him in a tub o' water, Till ilka limb did shake an' shiver, An' he had sworn to be for ever The chief o' decent sober men, An' ne'er bide drinkin' late again. This vow he made wi' hideous wail, As splashin' like an arctic whale He kicked the tub an' Maggie o'er, An' flooded a' the kitchen floor. * Eleven o'clock JOCK O' HEATHER-FAULDS. 49 Then cam' Mackenzie's closin' act, The cooncils o' the wife to back, An' gar't the public-hooses lock Their doors at sharp eleven o'clock. Nae langer owre the social drappie May bousers sit an' tipple happy, Till early streaks o' mornin' grey Bespeak anither mortal day. Oor ancient sires were canny men, An' aye full weel could baud their ain, The Kirk an' State they baith revered, An' hated folks that interfered. They liked 'mang flo'ers the rose sae white The emblem o' the Jacobite An' wi' it planted side by side The sturdy thrissle, Scotland's pride. But things hae altered in oor day, The relics auld are swept away, We're wiser in oor generation, Sae things hae got a reformation. But Jock at last has mounted Susie, Wha kens fu' weel when he is bousie, An' wadna start until he's siccar, Syne aff she canters wi' a niccar. By Hutcheon's shop an' doon the street, The trusty mare was trottin' fleet, But, as she neared the auld kirkyard, Jock reined her up fu' sharp an' hard. His phantom-teemin' brain that nicht Was workin' wonders wi' his sicht, For there he saw wi', awesome dread, The opening graves gie up their dead. Like owls or bats the ghostly people Were clusterin' roun' the auld kirk steeple, An' on the headstanes an' the dykes They swarmed as thick us bees in hykes. Oh ! climax o' a' earthly wunners, 50 POEMS AND SONGS. To see the dead rise up in huuners ! Jock's verra hair, like palin' posts, Stude up on en* to see the ghosts ! Wha's fiery een, wi' demon licht, Were glowerin' at him thro' the nicht ; An' when he heard a hollow hummin', An' thocht the haill brigade was comin', He dashed the spurs into his mare, An' closed his een in wild despair, And darted by the fatal spot Wi' whizzin' soun' like cannon shot. He skelpit through the " Howe o' Hell "* As if Auld Nick were at his tail Wi' a' the speerits oot o' grace Pell-mell ahin' him in the chase. Wi' hoofs resoundin' on the grun', Sae fast an' hard did Susie run, That doors an' windows fairly shook, Till frightened folks the soun' mistook For some impndin' danger near, An' groaned aloud wi' mortal fear ; But Jock, without a thocht or notion 0' makin' sic a dread commotion, Tore wildly on wi' reckless rattle, As fierce dragoon darts on to battle. Up Castlehill an' roun' the neuk He dashed as quick as e'e could look, His coat-tails oot ahint him streamin', An' in each pouch a bottle gleamin'. At ilka lash his startled mare Like rabbit jumpit i' the air Wi' frantic motions, wild an' free, As, like a craw, she tried to flee. Thus urged along poor Susie danced An' reared an' plunged an' madly pranced, * " Howe o' Hell," a well-known part in Turriff, nearby the Auld Kirk, which is now a ruin. JOCK O' HEATHEK-FAITLDS. 51 While in his seat Jock tossed and swayed Like thrissle tap or dockin blade. Great po'ers ! it was a wondrous sicht To see him grippin', main an' micht, Wi' baith his ban's, to mare an' saddle, Wi' motions like a " Coup the ladle," While at ilk caper, sway, an' swither The bottles clanged an' banged thegither. But fast an' faster noo they spin Like desert dust afore the win', Across the brig, owre Deveron's floods, Alang the road by Forglen's woods, An' up by Kirkton at the gallop, Wi' mony a savage crack an' wallop Upon puir Susie's reekin' hide, To urge her faster still to stride, For Jock, wha dared not look ahin', Thocht ilka sough o' tree an' win' Betokened that the ghostly crew Had him and Susie still in view. His heart wi' fear was loupin high As lonely woods he darted by, An' owls an' cushies screamed an' flappit. Till frae his mare he nearly drappit. Wi' fervent hopes o' preservation Frae ghosts an' a' his tribulation, Jock muttered aft this nicht again His only prayer Amen ! Amen ! An' vowed if only harne ance mair He ne'er wad bide at roup or fair, As he had done this nicht sae late, Till ghosts an' deils his road beset. Lang after this, wi' bated breath, Jock tauld, wi' mony a solemn aith, How on this nicht the Turra ghosts Pursued him hame in howling hosts. He galloped o'er the darksome miles, POEMS AND SONGS. An' hedges, ditches, dykes, an' stiles The supple Susie nimbly cleared, As Heather-Faulds at last they neared. Jock ne'er forgot his fleg that nicht His hair an' beard grew grey wi' fricht, An' when he ventures noo frae hame His loving Maggie, prudent dame, Can mark, wi' smile o' joyfu' woman, Her sober lord on Susie comin', Ere gloamin' fa', frae toon or burgh, For weel he minds his trot frae Turra. Dattitg Jfatr. (A BALLAD FOR THE TIMES.) sjli|jHEN first into this Fair I went, fl|jf2 All men alike I deemed, And took for granted that all things Were truly what they seemed.- But ere I far into this Fair My youthful way had ranged, Alas! by sad experience, My notions soon were changed. For what I took for solid gold I found was often brass, And when I thought I had a horse I oftener had an ass. I'd hail a seeming honest face, My way about to ask, VANITY FAIR. 53 But found ere I had spoken long Sir Honest wore a mask. 'Mong mingled doctrines here I found One Gospel take the van, 'Twas gather cash by every means, And gull your fellow-man. And to this end the stalls were set, All in a gaudy row, Piled high with many a glittering ware To help the hollow show. The venders, shouting loud and long, In trumpet-tones announced That what they sold was sold at cost All profits they renounced. If this were so, how could they live, And pay an honest pound ? The tale was no reality, But pure and simple sound. I saw the May-Fair* carriages Wheel by in gilded line, Their owners nigh invisible 'Neath glitter and 'neath shine ; On eyes that Nature gave them, They fastened bits of glass, And, monkey-like, they squinted When simpler folks would pass. At billiards and at bagatelle, The turf, the cards, and dice, Those glass-eyed gentry waste their time And money in a trice ; ' May-Fair, au aristocratic district of London. 54 POEMS AND SONGS. Or lounging at gay liquor-bars, Where foreign maids preside, They whisper love o'er brandy And virtuous tales confide ! In restaurants and cafes They guzzle, strut, and stare, And chew their silver-headed canes To show they have them there. No matter that some pious friends Have oft to pay some bill To save their youthful progeny From Newgate's grimy jail. Those youthful birds, ere feathered full, Their flights must still increase, And so they quacking join the throng Of older, wilder geese, Composed, of course, of gentlemen, Gay military swells, Ignoble lords, and shoddy dukes, And well-rung city belles. A Frenchman when in Paris Can gaily play the fool, But go to mighty London And study " Johnnie Bull." E'en "Sandy," though he's credited With common sense the best, There joins, to play the frivolous, And crack a wicked jest. Our covenanting ancestors Would scowl with heavy frowns VANITY FAIR. Were they to see the antics now That grace our modern towns. The thunders of a second Knox Might have more weight than rhymes To controvert the evils and Abuses of the times. That powerful goddess, Fashion, rules The destinies of man, And in this Fair of Vanity All worship her who can. Poor Israel in the wilderness To golden calf did bow, But modern Britain pitiful Bends to a golden cow. Our beaux and belles from novelettes Derive their mental food Bright butterflies of literature That teach a world of good. Alas ! for deep Philosophy, Entomed it hidden lies ; And Poetry, all oesthetical, Is valued by its sighs ! The Bible, good and ancient book, Is counted as a bore, Because it mentions not the cut Of trousers Adam wore ; Nor does it tell the length of robe. The style and colour chaste, That decked our simple mother Eve When first her form was dressed. 66 POEMS AND SONGS. Great banks and speculations big On credit rise and fall, And throw the golden millions round As boys would a ball. No matter though the cash be lost, There's more where it came from, 'Twill only mean to managers Some months in a new home.* Released from jail, they're back again At speculation's game, And should they win instead of lose It brings them wealth and fame. The world applauds the clever rogue That swindles millions rife, But hoots the poor and hungry wretch Who steals to save his life. Here in this Fair are merry maids Well versed in folly's rules, To buy whose charms some princes gay Ere now have pawned their jewels. Bewitched by wine and harlots fair A certain royal clown, Once chief of many an amour, Nigh pawned the British Crown, And left some handsome legacies For poorer folks to pay, Which oathless Charlie Bradlaugh Would fairly sweep away. Oh! that "Perpetual Pension " list Deserves our due regard ; * Perth Prison, for example. VANITY FAIR. 57 It tells how ancient virtue was, As now, " its own reward." E'en Solomon, that king of kings For wisdom and for lore, When in this Fair of Yanity, Had darlings by the score. Full many a pair of pouting lips Were waiting at his call, And truth to tell I pity him Ere he had kissed them all ! But thus it is the world goes on, And still the hollow show Attracts the crowd, as candle doth The moth by brilliant glow. The holy monk, in convent cell, Prays for the world's good, But is he a true champion, And acting as he should ? Why wastes he thus the precious hours Apart from this great Fair, His sphere for real and honest good Is 'mong the millions there. To battle with the tide of time One needs must stem the stream, Instead of resting on its banks Among the flowers to dream. All hollow sham and mockery, All shoddy show and gloss Is but a weak philosophy At best a heap of dross. 68 POEMS AND SONGS. Put down the cant, the show, and sham, My honest friends eachwhere, And spurn away the gilded dross, The hollow empty glare, Till honest action lifts its head And proves the morning star To usher in that glorious day That shows things as they are. Then may the simple and the wise Preambulate life's fair With honest hearts 'mong honest men That deal in honest ware. Jeante. A BALLAD OF SAUCHIEBTTRN. olden times, when mailed knights Wi' sword gied Scotland law, There dwelt a winsome ladye fair At Elden-Thristle Ha', Young Jamie was a border knight An' mony a fray had seen, And dearly lo'ed wi' a' his heart Brave Elden-Thristle's Jean, An' bricht an' bonnie 'tween the twa The love-rose red grew fair, Till Sauchieburn's fatal field Brocht dool an' woe fu' sair. Young Jamie had to leave his love An' sairly did she mourn, But little thocht he'd ne'er come back Frae fatal Sauchieburn. JEANIE. 59 The nicht before the bluidy fray, Doon i' the birken lair She got her Jamie's partin' kiss, An' a love lock o' his hair. Jeanie greet na thus for me, My battle graith is good, 1 dinna dree the comin' fecht For mony a ane I've stood. Thus Jamie spak to comfort her As to his neck clung she, An' greetin' cried "0, Jamie dear, I fear me sair for thee." But quickly frae her arms he gaed An' left the birken lair, An' gaily shone his siller spurs All in the moonlicht fair. Hame to her bower did Jeanie gang, An' laid her on her bed, Wi' Jamie's lock o' bonnie hair Beneath her dowie head. An' lyin' there she dreamed she saw The spurs her Jamie wore, But rusted was their siller sheen An' dabbled o'er wi' gore, She heard the shouts o' warlike men In battle's grim array, An' saw her lover's sable steed Rush reinless 'mid the fray. The mornin' sun rose bricht an' fair That shone on Sauchieburn, But saw, ere settiu', mony a wife An' mony a maiden mourn, v Eicht valiant did the loyal knights For Scotland's fated King 60 POEMS AND SONGS. That day against the rebel host Their fiery chargers fling, Fu' oft against the fatal spears That knightly tide came on, An' foremost o' the chargin' host Young Jamie's armour shone. Eicht downward on the towering spears Again brave Jamie bore, But ere the shock the siller spurs Were dabbled o'er wi' gore. A cloth yard arrow swift an' keen, Sped by an archer true, Struck down young Jamie in its flight An' pierced his body through. Thus died as brave a knight as e'er Did death or danger spurn, A sample of the gallant Scots That fell at Sauchieburn. Noo reinless rushed the sable steed Across the gory plain, While Jamie in his armour bricht Lay stretched amang the slain. When gloamin' fell fair Jeanie hied Down to the birken lair, But ! her heart was sair distressed, For Jamie wasna there. Yestreen he promised ere he gaed To meet me here again, An' blythely prove that a' my fears For him had been in vain. sair I fear yon vision's true Last nicht I saw sae grim, My love will never come to me But I will gang to him. An' wailin' thus wi' bitter inoan BANNOCKBURN. 61 Fair Jeanie's footsteps turn In sorrow frae the birken lair To bloody Sauchieburn. An' by the pale moonlicht that shone Upon the silent dead, She found her Jamie's manly form Stretched on its gory bed. Neist morn the warders stout an' stern 0' Elden Thristle Ha' There found on Sauchieburn field The faithful lovers twa ; An' stark in death by Jamie's side Young Jeanie lay fu' fair, An' baith lie buried in one grave Down by the birken lair. JJattnockbtirtt, S|i|UNE'S sun upon that summer morn Hfll Eose o'er our Northern land, And saw the haughty Southron hosts In battle order stand. Their swords in thousands flashing bright, In -serried ranks their spears, Might well have filled yon patriot band With anxious doubts and fears. But He who nerves the patriot's heart And gives his arm the power To smite oppression's armies down Was with them in that hour. The men of Scotland knelt to pray, The Lord of Hosts did hear ; 62 POEMS AND SONGS. The scoffing Saxons mock the sight, But in their hearts is fear. Yet on they come with martial tread And banners streaming fair, While loud their battle shouts resound And fill the troubled air. The king of Scotland marks that wave Of tyranny advance, While proudly o'er it as it rolls Gay plumes and pennons dance. And turning to his trusty band That stand in firm array, Cries " Men of Scotland, freedom lives Or dies with us this day." An answering shout to heaven arose, All Albyn's hills resound ; The Southron legions quail with dread Before that awful sound. As forests sway before the blasts That o'er the mountains wheel, So 'fore the hardy Scottish host Their dense battalions reel. The Caledonians fiercely ply The battle-axe and spear, And through the Saxon helmets fast The flashing claymores shear. With gallant Bandolph at their head The horsemen as of yore Charged through the Southron bowmen bold And smote them to the core. As lies the corn on harvest fields Behind the reapers' blade, Or forest leaves when Autumn's past, So lay the English dead. BANNOCKBtTRN. 63 Their plumes and banners, rent and torn, Lay mingled with the slain, While far and wide the fatal field Was drenched with crimson rain. The morning sun beheld the might Of England's pomp and pride, Her gleaming columns stretching far Like silver-crested tide ; The setting sun his parting beams Threw o'er a bloody field, Strewn with the reeking carnage red, The broken spear and shield. And flying fast the vanquished hosts All broken and dismayed, So late that stood in martial pride For battle fierce arrayed. Now on that field stands mighty Bruce, And round him Scotland's brave, While 'mid them o'er the streaming turf The Lion flag doth wave, Its folds are dyed of crimson hue In England's dearest tide, For round it fell 'neath patriot arms The flower of England's pride. That glorious boon our fathers won On Bannockburn's plain, ! blessed freedom we their sons For ever shall maintain, And to our children leave the gift Of freedom and our fame All unimpaired, and trust that they May keep old Scotland's name. 64 POEMS AND SONGS. Charge of the |Cight $5rigabe. bugles sin-illy wound advance ! In air six hundred sabres glance, And fierce six hundred chargers prance- They smell the fray afar. Their nostrils quiver in their pride, For heroes in their saddles ride Whose fame shall ring the world wide While memory endures. Like flash of light to join the fight They swiftly pass before the sight, Unbroken in their pride and might, As waves of ocean roll. Both France and Britain's deep amaze Is on their faces as they gaze All powerless now to stop the pace To death that bears them on. Around them, as they onward dash, On every side grim cannons flash, And rend the air at every crash With death in leaden showers. Each warrior's heart with ardour glows, As fast the ghastly gaps they close, But faster still the bullet mows That gallant squadron down, But now they're on the hated foe, Now falls the long suspended blow, And swift as arow from a bow They pierce the Russian line. Down go the foe on every side, And Britain's steel, all crimson dyed, Reeks with the dripping gory tide As Moscow's columns reel. THE HUNTLY SOLDIER. 65 Then back their desperate way they hew In close array, like Britons true, And loud they cheer the gallant few Who' re left of all the band. Ho ! live for aye in song ye brave, And flowers immortal deck your grave, And brightest 'mong our laurels wave The wreath that tells your fame. SOLDIER of the Ninety-third, his tartans dyed with gore, Lay 'mong his wounded comrades amid the battle's roar, While overhead the Indian sun a fiery globe did blaze, And water ! water ! was the cry each parched throat did raise. The pibroch of the Highlanders was sounding fierce and free,' And far arnid the ranks of war their bayonets he could see, As on they swept to victory, then heaved his breast with pride, For men were there from Huutly upon sweet Deveron- side. And leaning on his knapsack, then he felt with bitter pain That he might die, and never see his home and friends again ; Oh ! could he but his parents see and one sweet maiden fair, 66 POEMS AND SONGS. He would die at peace, contented a soldier's grave to share. The tide of life was ebbing fast, and there upon the sand He lay, while through the haze of death he saw his native land ; Uprose his fevered fancy, and o'er the ocean wide It bore him back to Huntly upon sweet Deveronside. He thought 'twas evening, and he heard his aged parents pray To God to watch their darling son 'mid dangers far away, And bring him safe to them again unhurt as on that morn He left them, soldier-hearted, and laughed their fears to scorn. And one sweet maiden fair he saw, and clasped her in his arms, And drank again the blissful tide of Love's endearing charms, And saw her smile as when he said, " I'll make you my dear bride When I come back to Huntly upon sweet Deveron- side." But never more did he return, for ere the close of day His lifeless body 'mid the ranks of dead and wounded lay; His face was turned to Scotland, and each bleeding comrade near Was thinking of that distant land to all their hearts so dear. By morning light the Ninety-third had dug their soldiers' grave, And in one deep and yawning trench they laid their kilted brave ; BUKNS* ANNIVERSARY. 67 And 'mong the martial sleepers there in foreign grave so wide, Lies one that came from Huntly upon sweet Deveron- side. Burns' JUtriibcr0ar|). JAN. 25TH, 1882. hundred years and twenty three Expire upon this morn, Since he the soul of poetry To deathless fame was born, As meteor gleams athwart the night He burst on men with glorious light A spirit half divine. Undying bard, the rolling years Add lustre to thy name, And each succeeding race reveres Thy genius and thy fame. While history and tradition breathe, ! fadeless green shall be the wreath Of Scotland's Robert Burns. The grandest measures of his lyre For love and freedom rise, And wake in every breast the fire That inward smouldering lies. My glowing soul control doth spurn, And leaps to read his " Bannockburn," Great ode of liberty. That spirit-thrilling martial lay Paints Scotland's darkest hour, 68 POEMS AND SONGS. When tyrant's chains nigh barred her way To freedom's glorious power; But mark, the hardy patriot band That followed Wallace take their stand To conquer or to die. I see their fiercely flashing blades Glint in the sunlight fair, I see their waving ancient plaids And broad blue bonnets there, And heavenward swelling clear and high I hear their one united cry Of liberty or death ! In Scotia's lowly homes at night, When glows the hearth-fire warm, The toil-worn peasant's heart grows light Touched by our poet's charm, And bounds anew with relish rare Of "Tarn o' Shanter " and his scare That wo'ful market night. The "cottar" home imbues his mind With reverence and awe ; Its noble lesson helps to bind Him closer to that law, Which makes a people truly great And ornaments a home or State Far more than regal show. The art to paint the flowers of earth Immortal bard was thine ; The tear of woe and smile of mirth Attend thy varying line. And humble virtue's fairest white S.eems shimmered with a purer light O'er-haloed by thy song. BURNS' ANNIVERSARY. 69 No palace echoed to thy tread, But genius on thy brow Did coronet the noble head That but to God did bow. Arid evening winds by banks of Ayr Oft bore aloft the whispered prayer That breathed of love to all. Our youths and maidens fondly pore Rapt o'er thy page with sighs, And feels the thrill that moves the core When first affections rise ; And in their hearts for ever green Shall live each tender witching scene Thy magic songs reveal. In every clime beneath the sun Their strains are known and sung, And human hearts been touched and won Where'er their notes have rung, They: cheer the soldier at his post, And soothe the sailor tempest toss't Far on the bounding wave. The rustic daisy's simple bloom Seems fresher to us now, And brighter seems the yellow broom On every hill and knowe, And clearer flow our streams along, Because the ' ploughman poet's" song Reflects their beauties all. One hundred years and twenty three Expire upon this morn, And yet his soul of poetry Seems only newly born. 70 POEMS AND SONGS. As meteor gleams athwart the night He burst on men with glorious light, But with no transient glow. When Scotia's thistle dies and droops Upon its native soil, Or when an honest Scotsman stoops To shrink from honest toil, Then shall the soul of Burns flee And chains instead of liberty Be our ignoble doom. the smiddy last nicht, awa' doon by the craig, I gaed to get fasten't a shoe on my naig, An' to hear a' the uncos an' stories sae rare, For the maist o' the news o' the country is there. There's Brookie, the smith, wi' his snuff-mull in han', Relatin' for troth he's a wonderfu' man Some weel-foundit facts o' his ain observation That lately he's studiet on " Man's Derivation," Forby his relations to hell an' the deevil, An' proneness to imitate everything evil ; Hoo Popery's increasing and warlike intentions Pervade a' thae meetin's ca'd peacefu' conventions. Then lang Tarn, the darger, he's famed far an' near For wonderfu' tales (he's a wonderfu' leer), Tak's his pipe frae his cheek and begins an oration 'Bout poachin' adventures wad beat the creation. Ae nicht by the craigie he set a few snares, Intendin' some big game to catch unawares, An' when it got win' that Tarn took a big boar The country side roun' was set a' in a roar. It chanced that a grumphie o' masculine gender, THE SMIDDY. 71 When howkin' for herbs baith tastie au' tender, Had wandert frae hame awa' doon by the craigie, An' ane o' Tarn's traps had closed on its leggie. But Tarn stoutly swore he had ta'en a wild boar, An' tell't the same story to folks o'er an' o'er ; An' his look to the story sic terrors did len', That each hair on oor heads stude strach upon en'. An' then there was Geordie, the farmer o' Horn, Sae skilled in the value o' cattle an' corn ; He commentit at len'th on the shorthorn breed, An' the way in partic'lar sic cattle to feed. He spak' o' the oilcakes an' meals to be had, And said that sic trash was weel ken't to be bad ; He never had used them sin' he had a farm, An' nae stock in the country sae free was o' harm. They sat thus an' spak' thus aroun' the big fire, An' o' stories an' sangs they seemed never to tire, Or read frae the Journal the news o' the week, Nae further for knowledge did thae worthies seek. An' yet o' maist subjects they something aye ken, An' mair o' their" business than mony a ane Wha struts empty-headed in grandeur sae gay, An' thinks he is made o' a far finer clay. Though humble their sphere they are noble in heart, An' play in the, drama o' life a true part; Still happy wi' health in contentment they live, An' though scanty their store they aye cheerfully give. Ijeighta of JUma. on the Alma's frowning heights the crested eagles shine Above the dark and serried hosts of Russia's battle line, 72 POEMS AND SONGS. Where deadly cannon yawning wait, and bayonets fiercely gloam To mow the brave and gallant ranks that dare to cross the stream. Ho ! lift our British banners now, unroll each noble fold And let the fields where they have waved in glory be retold, 'Twill rouse our martial British hearts, for ere this day be done Those rugged heights, and swelling slopes, and batteries must be won. Our bayonets bright ere fall of night shall drip with Russian gore, And tame their crested eagle's pride and still their cannon's roar, So mind the days when brave Sir Ralph 'neath Egypt's burning sun, To combat led the British hosts and glorious victories won; Come tell our gallant soldiers young the hundred fields of Spain, O'er which their colours proudly waved 'mid war's destructive rain ; Tell them again those fields of death o'er which their flags were borne Till every fold by hissing shot, to shreds was rent and torn. Hark ! now the thunderous cannons loud are flashing fire and lead To stay the passage of the brave that Alma's torrents wade, Its glassy bosom, once so smooth, is foamy now and white As thousands wildly breast its tide with eager man- hood's might ; THE HEIGHTS OF ALMA. 73 And rending shot its waters plough with many a deadly splash, And bursting shells fly overhead with loud resonant crash ; But forward press our gallant men with hearts as true and bold As those that won our laurel wreaths on bloody fields of old. I hear above the combat dread Old England's mighty cheer Triumphantly ring o'er the ranks from noble front to rear, And fierce and wild far up the heights brave Scot- land's war pipes shrill Her kilted sons to victory lead upon that desperate hill. And mingling with the English cheer and Scotland's battle cry, True Irish hearts send up the shout " Old Erin do or die." And side by side, 'mid fire and blood, as on our fields of yore, They tamed the Eussian eagle's pride and stilled their cannon's roar ; They stemm'dthe rolling Alma's tide, and so on their bayonets bright In victory flashed along the crest of all the death swept height, And Britain's grand old battle flag, that many a field has braved, O'er Alma's bloody heights at last in triumph proudly waved. 74 POEMS AND SONGS. 5KJ^HE pibroch that through Holyrood, in days of !H| "Auld Lang Syne," Once poured its strains to courtly dance of lords and ladies fine, Resounds no more thro ugh Holyrood, departed is the day Its martial music filled those halls of Scottish pomp so gay. Departed are the ancient times of Scotland's sceptred might, No longer Kings of Scotland lead their vassals to the fight; No longer do the plaided clans from Highland glens afar Pour down in streams of Celtic fire, to join the ranks of war. Where is our ancient glory now where is our ancient fame ? Our sires, if they uprose, would seek again their graves in shame, To think the laurels that they won on many a hard- fought field Are now transferred by us, their sons, to blazon Eng- land's shield. Let them that think 'tis better so, think tamely on, say I, But where's the patriot can behold Dunedin's Castle* high, And look upon the jewelled crown that circled Bruce's head, *Dvmedin The ancient name for Edinburgh. HOLYEOOD. 75 And heave no sigh for days of yore, and Scottish glory fled. Brave Scottish hearts in distant lands prove still that Scotland's name Can never die, nor her renown dishonour know or shame ; Where'er our now united flags in danger are un- furled, A Scot can still prove Scotland's might o'er all the vaunted world. But never let a Scot pass by Dunedin's Castle bold, And gaze upon that sacred rim of ancient Scottish gold The mighty sword and sceptre, too, there in repose that lie, And heave not for old Scotland's sake a patriotic sigh. For now no more in Holyrood, 'mong lords and ladies fine, The pibroch's note is heard, as in the days of " Auld Lang Syne ;" Those noble halls in days of yore with regal pomp that shone, Deserted are and silent now with all their glory gone. 's (Eberttng. T^IS six by the clock, an' the sun in the west l|| Tells ploughmen it's time for unyokin' an' rest, To hie to their supper, though humble the board, The food that made Scotland aye on it is stored. 76 POEMS AND BONGS. The brose an' the porridge there's naething can beat They're halesome, they're hardy, they're tastie an' sweet ; They were food to our fathers, to Wallace an' Bruce, The heroes wha conquered the English sae crouse. Sae stick to the porridge, the brose, an' the kail, An' for men o' guid muscle we never will fail ; Still " Scotland for ever," oor war cry an' cheer, Will frighten a' foemen wha venture us near. The supper noo finished, the fire they sit roon To hear frae the foreman the news o' the toon, Where he'd been wi' his horses disposin' o' corn, An' tastin' forby they could see o' the horn. He spak' at sic random, the spittle it flew 'Tween the whiffs o's pipe in a stream frae's moo' ; An' swore at some engine he'd met on the road, For's horses nigh bolted an' coupet their load. Noo just at this crisis, frae some neebor farm Some laddies drap in, an' ye'll think it nae harm, To kittle the lasses an' hear a bit sang, The evenings when lanesome are eerie an' lang. Or maybe some callant the fiddle can trim, Inspirin' wi' music a shak' o' a lim' ; Sae on to the floor in a jiffey they bounce, An' wildly in " foursomes " they caper an' flounce. At toeing Strathspeys, or at dancin' the "fling," The ploughman's the lad that a' ithers can ding ; An' as for the lasses, sae blithesome an' braw, A' your high born dames to them's naething ava. ! weel may auld Scotland be prood o' her queans Sae strappin' an' bonnie when they're in their teens .' THE SCOT ABROAT). 77 An' to match wi' her lads the world has but few Napoleon confess' d this at red Waterloo. The lads wi' the tartan did never yet cower When placed in the thick o' the fierce leaden shower ; An' the " Greys," when they charge in gallant array, Decide in a twinklin' the fate o' the day. The maist o' these chiels did the horses ance ca' Till the blast o' the bugle beguiled them awa' ; An' at times in the markets you'll see them again Eecruitin' sae dandy wi' gloves an' a cane. Or owre a bit gill in the " Black Bull " maybe Wi' cronies o' yore they'll be a' in their glee, Recallr auld stories an' pranks to the min' 0' their ploughboy life in the days o' "lang syne.'' gcot |OW strange 'mid a' the care an' strife, An' varying ups an' doons o' life, Nae matter where you chance to roam, You'll find a Scot has made his home. He suits the mountain or the plains, Alike the scorching heats an' rains ; Though foreign climes hae bronzed his skin, His heart remains unchanged within. He deigns to ape nae foreign styles, Or learn their trickster foreign wiles, But plays an honest Scotchman's part, Wi' skilfu' han' an' manly heart. He gets respect where'er he goes, Frae Scotland's frien's or Scotland's foes, 78 POEMS AND SONGS. An' where the weak's oppress'd by micht He'll use his power to set them richt. Just like his nation's emblem grand The thistle o' his native land Wha him assails wi' blustering brag Will get indeed a wofu' jag. But brither Scots, just see them meet, An' a' adjourn their throats to weet Got ower the days o' " Auld Lang Syne," I trow it is a sicht divine. There roarin' mirth aye croons the board, An' Scotland yet's " the drinking word ; An' pledged it is wi' three times three, In reamin' stoups o' " barley bree.'' Ye foreign loons ye well may stare, If you should chance to see them there, Their rugged features smoothed away Ower tales o' home an' youth's bright day. The waving woods o' shaggy broon, An' mountain torrents foamin' doon, They see in memory's e'e sae clear, Through mony a lang an' weary year, The gowden whins an' gowany lea, The yellow corn an' reapers free ; A' these come back wi' tenfold power To croon wi' joy this social hour. Their cherished hope's to cross the main, To dear auld Scotia back again, An' spend amid their native braes Wi' dearest Men's their closing days. EVICTION. 79 (Etoictixm. A Protest against the Depopulation of the Highlands, and the Substitution of Deer Forests for Human Dwellings. SHY should honest men be hunted From the land that gave them birth, Making room for game to nourish In their place upon the earth ? Why should aged sires and mothers, With their children at their knee, Thus be driven forth as felons From a land that's boasted free ? All to foster proud ambition Are those lowly sons of toil Driven from their lowly dwellings Tyranny usurps the soil. Surely God who made the peasant Meant him not to houseless roam, Nor empower'd a lordly mortal Thus to waste his lowly home. Famed were Britain's peasant soldiers In the past and noble days, When her ranks were filled with thousands Fresh from Scotia's heathy braes. By the hearths where grew those heroes Now the red deer grazes free, But the men are gone for ever, And their race no more we'll see. Britain, in the hour of danger, Where will be thy peasant shield ? Where the arms that drove thy bayonets, Hearts that knew not how to yield ? 80 POEMS AND SONGS. In that hour when help is needed Will the lordlings of the land, With their game preserves and forests, Prove a strong defensive band ? Spain hath seen proud Gallic armies Tremble at the ringing cheer Of our gallant Highland soldiers ; Will they tremble at our deer ? Lords there are who earn the title By their dignity and worth ; Men who gain their meed of honour For themselves and not their birth. Men who bravely aid and labour, Striving for the common good, And who scorn in heart to mingle With the lazy gilded brood. Patriots they of manly virtue, Nature's nobles to the core ; May our country, to its credit, Nurse and cherish many more. Let us fill the glens and forests Once again with sturdy men ; Better sight than sportinen's rifles Are the mowers 'mong the grain. Bring us back those men, they're wanted In this nineteenth century time ; Men of mind and men of muscle, Fit to live in any clime. Men who feel and know they're equal To the sterner tasks of life ; Ever ready, brave, and willing For the ceaseless human strife. EVICTION 81 Men of bold and dauntless bearing, And who care not for the frown Of an irate, brainless lordling, Angry 'cause his day has flown. Yes, the day is past forever, When at scowl of titled fools Honest poverty shall tremble Ours is lore of later schools . Honour men not for their station, Nor their silver, nor their gold ; Honest worth in manly bosoms Is not bartered, bought, or sold. Gift it is from mighty Donor, Maker of both high and low ; Rank and title are but bubbles, Rising as life's waters flow. Strain not after airy visions That may float around thee gay ; Eager chase they, but evade it, Or in grasping fade away. Study how to help a brother, How to cheer a fellow-man ; Aim at good that's universal, Help to make all peoples one. Yours may then be honours brighter Than are won by shield and sword ; Yours a name of fame forever, Living, lasting, and adored. 82 POEMS AND SONGS. *$ortet Jair. term time wi' merry May Has come again ance mair, An' a' the lads an' lasses gay Are gauii to Porter Fair. Frae a' the roads they're troopin' in, In jovial crowds sae rare ; The country lad is far ahin' That's nae at Porter Fair. The ploughman loon, sae brisk an' braw, This day is free o' care ; He'll see his merry cron : es a' Again at Porter Fair. It's nae sae aft he has a day, An' ready cash to spare ; Nae wonder that his spirit's gay Wi' thochts o' Porter Fair. The sweetie stan's alang the streets Display their temptin' ware ; An' mony ither grander treats Are seen at Porter Fair. The country laddies hug an' kiss Their sonzie lasses there, An' ither things that are amiss They dae at Porter Fair. In crowded inns, the " bailey bree " Gies wings to a' his care The ploughman's fairly on the spree This day at Porter Fair. * Turriff feeing market. PORTER FAIR. 83 Blin' fiddlers scrape wi' a' their micht The cat-gut an' the hair, To dancers reelin' wrang an' richt, In crowds at Porter Fair. An' warblers o' the tinker train, Wi' lungs o' vigour rare, Sing deeds of old in warlike strain To stir up Porter Fair. They hoarsely shout o' mony a field 0' battle teuch an' sair, Where Scotland's foes aye backward reel'd, Though thick as Porter Fair. The feein' too gaes briskly on Wi' burly farmers there ; They ken he's aye a decent loon They fee at Porter Fair. They ken he'll ploo' a bonnie rig, An' o' their horse tak' care ; An' sae they fee him, clean an' trig, That day at Porter Fair. The day noo ower, they hameward plod The lads an' lasses fair, An' troth it is a merry road That leads frae Porter Fair. The lads half fou the lasses lo'e, An' for them ocht wad dare, Aye vowin' true, wi' mou' to mou', The iiicht o' Porter Fair. Nor will they part, they are sae fain, Ilk ardent loviug ptiir, Till dawn proclaims the day again That follows Porter Fair. 84 POEMS AND SONGS. Jeter o' JtetbithiU. |PON the merry harvest field Nae man the scythe could better wield Than Peter o' Berbithill. His sweepin' stroke could clear the rig, An' keep a'body at a jig That followed him wi' will. The hairsters that came in his wake, Doon to the laddie at the rake, Aye laggit far ahin'. They did their best ilk lass an' man, An' wi' the sheaves the stookers ran Till a' were oot o' win'. But a' in vain, still far afore The glancin' scythe o' Peter tore, An' urged them to come on, Till wet wi' sweat was ilka sark, An' a' declared 'twas killin' wark Wi' mony a pech an' groan. May Peter flourish on the braes, An' peace an' plenty croon his days, An' bairnies roond him spring To solace him in after years When wearin' doon this vale o' tears, As maun a' livin' thing. An' when he's auld he'll surely min' On corn rigs o' Auld Langsyne, When he could beat them a' ; Ae day wi' him upon the field Made boastin' chaps the palm to yield, An' stop their brag an' blaw. JOHNNY PIRRIE. 85 But scythin' days are nearly run, Wi' a' the store o' mirth an' fun That eased their labour sair ; Noo great machines cut doon the corn, An' scythes are cast aside wi' scorn To rust in disrepair. Jfuhmtg $trrie. SE jolly farmers o' the North, Around your ingles cheery, Come back me up to sing the worth Of honest Johnny Pirrie. Nae man there is, baith far and near, Through Banffshire braid and bonnie, But what wid gie a rousin' cheer And hip hurrah ! for Johnny. Ilk farmer billie kens him weel, Sae cantie aye an' merry ; An' when a beast's in need o' skeel They rin for Johnny Pirrie. When horse an' kye are like to dee Wi' troubles sair an' mony ; Like win' their owners ye will see Aye tak' the road for Johnny. A stirk may choke upon a neep, Or stick a coo in calvin', An' a' the fouk be i' the greip About the beastie tauvin'. 86 POEMS AND SONGS. But Boon the stot will redd its throat, An' lowe baith hale an' bonnie ; But faith it wasna worth a groat Without the aid o' Johnny. An' soon the coo a calf will hae, As plump as ouy cherry, That wad hae been as dead's a strae But for auld Johnny Pirrie. A deein' horse rou'd roon' wi' rugs, If ye but summon Johnny, Will li y e to kick and cock its lugs, And niccar yet wi' ony. By day an' nicht, in dark or licht, At hour an' minute ony, Whate'er is wrang will be set richt, Gin ye but sen' for Johnny. A heart made o' the sterling stuff True grit frae Nature's quarry A helpin' han' an' muscle tough, Belong to Johnny Pirrie. His han' ne'er took a hirelin's fee His skill is free to ony ; Sae wish ilk honest man wi' me Lang life an' health to Johnny. $)tbr0ch. IUE Scottish hearts with pride it thrills, That wild war music of the hills, From pibroch of the brave. THE PIBROCH. 87 In martial measures loud and free Its stirring song of liberty Might nerve the meanest slave. The Scottish blood in all our veins Fast courses as its magic strains Each heart with ardour fires ; For in that rousing, ringing strain Each patriot hears the voice again That led his gallant sires. Thou'rt worthy of our meed of praise, And honour to the latest days, Thou pipe of deathless fame ; And at thy sound may hearts aye bound, And noble Scottish men be found, To venerate thy name. Oppression's chains can never bind The hardy race of valiant mind That owns the pibroch grand Whose courage-breathing martial strain, Has led on many a bloody plain Auld Scotia's warrior band. How proudly 'mong our hills and dells Triumphantly its music swells, And rings the glens along ! E'en mountain eagles, soaring high, Swoop downward from their native sky, To catch the fearless song ; And echo sends the chorus forth Upon the wild winds of the north, Till every royal Ben* Re-echoes back in measures free That brave old song of liberty And pride of Scottish men. *Our mountain Bens. POEMS AND SONGS. JEuckle j|T kirk an' fair a bonnet braid You'll see on Muckle Geordie's head ; In auld Kilmarnock it was made The year o' Waterloo, An' has a monster tap o' red, This famous bonnet blue. Within its ample folds sae tough* His pipe, tobacco, an' his snuff, Wi' lots o' ither orra stuff, Are hidden frae the view, * The bonnet hauds a bushel rough/ 0' taties when its fou'. The braidest bonnets e'er I saw Compared wi' Q-eordie's were but sma' ; For rain, an' hail, an' sleet, an' naw Micht fa' in torrents roun', His bonnet big defies them a' To wet his honest croon. An' Geordie, like the maist o' men, Has ae great hobby o' his ain, An' kickin' horse an' mules to train Is his especial game, An' then to sell them aff again Whene'er he has them tame. Through trysts an' markets wi' a stride, Goliath-like, sae slow an' wide, He ranges, wi' a conscious pride,- In quest o' vicious fore ; An' when a savage beast is spied He buys it then an' there ; An' loupin' on the beastie's hack, He gies its hide a rousin' whack That echoes like a pistol crack THE DYING FIREMAN. Among the thievin' craws, For Geordie has a wondrous knack O' lay in' on the tawse. Then wi' a loud triumphant shout He wheels the naig to right about, An" gallopin' through folk an' nowte, He tak's the road for hame, Wi' twa'r- three jugs o' liquor stout A-splashin' in his wame. 0' canny Scots, sic samples noo, Alas ! are growin' unco few ; The risin' race, wi' notions new, Hae changed the time o' day, An' Geordie's class, wi' bonnets blue, Are wearin' fast away. Jfireman. 'Y dearest frien's, around my bed I see you waefu' stand, An' watch wi' burstin' hearts the grains o' life's fast-runnin' sand ; I canna live, though fain I would, I see my settin' sun Sink 'yond the western hills o' life ere half my day be done ; It grieves me sair, I canna thole to see your hearts sae wrung, The twilight gathers roun' me noo ; it's hard to dee sae young. Farewell to earth an' a' its joys, frail life for me is done ; Adieu ! the gallant fire brigade, my comrades every one. 90 POEMS AND SONGS. I might hae lived to manhood's prime but for that fatal stair ; I leaped on it 'mid fire an' smoke, and blinded by the glare I saw not that my weight was laid upon a blazing rung That snapped an' threw me to the ground ; it's hard to dee sae young. I might hae lived to manhood's prime, but why should I regret ? Twa lives I saved, an' wad a third but for my hapless fate ; I only did, wi' willing heart, what Duty bade me do ; For every man in oor brigade is ready, staunch, and true, An' leaps alert upon the oar whene'er the bell is rung That tells o' fire ; but ah ! my Men's, its hard to dee sae young. There' One on high that kens my heart ; I'm waiting for His hand To guide me through the shady vale to His ain pro- mised land. Mair o' my thoughts He might hae got, but those He got were true, An' I hae faith that in this hour He'll nae forsake me noo, An' you, my aged mother dear, that o'er my cradle hung, ! greet nae mair, I'm ready, though its hard to dee sae young. I go, farewell ! my eyes are dim, Death's chilly hand I feel Freeze up the life-blood o' my heart, an' o'er my senses steal. THE WANDEREB'S KETUKN 91 My brow is cold, an' all is dark, the sting o' pain is gone A minute mair, an' I shall kneel before my Maker's throne, An' join my voice unto the throng, an' hear Hia praises sung, Who came to earth an' willing died for us when He was young. Return. fj|||EHOLD the wanderer's features, tanned fa||| In many a far and foreign land, Beam with the transport that he feels To tread once more his native strand, To see the mountains, heather crowned, Q-low in their wealth of purple bloom, Or, swathed in mist, their summits rear, In naked grandeur and in gloom. Or o'er the rocks the mountain streams In foam their currents wildly pour, While through the woody glens resound The echoes of their sullen roar. Emotion deep his bosom swells, His eye is dimmed by manly tears, Again to view the scenes beloved 'Mong which he spent his early years. There stands the cot beside the wood, The same sweet brooklet running near, It murmurs still the same old song That long ago he loved to hear. 92 POBMS AND SONGS. Though scenes through which in life we range Were beauteous Nature's choicest bowers, None bind the heart with lasting charm Like those which saw our youthful hours. |j|T was the time when golden leaves fjl| Were mixing wi' the green, An' stubble fields showed where the sheaves Of corn had lately been ; When sportsmen chiels, wi' dog an' gun, In quest o' game did roam, Ae nicht we did convene wi' fun To haud oor Harvest Home. The lasses, bless the darlin's a', (To this you'll say Amen) To please the lads were buskit braw In dresses neat an' plain. An' ilka lad wi' brush an' comb Had made himsel' fu' smart, Alike to grace the Harvest Home An' win some lassie's heart. When Q-eordie smiles in Jennie's face, She blushes to the croon, An' thinks on mony a stowen kiss Beneath the harvest moon. When lead in' late for fear o' rain, Somehow by hook or crook, He kissed her owre an' owre again At ilka ither stook THE HARVEST HOME. All heedless o' the raiker loon, Whase ire they had awoke By chasin' ane anither roon', An' scatterin' a' the "brock." But a' the merry toil was by, An' noo in blythesome glee Did sparkle every beamin' eye, An' every heart beat free. On chairs an' deals they sit them roon' The ample table spread, There at the en' the raiker loon, The maister at the head, An' solemnly the grace he says, That crops may never fail, But grow abundant a' the days That he on earth may dwell. Then ilka ane a spoon taks up, Wi' appetite fu' hale, To scramble for the ring, an' sup The glorious " meal an' ale." An' he or she wha gets the ring May happy be indeed, For, just as sure as onything, They'll married be wi' speed. But surely fortune helps the brave At times to win the fair, For Geordie soon among the lave Hauds up the emblem rare, An' mid a ringin' loud hurrah ! He swaggers to his feet, An' gallantly the ring sae braw Presents his Jennie wi't. Then comes the tea, the toast, an' fish, An' cakes o' crumpy bread, 94 POEMS AND BONGS. As much an' mair's the heart could wish 0' ony man or maid. An' syne the muckle whisky pig The maister brings it in, An' ilka lad a glass maun swig To set his legs in bin ; For twa guid fiddlers noo commence Their fiddles gran' to tune, Which gars the lads begin to dance An' lasses whirl roon' , The fiddlers noo are fairly richt, Baith playin' rare an' weel, An' ilka ane wi' a' their inicht Gaes tearin' through the reel. Ho ! how they sped the floor arooii, Wi' caperin' an' swingin", The very ceilin' creaked aboon Wi' din an' music ringin' ; An' thus the merry hours flew by Wi' dancin' an' wi' jestin', Dull sleep was far frae every eye, An' nae ane thocht o' restin'. Auld Scotia's dances ane an' a' That nicht were trippit weel By mony a merry lassie braw, An' mony a strappin' chiel. An' when the mornin' stars grew faint In Heaven's distant dome " Lang Syne" was sung, an' thus we en't Oor merry Harvest Home. FAITH AND REASON. 95 Jaith anfc |j|||EHOLD meek Faith, with beaming eye, lUpf Seek not to know or question why This thing or that should be ; But onward moving seek a goal For her submissive, doubtless soul, Meek-hearted, joyfully. Faith looks beyond the roll of years, And far beyond the starry spheres, And sees a region bright, Where, when she's past death's mystic gates, Her glorious heritage awaits 'Neath skies of fadeless light. She shrinks not at the dread abyss Where doubt and error's waters hiss, And shower their tainting spray ; But, staff in hand, amid their roar. And eye fixed on the further shore, She calmly holds her way. She murmurs not though hard the road, And heavy be her thorny load, Nor vents she sigh of pain ; Serenely moves her patient form Amid the darkness and the storm, The path to her is plain. She sees amid the shades of time A ray from Calvary's mount sublime Light on her humble way ; Its blessed light her bosom cheers, And leads her through the " vale of tears " Triumphant, safe, away. 96 POEMS AND SONGS. But sceptic Reason views the tomb, And says there's nought beyond the g oom His brilliant lamp can show ; And groping vain in mortal might, He scans, with torch of science bright, All things both high and low. He sweeps the starry fields of air, Unveiling all their glories rare To wondering mind and eye ; But failing with his feeble light To find the vaunted regions bright Beyond those spheres that lie, He, mocking, asks where is the place Of that celestial angel race, Of golden harps and song ? I've scanned those distant airy globes That each on high revolving throbs, But find no cherub throng. Away ! ye phantoms of the brain, With all dark superstition's train Of canting priests and prayer ; Life's gospel is how best to thrive, And pleasure drink while yet alive, Ere death with beasts we share. Thus Faith and Reason onward go Till life's faint taper flickers low, And both must cross the wave ; 'Tis then that craven Reason fails, And wildly, lost, despairing wails, While humble Faith is brave. VISION OP HELL. 97 of i) jiHEN by the fire in Morpheus' arms One night strange visions came in swarms, All trooping through my wildered brain, And last of all came Hell's domain. An awful terror seized my soul To hear the fiends incarnate howl In carnival around the lost Upon this burning sulphurous coast. High on a dreadful throne of fire The devil sat and tuned his lyre ; His demon fingers swept the chords While danced around the hellish hordes. In wild fantastic maze they reeled, Anon they shrieked, and madly wheeled ; Their hair like fiery fibres gleamed, And malice from their features beamed. A scorching air was all around, And writhing on the burning ground In one vast mass, like shoals of worms, Lay million hosts of human forms. Their shrieks fur mercy rose to heaven, But time was past, and judgment given; Their cries might well the earth have reut, And made e en Satan's heart relent. The rich and poor were mingled there, From every clime of earth they were ; The black, the white, of every race, Of every age, and every place. There murderers red with human gore In torments blasphemed still and swore ; And harsh oppressors there did lie Who hoard with scorn the helpless cry. There lay hypocrisy unveiled That here on oarth 'gainst sin had raiitsl, With kings and sinners great and small, 98 POEMS AND SONGS. From dens of vice, and regal hall. The forests waved like fiery seas Their glowing branches in the breeze That scorching blew with sulphurous smell O'er all the blazing fields of hell. The streams which molten lava ran Were bridged by many a flaming span ; And burning meteors winged through space With lightning speed their airy race. In myriad hosts like rooks or crows On wings the sable demons rose, With horrid screams of feigned woe To mock the tortured mass below. In eddying circles wild they flew, And still their clamour louder grew ; While fire tipped darts, red, stinging hot, Like assegias below they shot. Those grinning fiends, with eyes aglow, Augmenting more the wrath and woe, Kept up with frenzied glee the revels Congenial sport indeed to devils. And ' ' this is hell. Oh ! dread abyss, A region of forsworn bliss " I heard a demon loudly sing, And dart at me with tiger spring. I vented then a dreadful yell, And woke as from my chair I fell, And gasped aloud, nigh dead with fear " The Lord be praised, I still am here." Now, sinners all who this may read, Consider well the lives you lead, And clamour loud at mercy's door Ere yet the day of grace be o'er. Could you but see that awful sight Of direful woe I saw that night, You'd quick forsake the path in time That leads you to yon sultry clime. AN EVENING MTJSE. 99 Jin betting Jftuse. thoughtful mood as twilight fell One eve I sought a rustic dell To taste the sweets of Poesy's spell, And vent my Muse, And drink from out her mystic well Parnassian dews. Far from the throbbing city's glare, Its busy streets and murky air, I felt the load of human care Take wings and fly Away, away, I wist not where, Since far from I. Here, hermit-like, from man apart, I felt the life-blood through me dart And tune the lyre-strings of my heart That late lay dumb, And to the kindling strain impart Melodious hum. Till soaring fancy spreads her wing, Like lark that upward mounts to sing And pipes until the cloudlands ring With quivering sound, So fitful fancy, fervent thing, Soars starward bound. The bardic soul attends her flight, And peering looks in Time's vast night Where dim expiring meteors light The murky maze, And where beyond his farthest sight Stretch endless ways. 100 POEMS AND SONGS. There, pillar'd in the night of time, He sees weird structures rise sublime, Whereon dim forms eternal chime Their endless lays, And round whose forms uptowering clime Bright deathless bays. Thus, fancy led, he seeks to rise And skim the pure o'er-arching skies To pluck a planet for his prize From out those tiers, Whose blazing brilliance dims nor dies Throughout the years. A thousand thousand years of night Have darkened not their lustre bright, And thousands more shall roll in flight Yet fail to dim The glory of the stars that light The Cherubim. ! feeble atom, mortal man, Thy breath's but for a moment drawn In that long day's eternal span We name Forever, One hour of which thy proudest plan And work can shiver. Thus musing doth the poet's soul To fancy linked out-speed control, And soaring o'er each bounding pole 'Yond lines of earth, Scan cloudy caves where thunders roll And storms have birth. And gazing down where Libra's line Celestial balance doth define, AN EVENING MUSE. 101 Where in our night the sun doth shine With powerful ray, He sees the gilded railroad twine That guides Sol's way. Away to where the dog star's fire In distance gleams like Grecian pyre The raptured minstrel bears his lyre, And onward steers As if to join the heavenly choir Whose song he hears. Float thence from yonder seraph sphere, Whose pearled gates he hovers near, Within whose bounds no weary tear E'er dims the eyes, Where sorrow's shade that haunts us here Can never rise. There countless millions that have trod Like us the bosom of this clod, Keturning spirit-robed to God, From whom they sprung, Now scan life's weary mortal road With pilgrims throng. And 'mid the pilgrim throng below Bright guardian spirits unseen go, Averting oft the stream of woe That surges round, While demon forms flit to and fro On evil bound. Deep skilled in every hellish wile Those fiends lurk oft in luring smile And subtle tongues of polished guile To lead astray, 102 POEMS AND SONGS. Infesting every treacherous mile Of life's highway. Wrong and oppression, lust and war, And slanderous words all demons are, And ever raging near and far They foully go All human happiness to mar And mix with woe. Oh ! that mankind would lend an ear To voice of conscience when they hear It whispering of some duty clear Or noble plan, Instead of nursing selfish fear Of fellowman. Then disappointment's venomed dart Less frequently would gall the heart, And life would be a joyous mart With dealer's throng, Where worthy deeds as wares would thwart Exchange of wrong. Then would the poor and helpless know Less hardship, misery, and woe, For men would seeds of kindness sow And reap again, When He, the Lord of high and low, Binds up His grain. |pne0 to (Erring |LL ye from virtue's fold who stray To walk in shame and folly's way, LINES TO ERRING SISTERS. 103 'Mong painted waifs in clothing gay And wreathed in smiles deceitful, List to my song, if conscience lives, And to your heart one impulse gives, Think of the home mayhap that grieves Thy sinful wayward wandering; And if no home for you doth mourn, No friends to chide and none to spurn, Oh ! chide yourselves and timely turn Fair virtue's fold awaits you. See right ahead your direful doom The darksome, loathsome harlot's tomb Awaiting with its awful gloom To shroud your blighted bodies. And ah ! your souls once pure and fair, Which die not, cannot enter there, They live for aye ; yes live but where ? Let now mute conscience answer. And thou, too, man, who hast beguiled Some stainless one and her denied, Then cast her off and sneering smiled To see her bowed in sorrow, Think not the deed has passed unseen, And none shall reckon you between ; Soon shall th' avenging arrow keen Thy guilty bosom harrow. Take heed, and in thy youth's bright day Tread thou where virtue holds the sway, And gilded paths, which lure away From rectitude, eschew them. The paths of innocence seem bare, No tempting flowers conceal a snare, But happiness and peace are there With crowns of life immortal. 104 POEMS AND SONGS. Jttofcestg. ! gentle modesty, thy winning way All powerful is the hearts of men to sway, Thou art indeed true woman's heavenly prize, When stripped of thee her angel nature dies. What is she then ? a thing for us to scorn, A beauteous blossom turned venomed thorn ; Shun, shun, oh ! shun her all who bliss would know, Nor mar your lives with bitterness and woe. 'Tis sweet to see a gentle maiden smile, And hear her voice with tenderness beguile ; But mark the change when modesty hath flown, And tones once gentle have assertive grown. She for our solace and companion sent, 'Fore God and man her charter she hath rent ; How could we love, the heart recoils in dread, And love's sweet place sad pity takes instead. Yes, pity wrings the manly heart with pain To see frail woman heaven's law disdain, And stand usurper of the sterner place For men appointed in the earthly race. Sweet modesty, return on angel wing, And render woman a thrice precious thing, All worthy of our love and kindest care A gem of loveliness, a treasure rare. life's philosophy is there to tell What power is that which rivets by its spell, - That mystic spark, undying from above, Men feel but see not, and they call it Love. 105 Speak love and tell us, for we grope in vain With mortal hands to grasp thy magic chain Whose subtle links have bound the soul of man To kindred soul since human life began. We wander aimless to a dreary goal Till love alights its beacon in our soul, Then life seems stripped of weariness and woe, And earth shines fairer 'neath its kindly glow. All things are brighter, and the flowerets fair Breathe sweeter odours on a purer air ; The warbler's song finds echo in our hearts, And nature's smile a deeper joy imparts. And in thy train comes charity, ! love, That sacred pilot to the realms above, And 'ueath thy touch our finite minds expand And catch bright glimpses of the angel land. Love ! boundless spirit from thy nectar'd lip Ecstatic elexirs of blisa we sip ; Thy whispered breathings like a cherub's sigh Stir thoughts divine and aspirations high ; Hearts bend in meekness to thy common law, And from thy fount refining waters flow Which nourish sentiments of noble worth And purge our natures which are vile by birth. Spread wide thy wings, ! love, upon the land, And touch all bosoms with thy magic wand, Till spotless virtue and her virgin train With thee in unity of bliss shall reign. Htoman'0 liies. S;N Eden's groves the powers above Did sweets celestial pour, 106 POEMS AND SONGS. Until the cup of human bliss With nectar bubbled o'er. Young love was Queen of Paradise In these, life's early hours, And soft and low the gentle winds Breathed 'mong its virgin flowers. An angel watched the happy pair All primal blisses sip, And saw that Adam relished most The taste of Eve's sweet lip. And when they sinned, and righteous Heaven Upset the cup of bliss, This angel saved one drop for man It was a woman's kiss. And pleasure pure the Seraph felt, As after races grew, To note how man his drop of joy Still from this fountain drew. So more, to make the bliss complete, He filled each maiden's breast With fond desire for noble man Her lips to freely taste. Then, maidens, be not loth to give, Nor, men, be slow to take, When thus an angel deigned to save The pleasure for your sake. Si0tet!3 foreign bards across the deep, Unstring your harps and lowly weep ; No more their chords enraptured sweep To praise your maidens fair. THE SISTERS THREE. 107 For in our land doth beauty smile, And deck the daughters of our isle With every charm that can beguile The heart of mortal man. I know three seraph sisters young, As fair as ever minstrel sung, Or ever lover's bosom wrung, With beauty's witching smile. Sweet modesty adorns each face, And crowns them queens among their race, While round their light elastic pace A subtle grace doth play. Seek not amid Italian flowers For maidens sweet in sunny bowers, Where free the grape its juice out-pours, And endless summer smiles. Think not in climes beyond the sea, Renowned for love and chivalry, That beauty reigns in majesty, And doth no rival know. 'Mid Caledonia's heathy hills, And by her pure and sparkling rills, Whose ceaseless music ever fills The glens with melody, The lights of love far brighter dance, In every bonnie lassie's glance, But o'er these all the smiles entrance Of those sweet sisters three. 108 POEMS AND SONGS. brethren of the tuneful throng, Unknown to fame we pour our song In measures wild and free, With none to hear it but some friend Who may their kind attention lend, Or laud our melody. Yet eagerly we ply the quill, And try to scale Parnassus' hill To win ourselves a name, And from its envied heights to send Our voices to the world's end In ringing notes of fame. But nameless yet, and fameless yet, Low at its base unseen we sit, And forth our music pour ; While great and small go trooping by, Nor deign on us to cast an eye Our presence they ignore. Despair ye not, ye nameless throng, Who chant unheard your prompted song, Take courage, and be brave ; Still lure the muse by every ruse, And pour your ink in streams profuse A sable bardic wave. Resume the quill with dauntless will, And try once more the rugged hill Where sit the " tuneful nine; " Then in their presence touch the lyre, And pour your raptured songs of fire In numbers all divine ; And ever let your noble strain Be raised to banish gloom and pain ; From hearts that weary be ; And mortals groping in the mire, TO NAMELESS BARDS. Teach them to think, and thus aspire To knowledge wisdom's key ; Till man to man a brother prove, And earth an Eden be of love And grand fraternity Till states and peoples hand in hand In harmony together stand, And drink felicity. -P0et'0 my early boyhood's day, When the world seemed fair and gay, When of dreams my heart was full, Ere iny head knew Wisdom's rule In that early happy time, When my pen began to rhyme, Said I to self" I'll be a Poet, Though the world may never know it. I will write and wake the fire Slumbering in my hidden lyre. I will climb the famed Parnassus, Whence I'll thunder to the masses In a voice so full and strong That 'twill draw the wondering throng ; I will teach them to forget All the irony of Fate, To be happy and content In the work to which they're sent, Striving to be true and brave, For their end is not the grave ; Moving onward to that time When the hearts of every clime All shall beat about one throne In a Iriendly unison, 110 POEMS AND SONGS. When one universal rule In the World's common school Shall cement the Nations' souls, From the Equator to the Poles. Then the song-bird's carol shrill, By each babbling silver rill In the greening groves of spring, Echo will a sweeter ring, Full of joyous mirth and glee, Simple, heart-felt melody ; Waking many a gladsome thought In all hearts with pleasure fraught, While with trump and flag unfurled Peace, as Empress of the world, Shall proclaim her reign benign, Crowned with laurel, and with vine ; Crushing strife's envenomed brood, Making one great brotherhood, Singing over land and sea One God, one law, and liberty To Earth and all Humanity." Such my dream, my dream sublime, In my early boyhood's time, And, although no mighty poet, I would have the world know it, That I see afar the gleam Of the dawning of my dream. Courage, brothers, you are one In the Parliament of Man ; Bravely act, feel not alone, Help the groaning world on. THE THAMES. Ill THOUSAND keels ride on thy tide A thousand keels and more ; They bear the spoils of every clime To England's busy shore. Each gallant vessel's flag is up, And streaming in the breeze Alongside of our noble " Jack," The pride of all the seas. A motley throng they are, indeed, And lade with every store ; In search of gain they tempt the deep, And brave the tempest's roar. Speed onward well, ye noble crafts, Let Commerce flourish still ; Her fleets are manned by heroes true, Though no man's blood they spill. Go plough the waves, ye gallant barques, Anrl range the world free ; Nor rest until your noble keels Have rippled every sea. On receiving from England a Buach of Violets tent by a young English Lady, whom I kad never seen. (They were Faded on Arrival.} | AIL, faded violets, token fair, From merry England sent, Where once in bloom and beauty rare You breathed sweet perfume on the air, But now, alas ! 'tis spent. 112 POEMS AND SONGS. Once pressed by gentle maiden's hand, You did her bosom deck ; Then doubly welcome to this land To one of Poesy's tuneful band, For that sweet maiden's sake. The maiden young by whom you're sent My fancy paints her fair ; And in her bosom must be pent Those kindred fires divinely lent Romance and Love, sweet pair. Such treasured gift from far away Might well my bosom fire, To bid the winds that round me play To that fair maiden bear away The thought her flowers inspire. But, oh ! the winds so fickle blow Too fickle far for me They'd toss my message to and fro ; So I shall wait, though time is slow, Until herself I see. Spirit of Jfreebom. 5HO hears not in the rushing voice Of mountain torrents strong, The spirit of the land rejoice In wild majestic song, As rushing from the mighty hills In foam they seek the sea ; A rapture wild my bosom fills To think I am as free. THE GRANDEUR OF LABOUR. 113 Who sees the giant mountains stand In gloom and grandeur bare, But sees the spirit of the land Enthroned in freedom there ? Like eagle o'er each soaring peak A sentinel she sails, Far 'mong the clouds where thunders speak She rides upon the gales. She stirs the patriot's heart to feel Devotion for bis land, And when he meets the foeman's steel She nerves with power his hand. She fires the hearts of Bards to sing In Freedom's glorious strains ; And stirs the cowering slave to fling Aside his hated chains, And rise in might and boldly fight, " A Freeman of the Lord," Nor cease until he sheath with right " His own triumphant sword." carping cynics, who despondent rove, Thro' life in misery, devoid of love, Thro' earth a wilderness of toil and tears, Of death and sorrow thro' the fleeting years, Uplift your heads of woe and view the scene Of earth resplendent in its robe of green A globe of beauty 'neath the azure span ; Heaven made thee lord of it, ! Grod like man. Then, shame upon the ingrute wretch so base As whine, in misery, awny his days; H 114 POEMS AND SONGS. Up ! earth awaits us and invites our hand To change the desert to a fruitful land. Health shines upon the rugged brow of toil, Strong is the arm that wrestles with the soil ; A noble independence in the bosom glows, To reap the fields that honest labour sows. Heaven said, by labour shall thy bread be won, In sweating brow until thy race is run ; Such Heaven's law true blessing in disguise As witness rustic health, with beaming eyes. The hardy vigour of the peasant's lot Enshrines in happiness his humble cot ; No pampered luxury his manhood stains, Or blights his days with idle folly's pains. No vices enervate his hardy frame ; And virtue's precepts from the sire and dame The children learn in their early days, And, guileless, follow in their parents' ways. While blessed freedom over cot and hall Keeps sacred vigil 'gainst oppression's thrall, A glorious beacon of divinest light, Whose beam annihilates dark slavery's night ; A common freedom is our common dower, We owe no homage to that despot power That robs existence of its dearest charm, And idly eats the fruit of labour's arm. tartan. ?OME, Scottish men, an' Scottish maids, I Put on your tartan kilts an' plaids, An' deck yoursel's wi' braw cockades, An' stand up for the tartan. THE TARTAN. 115 Let foreign birkies gape an' stare At Scotland's sons in garb sae rare, We still will laugh at them, an' wear Our warld-famous Tartan. It is the garb our fathers wore Wi' patriot pride in days o' yore, An' won on many a foreign shore Bright honours in the Tartan. Upon the field o' Waterloo, When bullets thick as hailstones flew, Our plaided pipers loudly blew To cheer the lads in Tartan. An' when the Cavalry o' France In floods o' valour did advance, In vain their fiery steeds did prance Around our squares o' Tartan. The Scottish lads in close array Stood man to man upon that day, And thick as leaves the French uieu lay Around our squares o' Tartan. Thrice glorious garb o' Scotland brave, For ever let the tartan wave ; 'Tis Freedom's flag, for ne'er a slave E'er wore the bonnie Tartan. Come rally then frae Tweed to Spey, Ye Scottish lads an' lasses gay, An' wi' one voice declare for aye To still preserve the Tartan. 116 POEMS AND SONGS. jj[DIEU for a time to the roar of the street, With its hustle and bustle of hurrying feet, Where the chorus of traffic for ever doth ring "Gold! gold! I am making from everything." Adieu to the city, to commerce good-bye, And ho for the land of the mountains so high ! Already in fancy the heath I can see In glory that springs by the rush of the Dee. Already its health-breathing perfume I smell ; ! sweet is its odour, and free is the gale That's stirring the leaves in the forests of Mar, And chasing the mists over dark Lochnagar. Then onward speed quickly, thou monster of steam, That lights up the darkness with bosom agleam, And shoots through the night with the speed of the gale Oh, swift is the rush of the Limited Mail. Now just as the grey of the morning appears The City of Granite its turrets uprears, Asleep by the ocean. 0, welcome the sight ! My bosom is thrilled at the view with delight. For few now the miles to be run e'er I meet The fond ones awaiting my coming to greet ; And soon will I enter with pleasure the home Where so happy I lived e'er I learned to roam. Jaretoell, LBEWELL, old Scotia, wild and grand, Proud birthplace of my sires ; FAREWELL, OLD SCOTIA. 117 The leaving of thine honoured strand This parting song inspires. Farewell, each dear, familiar scene, That I awhile have known ; Thy memory I shall cherish green When far from thee I've gone. Sweet bonds of love, unite my heart To Scotland and my home ; For " Auld Lang Syne" can joys impart To Scots, where'er they roam. The woody glens, and soaring hills, And burnies wimpling clear, The absent Scotchman's bosom fills With memories ever dear. I go not to the golden West, The foaming ocean o'er, Nor do I seek my course to haste To Afric's arid shore. The task's not mine to seek for wealth, In distant, sunless caves ; Nor mine the need to hunt for health Upon the glittering waves. A bardic son of commerce I, And here amid the strife Of cities, with their turrets high, I note the tide of life. And on this tide the man must float, Who lives amid the throng, With little time to raise the note Of sad or joyous song. 118 POEMS AND SONGS. Then, for a time, to thee, farewell, Proud birthplace of my sires ; I mighty London soon shall hail, With all its thousand spires. But, dear old Scotia, wild and grand, I hope again to view, When I shall bid the stranger's land A lasting, long adieu. (Eamp. S|j^H ROUGH the forest, dark and dreary, fHH Wailed the wind with solemn moan, And the tented sleepers, weary, Heard the canvas flap and groan; Heard it through their fitful sleeping Like the distant thunder's boom, For their soul's were vigil keeping, Conscious of impending doom ; And the reedy tent pole quivered In each fibre, as the gale Gusty blow on blow delivered On its canvas coat of mail. Eerie shone the embers dying, Bed and lurid, in the gloom, And the night birds' dreary crying Screeched like ghouls around a tomb. Weirdly in that midnight lonely, Through the pall of blackest night, Shone those dying embers only With a dim and ghostly light ; And anon with sickly shiver, Shooting up, a sudden glare MORNING BEAUTIES. 119 Lit the gloom with phantom quiver Ere expiring in the air, While, like eyes of demons staring From the depths of darkest hell, Indian eyes in wrath were glaring On the sleepers' faces pale. Grimly as the fiends of fable Scowled those eyes with savage glow Scowled as Cain had scowled on Abel, When he struck the murderer's blow. O'er each silent sleeper dreaming Coldly gleamed a scalping knife ; Down they flashed, and each was streaming With the heart's blood of a life. Then like dusky phantom's gliding, Soft the Indians passed in haste, Through the forest, swiftly striding, To their wigwams in the west. Peaceful sleep those murdered hunters By the rushing Delawarr, Through the summers and the winters, In the shady forest far. By the banks of that broad river, In the soil that makes its shore, Silently they rest for ever, And the Indians are no more. the early tints of morning Tinge the skies with roseate hue, And the flowers, the earth adorning, Smile beneath the crystal dew ; 120 POEMS AND SONGS. When the little larks are singing Merrily high in the blue, And the woodlands green are ringing With the mellow music too Then the waking soul of Nature Whispers to the heart of man ; Bids him note her legislature Bids him view her wondrous plan. Love and peace and beauty mingle As they limn the matchless scene, Weaving flowers adown the dingle Nature's woof of fairest sheen. Man, the " lord" of the creation, Here may feast his noble mind ; But full joy and consolation Here he vainly seeks to find. In the eyes of winsome maiden, Sparkling fair as stars above ; In her lips, with laughter laden, Lie the sources of his love. There his bliss and solace mingle, And from thence his sorrows flow ; Strange is man, and strange is woman- Each to each a joy and woe. $S the EMS AND SONGS. Oh ! our winter night of sadness Is now passing fast away, And the dawning of our gladness Cometh with our summer day. Courage then ye hearts though weary, For the brighter days in store Soon shall chase away the dreary From your lives for ever more. For a fairer morn is glowing Close behind the shadows grey, And the souls in grief now bowing Shall be glad and rest for aye. Jtptil. 100 April has come wi' its sunshine an' showers Its wealth o' spring blossoms adornin' the bowers, An' sweetly the birdies sing through the bright hours To welcome it blithely again. An' Nature arrayed in its mantle o' green, Bespangled wi' flow'rets sae bonnie, I ween, Smiles sweetly, an' calls us to view the glad scene, An' welcome sweet April again. When ilk blade in the gloamin' is wet wi' the dew, To see the young couples sae dearly I lo'e, As they tell the auld story that ever is new 0' their love in sweet April again. The dove in the forest is croonin' o' love, An' the birds swell the chorua in ilka green grove, FLOWERY MAY. 131 An' surely our young hearts a-wooin' should rove, For this is sweet April again. E'en old hearts are glad as they think o' the day When in sprmg time o' life they hae wander'd sae gay, An' still as they think o' that time far away They welcome sweet April again. You're welcome, sweet April, wi' sunshine an' showers, An' wealth o' spring blossoms adornin' the bowers, An' birds singiu' blithely through a' the bright hours You're welcome, thrice welcome again. jELCOME, sweet and flowery May, With thy sunshine and thy showers, Singing birds on every spray, Floral wreaths and vernal bowers. Summer zephyrs soft and light Stir the clovers on the lea, Nodding plumes of red and white Bearing each a honey bee. Laverocks soar on dewy wiug To greet with song the rosy morn ; Sweetest month of all the ring Firstling child of summer born, 'Neath thy footsteps daisies spring, Bank and brae are clad with flowers, And with song the forests ring Through the bright and sunny hours. Welcome, sweet and flowery May, With thy sunshine and thy showers, Singing birds on every spray, Floral wreaths and vernal bowers. 132 POEMS AND SONGS. June. pS June, and all the bursting buds Have fluiig their life in leaves around, And earth all green in flowery sheen Is vocal with the murmurous sound Of waters soft and pipes of birds That gushing trill from earliest morn From out the groves of li ving green, And from the milky blossomed thorn. The first sweet breath of kindly air That bade the birds begin to sing Like magic floated o'er the land, And work the pulses of the spring. Sweet April nurtured with her showers The wealth of bloom that decked the May, Whose fragrance woo'd with subtle power The lingering swallows far away. And brought them borne on lightning wings, From where the summers linger aye, To flit among our northern scenes Like spirits of a transient day. So doth the June-time of our lives Burst forth in sunshine and in leaves, But may our autumn's cooler hours Show wealth of fruit and golden sheaves In goodly store, to cheer our hearts When life's December winds shall moau, The labourer shall have his hire, The fruitless nought to rest upon. AUTUMN. 133 JUttttttltt. OW Autumn's mellow hues are seen By forests fields and glades, Commingling with the summer's green Their russet tinted shades. The hills and moors with heather bloom Are purple far and wide, And yellow are the braes with broom In all its golden pride. O'erhead the soft and azure sky Looks on earth's fields below, Where ripened barley, oats, and rye Wave rustling to and fro. And soon the sons of rustic toil, With sinewy arms strong, vVlll gladly on the laden soil To harvest labour throng. For smiling plenty 'mong the grain, As bounty's queen arrayed, Invites the mowers forth again To reap her stores of bread. For He the harvest Lord on high Hath blessed the corn and wheat, That beasts of earth and birds that fly And men may live and eat. Bailor J50JJ. ! where is my sailor boy, Oh ! where? The night is wild and the murky clouds Drive darkly and drear athwart the air Like banners of death or inky shrouds. Is he far. where bounding billows roar And toss their spray on the darksome night, 134 POEMS AND SONGS. Hissing in wrath like a hell so hoar, Or smiting the ship with demon might ? I see the lightning with blinding glare, Like tongues of fire flash over the sea, Rending the pall of the midnight air And coiling in flaming serpentry. Oh ! God of the tempest keep my boy Wherever to-night his course may be, And bring him again, my life and joy, My truant wanderer back to me. How many mothers on bended knee Look out to-night o'er the waters wild, Praying the Stiller of Galilee To keep some truant and wandering child. How many sorrowing hearts of love Look out o'er the world's ocean drear, And pray to the kindly Watch above To keep some wandering loved one dear, Wherever those wandering loved ones go Bring them again to the path aright That leads to home from sorrow and woe, And still the cry of those hearts to-night Where is my child the loved and lost, Where is my child, Oh ! where ? Olben. yon wide and winding river, Where the wild birds warble ever, Sweetest songs that swell and quiver Fraught with melodie, There are bowers for ever green, Fairest flowers of brightest sheen, LOVE'S EDEN. 135 Where I wander with my queen Fondly, joyfullie. Blue and clear the skies above Bending o'er the scene of love, And the cooing of the dove Blends harmoniouslie With the murmuring river grand As its waters lave the strand, While together mute we stand List'ning rapturouslie. At the close of summer's day While the red sun far away, Wrapt in clouds of gold and grey, Sinking peacefulie, Sheds his lingering rosy beams O'er this Eden of our dreams, Flushing all with ruddy gleams ; Love's soft witcherie Weaves its glamour evermore, Till this flower-bespangled shore 'Neath the notes the warblers pour Forth unceasinglie, Seems the sweet enchanted strand Of some fairy haunted land Opening to love's magic wand Unresistinglie. Paradise from mortals shriven, Back to men is freely given, Love, the sweetest rose of heaven, Earth's felicitie. In each bosom let it bloom, Flower of light dispelling gloom, Every heart hath vacant room For this rosarie. POEMS AND SONGS. I shall aye by yonder river, Where the wild birds warble ever, Sweetest songs that swell and quiver Fraught with melodie, Wander ever with my queen 'Mong the bowers for ever green, 'Mong the flowers of fairest sheen, Fondly, joyfullie. |j|F you have seen the golden glory ||f Of a sunset in the west, Or the sparkle of a brooklet Running in its childish haste ; Or the ship in storm careering Through the ocean's wild abyss, Or a beauteous maiden sleeping, Tempting theft of secret kiss ; Or the summer roses wither 'Fore the breath of autumn's blast, Swaying in their dying beauty, Perfume shed, and glory past. If you have seen all these, good reader, Gazed on them with optic keen, As an eagle from his eyry, Bless me ! what a deal you've seen. gloloie. (A Canine Friend.) Boldie dog, I like you weel ; Mair sense you hae than mony a chiel, BOLDIE. 137 An' weel I ken your love is real, For you've nae guile, Nae frien' wi' heart mair warm an leal I've seen this while. Unlike the frien's o' human race, Nae smile can light your honest face ; But, lad, I like you nane the less, For weel I ken A smile aft hides a heart that's base 'Mang fellowmen. Your glossy coat o' black an' white Is aye to me a welcome sight ; It fits you like a glove sae tight Frae nose to tail ; An' keeps you warm by day an' night Frae weather snell. An', Boldie lad, you're aye the same ; The fashion's play wi' you nae game ; While folks may hap baith back and wame In garments new 0' mony a rare an' foreign name, An' rarer hue, You jog alang frae year to year, Your glossy coat nae waur o' wear ; To frien's an' strangers you appear Just what you are An honest dog that kens nae fear 'Neath sun or star. A faithfu' loon my Boldie dog, Swift can you run by brae or bog To turn a rangin' coo or hog When they wad stray, 138 POEMS AND SONGS. An' hale an' hardy may you jog For mony a day. An' when you dee, my honest frien', I'll lay you 'neath the sward sae green, An' ower your head I'll raise a stane To mark the grave 0' ane that has mair usefu' been, Mair true an' brave, Than mony a man wha boasts a soul, Yet wanders to his earthly goal Wi' heart as black an' hard's a coal That winna burn, Less honoured than the very mole That haunts his urn. (With the author's respects to Tammas Bodkin.) sji| AM a jolly tailor, ! !|! Belongin' to the Border, 'Mong high an' low, where'er I go My needle's aye in order. Some people ca' me " whip-the-cat" Because I hae nae station, But fient a thread care I for that I like my occupation. My father was a decent man, A farmer an' a beadle, But I preferred to diggin' Ian' The diggin' wi' my needle. An' though at times I maun confess My livin' is but chancy, THE JOLLY TAILOR. I win my way in ilka place By needle necromancy. "Wi' wife an' maid, where'er I ca', There's aye some thing needs stitchin', Sae frae its case I quickly draw My needle sae bewitchin', An' divin' it into the clout, Eight up an' down I send it, An' never stop to look about Until the job is endit. 0, weel I like to see a hole A hole that's needin' stitchin' To let me at it, by my soul, I'm often fairly itchin'. I winna sew at orra claith Sic stuff, I'd rather want it For ance or twice, upon my aith, My needle has been blunted. The thread's sae strong I keep on han' 'Twad moor a fleet o' whalers, Or in a storm pull to Ian' A score o' drownin' sailors. The first o' it, sae stout an' lang (This is nae Eastern fable), Was used the scaffoldin' to hang About the " Tower o" Babel." I also am a doctor quack, An' cleverly can tell you The sort o' medicine to tak' If anything should ail you. In head or wame if you hae pain Just drink a merry jorum, An' dance for several oors on en' The Keel o' Tullochgorum. 140 POEMS AND SONGS. Although I'm but a " whip the cat" You may believe my story, I give it free, it's cheap at that, I only get the glory. An' by my " goose" that's in the fire, It's fushionless to feed on, A feckless diet to retire To bed an' chaw your queed on. Amid the war o' human life I keep my needle prickin' ; There's blunter weapons i' the strife I've little fear o' stickin'. Should e'er my needle an' my thread Bring Fortune, I will hail her ; But still content wi' daily bread, I'll range a jolly tailor. I WAY where the pine tree cleaves the sky On the soaring Alpine summits high, Where the daring eagle has his home, And the mountain flocks fleet-footed roam, A traveller lone from his path did stray, For the mist hung heavy o'er his way, And no friendly beam its radiance gave To light the path of the wanderer brave, For a wanderer brave, indeed, was he Who had ranged the world, land and sea, From the foamy ocean's liquid deeps, To the mountain glacier's shining steeps. He had seen the snows that gird the Pole Where the hungry bear did fiercely growl, And the Northern lights did brightly stream Fantastic in their varying gleam. THE TRAVELLER. 141 He had heard the jungle's voices rise In a chorus wild 'neath Afric's skies, When the beasts of prey their victims rent In the darksome hour that midnight lent. He had been where tropic warblers sing, And the shelt'ring palms their shadows fling. When the noonday sun doth fiercely glare, And the flowers with perfume fill the air. He had looked on skies of azure blue, And had slept beneath the deadly dew, And beheld the sultry lightnings flash Where Orient thunders roll and crash. And now, astray on this Alpine height, 'Mid mist and gathering shades of night, He wildly gropes ; but he gropes in vain, For he'll ne'er see morning light again. A slip, a fall, and the wanderer brave In his swift descent no hand can save ; 'Mong the rocks his mangled body lay For the royal eagle's feast next day ; And his whitened bones a peasant found, And o'er them he reared a rocky mound To mark the sight of the nameless tomb 'Mid those silent Alpine crags of gloom. Iri0h ;N exile of Erin, with heart sad and heavy, Sat lone by the sea where the wild breakers foam; Bedimmed with emotion, his eye swept the ocean To Ireland, the land of his nation and home. " Oh ! Erin," he cried, as the fast rolling tear fell, " Erin, my native, bright isle of the sea, 142 POEMS AND SONGS. May Heaven protect thee, and shield thy green bosom Green as thy memory for ever shall be. The fame of thy heroes shall flourish undying ; Remember, them, Eriu, remember thy brave Who lived and who died for thy cause and thy freedom, Defying oppression to make thee a slave. I'm longing to see thy green hills and thy valleys By clear running Shannon, where childhood I spent ; How oft l>y its banks with my darling I've wandered, When love to my bosom sweet ardour hath lent. Now, far from the laud of my childhood, I wander An exile from Erin, my pride and my home ; No more but in fancy can I cross the ocean To wander the green banks of Shannon upon." The prayer of the exile for thee nightly rises, As, lone by the sea where the wild breakers foam, He looks with emotion to thee o'er the ocean, Bright Erin, the land ot his nation and home. Caleb ottia. ONIA dear Thy mist encircled mountains tree, Thy rushing rivers and thy rills That winding glance among thy hills, They all are dear, thrice dear to me Famed haunts of love and liberty. Land of the valorous and brave, Whose bosom never nursed a slave ; Land of the tartan far renowned, With hoary honours girt and crowned, Thy wandering sons fond turn to thee Famed land of love and liberty. LINES ON INKERMANN. 143 Proud Rome of yore with mailed hand Vain strove old Caledonia grand To fetter in that firm embrace Whose martial grip bound every race, But foiled and beaten turned from thee Famed land of love and liberty. In every glen and mountain pass, On moorland and in wild morass, The whitened bones of warriors brave That found a rude untimely grave, All tell of struggles stern by thee Famed land of love and liberty. May thy wild mountain eagles soar High o'er the crags still as of yore, And thy old ruddy lion bold Glow proudly on his field of gold, And honest worth aye " bear the gree " Among thy men and maidens free Famed land of love and liberty. |Cttte0 on Inkcrmann. morning dawn had not yet broke, And misty vapours clad the hill ; The sleeping camp had not awoke, But dreamed of home in silence still. Dream on, ye sleepers, while you may, Your life and dreams will soon be o'er ; For many, ere the close of day, Will sleep, alas! to wake no more. Death's hurricane is brooding nigh, Though stilled as yet the cannon's roar ; And those green slopes on which you lie Will soou bo crimsoned with your gore. 144 POBM8 AND SONGS. Ah ! rude awakening, hark the drums That loudly call the foe is near ; The whizzing shot proclaims he comes To meet those hearts that know no fear. The pickets backward slowly go, Contesting inch by inch the way ; While regiments press to meet the foe, And mingle in the bloody fray. The gleaming steel is red with blood, While flies around the death-winged lead ; And friend and foe writhe in that flood Of crimson, on one awful bed ; Till vanquished Russia fled these slopes, Piled with the ghastly heaps of slain, Stretched stark with all their perished hopes To wait the last grand Bugle's strain.