W/m 
 
 
 
 m
 
 POEMS AND SONGS.
 
 GEORGE LEWIS AND CO., PRINTERS, SELKIRK.
 
 BY 
 
 DAVID W. PURDIE 
 
 "THE ETTRICK BARD." 
 
 SELKIRK : 
 GEORGE LEWIS & CO. 
 
 MDCCCXCVII.
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 THE EARL OF DALKEITH 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED 
 
 BY HIS 
 FAITHFUL AND DUTIFUL SERVANT 
 
 THE AUTHOR.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 COURTEOUS READER, 
 
 The favourable reception which my 
 little book, published twelve years ago, met with 
 has induced me to appear again before you soliciting, 
 your patronage. I have no time-worn excuses to- 
 offer in presenting my literary venture ; I have 
 published on my own responsibility, and am pre- 
 pared to take your verdict be it good or bad.. 
 In reviewing my poems, I only ask the critic to 
 bear in mind that the author is not a cultured, 
 scholar, but an unlettered son of toil. I thank 
 most cordially my subscribers, one and all, for their 
 munificent patronage towards my humble flights 
 in song ; as without such generous aid this volume 
 could not have been before you. 
 
 Go forth my book to die or live, 
 Though fame should never crown thee, 
 
 My first love and my last, believe 
 I 'm not ashamed to own thee. 
 
 DAVID \V. PURDIE_ 
 BROCKHILL, ETTRICK, 
 April, 1897.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Spring ....... i 
 
 Friendship ....... 8 
 
 Abram Lincoln . . . . . .10 
 
 Oeneral Sir Henry Havelock . . . .11 
 
 Brown Eyes ..... . . 12 
 
 The Rich Man . . ... 13 
 
 In Memoriam The Earl of Dalkeith . . 14 
 
 The Death of Mary 1 . . . 15 
 
 The Losin' o' Grannie's Specs . . . 17 
 
 Unchanging Love . . . . . .18 
 
 My Mother's Grave ... 19 
 
 In Memoriam William and Mary Purdie . . 21 
 
 Brockhill . . . . .22 
 
 Medley .... 23 
 
 Autumn ... .26 
 
 A Mother's Love . 27 
 
 A Faded Rose . . 28 
 
 James Beattie . ... 28 
 
 The Muse ... .29 
 
 Lines to a Looking-Glass . . 30 
 
 The Armenian Massacres . . 3 1 
 
 A Scotch Tribute to William Watson . 32 
 
 The Snowdrop . . % . 32 
 
 Wee Jim ... 33 
 
 Lord Dalkeith's Marriage . . 35 
 
 In Memoriam W. Dalgleish, Potburn . t 36 
 
 In Memoriam Dr Shaw . . 36 
 
 Sonnet Treachery . . 38 
 
 A Mither's Sang . . 39 
 
 Summer ... 41 
 SONNETS 
 
 Hope . . 4 1 
 
 Love . . 43 
 
 Liberty . . -44 
 
 Health . . 45 
 
 In Memoriam Gough . . 47 
 
 First Love . . . . 48
 
 CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 Page 
 
 Truth ... 49 
 
 Sonnet True Love .... 50 
 
 My First Run . 51 
 SONNETS 
 
 Pride . 53 
 
 War . . 55 
 
 Sincerity . . 56 
 
 Learning . 57 
 
 The Storm, 1895 ... . . 58 
 
 The Auld Fireside . . 60 
 
 Only an Orphan Boy . . . . 61 
 
 In Memory of the Authoress of "The March of the 
 
 Cameron Men" ... .62 
 
 In Memoriam Lord Randolph Churchill . . 63 
 
 Weep not ... 64 
 
 The Lover's Lament ... -65 
 
 To The Memory of Mark Akenside . 67 
 
 Burns' Birthday . . 69 
 
 June .... 70 
 
 The Roarin' Game . 72 
 
 Our Youthfu' Days . . 73 
 
 Love's First Dawn . . 75 
 
 The Poet's Joy . 76 
 
 The Kirn . . .82 
 
 Epistle to Wattie . . 87 
 
 Buccleuch's Rescue of Kinmont Willie . . 93 
 
 Life .... 95 
 
 Curlin' . 96 
 
 First Love . yg 
 
 Epistle to Jamie . 101 
 
 Epistle to Johnny . 105 
 
 Lasses, dinna lee . . . 107 
 
 To my Wife . . . 108 
 
 To mine Ancient Father in the Muse no 
 
 Epistle to Willie . . in 
 
 Point Medal Day . 112 
 
 In Memoriam James Russell, D.D. 114 
 
 Safe in the Fold above . 115 
 
 Beauty . .116 
 
 Summer Time n8 
 
 To John Laidlaw . . . . . .119 
 
 Sabbath Bells . . I2 o 
 
 Heaven .... 121 
 
 Pillars of His Temple . 122
 
 Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 James Thomson, Shepherd ..... 123 
 
 Fare-ye-vveel, my Bonnie Lass . . . -125 
 
 John took the Pledge . . . . . .126 
 
 Lord Byron, Poet . . . . . .128 
 
 In Memoriam Archibald Brown . . .128 
 
 Oor Wee Darlin' . . . . . .129 
 
 On the Death of a Poet ..... 131 
 
 Lines Addressed to a Violin . . . -132 
 
 What my Love is like . . . . 133 
 
 Thoughts on the Old Year . . . . . 134 
 
 Nae Game like Curlin' ..... 135 
 
 Lines on George Lord Byron . . 137 
 
 Ae Simmer Nicht . . . . . .139. 
 
 Yarrow . . .... 141 
 
 Big Drucken Wull ..... 142 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 Scotland . . . . 145 
 
 Death . . . . . 147 
 
 Peace ...... 149 
 
 The Hazel Glen . . . . .150 
 
 The Turkish Atrocities . . . . 151 
 
 The False Lover \ . 152 
 
 Sunset . . . . . . . . 153 
 
 Rural Poetry . . . . . . I 54 
 
 The Lovers Reconciled . . . .156 
 
 Only Six Years . . . . . . 157 
 
 To my Isabel ...... 158 
 
 Ettrick ....... 160 
 
 Jottings ... . .161 
 
 Jeanie 's bonnie, Jeanie 's sweet .... 165 
 
 Jenny, Love ... ... 166 
 
 Isabel . ..... 167 
 
 The Floo'r o' the Dee 168-
 
 POEMS AND SONGS. 
 
 Spring. 
 
 "Pis spring-time of the year. A jolly time, 
 
 When every thing in Nature scents new birth, 
 
 And takes on life anew. The infant bud, 
 
 Nursed in its leafy cradle, lays aside 
 
 Its weaning robes, flirts with the fickle sun, 
 
 And weds at last a ripe maturity. 
 
 From lofty boughs the voice of Spring is heard 
 
 Rejoicing in the glory of the year ; 
 
 Wild flowers dismiss the bandages of death, 
 
 And, flattered by the blandishments of youth, 
 
 Are coaxed to life again. 
 
 The green kirtle 
 
 Of Nature is spread over all the hills, 
 Until their ample sides are clothed with sheep 
 Nibbling the juicy blade, startling the hare, 
 Who scuds arrowy up the rising ground, 
 Her speed her sole protection ; she is soon 
 Lost to view, where in the quiet uplands 
 She may rove and browse at sweetest pleasure. 
 
 A
 
 2 SPRING. 
 
 The coil'd adder, ugly and repulsive, 
 
 Wriggles a passage through the lengthening grass, 
 
 The terror of the shepherd. Even collie, 
 
 Ready on all occasions to defend 
 
 His canine rights against an open foe, 
 
 He hears the dreaded hiss, and looks alarmed, 
 
 With ruffled back he edges from the sound ; 
 
 By instinct taught it is no level match, 
 
 He wisely leaves the reptile all alone. 
 
 The lively squirrel, scamp'ring o'er the sward, 
 
 When danger threatens knows a safe retreat 
 
 On yon tall larch. Nimbly, by corkscrew route, 
 
 He scales the steep incline, pausing anon 
 
 To scan the movements of the enemy 
 
 Below ; yet unrelaxed his vigilance 
 
 The faintest motion hurries on his flight 
 
 To heights serene, where he in safety sits 
 
 Secure from all his foes. 
 
 The shy cuckoo, 
 
 The trumpeter of Spring, again returns 
 To cheer the rustic swain, who, list'ning oft 
 To catch the name resounding o'er the dale, 
 Hastes when he hears it, hoping he is first 
 The welcome news to tell. The busy bee, 
 Run short of stores, with idleness enforced 
 In winter's cheerless days, in sunny hours 
 With ceaseless toil forages for her wants, 
 So lavishly provided, storing up 
 With miser care the yellow hoards so rich, 
 Teaching improvident man a lesson
 
 SPRING. 
 
 In the useful art of thrift. The ploughboy, 
 Turning o'er the soil, whose broad bosom soon 
 Shall fertilise the seed, beguiles the dull 
 Monotony of toil with lays of love, 
 That speak the virtues of some winsome maid 
 That he is sweet upon, longs for the tryst, 
 The twilight hour, when they shall meet again ; 
 When truthful lips, untaught to coin a lie, 
 Shall yet once more rehearse the play of love, 
 That ne'er grows old with age. Happy Eden ! 
 Where the most sacred of all knots was tied, 
 The first of untold numbers, and untroubled 
 With the delicacy of selection, 
 Adam's courtship would be a happy one. 
 
 In scarlet coat, with white top boots and spurs 
 
 Gracing a shapely leg, the huntsman bold, 
 
 \Vell mounted, gallops o'er the level plain 
 
 With his unruly pack, bent on the death 
 
 Of a May fox, the trophy of the chase. 
 
 The schoolmaster, forgetting not that once 
 
 He was a boy himself, lets out the school 
 
 To see the hunt, the king of British sports ; 
 
 Himself a sporting man, swift in his mind 
 
 He weighs the action, substance, bone, and build 
 
 Of every noble steed ; then totals up 
 
 The major points, and with unerring skill 
 
 He spots his horse, on whose speed he would bet 
 
 A tidy sum, had he the same to ride. 
 
 The gay hedgerows, in holiday attire,
 
 4 SPRING. 
 
 Become the rendezvous of joyous birds, 
 
 Rearing the cherished young. In sheltered forks, 
 
 Hid from the prying eye of truant boy, 
 
 Intent on pillage; for the speckled prize 
 
 May please a comrade stronger than himself 
 
 Of whom he stands in awe. The tea-cup cot 
 
 With patient skill is dexterously built 
 
 Could human hands do better ? Maternal 
 
 Care, unwearied, hatches out the brood, while 
 
 The male bird caters for the household wants. 
 
 Confusion seize the hand who senselessly 
 
 Would rob a wild bird's nest ; the poor, mean thief 
 
 Deserves not pity, but the lash of law 
 
 Rigorously applied. 
 
 The fresh milkmaid, 
 
 Whose willing hands invite the milk to flow 
 From Cherry's udder, singing as she milks 
 A pretty picture, fair as spring itself 
 Her dark eyes so enchanting. Shepherd John 
 Is shadowed by them ; yet he often sees 
 In pale moonlight the wish of all his dreams 
 So eloquently told that well might make 
 The babbling poet dumb. Star of the soul, 
 What tongue can rival thee for speaking truth, 
 Or letting secrets out that should be kept ? 
 Athwart the daisied fields the bonny lambs, 
 Untrammell'd by the weighty cares of age, 
 Forsake the ready teat, and headlong plunge 
 Into the sports of youth. Not long enjoyed, 
 For soon the fatal knife shall spoil the life ;
 
 SPRING. 5 
 
 Hung in a well-kept shop, in dainty cuts 
 Meant for the rich the poor man knows thee not. 
 Thy high-condition'd carcase is doled out 
 To fatten him who has the lengthen'd purse, 
 But needs thy aid the least. 
 
 The chill east wind, 
 
 The fierce companion of our northern spring, 
 Hunts out rheumatic bones with savage zest, 
 And plagues the tender chest, feeding the grave, 
 Which, greedy, folds within its silent walls 
 The strangest crowd of all. The sexton, grave 
 As his occupation, makes no complaint. 
 When busy seasons press, pockets his fee 
 With nonchalance sublime it is his trade, 
 And harder than the marble is the heart 
 By usage steel'd against the claims of grief. 
 The snowdrop white, the virginal of spring, 
 Unsullied as the snow-wreath newly made 
 At yon dyke side, when urging winds compel 
 The spotless flakes to form one glittering mass, 
 Emerges from the tomb of enforced death, 
 And gladly comes to tell a bleak, bare world 
 Of beauty hid, that time alone reveals. 
 Impulsive man, restrain thy headstrong haste ; 
 Thou canst do nothing were 't not done for thee : 
 In patience wait ; learn from the little flower 
 That God is good, and doeth all things well. 
 The singing stream that winds through meadows 
 
 green, 
 High-coloured with the soft, refreshing rain,
 
 6 SPRING. 
 
 The urchin tempts to try his angling skill : 
 
 With willow wand, a piece of ragged twine, 
 
 And pin half bent, whereon a laggard worm 
 
 Is dangling hung, he plies the peaceful art 
 
 With rich success, and carries home at eve, 
 
 With prideful look, a string of glossy fish 
 
 That ancient veterans in the noble craft, 
 
 Too little practised, oft sigh for in vain. 
 
 O, sweetest scene ! amidst the purest calm, 
 
 The gorgeous wealth of Nature is displayed. 
 
 Here no distressing sameness greets the eye, 
 
 But lovely shades no canvas ever knew, 
 
 So exquisitely bloom ; the brilliant dew 
 
 That balls each blade of grass, shines with a blaze 
 
 That shames the diamond mine, where brawny arms 
 
 Unwearied toil to find the precious gem. 
 
 Sweet primrose bank, where roving children climb 
 
 When unappreciated tasks are done, 
 
 And schoolbags banished till another day. 
 
 With eager haste the tiny hands explore 
 
 The yellow blooms, selecting them with care ; 
 
 Tied in a bunch, in cooling water, clear, 
 
 On window-sill, refreshing all the room ; 
 
 They appetise the meal, when from his work 
 
 The toiler comes to rest at evening's close. 
 
 The gardener hails with joy the swift return 
 
 Of omens bright that hint work is at hand. 
 
 The swelling gale sports with the swirling clouds 
 
 Of powder'd dust, and dries the earth again. 
 
 With labour'd toil he delves the whitening soil,
 
 SPUING. 7 
 
 And spreads the hillock beds in truthful squares, 
 
 Smooth as a sea becalmed. Dimpled with smiles, 
 
 The gathering sun peeps o'er the stalwart wall, 
 
 Whose back is lined with cultivated trees 
 
 Cherry and apple, plum and jargonelle, 
 
 The emperor of pears, spread like a fan, 
 
 To grasp the heat that forces on the fruit, 
 
 Whose luscious taste doth tempt the plundering hand 
 
 To depredation make. Pest of his life, 
 
 The weed, undaunted, heedless of rebuffs, 
 
 Persists to mar the loveliest of plots, 
 
 Where richest flowers in sweet confusion grow, 
 
 And gorgeous terraces, delight of all ! 
 
 O lovely Spring ! when slumbering earth awakes 
 
 From her long sleep, and marshals all her strength 
 
 To set her beauty forth. Imposing pageant ! 
 
 What vast resources are at thy command, 
 
 Of every shape and hue, and size and form ; 
 
 All know their place; and, when the call goes forth, 
 
 With swift intelligence each plant, each flower, 
 
 Becomes a holy thing. Admirable ! 
 
 In contemplation lost, we look with awe 
 
 Through thee up to the Maker of them all ; 
 
 Great Power divine, whose sovereign will is law, 
 
 Beyond dispute, through boundless realms of space. 
 
 Bounteous Nature, the first of teachers, 
 
 Thy information unimpeachable, 
 
 Thy smallest atom has a kernel sweet, 
 
 Primed with instruction ! Let attentive eyes
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 And willing ears, open for improvement, 
 
 Take note of thee ; though dumb, thou hast a tongue 
 
 That cannot err. O dim, unsettled mind, 
 
 Erratic upon the main point of life ; 
 
 Wearied soul, that fain would find a haven, 
 
 An anchorage safe, why dost thou wander 
 
 'Mid clouded doubts, with clearest truth so near, 
 
 And free to all. Priceless of gifts ! with thee 
 
 The ocean of life, smooth as a mill pond, 
 
 No raging winds explore; all is so calm. 
 
 And, when the end comes^ the exit is peace ; 
 
 And in a purer sphere the soul shall know 
 
 Undreamt-of joys. A Spring-time ever there. 
 
 'J-riendsfiip. 
 
 Friendship ! How sweet the name ! It smells of 
 
 home, 
 
 With all the holy sweetness of the hearth, 
 The true abode of man. What other name 
 Covers a heart so sympathetic, warm ? 
 The cream of the nobility of men 
 Are those who in affliction's darkest hour 
 Are not ashamed to help a brother man, 
 And drag him from the mire. I have known such, 
 Although the crop is scarce, who willingly,
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 With hands as light as day, bestowed the gift 
 
 That made them friends indeed. How kind the heart 
 
 To whom want's tale is never told in vain ! 
 
 With gratitude sincere I '11 ne'er forget 
 
 One honoured friend, who knew the poet's need, 
 
 And with unbounded liberality, 
 
 Unasked, which made it all the sweeter, gave, 
 
 With that frankness, wherein lies friendship's charm, 
 
 That looks for no return. If Coila's bard 
 
 Occasion had to eulogise Glencairn, 
 
 With double need have I to record here 
 
 My warmest thanks for such unlooked-for help 
 
 From one who, nameless, I hold not less dear. 
 
 I pity him who here had ample scope 
 
 To help his neighbour and who did it not 
 
 Afraid to lose what never was his own, 
 
 But held in trust. When at the bar of Heaven, 
 
 The wretch quakes as he hears the charges read 
 
 In no faltering voice, justice is here, 
 
 And he gets it ; but mercy's day is past. 
 
 So much is lost for what was worth so little. 
 
 The cowardly miser, whose fingers ache 
 
 Wrestling the coin, wasting the midnight oil 
 
 On devilish sport, forgets there is a God 
 
 That sees his sin, that some day shall avenge 
 
 His lack of love. O friendship, kindly thing, 
 
 Thy blessings are beyond the gift of kings.
 
 IO ABRAM LINCOLN. 
 
 Jjfi 
 
 ram 
 
 Shades of Dante, Milton, Homer, Tasso, 
 Glorious mighty monarchs of the muse, 
 I have a theme, a hero nobler far 
 Than any chanted in those sweetest odes 
 Men call immortal. A hero ! yes, 
 A prince of heroes ; yea, a king of men, 
 Abram Lincoln, the martyr President. 
 Called from the humblest rank in life to fill 
 A post that pedigreed kings might envy. 
 Ambition knew him not ; laid out for him 
 Was higher, holier work than court intrigue ; 
 His lifelong battle was with slavery, 
 Most Christian of wars. 
 
 Shot like a felon 
 
 When his work was finished ; but Death can not 
 Destroy the glory that surrounds his name. 
 Wherever manhood lives and virtue dwells, 
 Wherever Liberty erects her shrine, 
 There will heroic Lincoln be enthroned 
 Patron saint of freedom. A man of men. 
 Hadst thou no other name, America, 
 Than his, it is enough to make thee great, 
 Although all else is lost in littleness.
 
 GENERAL SIR HENRY HAVELOCK. II 
 
 (general Sir J^enry 3avebcf(. 
 
 Brave Havelock's now no more. We mourn a son, 
 
 As brave a man as ever mother bore. 
 
 Ready to die whene'er the summons came, 
 
 Death could not take him unawares. He lived, 
 
 But feared it not ; and when at last it came, 
 
 Mark well his words addressed to his dear son 
 
 " Behold, see how a Christian man can die." 
 
 A soldier, too, he was. Oft had he faced 
 
 The terror king in grimmest garb arrayed 
 
 On bloody battlefields, where human life 
 
 Was held as naught, that glory might be won. 
 
 On India's burning plain his troops he marched 
 
 Victorious amid the rebel hosts, 
 
 That no allegiance owned. Onward, forward 
 
 He fought his way, and triumphed in the end ; 
 
 But thousands slept in death, the price of war. 
 
 Now honours great were showered upon his head 
 
 Who would dispute that they were not deserved ? 
 
 No patent ever signed by royal hand 
 
 More worthier bestowed. No victor's wreath 
 
 A nobler brow than Havelock's did adorn. 
 
 But Death's cold hand was near ; he had escaped 
 
 \Var's perils to be smitten by a foe 
 
 Unseen, and more malignant. Worn with disease, 
 
 His spirit fled in glory's brightest hour 
 
 From earth's frail tenement to wear the crown 
 
 And snow-white robe that wait the just on high.
 
 12 BROWN EYES. 
 
 Brown eyes, sweet eyes, for seven long weary years 
 Thy glances bright annoyed my peace of mind. 
 No storm-toss'd bark upon the restless tide, 
 With land yet undiscovered, is more abroad 
 Than he who is in love. Alternate swayed 
 By hopes and fears, uneasily he lives ; 
 And die he would unless bright-tinted hope 
 Rainbow'd the cloud and promised the reward. 
 
 The heart beats only in response to thine 
 Love, priceless love, with all its joys, are mine. 
 Beautiful as the grass loaded with dew, 
 Bonny as the yellow primrose in spring, 
 Glorious as the silver moon set in blue, 
 Lovely and pure beyond the power to sing, 
 Is maiden's love in holy virgin bloom, 
 The light and life of the domestic home. 
 
 Brown Eyes, for thee my reverence is great ; 
 
 I owe thee a debt I can never pay ; 
 
 Thine was the incentive that made me sing ; 
 
 Love drew me out of self, and gave a breadth, 
 
 A purifying influence to life 
 
 That hath borne and shall bear fruit unto death. 
 
 Sweet Eyes, had I never met thee (and who 
 Dare say it was by merest chance I did ? 
 Is there not a Providence in all things 
 That ordereth and ruleth well ? There is.)
 
 THE RICH MAN. 13 
 
 Poetic happiness had ne'er been mine. 
 Those who have never loved have never lived. 
 Thy tutelage shall live. The strokes of Time, 
 That havoc plays with monuments of skill, 
 And wrecks at will the handiworks of man, 
 Shall fall with no distressing thud on thee. 
 Well sheltered in the mind the honey'd look, 
 Sweeter for remembrance, hath abiding 
 Lodgings. Though I lost thee, yet I love thee 
 Absent from sight, to sweet remembrance dear. 
 
 jjcfi Dfllan. 
 
 Clothed in the indolent ease of riches, 
 
 The man of wealth lounges his life away, 
 
 And murders precious time. The fleeting hours, 
 
 That the swiftest racer could never catch, 
 
 Affording opportunities so grand 
 
 For doing good, are carelessly squander'd ; 
 
 So lightly prized, out from our reach they slip, 
 
 Like sneaking thieves hurrying off the prize, 
 
 And like a shadow darting on the wall, 
 
 Not to be caught, are lost for evermore. 
 
 Seize every chance as it presents itself, 
 
 A sinew'd grasp keep on the latch of time, 
 
 Encourage every impulse hinting good, 
 
 Use the gold ; 't was meant for circulation ; 
 
 Not to feed the vanity of one man,
 
 14 IN MEMORIAM THE EARL OF DALKEITH. 
 
 Nor lie useless under strong locks and keys, 
 
 To be examined as a doctor would 
 
 A sinking patient beyond human skill. 
 
 Rich man, you have a lot to answer for ; 
 
 Well may your soul be troubled at the brink 
 
 That leads to the beyond. Afraid to pass 
 
 The surging deep where, on the other side, 
 
 Life's ledger shall be closely scrutinised. 
 
 Now is the time ; let not the sovereign hours 
 
 Slip idly by when so much could be done. 
 
 O, why delay ? the passport should be signed 
 
 When health is good, and not when sickness comes. 
 
 Scatter the dross 'mong the deserving poor, 
 
 'T was surely given that blessings might be done. 
 
 Then welcome waits you at the pearly gate 
 
 That opes to happiness " Faithful servant, 
 
 Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord." 
 
 n Dfllemoriam ^fie &arf of 
 
 Upon a lone hill side, far from the haunts 
 Of busy men, the noble Earl died. 
 Sprung from a race renowned for martial deeds 
 And gallantry the ancient clan of Scott 
 Within his veins the best of blood did run, 
 Born to a high estate. Noble by birth, 
 But nobler far the patent of the mind,
 
 THE DEATH OF MARY. 15 
 
 That only favoured few can ever wear. 
 
 Such coronet was his. Beloved by all. 
 
 To rich and poor alike a brother man, 
 
 A comrade in their sorrows and their joys, 
 
 We mourn his death, more sad because of youth. 
 
 Ere yet the bud had blossom'd into fruit 
 
 The young chief lay cold in the shroud of death. 
 
 SbeatR of 
 
 My dear wife wasna lang spared to enjoy 
 The sweetness o' mairrit life ; but we were 
 Happy the short while we were thegither. 
 If I was richt," a' was richt wi' Mary, 
 While endless were the schemes she invented 
 To make me what every man in his ain 
 Hoose should be the happiest o' mortals. 
 But while we were baskin' in a' the sweet 
 Endearments o' hame, the Angel of Death 
 Was near ; and Mary, my darling wife, was 
 Summoned into the presence of the King, 
 To abide wi' Him for ever. A few 
 Meenits afore she dee'd, she ca'd me to 
 Her bedside, an' wi' a wistfu' look, fou 
 O' infinite tenderness, bade me watch 
 Ower the fragile bud that had that mornin'
 
 l6 THE DEATH OF MARY. 
 
 Opened its wee een on a sinfu' world. 
 " Bob," she said (that was her favourite name 
 For me in the coortin' days), " promise me 
 That if the lassie an' you are spared, you 
 Will be kind till 'er for my sake, an' bring 
 Her up in the fear o' the Lord. The world 
 And a' its frivolities are o' sma' 
 Accoont when it comes to a deein' hour. 
 Gin the maid fa's in love, as lasses will, 
 An' likes the lad as I aye likit you, 
 . Let them mairry, Bob ; it will ease my mind, 
 And make my deein' bed unco easy." 
 Taking my hand atween her ain lily 
 Anes, as white as snaw, an' gie'in' me her 
 Fareweel kiss, whispered softly in my ear 
 " Bob, I '11 meet the lassie an' you in Heaven." 
 Thae were the last words she spoke, an', closin* 
 Her eyes as sweetly as a child gangs to 
 Sleep, a' that was mortal was left in my 
 Airms, while the immortal spirit o' my 
 Dearest and never-to-be-forgotten 
 Wife, peacefully wing'd its way to the high 
 And holy abodes o' bliss; where neither 
 Eye nor ear hath seen or heard the nameless 
 And sinless joys o' the heavenly hame.
 
 THE LOSIN' o' GRANNIE'S SPECS. 17 
 
 o' (tyrannies Specs. 
 
 The other day auld Grannie dear 
 
 Had lost her specs, she kenned na where ; 
 
 The like before had never been, 
 
 Sae carefu' was she ower her een. 
 
 Auld drawers were emptied inside oot, 
 And cupboard presses, withoot doot, 
 Had never been in sic a plicht 
 Since Grannie's happy bridal nicht. 
 
 Frae but tae ben she anxious gaed, 
 And mony a gey queer word she said, 
 Her speech was never meant for print 
 To tell the truith, nae guid was in 't. 
 
 She ranged, and better ranged, the drawers, 
 And damaged sair the auld, dune spars ; 
 But wad she drop ? ah, no ; not she ; 
 But ranged the mair persistently. 
 
 Another pair she 'd never get 
 That wad sae weel her vision fit, 
 The very best o' pebble gless, 
 They didna cost a penny less 
 
 Than ten and six. " Blind as a bat, 
 Me threed anither needle ? What ? 
 Wee Davie's fots, the bonny lamb, 
 I '11 never see to feenish them." 
 
 B
 
 l8 UNCHANGING LOVE. 
 
 An unco job. Us bairns were wae ; 
 We grat what else can bairnies dae 
 When trouble comes? 'Twas sic a fricht, 
 The thocht o' Grannie wantin' sicht ! 
 
 Dispute this truith a' ye wha daur, 
 Things ne'er are got but where they are ; 
 A peal of laughter loud arose 
 The specs were found on Grannie's nose !.' 
 
 7nc Ranging Move. 
 
 True love, unchanging as yon mountain high, 
 
 The sweetest joy the heart hath ever known ; 
 Perhaps betrayed by one small, tiny sigh, 
 
 More precious far because 't is all thine own. 
 Love is not love with a divided throne ; 
 
 It must be all in all before one shrine ; 
 In sweet simplicity it stands alone, 
 
 Like choicest vintage of the juicy vine ; 
 
 Nothing improves so much with age as love and 
 wine. 
 
 Yon maid, whose teens are scarcely yet expired, 
 Unripened beauty budding into form, 
 
 Behold that eye with true affection fired, 
 
 The tender glance how sweet, how kind, how 
 warm !
 
 MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 19 
 
 
 
 Perchance an anxious mother takes alarm, 
 The richness of her cheek bespeaks no good ; 
 
 Precautionary measures do no harm ; 
 
 " Take plenty exercise and wholesome food 
 If these do not give health I do not know what 
 should." 
 
 But, ah,! fond mother, yet how very blind ; 
 
 What ! wilt thou be beneath deception's art ? 
 Hast thou forgot, or art thou not inclined 
 
 To listen to the promptings of the heart ? 
 But at thy peril shun what would impart 
 
 The greatest happiness the life could know. 
 Too late sweet love hath flesh'd his fatal dart ; 
 
 The die is cast, for either joy or woe. 
 
 I would not sport with mine for all on earth below. 
 
 Dfily DfiZct tier's rave. 
 
 What memories crowd around me, as 
 I stand where cowslips wave ; 
 
 O hallowed spot ! most dear of all ; 
 It is my mother's grave.
 
 2O MY MOTHER S GRAVE. 
 
 With mingled feelings, I unbend 
 
 Upon the grassy sod, 
 And meditate, with silent voice, 
 
 Beside death's lone abode. 
 
 Methinks I see the loving look 
 That watched my infant way, 
 
 Again I hear the sweetest voice 
 That taught me how to pray. 
 
 She early on my mind impressed 
 Wherein true greatness lay, 
 
 To sit loose by the things of earth, 
 To walk the narrow way. 
 
 Can I forget the parting scene, 
 The handshake, the good-bye, 
 
 The tryst to meet, when death no more 
 Divides the family tie. 
 
 Sweet mother, dear, can fancy paint 
 
 That hour of raptured joy, 
 You meet me at the Pearly Gate, 
 
 To welcome home your boy.
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 21 
 
 emonam. 
 
 IN LOVING AND AFFECTIONATE MEMORY OF MY DEAR 
 PARENTS, WILLIAM AND MARY PURDIE, WHO 
 DEPARTED THIS LlFE ON THE l8TH AND THE 
 24TH OF JUNE, 1891, RESPECTIVELY, AGED 82 
 AND 74 YEARS. 
 
 They are gone from this weary vale of woe, 
 To a brighter land in the world above, 
 Where the lives that were lovely here below 
 Are made sinless now by the hand of love. 
 
 They are gone from their children here on earth ; 
 They were with us long, but the tie must cease ; 
 May we, as we sit by the lonely hearth, 
 Pray that we, like them, may depart in peace ! 
 
 'T was a happy change, though our grief was great ; 
 The crown, the sweet harp, and the robe of white ; 
 Neither eye nor ear can conceive the state, 
 Or the blissful joys in that land of light. 
 
 They are gone ; may we follow in their train ; 
 
 May we live, renewed by a holy faith, 
 
 So that none be lost, but all meet again, 
 
 In that happy home that shall know not death.
 
 22 BROCKHILL. 
 
 Sweet sheltered spot ! From north, from east, from 
 
 west 
 
 Wild storms may come, but cannot thee molest ; 
 The kindly wood disarms each threatening foe, 
 And stubborn winds, all diadem'd in snow, 
 Deal gently with thee. Here fairest flowers 
 In safety bloom in sweetly shaded bowers ; 
 No frost, unkind, with icy ringers cold, 
 Dare throttle at the pride of Flora's fold. 
 Here genial spring, with mildest balmy dews, 
 Delights to shed the glory of her hues, 
 Where warbling birds, with closely feathered throats, 
 Enchant the hours with mellowest of notes. 
 The primrose stars add beauty to the green, 
 Where loveliness is to perfection seen. 
 
 Sweet residence for twenty years my home 
 Beneath thy roof I wrote my infant poem, 
 And straightway sent it to the local print ; 
 The editor, with heart as hard as flint 
 Although, no doubt, the deed was kindly meant 
 Tormented it with fire. I thanked him not, 
 'Twas charity no author ever sought, 
 But ready found. Yet happily I ween, 
 The dreamy hours beneath its spell have been 
 Long cut off from the world. Now Kittlestrips, 
 The eely road that needed cautious steps, 
 Is pension'd off, a bridge usurps its place.
 
 MEDLEY. 23 
 
 A thing of wire, equilibrium'd with grace, 
 O'erlooks the Ford, where salmon used to spawn, 
 Ere ottered steel conveyed them to the pan, 
 Where they became the wholesome food of man. 
 
 Communication open to the town, 
 
 With Ettrickbridge a suburb of thine own, 
 
 What may'st thou yet become ! Alas, alas, 
 
 Sobriety forbids the random guess. 
 
 O hallow'd spot ! where hottest youth outran 
 
 The boyhood race and slipp'd into the man ; 
 
 Where staidtr joys did calmer warfare wage, 
 
 And gave the love subdued with sober age 
 
 The happy home, where soft endearments bright 
 
 Hedge in the life with Heaven's holy light. 
 
 Sffied&y. 
 
 I climbed the " Braes o' Tullymet," 
 And there I gathered slaes, 
 
 And got acquaint wi' " Delvinside," 
 The king o' a' strathspeys. 
 
 " Sarah Drummond," too, was there, 
 As also was " Miss Lyle," 
 
 And then we entered " Kelvin Grove 
 In happy, first-rate style.
 
 24 MEDLEY. 
 
 'Twas there I met the " Second Wife" 
 O' my auld freend " Neil Gow," 
 
 Next cam' the canty " Miller o' Drone " 
 Wi' his white curly pow. 
 
 " A wee bird cam' tae oor ha' door," 
 Sang " Wae's me for Prince Charlie," 
 
 Syne " Mary Scott " recited ower 
 " The Bonnie hoose o' Airlie." 
 
 Thro' " Loudon's bonnie woods an' braes," 
 Then syne by "Bonnie Doon," 
 
 I went gey near " Within a mile 
 O' Edinburgh toon." 
 
 'Twas here I met the " White Cockade " 
 
 Among a band o' sailors, 
 And "Jack o' Tar," he tripped it clean 
 
 To the " Deil amang the tailors." 
 
 I saw " Tarn Glen " an' " Duncan Gray " 
 
 Beside the bard o' Coila ; 
 " Oil, Nannie wilt thou gang wi' me," 
 
 Said glorious Peter Baillie. 
 
 Syne " Willie brew'd a peck o' maut " 
 
 That played us sic a plisky, 
 We sang gaun thro' the Cromdale Haughs 
 
 " Neil Gow's farewell to whisky."
 
 MEDLEY. 25 
 
 I then gaed ower " Glenorchy's Hills," 
 
 Then doon by " Craigilea," 
 And danced a hoolikin aneath 
 
 The bonnie " Rowan Tree." 
 
 " Schottiches " were the " Sodger's Joy," 
 A " Highland Reel " stood sentry, 
 
 The " Haymakers " and " Riflemen " 
 Tried hard to '' Keep the country." 
 
 But when the bugles a' sang truce, 
 
 " Scotland Yet " cried never ; 
 Then " Triumph " sang " God save the Queen " 
 
 And " Scotland for ever." 
 
 left " The bush aboon Traquair " 
 To see the sweet " Lochaber," 
 For " A' the airts the wind can blaw," 
 There's nought like " Highland heather." 
 
 I saw the "Edinburgh Flowers;" 
 Quo' "Johnny Cope" they're plain, 
 
 " The lass o' Ballochmyle" shook hands 
 \Yi' " Jessie o' Dunblane." 
 
 The auld " Laird o' Cockpen " proposed 
 
 The health o' " Annie Laurie ; " 
 " The lass o' Gowrie " sang fu' sweet 
 
 " The Dowie Dens o' Yarrow."
 
 26 AUTUMN. 
 
 'T was here I first " Miss Fraser" met 
 From " Lovat's bonnie brae," 
 
 Quo' I, " Gin ye will gang wi' me," 
 " By Claudie's stream we'll stray." 
 
 She sank within my arms and cried, 
 
 " Your dearie I will be," 
 Gang " Boon the burn, Davie lad," 
 
 And I shall " Follow thee." 
 
 jj^utumn. 
 
 Again the seared leaf's on the tree, 
 The tint so beautiful to see, 
 Pencilled by artistic nature ; 
 Master touches grace each feature. 
 What painter e'er could mix the paint 
 To shade like thine, however faint ; 
 What artist's eye, however smart, 
 Could imitate thy weakest part ? 
 
 The golden grain on harvest field, 
 A precious load doth plenty yield, 
 Abundant food for man and beast ; 
 Of richest mercies not the least. 
 Sweet, glorious autumn, mellow, wan, 
 In thee we see the life of man ; 
 Youth, manhood, old age, and decay, 
 Like thee we come to pass away.
 
 A MOTHER'S LOVE. 27 
 
 Stftotfiers Move. 
 
 Nae words o' mine can e'er lay bare 
 The sweetness o' a mother's care. 
 The fulness o' a mother's love 
 Is only found in Heaven above. 
 
 When we are sick an' racked wi' pain, 
 Her face brings aye relief again. 
 She kens oor tempers a' sae weel, 
 Nae drugs are like a mother's skeel. 
 
 She watches by oor sick bedside ; 
 Puir body, tears she fain wad hide 
 Come trickling softly doon her cheek, 
 Foreboding fears she canna speak. 
 
 When, through her anxious, eident care, 
 We're able to come doon the stair, 
 How bright she is, joy 's in her e'e 
 Thank God, my bairn is spared to me. 
 
 A mother may a favourite hae 
 When a' are healthy, weel, an' gay ; 
 When trouble comes, when death is near, 
 The bairns are a' to her 'like dear. 
 
 How often can a thocht o' hame 
 A sinfu' life frae vice reclaim : 
 A mother's voice is heard again ; 
 Her teaching has not been in vain
 
 28 A FADED ROSE. 
 
 Jf 
 
 t=f2) 
 
 A faded rose, withered it lay, 
 
 With all its sweetness fled, 
 A beauty that once hung so gay 
 
 Over its thorny bed. 
 Lovely it grew on slender stem, 
 
 Pure as the virgin snow, 
 Treasured now as a priceless gem 
 
 Of the sweet long ago. 
 
 Though time hath mixed the jet black hair, 
 
 And age the frame hath wrung, 
 Remembrance comes with visions fair, 
 
 And all again is young. 
 Beautiful yet, as 't was yon hour 
 
 When joy o'erflowed the brim ; 
 Love is an everlasting flower 
 
 Whose eye time cannot dim. 
 
 (J 
 
 ames 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE MINSTREL." 
 
 Sweet minstrel bard, king of the rural scene 
 
 Where wild flowers grow, and warbling songsters 
 sing
 
 THE MUSE. 29 
 
 With lusty pipe that makes the woodlands ring, 
 Dear to thy heart were all those scenes, I ween ; 
 Love at first sight, as true love aye has been, 
 
 Thy matchless muse in harmony took wing ; 
 
 Rich was the spoil the spoilers home did bring ; 
 Thy faultless ear, so exquisitely keen, 
 
 So ill to please, divorced the bastard rhyme, 
 
 Simplicity gave richness to the line, 
 While dignity and grace the lovely pair 
 
 Watched o'er thy verse with vigilance sublime, 
 
 And wheresoe'er the gems of song doth shine 
 The charming muse of Beattie shall be there. 
 
 DVluse. 
 
 Sweet Ettrick vale, flow on, thou gentle stream, 
 Companion of my early musing years, 
 When rosy hopes were tarnished with sad fears, 
 
 Lest all my joys were an ignoble dream, 
 
 Spoiling the hours in vain to catch the gleam 
 Of hidden sense that ravishes the ears 
 With sparkling wit, with merriment, with tears ; 
 
 Such is the gift. Alas, that mine should seem 
 Unrich in thought, inelegant in line ; 
 And yet, methinks, I were a traitor knave 
 
 Did I renounce the choicest gift of Heaven. 
 Away, base thought. Applause is no real sign 
 
 Of worth : snug in oblivion's murky grave 
 
 Lie many lives to whom much praise was given.
 
 3O LINES TO A LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Js>ines fo a 
 
 True to all who pass thee by, 
 Thou vvert never known to lie. 
 Though the tongue of mortal slips, 
 Truth is ever on thy lips. 
 
 Men may lie and men may swear 
 Falsely for the love of gear ; 
 Thou art of an honest tribe, 
 Worlds could not thy honour bribe. 
 
 Thou dost show the lovely bride 
 In perfection's loyal pride, 
 While, alas ! the face so plain 
 Sees its counterpart again. 
 
 How extensive is thy rule 
 King and noble, knave and fool, 
 All to thee obeisance pay 
 Universal is thy sway. 
 
 Hung in lofty palace hall, 
 Seen on humblest cottage wall ; 
 Matron, maiden, man, and boy, 
 Find in thee a thing of joy. 
 
 When the youth begins to shave ; 
 He becomes thy abject slave ; 
 Anxiously thy face he scans, 
 To improve his looks he plans.
 
 THE ARMENIAN MASSACRES. 3! 
 
 Sons of science loudly call, 
 Theories are put to the wall. 
 Empires stand and empires fall, 
 Yet thou shalt outlive them all. 
 
 rmeman JOlassacres. 
 
 Will Britain draw the sword, or will she not ? 
 That is the question waiting answer now ; 
 Concert of Europe ! 't is a hollow sham ; 
 Humanity outraged demands redress 
 For murdered mothers, and the sweeter babe 
 Tossed on the cruel steel. Will none arise 
 In rightful wrath to stem the crimson flow ? 
 Call it not war 't is but a Christian deed 
 To free the slave and break the tyrant's power. 
 Oh ! mighty Britain ! Armenia looks to thee 
 With tearful eyes ; turn not thy face away ; 
 Right on our side, what nation need we fear ? 
 Success shall smile on our triumphant cause, 
 And despots feel the vengeance of their crimes.
 
 32 A SCOTCH TRIBUTE TO WILLIAM WATSON. 
 
 J[ ScotcK ftriGute to fflittiam <Wafson. 
 
 Most noble bard, I early loved thy song, 
 So daint'ly phrased and exquisitely turned, 
 Where rich and sweet poetic fancy burned, 
 That heaved thy name high in the gifted throng 
 Th' immortal ones. More proud ye are among 
 The noble ones who have compassion learned 
 For human woes, and cruelty have spurned. 
 Can ever war be either bad or wrong 
 Waged in the cause of precious liberty ? 
 
 Well done, sweet bard, thy fame shall never die 
 The persecuted in yon Eastern land 
 Shall bless thy name in holy fervency. 
 
 Great thy reward, if not on earth, on high 
 At Heaven's bar, where all shall one day stand. 
 
 Pure snowdrop, first of Flora's train 
 To brave the wintry spring, 
 
 Brief herald of the leafless plain, 
 What tidings dost thou bring ? 
 
 Thou hast survived the blighting east, 
 
 The deadness of the year, 
 Appearing, when expected least, 
 
 The heart of man to cheer.
 
 WEE JIM. 33 
 
 When other gems beneath the clod 
 
 Unconscious slumbering lie, 
 Thy snowy bosom breasts the sod 
 
 The earth to glorify. 
 
 Thou com'st when earth is bleak and bare, 
 
 A miracle of God, 
 Sufficient to dissolve in air 
 
 The sceptic aad his code. 
 
 Thou bring'st a message from the dead, 
 
 An echo from the grave 
 The soul shall incorruption wed, 
 
 And life immortal have. 
 
 When sad with grief, harassed with care, 
 
 Our hearts with sorrow blent, 
 We note thy meek, submissive air, 
 
 And learn to be content. 
 
 j/r 
 
 im. 
 
 He cam oor ingle side to grace, 
 A bonny bairn wi' chubby face, 
 And een sae innocent and bluie 
 
 Had little Jim. 
 His mother's pet, the laddie grew 
 
 A roguish limb, 
 c
 
 34 WEE JIM. 
 
 He creepit, then began to walk, 
 
 An' syne wi' faither raised the crack ; 
 
 He askit quastions unco deep 
 
 On subjects dim ; 
 I had to lay my brains asteep 
 
 To answer him. 
 
 He thrave an' grew a sturdy loon, 
 
 The foremost laddie in the toon ; 
 
 When fechts took place Jim aye was there 
 
 Withooten doot, 
 To see that justice fair an' square 
 
 Was ladled oot. 
 
 The lad was clever, smert, an' gleg ; 
 
 His mother spae'd a future big 
 
 Wi' hope, that he micht some day reach 
 
 The tapmaist bough 
 Or in a poopit stand an' preach, 
 
 And wag his pow. 
 
 But daith cam. 'Tis the human lot, 
 
 And wee Jim left the family cot 
 
 For faulds mair bieldy, where the lambs 
 
 Are safe wi' Him 
 Whose gentle voice the storm calms 
 
 To shelter them.
 
 LORD DALKEITH'S MARRIAGE. 35 
 
 From Liddesdale to sweet Bowhill, 
 
 Drumlanrig to Clydeside, 
 All wish prosperity, goodwill 
 
 To Dalkeith and his bride. 
 
 Our hearts with love are flowing wide 
 
 Upon this bridal morn ; 
 May health and joy on every side 
 
 Their future home adorn ! 
 
 May smiling fortune, rosy, bright, 
 With flowers their path bestrew, 
 
 And every gift with love unite 
 To bless the House Buccleuch ! 
 
 The clanship feeling still persists 
 
 To live in Ettrick's core ; 
 The love of chieftain still exists 
 
 Strong 's in the days of yore, 
 
 When bold Buccleuch of memory green 
 
 To Willie's * rescue flew, 
 And taught Elizabeth, I ween, 
 
 What brave men dared to do. 
 
 O may it ever be our lot 
 
 To have a Dalkeith true 
 Heir to the noble line of Scott, 
 
 The Ducal House Buccleuch. 
 * Kinmont Willie.
 
 36 IN MEMORIAM W. DALGLEISH, POTBURN. 
 
 In 
 
 Bring me a bunch of violets wild 
 
 From the burnside where the primrose grows, 
 To lay on the grave of the youthful bard 
 
 That lived and died where the Ettrick flows. 
 
 Bring me a lily, pure and white, 
 
 And a sweet moss rose of freshest bloom, 
 
 With a heather sprig from his native hills 
 Most royal wreath for a poet's tomb. 
 
 Bring me a bit of yellow broom, 
 
 And a blossom'd twig of hawthorn spray ; 
 
 I lovingly gaze on his favourite, flowers, 
 And sadly repeat his sweetest lay. 
 
 Unstring the harp. The singer sleeps 
 
 'Neath Ettrick Pen, where the wild wind blows; 
 The turmoil of life he hath left behind 
 
 For the grave's serene and calm repose. 
 
 Dfflemoriam Doctor 
 
 An old familiar form is gone, 
 
 A face we loved to see, 
 While Yarrow's hills still gaze upon 
 
 Life's mortal destiny.
 
 IN MEMORIAM DR SHAW. 37 
 
 No more shall Yarrow's stream serene, 
 
 Nor solitary dell 
 By lone St Mary's, wild Loch Skene, 
 
 Which tourists haunt so well, 
 
 Behold the man who laughed to scorn 
 
 The wildest winter day, 
 As staff in hand at early morn 
 
 He trudged his weary way ; 
 
 That racking pain he might relieve 
 
 And I have heard him say 
 Although no fee he did receive, 
 
 True thanks were ample pay. 
 
 With cunning hand and judgment sound, 
 
 By either night or day, 
 The efficacious drug he found 
 
 That charmed disease away. 
 
 The healing art, I am assured, 
 
 Hath lost a clever son, 
 Whose modesty would fain obscured 
 
 The triumphs he had won. 
 
 So kindly by the fever bed 
 
 For hours he would attend, 
 And oft remained while others fled 
 
 The sympathising friend.
 
 38 SONNET TREACHERY. 
 
 Yes, he had faults, but who has not ? 
 
 He who is best may say ; 
 But time shall cherish a green spot 
 
 For him that is away. 
 
 Sonnef ^reac fiery. 
 
 Treachery, the most odious crime in 
 
 All the catalogue of human vices. 
 
 I can forgive a multitude of faults, 
 
 I can overlook innumerable 
 
 Failings. All men are liable to err. 
 
 All have come far short of being perfect. 
 
 I can forgive almost every crime, but 
 
 Foul treachery is unpardonable. 
 
 That man is a reptile in human shape 
 
 Who, under the mean disguise of friendship, 
 
 Works upon the feelings of his friend, till 
 
 He has gained his confidence, then betrays 
 
 Him at the first opportunity. I 
 
 Shun that man as I would a pestilence 
 
 Contamination is in his touch. His 
 
 Breath 's more poisonous than the deadly plague. 
 
 That man's soul, I say, is lost to honour ; 
 
 He knows nothing of the dignity of 
 
 Man. His life is but a living falsehood.
 
 A MITHER'S SANG. 39 
 
 With him self-respect has no connection. 
 Give me a man on whom I can depend, 
 Yea, even though he had a thousand faults, 
 This one virtue redeems them all. Whose pulse 
 Beats steady as the stroke of the piston 
 Of a well-regulated engine. Vice 
 Has its degrees of wickedness, even 
 As virtue has degrees of excellence ; 
 But of all the devilish inventions, whose 
 Evils have for six thousand years harassed 
 A world, and whose discovery alone 
 Rests with responsible men, treachery 
 For pure rank villainy appals them all. 
 
 J[ DVZitfier's Sang. 
 
 DEDICATED TO "SURFACEMAN." 
 
 My bairnies sweet, I will sing a sang 
 
 Wi' a tune ye like to hear ; 
 I '11 lilt it ower i' the Scottish tongue 
 
 That 's sae pleasin' to the ear. 
 
 I '11 sing it wi' a' a mither's pride, 
 Tho' the heart's dew dims my e'e, 
 
 Thinking when ye shall be scattered wide 
 Frae the dear auld hame an' me.
 
 40 A MITHER S SANG. 
 
 There 's Tam, when he 's grown to be a man, 
 Like his faither strong an' brave, 
 
 The battle o' life he '11 nobly plan 
 An' fecht it among the lave. 
 
 Wee Rab, the loon wi' the cunning e'e 
 Wha kens what he yet may dae ? 
 
 Wha kens but he yet may tap the tree 
 An' the formaist fiddle play ? 
 
 An' Jim, wi' the bonny curly heid, 
 Wha sleeps at the wa' sae soun', 
 
 Has maybe dreams o' the Muse's glead 
 O' the poet's sweetest croon. 
 
 An' Jenny, nae higher thochts for you 
 
 Ever come within my mind, 
 Than you be a woman kind and true, 
 
 An' to virtue's path inclined. 
 
 Noo, bairnies, strip, an' your prayers say 
 Ere ye cuddle doon for the nicht ; 
 
 An' God shall protect you on life's way 
 If ye always do the richt.
 
 SUMMER. 41 
 
 Summer. 
 
 Now summer comes clad in a wreath of flowers, 
 And beauty decks the bonny woodland bowers, 
 
 Where lovers sit and whisper future joys, 
 When love shall gild the ever cloudless skies. 
 
 The spreading beech o'erlaps the peaceful scene, 
 The primrose stars add glory to the green ; 
 
 Sweet whistling birds from every twig and spray 
 More charming make the gladsome summer day. 
 
 Now softer winds from off the sunny south 
 Blow pleasantly to nurse the tender youth ; 
 
 The summer skies spread out a sheet of blue, 
 And warmer suns dispel the early dew. 
 
 Gay summer, gayest of the seasons all, 
 How soft and light thy airy footsteps fall ; 
 
 We hail with joy the time when thou dost send 
 Thy gifts abroad to beautify our land. 
 
 Jfobe. 
 
 oS5 ' 
 
 The human mind is a garden, wherein 
 Flowers and weeds intermingled grow ; 
 Water'd by faith the tender buds spring forth, 
 Their nourishment drawn from the healthy vein 
 Of love. They flourish and abound in joy,
 
 42 SONNET HOPE. 
 
 Yet hope is the gardener, by whose aid 
 The reward is made sure. Man's existence 
 On earth were but a punishment unless 
 Hope brightened the prospects of the future. 
 The working man hopes some day to be rich, 
 The rich man hopes he may be richer still, 
 The maiden hopes to wed the man she loves. 
 Life is thus sweeten'd at no one's expense ; 
 All the energies of the human mind 
 Are roused to action. Life is ennobled, 
 The sharp spur of victory is driven home 
 Into the jaded ribs of idleness. 
 Hopeful of success, efforts are renewed 
 With redoubled fury, the pulse beats high, 
 Every nerve vibrates strong under the strain. 
 Daily toil becomes indeed a pleasure, 
 The proud belted earl is not envied. Why ? 
 The ploughman with hope is as rich as he. 
 Happiness is not measured by wealth, nor 
 Is contentment always the rich man's friend. 
 A good conscience is a safe companion ; 
 Thrice happy the man who has possession 
 Of such a treasure. That man is a king. 
 Hope worketh thus as a strong medicine 
 To keep the machinery in order, 
 Else one part did not do its duty to 
 Correspond harmoniously with the 
 Working of another part. Hope kills the 
 Rust of laziness, polishes afresh 
 Those glorious jewels, heart, soul, and mind.
 
 SONNET LOVE. 43 
 
 Sonnet Move: 
 
 Love, the sweetest word in all our language, 
 
 No word can give a right definition, 
 Or a true meaning of that one word love ; 
 
 In the dictionary it stands unique, 
 Sweetest spring of all in the human breast, 
 
 Thy waters are ever pure ; thy fountain, 
 The heart, is never tainted with passions 
 
 Those bitters that disgrace humanity. 
 Thy very name is amply sufficient 
 
 To recommend without certificate 
 The beautiful queen of all the graces, 
 
 Thy string is never discordant. Never 
 Harsh the tone of thy sweet musical lyre, 
 
 Peace and joy are thy bosom comrades, life 
 Is blest by thy hallowing influence. 
 
 The coy maid acting under thy potent 
 Spell, gives her heart away once and for all, 
 
 Henceforth she lives for another ; those sweet 
 Kyes unconsciously divulge her secret ; 
 
 On her cheek the rose and lily play at 
 Hide and seek ; the least sound startles her, the 
 
 Voice of her darling is the sweetest sound 
 She ever heard ; yes, she is supremely 
 
 Happy. Oh, who that has ever tasted 
 Truly of the fresh waters of first love 
 
 Ever drinks with the same relish again. 
 What power cannot do, love can accomplish ; 
 
 Is there a task too hard for love to do ?
 
 44 SONNET LIBERTY. 
 
 Love melts the treacherous ice of friendship, 
 Love is the most potent power in the world. 
 
 In all her dealings she hath no revenge. 
 
 Through love we live, move, and have our being ; 
 
 Through love we are happy now, and through love 
 A glorious hereafter is made sure. 
 
 Sonnet Jsi6erty. 
 
 How grand and great a boon is liberty ; 
 No freeman knows the value of it. Why ? 
 Because he never knew the want of it. 
 Ask the slave what freedom means ; will he be 
 Able to tell you ? Ah, I guess he will. 
 Goaded to death by a hard taskmaster ; 
 The loaded whip his daily companion ; 
 Would he not have sense enough to know that 
 Liberty meant redemption from all his 
 Hardships, and elevation to comfort ? 
 It were madness to imagine ought else. 
 How glorious is the privilege that 
 We free born Britons enjoy ! We can walk 
 Abroad on this beautiful earth of ours, 
 And meditate on all the beauties of 
 Creation ; we hear the birds singing their 
 Morning hymn of praise ; we see the fragrant 
 Flowers unfolding their sweetness every hour,
 
 SONNET HEALTH. 45 
 
 And worshipping the God that made them in 
 
 Silent adoration ; we see the snow 
 
 In winter in its unapproachable 
 
 Whiteness, covering the earth in beauty ; 
 
 We see the spring emerging from the womb, 
 
 Diffusing a glorious animation 
 
 On all the land. Can we see all this and 
 
 Be insensible to the blessings we 
 
 Daily enjoy, compared with the lot of 
 
 Others ? Oh, may my soul be stirred within 
 
 Me to give thanks to the Great Author of 
 
 Them all ! Freedom, what a blessing thou art ; 
 
 The tongue of man is inadequate to 
 
 Name thy joys ; thou feed'st the heart with sweetest 
 
 Nurture ; the springs of life, when poisoned with 
 
 Oppression, regain their elasticity 
 
 At the sacred fountain of liberty. 
 
 Liberty and health, twin sisters of joy, 
 
 What more doth a man require than them 
 
 To live ; yea, to live wisely, pure, and well. 
 
 Sonnet Jfeattfi. 
 
 Oh, how glorious is youthful manhood 
 
 In all the vigour of its juicy prime ; 
 
 Oh, weak, puny man stretched on the bed of 
 
 Sickness, torn with agonising pain, when 
 
 Thou wert in health thou thought'st lightly of it.
 
 46 SONNET HEALTH. 
 
 What wouldst thou not give to be strong again ? 
 
 Worlds if thou hadst them to give were too small 
 
 An offering to give in exchange for health. 
 
 Yet worlds cannot buy it. Young man, wilt thou 
 
 Take advice ? No, thou art too conceited ; 
 
 " Let me alone," cries the worldling ; " I know 
 
 Well enough without any intermeddling 
 
 How to govern my life. Stand back ; what right 
 
 have 
 
 You to interfere with me and disturb 
 My enjoyments ? " Oh, young man, I would plead 
 With thee, despise not the voice of wisdom ; 
 Thou hast no wish to die before thy time 
 Life is sweet to you, to me, and all God's 
 Creatures. To die is the last of our thoughts, 
 But die we must. Clay must to clay return. 
 But abuse not the greatest gift which an 
 All-wise and merciful Creator in 
 His infinite wisdom and goodness hath 
 Bestowed on man. Once more I say " Take care; " 
 I know well enough the fascinating 
 Allurements of youth ; I have been young 
 Myself; I 've no wish to judge you harshly. 
 Set your compass at sobriety, and 
 See that the needle remains undisturbed ; 
 Be temperate in all thy enjoyments, 
 Lest Nature, outraged, shall have her revenge. 
 See yon young man in the full flush of health 
 Strong is the muscle of his brawny arm, 
 Bright is the sparkle of his clear blue eye,
 
 IN MEMORIAM GOUGH. 47 
 
 The stethoscope gives no indication 
 
 Of danger to the practised ear. Why ? 
 
 Health is delineated on every 
 
 Feature; doctors' drugs have no charm for him. 
 
 The beauty of a young man is his strength. 
 
 The favours of kings, what are they ? Trifles. 
 
 Oh, earth, thou hast no blessing like good health. 
 
 iam (jgougfi. 
 
 The great apostle of temperance is 
 
 No more. If a grateful nation showers its 
 
 Laurels upon the man expert in war, 
 
 What honours are too great for the man whose 
 
 Highest aim is the people's good ? Gough was 
 
 A hero. A hero, did I say ? Yea, 
 
 He was something more. He was a hero 
 
 Of heroes. His message to men was peace. 
 
 And how did he fulfil it ? Nobly. Oh, 
 
 How nobly did he plead the cause he had 
 
 So much at heart ; his eloquence carried 
 
 The barbed arrows of conviction home, and 
 
 Thousands were redeemed from slavery. 
 
 He sleeps now ; but we grudge him not his rest. 
 
 He is gone ; but he has left behind him 
 
 The richest of legacies a good name.
 
 48 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 Can a man forget his first and early 
 
 Love ? Can the sweet dream of youth be consigned 
 
 To oblivion ? Can that sweet passion that 
 
 Awoke in his breast all that was sweetly 
 
 Human, and made him a man in spite of 
 
 Himself, be remembered no more ? Never. 
 
 Oh, never, can the violet eyes of her 
 
 Who first taught me the way to love, lose their 
 
 Sweetness. Neither can their wistful gaze 
 
 Ever be effaced from my memory. 
 
 That look that told me so much can never 
 
 Die. 'Tis photographed for eternity. 
 
 Long years have rolled by since I bade my first 
 
 Love adieu. With glistening eyes we parted. 
 
 Henceforth from that day life lost its brightness. 
 
 But why speak I of it ? 'T were treason to 
 
 Lift the veil even for a moment. To 
 
 Me she is as sweet and dear as that hour 
 
 We first embraced. Tell me not, for I will 
 
 Not believe it, that first love is a boy's 
 
 Delusion. Go and whisper it to the 
 
 Babbling crowd, who know no better, but stand 
 
 Back from me, for I scorn your doctrine. It 
 
 Is poison to my soul. 
 
 And what a small thing separates lovers ! 
 
 A lover's quarrel can be healed, but the 
 
 Wound leaves a mark. There is a grief 
 
 That mars the joy even in its happiest hours.
 
 TRUTH. 49 
 
 The great enemy of the human race 
 
 Is a miserable, malicious lie. 
 
 Aye speak the truth, the honest, naked truth. 
 
 Who can estimate the priceless value 
 
 Of a pure conscience, void of all offence ? 
 
 Integrity 's the mainspring of manhood. 
 
 As the safety of a ship depends on 
 
 The ability of the commander, 
 
 So does the happiness of human life 
 
 On the principle that rules its actions. 
 
 Sow tares, and thou shall reap accordingly. 
 
 Where is the man that has not sense enough 
 
 To know that the making or marring of 
 
 His life, either for here or hereafter, 
 
 Is entrusted to no one but himself? 
 
 Look well, O man, that thou judgest wisely ; 
 
 Load not thy understanding with theories. 
 
 One good deed nobly and faithfully done 
 
 'S worth more than a thousand good intentions 
 
 Promised ; plann'd often, but never fulfilled. 
 
 How beautiful a thing it is to speak 
 
 The truth ! Truth makes man more noble still. 
 
 Vow not at all if thou canst not perform. 
 
 I would rather be called a coward than 
 
 A liar. The shafts of envy cannot 
 
 Damage the cause of truth. Triumphantly 
 
 It stands secure amidst a host of foes.
 
 50 SONNET TRUE LOVE. 
 
 Sonnet ^rn 
 
 True love comes only once in a lifetime : 
 
 Men and women may have passing fancies, 
 
 But call them not by the sweet name of love. 
 
 Have I aught to gain by telling lies ? No, 
 
 But a great deal to lose. Hear, then, the truth ; 
 
 I am regardless of contradiction ; 
 
 I care neither for the praise of men nor 
 
 The scoffing jeers of a sceptical world. 
 
 The poet who at some great lordling's feet 
 
 Would bow and cringe for favour is a slave, 
 
 Even to himself, and is unworthy 
 
 The name of bard. I pity the poor wretch 
 
 Who for patronage prostitutes his muse 
 
 God's noblest gift to man. Yet there are such 
 
 Who speak not truth because it might offend. 
 
 Flattery, how detestable thou art, 
 
 With thy oily tongue and honey'd phrases ! 
 
 Deception your daily occupation, 
 
 You become an adept at deceiving. 
 
 But thou shalt not cheat me, thou base villain ; 
 
 I shall clip thy tongue with the shears of truth, 
 
 And close crop thy ears with the hedge-knife of 
 
 Justice. Think'st thou I am not in earnest ? 
 
 Begone, mean hound, else my furious muse 
 
 Lash thy dirty carcase to within an 
 
 Inch of thy life. Are there more loves than one ? 
 
 There is but only one true, perfect love ; 
 
 He or she who loves once never loves more,
 
 MY FIRST RUN. 5! 
 
 Because they have no love to give. The fire 
 That once so sweetly glowed in the furnace 
 Of the heart has consumed all the fuel ; 
 There is nothing left but sacred ashes 
 Inurned in the cemetery of the mind, 
 Never more to be rekindled this side 
 The grave. Oh, how sweet is the sensation 
 We feel when under the spell of first love. 
 To the man intoxicated with love 
 Adam has never fallen ; he sees nothing 
 But beauty, glorious beauty, around him ; 
 He hears not the harsh sounds of a busy 
 World ; earth is a perfect elysium 
 He is virtually in Paradise. 
 
 Jirst 
 
 nn. 
 
 The dying sun shone sweet and cool, 
 The ripplets danced upon the pool 
 Below the Loup ; * the fishers gay 
 Had plied their rods the lee lang day 
 Without success ; when, lo, a scream 
 " He's hook't 'im " ran along the stream. 
 The talking groups forgot their theme, 
 The creed of politics was tame 
 To sport like this. With trembling hand 
 I deftly held my lancewood wand ; 
 
 * A famous salmon rest in Ettrick.
 
 52 MY FIRST RUN. 
 
 Large drops of sweat broke o'er my brow, 
 
 My heart beat as 't would beat right through. 
 
 Each looker-on, with anxious face, 
 
 Gave good advice, with serious grace, 
 
 How I should act. The mighty fish 
 
 Wheeled madly with a sudden splash, 
 
 And cleft the waters with a dash 
 
 That made the foam recoil. The reel, 
 
 Upon its smooth revolving wheel, 
 
 Swiftly spun out the corded line 
 
 With regularity how fine ! 
 
 The music, how it jerried on 
 
 Until the length was nearly done ; 
 
 Now back, now forward, time about, 
 
 Now winding up, now plying out. 
 
 The final struggle now began, 
 
 Which proves the science of the man. 
 
 Steady, now came the tug of war, 
 
 Wild in its course as comet star, 
 
 Fleet as the racehorse on the plain, 
 
 Or gallant ship upon the main, 
 
 It ploughed the stream with furious strife 
 
 In its grand and noble race for life. 
 
 Checked in its wild career, the pain 
 
 Of the otter'd hook made more plain 
 
 By the sure, steady, constant strain 
 
 Of the trusty line, the great fish 
 
 Gave a plunge, then a sullen splash, 
 
 And all was o'er. Worn out it lay 
 
 With side upturned upon the spray.
 
 SONNET PRIDE. 53 
 
 " Wind up now gently for the side, 
 I'll land 'im for you," some one cried ; 
 With napkin firm rolled round his hand, 
 A splendid fish lay on dry land, 
 Amid loud cheers of " Grandly done," 
 Cheers that proclaimed my spurs were won, 
 I finished my first salmon run. 
 
 Sonnet &ride. 
 
 Of all the privileged evils that disgrace 
 Society, pride is by far the worst. 
 What care I for the monied millionaire, 
 With his purse-proud looks and lofty bearing ? 
 Nature has been as kind to me as him ; 
 He, like myself, is only mortal. Chance 
 Or fortune may have lined his pouches with 
 Yellow sovereigns, and mine with poverty, 
 But what of that ? The fountain of honour 
 Springs not from titles, neither hath virtue 
 Her dwelling exclusively in mammon. 
 She is as bright an ornament in the 
 Cottage hall as in the royal palace. 
 I detest pride above every evil ; 
 Allied with poverty 't is disgusting. 
 5 Tis a canker worm in the human heart,
 
 54- SONNET PRIDE. 
 
 Eating the beauty out of our nature 
 
 By its selfish abominableness. 
 
 A poor earth worm puffd up with pride is as 
 
 Sorrowful a sight as can be witnessed. 
 
 The narrow mansion destined for his couch 
 
 Knows no respect of persons. Vanity 
 
 Of vanities, the mind is still the man. 
 
 I may lose good opportunities of 
 
 Worldly advancement by being too frank 
 
 With my opinions. Well, let it be so. 
 
 'Tis my choice, and my conscience is my own. 
 
 I would not touch my hat in passing, and 
 
 Say good morning, sir, to a gentleman 
 
 Because a coronet adorn'd his brow. 
 
 I do it out of respect for the man, 
 
 And not the coat he wears. Gold is useful, 
 
 But love can procure what wealth ne'er could buy. 
 
 I would not have people to make themselves 
 
 Too cheap. I love to see a nice sense of 
 
 Honour, and a judicious self-esteem. 
 
 Independence is good, but, my brother 
 
 And sister, there is a happy medium. 
 
 Exalt not thyself, O man, for the proud 
 
 Shall be brought low, and the haughty humbled. 
 
 A little pride will do no harm, but see 
 
 That you make it the handmaid of prudence.
 
 SONNET WAR. 55 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 War ! what a dire calamity thou art, 
 The curse of nations and the sport of kings ; 
 The cruel bayonet stabs, the sabre cleaves, 
 The thundering cannon spews its deadly hail, 
 Men fall like leaves on a frosty morning. 
 The fountains of blood are opened, and the 
 Earth is steeped with that rich element that 
 Constitutes the life of man. The battle- 
 Field presents a sickening sight, the groans of 
 The dying, the fierce agonies of the 
 Wounded, as if all the fiends of hell were 
 Let loose at once. And this is " glory ! " 
 Peaceful hamlets are ransacked and plundered, 
 The useful art of husbandry is checked, 
 The fruitful fields are turned into a vast 
 Sea of carnage. Oh, infernal war, how 
 Bloody are thy evils ! The widow mourns 
 The loss of a darling husband, and the 
 Sweet infant prattling at its mother's knee, 
 By one cruel stroke, is orphaned for life. 
 The modest maid whose gallant lover is 
 A lodger in the tented field, knows well 
 That she has to depend on the chance of 
 War for the consummation of that bliss 
 Which shall complete her earthly happiness. 
 Oh, that nations would live in harmony !
 
 56 SONNET SINCERITY. 
 
 Oh, for that good time when man shall clasp the 
 Hand of brother man, and peace, glorious 
 Peace, reign omnipotent o'er all the earth, 
 When every man shall sit under his own 
 Fig tree, none daring to make him afraid ! 
 
 Sonnet Sincerity. 
 
 Oh, for the good name of an honest man ! 
 That man is a hero, braver far than 
 He who risks his life at the cannon's mouth, 
 Honours more great than all the spoils of war, 
 Laurels more bright than e'en the victor's crown 
 Are his by right. Creation's noblest work. 
 Whose soul abhors a base and shameful lie, 
 Whose every word 's as binding as his bond ; 
 That man wields a power kings sigh for in vain. 
 To see him is only but to love him, 
 To know him is only but to trust him. 
 I would not give two straws for that man 
 Who would argue an opinion which he 
 Knew was false, opposed to principle and 
 Reason, which even hardened conscience 
 Did righteously condemn. Give me a man 
 Who will sternly stand to his convictions 
 Truthfully, without either fear or favour ; 
 Whose structure is built on solid justice,
 
 SONNET LEARNING. 57 
 
 Not animated by fierce contention ; 
 Not arguing just for argument's sake, 
 But to aid the cause of glorious truth. 
 Sincerity, how glorious is thy fame ! 
 As firm and enduring as time itself, 
 Thou shalt withstand the decay of ages. 
 Empires may totter, crumble into dust, 
 And be but things of the past. Mighty time, 
 The remorseless destroyer, may do this; 
 Yet thou shalt remain triumphant, and shine 
 Brilliant as the beautiful stars of heaven 
 That crown the glory of the Milky Way. 
 
 Sonnet <>ea rning. 
 
 How eloquent is the man of learning ; 
 
 He is an intellectual giant : 
 
 That man towers tar above the man whose speech 
 
 Is unadorned. There is no royal road 
 
 To the palatial mansion of wisdom, 
 
 Wherein dwells that priceless jewel, knowledge. 
 
 The ladder is steep and ill to climb, but 
 
 When once the top is reached, how sweet the joy 
 
 The climber feels that now his toils are o'er. 
 
 The traveller on the desert plain feels all 
 
 The pangs of thirst. Wearied, still plodding on, 
 
 He gains the spring that cools his thirsty soul,
 
 58 THE STORM, 1895. 
 
 And rests awhile ; then with renewed strength 
 He starts refreshed, and safely wins the goal. 
 Oh, glorious knowledge, how excellent are 
 All thy pleasant fruits, how sweet thy dainties, 
 Yet thricely bitter if they are abused. 
 Far better never to have known at ail 
 Than know and do the sin, however small. 
 Experience is the great boarding school, 
 Wherein wisdom is taught, but the school fees 
 Are heavy, and gold may be bought too dear ; 
 Still the knowledge that is bought hath greater 
 Value in the purchaser's eyes than that 
 Instruction which can be got for nothing, 
 And with which the market is overstocked. 
 When a boy at school, what a hardship I 
 Thought it was to learn my task ; suffice be 
 It to say since then I have had ample 
 Opportunities for discovering 
 The huge mistake I made. Regret is vain 
 I lost the chance that never comes again. 
 
 gtorm, 
 
 The Ice King reigns on his mighty throne, 
 Majestic, strong as a king should be ; 
 
 The snow lies deep, while the suffering poor 
 Are hungering sore in their poverty.
 
 THE STORM, 1895. 59 
 
 The rich man sits in his cosy room, 
 Surveys the frost with a cheerful eye ; 
 
 He always knows of a well-cooked meal, 
 It matters not how the snowflakes fly. 
 
 The sharp-teethed wind from the surly east, 
 That cuts through the garment thin and bare, 
 
 He feels it not, for the fur-lined coat 
 Can foil with ease the assailing air. 
 
 I don't believe in the catching theme, 
 
 So deftly taught by mistaken men, 
 Of equal rights, and a common purse 
 
 Each night would see a "divide " again. 
 
 But I sometimes think of the man of wealth, 
 And what laurels bright he might have won, 
 
 For one day he '11 find, to his heavy cost, 
 He did not do what he should have done. 
 
 The poor must live, and the time is now 
 When human love should be freely given ; 
 
 If the deed brings no reward on earth, 
 It shall be richly repaid in heaven.
 
 60 THE AULD FIRESIDE. 
 
 fireside. 
 
 What changes hae ta'en place wi' a', 
 
 Changes far-reaching, wide, 
 Since youth upon us lichtly sat 
 When we were bonnie bairnies at 
 The auld fireside. 
 
 When prayers a' were duly said, 
 
 With what affection, pride, 
 Sweet mother kissed each darlin' babe, 
 And laid us snugly in oor crib 
 'Yont the fireside. 
 
 She bade us hae a fear o' guid, 
 
 And in the Lord confide, 
 And we would never gang astray, 
 Though time might take us far away 
 
 From the fireside. 
 
 Baith faither, mother, noo are gane 
 
 To swell the unseen tide : 
 Life's battles we have had to fight, 
 Smoothed by the halo of the light 
 
 O' yon fireside. 
 
 Though we hae hames noo o' oor ain, 
 
 A dear wife by oor side, 
 And other happiness we 've found, 
 Nae joys can be the joys around 
 
 The auld fireside.
 
 ONLY AN ORPHAN BOY. 6l 
 
 Qnlij an Qrpfian &0y. 
 
 Be kind to the laddie that comes to your door, 
 Barefit an' raggit an' wandering his lane ; 
 And gi'e him a piece frae your weel plenished store, 
 Wha filled your meal ark can renew it again. 
 
 Turn not on your heel wi' a jibe an' a sneer, 
 Be gentle and tender, 'twill soften his care ; 
 In doing so an angel some day may appear, 
 Perhaps entertain one an' not be aware. 
 
 Ye ken na yoursel' what yer ain yet may need, 
 Ye ken na the road yer ain yet may gang ; 
 Oh, dinna be saucy an toss up yer heid, 
 'T is often the best that gang aye farest wrang. 
 
 To him the sweet name o' a kind mother dear, 
 The comforts and sweets o' a cosy wee hame, 
 Is a language unkenned to the puir laddie's ear : 
 He's heard o' sic things, but he never knew them. 
 
 Oh, wha could be harsh to a bonnie wee bairn ? 
 Oh, wha to its cry could e'er turn a deaf ear ? 
 Yet some hae a heart that is caulder than airn, 
 And self is the god that they worship sincere. 
 
 Let us be freendly ilk ane to each other, 
 Let 's help aye oor neebor as far as we can ; 
 The lowest an' meanest is still aye my brother, 
 He's stamped wi' the image and likeness o' man.
 
 62 " THE MARCH OF THE CAMERON MEN.' 
 
 Remember that God a' oor actions does see, 
 Wha lends to the Lord never lendeth in vain ; 
 And think o' the joys that kind sympathies gi'e 
 To the heart that 's forlorn and aching wi' pain. 
 
 Let oor actions be just, oor intentions sincere, 
 
 Let us always dae richt though the crowd may dae 
 
 wrang ; 
 
 And at last we '11 know joys that are purer, more dear, 
 And sing a far sweeter and holier sang. 
 
 n Dfilemory of the J^utfioress of tfie 
 JKarch of tfie Cameron 
 
 Another sweet singer has crossed that bourne 
 From whence no traveller returns. Gifted 
 As she highly was with the voice of song, 
 She has left behind her at least one which 
 Cannot die "The March of the Cameron Men." 
 We mopm for the irreparable loss ; 
 Poesy weeps o'er her honoured daughter's 
 Bier. Yet we are happy in the thought that 
 She has left earth's bliss for joys more refined ; 
 That now a brighter crown than earth could give 
 Adorns her lovely brow, that she now sings 
 A sweeter song than ever she did here.
 
 IN MEMORIAM LORD RANDOLPH CHURCHILL. 63 
 
 In Dftlemoriam Jpord ^jfcmdofyfi C 
 
 Another gap. Brave Randolph 's now no'more 
 As brave a man as ever mother bore ; 
 And England mourns a son she proudly loved. 
 No statesman's death for many, many- years 
 Has drawn forth such multitudes of tears 
 From high and low. A nation's heart is moved. 
 
 In joy we watched the brilliant life begun ; 
 We saw it close before the prize was won, 
 Yet much is left that history shall pen. 
 By accident of birth, a noble lord, 
 His gifts were such as amply could afford 
 To scorn that rank that ne'er ennobles men. 
 
 So noble, young ! We think what might have been 
 So possible ; and yet, methinks, I ween . 
 Death takes no bribe, not even from the throne. 
 'T was not to be. How vain it is to plan 
 The future out, and which no mortal can 
 U naided ever build. Churchill is gone-!
 
 64 WEEP NOT. 
 
 Weep J2ot. 
 
 The balmy days of autumn 's past, 
 The sky-blue hours of summer 's lost, 
 
 And spring so sweet to see. 
 Now swirling leaves, a mighty host, 
 Decayed 'neath winter's hoary frost, 
 Sweep o'er the frozen lea 
 To take me home, 
 Now winter's come, 
 With a snowy shroud for me. 
 
 The pains that in my bosom burn, 
 The sleepless nights till dawning morn 
 
 In the watches all alone, 
 Proclaim that Death, the giant king, 
 Hath struck the last, the fatal sting. 
 My sands of life are run ; 
 Methinks I hear, 
 In accents clear, 
 A sweet voice saying " Come." 
 
 No more to me shall spring come back 
 With those bright flowers I used to deck 
 
 My little sister's hair ; 
 When round the fire on winter night 
 The family meet, my spirit bright 
 Shall haunt my empty chair 
 Though distant far, 
 Yet closely near, 
 In the vacant space of air.
 
 THE LOVER'S LAMENT. 65 
 
 Weep not for me, thine only son, 
 Mourn not that death 's so early come 
 
 To break the family chain ; 
 My wearied soul flies to the rest, 
 Like a dove that 's wandered from the nest, 
 And homeward turns again ; 
 No more to stray, 
 But ever stay 
 In Heaven's blest domain. 
 
 s J^ameni. 
 
 And now must you leave me, sweet Annie, for ever ? 
 And thou, cruel Death, oh, why should you sever 
 
 Hearts that so loving entwine ? 
 
 Thou art going, sweet maid, to the land of the blest, 
 To slumber in peace on thy Saviour's breast, 
 Where glorified mortals shine, 
 Where endless day 
 Doth last for aye 
 In those glorious realms divine. 
 
 My love, to the grave thou art hastening fast, 
 Like an autumn leaf 'neath the winter blast, 
 Or a sheaf of ripe, ripe corn. 
 
 E
 
 66 THE LOVER'S LAMENT. 
 
 The hand of Death is upon thee, love, 
 While angels wait to escort above 
 Thy soul to eternal morn, 
 Where spirits bright 
 In floods of light 
 The heavenly land adorn. 
 
 Thy life was pure as the virgin snow, 
 Thou wast far too good for this vale of woe, 
 
 With its sorrows, sins, and tears ; 
 Like a flower that hath newly shed its bloom, 
 But ere night hath come its sweet perfume 
 In the low, low earth appears, 
 A blossom'd stem, 
 A broken gem, 
 Which an injured beauty wears. 
 
 But one request I ask, sweet love, 
 From the spirit-land of saints above 
 
 That you be my guiding star ; 
 In the silent watches of the night 
 May thy holy will in radiance bright 
 E'en condescend so far 
 To urge me on 
 To gain that home 
 In which we part no more. 
 
 I would fain you had lived to be my bride, 
 For thou wast aye my joy, my pride,
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF MARK AKENSIDE, POET. 67 
 
 And how kind thou used to be 
 When aye we met at the trysting place ; 
 And how tender was the sweet embrace 
 When I parted, love, from you ; 
 'Twas but a dream, 
 For it would seem 
 It had never been to be. 
 
 tfie DQTemvry of DflZarf jjfiatside, 
 
 Green be the laureFs round thy brow : 
 The honours bright thou well hast won. 
 Like snawdraps on the grassy knowe 
 Like bonnie rosebuds all alone 
 Conspicuous thy genius shown, 
 In dazzling, bright array, 
 Sweet Akenside ! 
 
 The glories of the darling muse 
 Illumed thy clear, creative brain ; 
 The meanest subject thou didst choose 
 In beauty's robes was clothed again : 
 Like showers of calm refreshing rain 
 Thou paintedst Nature gay, 
 Sweet Akenside !
 
 68 TO THH MEMORY OF MARK AKENSIDE, POET. 
 
 Thy name immortal ne'er shall die, 
 Thy splendid fame shall ever live : 
 Like the pure orbs in yon blue sky 
 Thy lines the heart can always move, 
 So sweet, pathetic is thy love, 
 
 Thy tender graceful way, 
 Sweet Akenside ! 
 
 Spring weeps because thou 'rt now no more, 
 Summer mourns o'er thy cherished grave ; 
 E'en rueful Autumn murmurs sore, 
 And maniac Winter wild doth rave : 
 While o'er thy grave sweet flowerets wave, 
 And silent homage pay, 
 Sweet Akenside ! 
 
 The wastlin' winds that breezy blaw 
 Ower mossy hill and bracken'd dell, 
 Where sleeps the canny maukin braw 
 Where blooms sae grand the sweet blue bell- 
 Had they but tongues, their grief to tell, 
 Would softly, sadly say, 
 Sweet Akenside ! 
 
 And other poets yet unborn 
 Shall glean fresh ardour at thy tomb, 
 And flourish like the smiling morn 
 Awakened newly from the womb 
 Dispelling sorrow, mist, and gloom 
 In glory chant the lay, 
 Sweet Akenside !
 
 BURNS' BIRTHDAY 69 
 
 Burns' girtfiday. 
 
 In seventeen hunder an' fifty-nine, 
 Amid a blast o' Januar' win', 
 
 Auld Scotia's bard was born, 
 Within an auld, wee theekit hoose 
 This lad sae hamely, sweet, and douce, 
 First saw the licht o' morn. 
 The howdy wife 
 Spaed oot the life 
 The laddie wad adorn. 
 
 While yet a lad, within his breast 
 A patriotic love did rest 
 
 For Scotia's bonnie isle ; 
 While yet a lad, his blood grew hot 
 For every dear romantic spot 
 Within the bounds o' Coil ; 
 Wi' love complete, 
 He sang sae sweet, 
 The joys o' honest toil. 
 
 Reared 'mid the humblest o' the poor, 
 The fragrance o' his lyric power 
 
 Would bow its head to none ; 
 The learned men o' every clime 
 Admired the sweet an' pithy rhyme 
 O' Scotia's darling son. 
 A brighter crown 
 O' more renown 
 No poet ever won.
 
 yo JUNE. 
 
 To-night, wherever Scotsmen meet, 
 Dear Robbie's sangs, sae couthie, sweet, 
 
 Are sung wi' rantin' glee ; 
 Where Lugar flows an' Afton glides 
 His name immortal ever bides : 
 And far across the sea 
 It is the same ; 
 They sing o' hame 
 Maybe with misty e'e. 
 
 Peace to his ashes ; peace, I say, 
 And drop a tear above his clay, 
 
 Wrung from a heart sincere. 
 Now that the bard has gone to rest, 
 In silence let us drink the toast 
 Of him we loved so dear. 
 He was our ain, 
 An' ne'er again 
 His equal shall appear. 
 
 \une. 
 
 Sweet green-leafed June, we welcome thee 
 
 Most fervent and sincere ; 
 Arrayed in beauty's royal robes, 
 
 We hail thee with a cheer.
 
 JUNE. 71 
 
 The barren days of Spring are o'er 
 
 With their bleak, dismal hue, 
 Now southern winds in playful mood 
 
 Blow soft and cool on you. 
 
 The balmy azure sky above, 
 
 The fresh green earth below, 
 Make us forget the piercing winds 
 
 Of Winter, wreathed in snow. 
 
 Sweet clover blooms red, yellow, white, 
 
 Beguile the busy bee ; 
 The amorous buttercups have wed 
 
 The daisies on the lea. 
 
 From every flower, from every bird, 
 
 A welcome warm and true, 
 Unsparingly each hour 's bestowed 
 
 Caressingly on you. 
 
 The corncraik, thy favourite bird, 
 
 The ryegrass swaiths among, 
 Blythe wakes the sweets of evening's close 
 
 With his pathetic song. 
 
 All nature hails thee with applause 
 
 Sweet as the chorded tune, 
 The muffled winds that softly blow 
 
 Sing ' Welcome, royal June.'
 
 72 THE ROARIN GAME. 
 
 ame. 
 
 Heard ye the curlers at their play ? 
 Heard ye their lood hip, hip, hurrah ? 
 Heard ye the language used by them 
 At Scotland's truly national game ? 
 
 Ca' 'way, man, Jock, come tae ma cowe ! 
 Ye're ower sune here, I doot 'e 're throwe ; 
 Couldna been better just the spot ; 
 Oh, grand, man ! ask them now whae's shot. 
 
 Noo, Jamie, lad, she'll hae tae walk ; 
 Juist crack an egg upon her back ; 
 Losh, Jim, but ye hae dune it neat ; 
 I kenn'd she'd ne'er warm in her seat. 
 
 Noo, Dave, ye like a guid strang play ; 
 I carena if ye see't away 
 Dave thocht a meenit, soled her nice, 
 And sent her spinnin' fair howe ice. 
 
 Mercy, how guid ! juist chap an' lie ; 
 
 A bonnet lyin' fair tee high 
 
 The skip he danced, an' roared for joy 
 
 Cried, " King o' players, tee hoie ! tee hoie 
 
 Man, Andra, for a gaird be shure ; 
 Be ower the hog losh, man, take care ! 
 Soop, Jock ; man, soop ! man, gi' 'er the cowe ! 
 Another pund ; stop, haud up now !
 
 OOR YOUTHFU' DAYS. 73 
 
 A glorious play, sae strecht an' true ; 
 Whae ever played a shot like you ? 
 A tell 'e, Andra, for a fack, 
 Ye fairly hae the curlin' knack. 
 
 Excitement 's keen, the hin'maist stane 
 Comes slidin' ower the icy plain 
 An' lies the shot ! Oo've won the day ; 
 Up wi' the cowes hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 Oor youthfu' days, sic happy days, 
 When bairns we roved aboot the braes ; 
 We clam the trees and tore oor claes 
 The tawse but added tae oor waes 
 
 W 7 hen we gaed hame. 
 
 We guddled in the burnie clear, 
 For wat feet then we had nae fear ; 
 Oor breek-feet oft we had to wring, 
 Yet durst nae tell o' sic a thing 
 
 \Vhen we gaed hame. 
 
 We kenn'd o' nests on tree an' hag 
 Wha kenn'd the maist had aye the brag ; 
 And when at bools we lost oor a' 
 "Wi' knuckler on we changed the thraw, 
 And wan the game.
 
 74 OOR YOUTHFU DAYS. 
 
 Sic glorious days at schule we had ; 
 For some wee lass we focht and bled, 
 Whose wee sweet face doon through the years 
 At odd times noo an' then appears 
 
 The same's lang syne. 
 
 And when oor spells we couldna say, 
 And when oor coonts we couldna dae, 
 We got oor licks, got keepit in, 
 When lett'n oot we sherp did rin 
 
 Away for hame. 
 
 Those happy days, like morning mist 
 That creeps along the mountain breast, 
 Hae fled before the dawning day ; 
 We 'd nocht tae care for then but play 
 
 When we gaed hame. 
 
 The battles noo we fecht are waur 
 Than when at schule we used to spar ; 
 Temptations that we knew not then 
 Assail us noo watch weel, O man, 
 
 And mind aye hame.. 
 
 Then let us pray tae God ilk nicht 
 Tae guide oor fitsteps aye aricbt, 
 Oor actions aye fair honour bricht, 
 Then joyously we '11 wing oor flicht 
 
 Tae oor last hame.
 
 LOVE'S FIRST DAWN. 75 
 
 First love, O tell me not it is a dream, 
 Painting the dawn of manhood ; like a gleam 
 Of dying sunset, noble, pure, and fair ; 
 Leaving no mark to tell it once was there. 
 
 'Tis vain to think that we can clear the mind 
 Of joys, on which fond memory oft hath dined, 
 Nor made the banquet less ; time but supplies 
 A double charm to love that never dies. 
 
 My queen of hearts, I love to think of thee 
 What thou hast been and all thou didst for me, 
 When fiery blood and youthful follies reigned ; 
 The thought of thee my wayward steps restrained. 
 
 Those glorious eyes that made me walk on air, 
 I see them now they haunt me everywhere ; 
 Yet sweeter far those ruby lips that told 
 A tale of love too sacred to unfold. 
 
 Though destined not to have thee for my bride, 
 Thy image bright still lingers by my side ; 
 Yes, thou art mine ; thy woman's heart is mine ; 
 And I am thine ; my heart of hearts is thine.
 
 THE POET'S JOY. 
 
 Poet's (fey. 
 
 Is there a heart to whom the soothing strain 
 Of harmony, that wondrous gift divine, 
 
 Hath lent not charms soft as the summer rain 
 To please the ear melodiously fine ? 
 
 In joy the bard weaves the immortal line, 
 No effort bids him tire his brain with toil ; 
 
 Free as the wind that shakes the stately pine, 
 The flowing muse plays out the ceaseless coil 
 That gives the luscious verse, no envy can despoil. 
 
 Behold the bard ! a meek-faced ruddy youth, 
 
 A blazing eye where kindliness doth rove. 
 Mark well the glance, the sterling eye of truth, 
 
 That searches deep, deep in the mine of love ; 
 Still unexhausted, still has more to give, 
 
 Seductive task that gently leads the way, 
 Unearthed the thoughts that evermore shall live ; 
 
 Well satisfied, the chords in union play; 
 
 What careth he for fame, what heedeth he for pay ? 
 
 Give me a day, one hour, in solitude 
 
 Beside the brook where wanton troutlets gleam ; 
 The rocky scaur, half clad with bushy wood, 
 
 Within whose veil ne'er penetrates the beam 
 Of fiery Sol. 'Tis there, oh ! let me dream 
 
 Those golden thoughts that flit across the mind ; 
 All nature to myself, the air doth team 
 
 With things unuttered, noble, pure, refined 
 
 This is a poet's joy, the sheaves of song to bind.
 
 THE POET'S JOY. 77 
 
 O, gifted man, to whom the muse is given, 
 Would ye refrain from warbling into song ? 
 
 Would ye deny the sweetest gift of Heaven 
 That ever did to sinful man belong? 
 
 Vex not thyself that in the courtly throng 
 
 Thy homely muse doth not her beauties show ; 
 
 There is a place for all, for yet among 
 
 The cherished blooms conservatories grow, 
 
 The primrose is as sweet that doth no culture know.. 
 
 Applause of man, 'tis but a passing breath, 
 Pleasing the vain ; for flattery is not praise. 
 
 Beyond the tomb, beyond the realms of death, 
 The hum of fame ne'er penetrates the maze ; 
 
 But truth and justice there are shining rays. 
 
 Conscience approved, and all the work well done, 
 
 Are anchors sure, and though no mortals gaze 
 On the beyond, the great reward is won, 
 And life 's not been in vain when earth's short 
 race is run. 
 
 Impetuous stream that plays o'er rock and scaur, 
 Foaming the river far below the falls, 
 
 Like wild artillery in bloody war, 
 
 Hemmed in on either side by rocky walls ; 
 
 The screeching water in its rage recalls 
 
 Stray thoughts of nature in her fiercest style ; 
 
 The gallant fish sent backwards headlong sprawls 
 On dented boulders, resting there awhile, 
 To challenge fate again and leap the watery stile-
 
 78 THE POET'S JOY. 
 
 Oh ! calm retreat, where innocence doth reign, 
 
 And plenty spreads the board with lavish hand, 
 What man more joyful than the rustic swain, 
 
 Whose cheerful life with pleasure's arch is spanned ? 
 Sublime the peace, the solitude is grand 
 
 Far from the town, the noisy haunt of men, 
 Unsoiled the air, so little to offend ; 
 
 Blest is his cot in yon green, sheltered fen ; 
 
 He lives a peaceful life in the secluded glen. 
 
 At the burnside I pull the violet sweet, 
 
 Wond'ring how so much beauty could be here ; 
 
 The gems of earth are squandered round my feet 
 In dazzling glory, radiantly fair. 
 
 Back on my mind bright memory rushes clear 
 To youth's gay days ; again I merry rove 
 
 Through woodlands green beside the maid so dear, 
 Whose loveliness o'ershadowed all the grove, 
 Whose sparkling violet eye was eloquent with love. 
 
 Sweet were the dreams we dreamed in yonder glade. 
 
 We carved our names upon the old beech tree, 
 The song birds paused as holy vows were made 
 
 That made us one for all eternity. 
 The door of life ope'd on felicity, 
 
 Our happiness was far beyond a name ; 
 As nectar'd bud invites the honey bee, 
 
 So sweetest love enwrapt us in her flame, 
 
 Consumed the dross of life and purified the same.
 
 THE POET'S JOY. 79 
 
 Those hallowed scenes still linger on the mind. 
 
 I would not wish that I could them forget ; 
 Those stores of love so amplified, refined, 
 
 Are nourishment exhaustless still a debt 
 Unpaid, unfelt, a light that ne'er shall set, 
 
 A lifelong joy that makes the pathway clear. 
 A woman's love no more at fate I fret 
 
 Has made my manhood virtuous, sincere ; 
 Love taught me many things, for which I hold it dear. 
 
 I love to roam at eve myself alone, 
 
 When curtain'd night excludes the glowing day, 
 When Venus sits exalted on her throne, 
 
 And brilliant stars their glitt'ring homage pay. 
 Then wakes the screeching owl to hunt his prey. 
 
 There is a glory in the gloaming hour 
 That makes me love at eventide to stray, 
 
 Invokes the muse to wield her kingly power, 
 Strong as the eagle swift, sweet as the opening 
 flower. 
 
 In solitude the poet finds the muse, 
 
 In solitude he woos the darling maid 
 That lights his vision with ethereal hues; 
 
 But principally in the greenwood shade 
 Her royal couch luxuriously is laid 
 
 Beneath the beech upon the gowany sward ; 
 The favoured ones are there immortal made ; 
 
 Simplicity the luscious verse doth guard, 
 And Truth, the gem of all, doth crown the tuneful 
 bard.
 
 8o THE POET'S JOY. 
 
 The spring of love he taps with gentle hand, 
 
 Drinks to repletion at the crystal well ; 
 The burning words await the sweet command 
 
 That makes the passion shine more noble still 
 Than when in Eden fair it bloom'd at will, 
 
 Or e'er its beauty had been marred by sin. 
 Like clay in potter's hand he moulds with skill 
 
 The lovely image, pure without, within, 
 And gains the laurel'd wreath that only few can win.. 
 
 Perhaps some maid, unconscious of the deed, 
 
 Hath split his heart with those bewitching eyes, 
 That sparkle like their comrades overhead 
 
 Whose untold glory is in Paradise. 
 Swift to his harp the raptured poet flies 
 
 And sings of love in strains that never fade, 
 Enduring as the starry studded skies, 
 
 The picture glows with all the light and shade 
 That plays a game with time when death him low 
 hath laid. 
 
 On home-made harp what though the tone be rude,. 
 
 It is his own he plays with wondrous skill, 
 He hears the sound and thinks it very good 
 
 What singer ever thought that he sung ill ? 
 Bolder he grows, sweeping the strings at will, 
 
 New melody thrills on his raptured ear, 
 Softer the notes, and circling wider still, 
 
 His touch refined, the harmony comes clear. 
 He now has found his forte, the minstrel's robes can 
 wear.
 
 THE POET'S JOY. 8r 
 
 Creature of impulse, sweeter for the same, 
 
 Thy failings only make thee better loved. 
 He who would climb the towering heights of fame 
 
 Must first have been by deepest sorrow grieved, 
 For nature hath to every man bequeathed 
 
 A balancing amount of evil, good. 
 The mighty painting of the hero wreathed 
 
 Too often hides the dry rot of the wood, 
 And fame has never brought the happiness it should. 
 
 He sees the sun in evening's glory set 
 
 Amid a blaze of tender golden light, 
 Within his mind the itching dreams beget 
 
 The wish to sing, to paint the landscape bright ; 
 To him the task is one of pure delight, 
 
 Born for the same, no straining doth annoy 
 The brain so clear ; selects the language right, 
 
 And weaves the song, the gold without alloy, 
 A monument of fame, a thing, of endless joy. 
 
 'T is sweet to be where nature's voice is mute, 
 
 Amid the stillness of th' eternal hills, 
 Where nothing but the lark's ethereal flute, 
 
 Blent with the hum of the meandering rills, 
 Attracts the raptured ear, and softly fills 
 
 The ether space. Pure 's the enjoyment given, 
 The poet's heart with music wildly thrills ; 
 
 His inmost soul with ecstacy is riven ; 
 He leaves dull earth behind to soar far into Heaven.
 
 82 THE KIRN. 
 
 zrn. 
 
 The sun lay dying in the west 
 
 Upon a couch of yellow ; 
 A' nature smiled, serenely drest 
 
 In autumn's robes sae mellow. 
 The last cartload now snugly lay 
 
 Secure up in the barn, 
 And folk began to tak' their way 
 
 To baud a rantin' kirn, 
 
 Cheery that nicht. 
 
 The herst rig noo o' stocks is cleared, 
 
 The mornin' s white an' hoary ; 
 The simmer heat had disappeared, 
 
 Wi' a' its toil an' glory. 
 The bonny lads and lasses gay, 
 
 Herts lichtsome as a feather, 
 Were crackin' jokes alang the way, 
 
 An' trystin' ane anither 
 
 For reels that nicht. 
 
 Braw lasses in the pink o' health 
 
 Love glances shy were hiding ; 
 The lovely face, unbacked by wealth, 
 
 Wad been a rich providing. 
 Some trysts which had langsyne begun, 
 
 A crisis now were nearing ; 
 And others' happiness have won 
 
 Lang ere another shearing 
 
 Married that nicht.
 
 THE KIRN. 83 
 
 Hung roond aboot the kitchen wa's 
 
 Were corn sheaves an' barley ; 
 An' folk cam' troopin' in in raws, 
 
 Some late an' some fu' early. 
 The table bent 'neath the good things 
 
 That were spread oot in plenty ; 
 An' a' sat doon like queens and kings, 
 
 And every bit as canty 
 
 As them that nicht. 
 
 Young Jean the cook, a sonsie queen, 
 
 Fresh as a water lily, 
 Forgot she had twa restless een, 
 
 That wadna bide off Willie. 
 While housemaid Kate, a trifle aged, 
 
 Her last engagement ruptured, 
 Wad fain have had her freedom caged, 
 
 And permanently captured, 
 
 Wi' truith that nicht. 
 
 The granary shows a splendid sicht, 
 
 Where violins sweet are sounding ; 
 Where merriment is sparklin' bricht, 
 
 And revelry abounding. 
 I envy not the foreign chiels 
 
 'Neath sultry skies an' sunny ; 
 My hert is in the Highland reels, 
 
 An' the strathspey sae bonny 
 
 Alike a' nichts.
 
 84 THE KIRN. 
 
 My courtly dames, ye dinna ken 
 
 The wealth o' love sae jealous, 
 That kythes within the bonny glen, 
 
 Far sweeter than the palace. 
 Gin ye wad see life at the best, 
 
 Sae healthy, happy, hearty ; 
 Gin ye wad ken how puir folk 's blest, 
 
 Attend a rural party 
 
 Some orra nicht. 
 
 Nae kid-gloved hands were there, I ween, 
 
 For fear ye soiled the dresses ; 
 Nae fashious etiquette between 
 
 The country lads and lasses. 
 Nae " sirs " nor " mems " had ye to say, 
 
 Wi' speeches highly grammar'd ; 
 'T was juist the hamely " yea " or " nay," 
 
 In guid Scotch bluntly stammered, 
 
 Wi' them that nicht. 
 
 Gi'e royal feasts to learned loons, 
 
 Wi' polite, polished mainners ; 
 Commend me to the plain beef roon's, 
 
 The kail an' tattie denners. 
 Had oor forefaithers been high fed 
 
 Wi' rich and dainty dishes, 
 Could Robert Bruce sic heroes led, 
 
 Or made sic glorious dashes, 
 
 Wi' them yon day ?
 
 THE KIRN. 85 
 
 Ae spinster maid, wi' visage sad, 
 
 Sat lang an' ne'er was lifted ; 
 Sair envied her wha had the lad, 
 
 By nature higher gifted ; 
 Till Johnny Pow, the orra hind, 
 
 Went ower an 1 becked till 'er ; 
 Her wrath subdued, she spak as kind 
 
 As folk when drawin' siller, 
 
 Canty that nicht. 
 
 Here clever chiels in skin-meet breeks, 
 
 Braw, bonny lads, an' souple, 
 Were pittin' in the extra steeks 
 
 Wi' some new-fashioned treeple. 
 Yet wha wad grudge them honest joys, 
 
 Life's cares for ae nicht casting ; 
 For boys, we ken, will aye be boys, 
 
 And youth 's not everlasting, 
 
 This nor nae nicht. 
 
 Oli ! wha sae base as wad repent 
 
 He 'd soomed love's sea sae glassy, 
 Or coont the 'oors unworthy spent, 
 
 Wooin' a bonny lassie ? 
 Those glorious youthfu' days are o'er, 
 
 Gone like a summer morning ; 
 Like waves upon the trackless shore, 
 
 They come without returning 
 
 On ony nicht.
 
 86 THE KIRN. 
 
 Blythe shepherd Tam an anxious e'e 
 
 Was on his lassie keepin', 
 But naething did the laddie see 
 
 That wad prevent him sleepin'. 
 Sweet lasses smiled an' joked wi' glee, 
 
 Sae happy, free, and merry ; 
 Wi' heids thrawn slightly back agee, 
 
 Cheeks like the ripest cherry, 
 
 Rosy that nicht. 
 
 Nae wonder laddies' herts did shift 
 
 Beneath sic rich allurements ; 
 Yet love 's a free an' off-hand gift, 
 
 That hates a' forced preferments. 
 But love, true love, can aye be seen 
 
 Withoot a lang palaver, 
 And my experience has been 
 
 That kissin' gangs by favour, 
 
 Every nicht. 
 
 The maister daicent, canny man 
 
 Wi' nae pretence to learnin' ; 
 A hame-made speech o' welcome span, 
 
 When twal o'clock was wairnin'. 
 His e'en grew moist wi' briny dew, 
 
 He humm'd, he haw'd, he hoastit, 
 Like Bonaparte at Waterloo, 
 
 The day he fairly lost it 
 
 Upset that nicht.
 
 EPISTLE TO WATTIE. 87 
 
 The nicht wore on wi' sang an' jest 
 
 Nae time nor tide will tarry 
 An' parties broken up are best, 
 
 Ere folk begin to weary. 
 A reel was ca'd the hin'maist ane 
 
 " Miss Lyle," sae sweet an' cheery ; 
 Each laddie took the floor again 
 
 Wi' a selected dearie, 
 
 Trysted that nicht. 
 
 Wi' muckle happy din an' glee, 
 
 They pair off hame returning ; 
 An' 't is a sicht for een to see 
 
 The break-up in the morning. 
 Between employer and employed, 
 
 The link has been made closer ; 
 A' ha'in' weel themsels enjoyed, 
 
 And neither side the loser, 
 
 On ony nicht. 
 
 fyistfe to 
 
 Dear Wattie, lad, ye want to ken 
 How I at first did grip the pen 
 
 To shy off melancholy 
 As ye are ane amang a score, 
 To you my bosom I '11 lay bare,
 
 EPISTLE TO WATTIE. 
 
 Though secrets should be holy ; 
 I 'm no like some wha's rhyme began 
 
 In early youth to dribble ; 
 In years, at least, I was a man, 
 
 Ere I began to scribble. 
 
 Sae happy, the crap aye 
 Was ripe for the shearer ; 
 
 I lo'ed her, I woo'd her, 
 The coortin' aye dearer. 
 
 Langsyne, when half way up my teens, 
 I kenn'd a lass, the queen o' queens ; 
 She set love's lowe a-flamin' ; 
 Her peerless e'e it was the dart 
 That pierced and kindled in my heart, 
 
 The glorious gift o' rhymin' ; 
 So sweet, so dear, so young an' fair, 
 
 Unspeakably bonny, 
 Nae other lassie could compare 
 
 A moment wi' my Jenny. 
 
 Though fame should proclaim loud 
 My name in floo'ry praise ; 
 
 Though sweet be 't, I 'd a' gie 't 
 To live again yon days. 
 
 Love tapp'd the spring wi' royal pride ; 
 Love opened up the fountain wide ; 
 
 Whence gushed the flowing numbers. 
 Poetic feet unnumbered were,
 
 EPISTLE TO WATTIE. 89 
 
 The harmony was ever there 
 
 Soft as her rosy slumbers. 
 Ye ken a' ye wha poets are, 
 
 Ye ken, withoot exception, 
 The favours that she doth confer 
 
 Are rich beyond description. 
 
 Sae canny, sae bonny, 
 
 She comes na to weary ; 
 But kissin', caressin', 
 
 The kind little dearie. 
 
 My heart was young and soft as wax, 
 And Love, wha likes sae weel to tax 
 
 The subject she is rulin', 
 Exacted sair her heavy fee, 
 An' left me puir as puir could be 
 
 The price o' her sweet schoolin'. 
 The love that vexed the saints langsyne, 
 
 An' tarnished sair their glory, 
 Can still rip hearts like yours an' mine, 
 
 And tear the wound wi' sorrow. 
 
 First love, then, 1 '11 prove then, 
 
 Is clean away the best ; 
 A' others it smothers, 
 
 Forgotten when they 're past. 
 
 I read your bookie wi' delight ; 
 It minded me o' days sae bright, 
 
 When you the plane was drivin' ;
 
 go EPISTLE TO WATTIE. 
 
 Or when yon road ye gaed alang, 
 The Muse an' you were unco thrang, 
 
 Deep in her pooches divin'. 
 Imagination is your forte, 
 
 Like Hogg, our Ettrick glory, 
 But never wi' the fairies sport ; 
 
 Mind wha has been afore 'e. 
 
 Dear Jamie, sae game aye, 
 The douce shepherd laddie, 
 
 We maunna, we canna, 
 
 Cross swords wi' oor daddie. 
 
 The language that ye like sae weel, 
 M'Morran gie'd me 't at the schule, 
 
 At Ettrick Bridge End "college;" 
 Profound in a' the pairts o' speech, 
 Nae subject was beyond his reach 
 
 Far less ootside his knowledge. 
 Nae doot, like you, I have a place ; 
 
 But where ? I winna mix it ; 
 Contented be to run my race, 
 
 Unerring time shall fix it. 
 
 Still singing and stringing 
 My pleasures into rhyme, 
 
 Still sliding, confiding, 
 Alang the path o' time.
 
 EPISTLE TO WATTIE. 91 
 
 The Feus just now are looking braw ; 
 The turnips fresh, wi' plenty straw 
 
 A gifty herst time bringin'. 
 An' then, when a' the crap is in, 
 The youngsters get a nicht o' fun 
 
 Sic dancin' an' sic singin'. 
 Jack Laidlaw 's trysted for the ploy 
 
 And whae can fiddle better ? 
 An' ye '11 be there, my canty boy, 
 
 To make the fun the fatter. 
 
 Sic jokin', provoking 
 
 The rib-rivein laughter, 
 Wi' sonnets, off bonnets ; 
 
 Twa poets in ae water. 
 
 Ye ken I never cared for drink, 
 In a' my life was never drunk, 
 
 But aye could travel steady ; 
 But gin ye come the Kirn nicht, 
 I '11 no say, lad, but what I micht 
 
 Drink ae wee gless o' toddy. 
 I mind the first ane I was at, 
 
 Was doon in Fauldshope barn ; 
 Baith in an' oot the nicht was wat 
 It was a glorious Kirn. 
 
 Wi' gettin' an' settin' 
 
 My sweet dear pairtner hame 
 
 'T was morning, adorning, 
 Or back the road I came.
 
 92 EPISTLE TO WATTIE. 
 
 I here enclose the princely " Fair," 
 When makin 't up I leuch sae sair, 
 My face was fair begrutten ; 
 For graphicness, wild humour gay, 
 It far surpasses, I may say, 
 
 A' rhyme I 've ever written. 
 Should ony o' your freen's take ill, 
 
 An' arena like to rally, 
 Apply the "Fair," the only pill 
 
 Wi' safety they can swallow. 
 
 Sae sure aye, 't will cure aye, 
 What other drugs do babble ; 
 
 An' ken 'e, a penny 
 
 Will lift the dwamy trouble. 
 
 I 've promised lang to take a turn 
 See Ettrick Kirk an' wild Potburn 
 Some bonny simmer morning, 
 An' view the Napiers" ancient seat, 
 Embowered among the green woods sweet, 
 
 As hamewards I 'm returning. 
 Though other vales I yet may see, 
 
 'Neath cloudless skies and sunny, 
 My heart shall ever be in thee 
 
 The dearest spot o' ony. 
 
 Sae charmin', sae warmin', 
 I spent my boyhood fair, 
 
 An' dyin', still cryin' 
 Let me be buried there.
 
 BUCCLEUCH'S RESCUE OF KINMONT WILLIE. 93 
 
 I now maun gi'e, so here it goes, 
 My benediction ere I close 
 
 May joy around you hover ; 
 Prosperity thy work attend ; 
 Peace wait thee at the journey's end, 
 
 When this brief life is over ! 
 For why should poets not converse, 
 
 An' freendly be thegither, 
 Sure, kindred minds are unco scarce ; 
 
 Oft far frae ane anither. 
 
 I '11 hook for, and look for 
 A letter frae the bardie ; 
 
 Until then, farewell then, 
 
 Your humble servant, PURDIE. 
 
 ZBuccteucfi's Rescue of JQnmont 'WifCie. 
 
 The night was dark ; the rain in torrents fell ; 
 
 And silence reigned in dreary Liddesdale, 
 
 Save at one spot where horsemen gathered were, 
 
 Equip'd in the habiliments of war. 
 
 Two hundred riders, picked from many shires, 
 
 Whose blood could claim, untainted from brave sires, 
 
 Descent unbroken from an ancient line 
 
 Men famed for deeds that knew not twist nor twine, 
 
 Led by the bold Buccleuch a Border chief,
 
 94 BUCCLEUCH'S RESCUE OF KINMONT WILLIE. 
 
 Whose brave exploits stand out in bold relief 
 
 On history's page. This one eclipsed them all, 
 
 And made his fame resound through cot and hall, 
 
 Sung by the minstrel bard. An English lord, 
 
 Thought foolishly his country could afford 
 
 To treat the lesser sister with disdain. 
 
 Valiant Buccleuch made all such projects vain, 
 
 And taught mankind a lesson yet unlearned 
 
 That right is right ; so he the prison stormed, 
 
 And set poor Willie free. 'T was nobly done, 
 
 And honour's spurs most gloriously won. 
 
 Great noble mind, Scotland hath seldom seen 
 
 A braver man. What other chief, I ween, 
 
 Would braved the wrath of England's mighty queen, 
 
 Or left her palace victor of the scene ? 
 
 Haughty Elizabeth, her royal ear 
 
 Was unaccustomed to the truth so clear ; 
 
 Methinks I see her eye a dewdrop woo, 
 
 As pale and stern, yet half relenting too, 
 
 She heard those words that thrilled her through and 
 
 through 
 
 " Madam, what is there a man dare not do ? " 
 Yes, kings and queens, the pillars of a throne, 
 Unless supported with more solid stone 
 Than masonry supplies, unstable are 
 When discontent becomes a dangerous war. 
 But empires built on justice, virtue, truth 
 Shall ever bloom in sweet undying youth, 
 Where honest worth shall find an honoured place, 
 And love rule o'er a brave, God-fearing race.
 
 LIFE. 95 
 
 Js>ife. 
 
 Oh, sweet wee babe, how calm thou liest now, 
 The dew of youth upon thy fair young brow, 
 On thy sweet lips the smiles of childhood play, 
 As sunbeams dance upon a sunny day. 
 
 On thy soft cheek a rosy bloom doth lie, 
 The tinge of health adds richness to the dye, 
 While o'er thy face a fragrant light is shed, 
 Do angels watch and guard thy cradle bed ? 
 
 Ah, babe, sleep on, thou little reck'st, I ween, 
 Life is an ever shifting, changing scene ; 
 Full many a flower is smothered in the bud 
 That promised fair, now numbered with the dead. 
 
 Thou knowest not the ups and downs of life, 
 The smartings 'neath affliction's pruning knife ; 
 Hopes fondly nursed are scattered to the gale, 
 And idle winds mock at the dreamer's tale. 
 
 The cares of life now on thee lightly lie, 
 
 And sweet contentment lurks in thy bright eye, 
 
 Thy mother's breast, a cure for all thy woes ; 
 
 Oh, could'st thou there remain, my sweet young rose. 
 
 Thou'st yet to learn man's word is not his bond, 
 That treachery is yawning just beyond, 
 That grief attends our pilgrimage below ; 
 Earth at the best 's a cemetery of woe.
 
 96 CURLIN'. 
 
 The path of life is aye a thorny way, 
 Beset with snares to make the pilgrim stray, 
 At times perplexed what path he should pursue, 
 Cross roads are thick, the finger posts are new. 
 
 What foes, what dangers, we must always brave 
 In our brief journey to the silent grave, 
 Head, hand, and heart, are all required to guide 
 The fragile bark upon the restless tide. 
 
 Ah, happy babe, upon thy mother's knee, 
 There th,ou dost sit and crow in childish glee ; 
 What shall thy life be ? Ah, but who can tell ?' 
 Uncertainty has veiled the future well. 
 
 Left in the dark, yet still this much we know, 
 We have a Friend who lives to plead our woe ; 
 Then trust to Him, His arm is strong to save, 
 And Heaven illumes the darkness of the grave.. 
 
 Cur (in . 
 
 O' a' the games that e'er I saw, 
 The game o' curlin' beats them a'; 
 Though ither sports may merry be, 
 The roarin' game 's the game for me.
 
 CURLIN . 97 
 
 When a' the hills are cled wi' snaw, 
 Cauld blaws the wund oot ower the law ; 
 When nose an' cheeks are blue an' blae, 
 Jock Frost says " Lads, ye '11 sune can play." 
 
 Hoo anxiously the ice is tried, 
 And rash reports are magnified ; 
 Ane gets wat feet ; it micht hae borne, 
 But deil may care, 't will dae the morn. 
 
 A ringin' frost the nicht befell, 
 Next mornin' was as clear 's a bell ; 
 The first news was the curlers' hymn 
 " The ice is jist in famous trim." 
 
 Han'les and stanes are overhauled, 
 Auld men forget that time has tauld 
 A tale on them ; but cross and wice, 
 They 're off like young chaps to the ice. 
 
 The rings are drawn, hog scores are made, 
 Ilk skip, on whom the duty 's laid 
 To form his rink, sune picks his men ; 
 Noo, heids or tails for the first en'. 
 
 " Noo, Johnny, lad, see here 's the tee ; 
 A cannie draw jist up to me ; 
 She 's weel laid doon ; oh, never own 'im ; 
 A fair pat lid ; man, Jock, 'e 're croon 'im. 
 
 The tither skip noo taks his place ; 
 And, wi' a serious, solemn face, 
 Cries "Tarn, this stane is fair tee high 
 Lay on for here, jist chap an' lie. 
 
 G
 
 98 CURLIN'. 
 
 " Gi'e 'm what ye can he'll need it a' ; 
 Gi'e 'm legs ; O Tarn, ye 're lookin' braw. 
 Ye hev 'im deid hip, hip, hurrah ! 
 Whae was 't that said ye couldna play ? 
 
 " Noo, Jim, my boy, jist the same play, 
 
 But dinna thraw yer stane away. 
 
 Gi'e 'm room stand back ; oh, yes, he '11 wing 'im ; 
 
 If Jock is croon 'im ye are king 'im." 
 
 " Losh, Wull, they needna craw sae croose, 
 There 's no a stane in a' the hoose ; 
 Come, gi'e 's a lead ; we '11 let them see 
 The way to plant them on the tee." 
 
 " You for a player ! Man, that's grand ; 
 As shure as daith, as here I stand, 
 In a' ma life I never saw 
 A better or a finer draw." 
 
 Big Andra fairly felled his stane, 
 " Han'le 'im a hog, or I'm mista'en." 
 Wull Stan's an' looks and strokes his baird, 
 Syne cannily slips on a gaird. 
 
 " Ca' up the gaird ; I doot ye 've fled 'im ; 
 But never mind ; the shot '11 haud him ; 
 Oor side yet for a kittle play. 
 Shot ! besoms up, three cheers, hurrah !
 
 FIRST LOVE. 99 
 
 ZFirst Move. 
 
 Can I forget the love of youth, 
 Or must I deviate from truth, 
 To tell about its joys ? Ah, no ; 
 Truth needs no ostentatious show 
 Her virtues to proclaim. A lie 
 At best is but a lie a stye 
 Upon the eye of truth. 'T is wise 
 In man its meanness to despise. 
 How sweet is love ! no word can give 
 A just idea how first love 
 Affects the heart of man. I mind 
 (As if I could forget) how kind 
 Its loving tendrils were entwined, 
 Devoid of cultured, studied art, 
 Fast, firm around my youthful heart, 
 There to remain till life's last day, 
 Until that hour when kindred clay 
 Lie mingled in the urn. 
 Bliss never known before made me 
 Drunk with joy ; the world seemed to be 
 A different one ; I lived, but not 
 As other men lived ; my trig boat 
 Calmly sailed on heavenly seas, 
 And every breeze was love. To please 
 Me creation seemed to have been 
 Made ; my pasture was ever green. 
 No jaundiced eyes marred my vision, 
 Love's scales showed no indecision,
 
 IOO FIRST LOVE. 
 
 No thoughts struggled for division 
 Within my brain. Centred on one, 
 My happy star supremely shone, 
 The loveliest, the purest stone 
 Of all the bright galaxy. Life, 
 Untroubled with vexation's strife, 
 Unwounded by the cursed knife 
 Of jealousy, had pleasures new. 
 My sky was an unchanging blue, 
 Adorned with love's delicious hue. 
 Eye spoke to eye in language plain 
 I loved and was beloved again. 
 Blest summit of all earthly bliss, 
 When pure lips meet in love's first kiss 
 The whiteness of the stainless snow 
 Lost its purity 'neath the glow 
 Of my early love. Never more 
 Can my springs of life ever pour 
 Forth such floods of pure hallowed love 
 Again. But once can a heart give 
 Its all. I gained a heart (love's shrine), 
 And gave in all its sweetness mine. 
 Never more can the dewy kiss 
 Of woman's mouth be such sweet bliss 
 To me, or fill with such delight 
 My raptured soul, as were the sips 
 I greedy drank from the sweet lips 
 Of my idol. No conjecture 
 Needed, every kiss was nectar. 
 Yon aged maiden, once so fair
 
 EPISTLE TO JAMIE. IOI 
 
 In sunny days of youth, whose hair 
 Now is streaked with silver, I say go 
 To her, thou sceptic; she will show 
 Thee love tokens wealth could not buy. 
 Perhaps a lock of curly hair 
 Culled from a lover's brow so fair 
 Long, long ago. The moistened eye, 
 Guiltless of palming off a lie, 
 Loudly tells he is not forgot. 
 Her heart for him has a green spot. 
 What matters titles, wealth, or fame, 
 Are they aye happy who have them ? 
 Remembrance, the costliest gem 
 That ere adorned love's diadem. 
 
 Spistfe to (Jamie. 
 
 While misty fogs besiege the door, 
 While lads and lasses soondly snore, 
 I, haein' ae half-hour an' more . 
 
 O' leisure time, 
 Sit doon, as oft I 've dune before, 
 
 To spin some rhyme. 
 
 It 's ill tae ken hoo tae proceed, 
 Sae muckle rhyme is in my heid,
 
 102 EPISTLE TO JAMIE. 
 
 That must come oot ('tis true indeed), 
 
 Some way or ither. 
 The bad sae mixed up wi' the guid, 
 
 Jumbled thegither. 
 
 My rhyme 's now richt an' workin' rarely, 
 Tae write it doon, yea, time I 've barely, 
 It comes sae free, sae fast, an' airly 
 
 Zigzag rowin' ; 
 Yea, every thing it caps, and fairly 
 
 Cows the gowan. 
 
 I dinna mean, far less tae hint, 
 That I possess what others want ; 
 In fact my rhyme is juist a rant, 
 
 A metred string ; 
 But reek, ye ken, maun aye git vent ; 
 
 So I maun sing. 
 
 Ae thing I canna understand, 
 
 Why gold should be the magic wand, 
 
 In sic a bonny fairy land 
 
 As we inhabit, 
 Why siller does make some sae grand, 
 
 Sae short an' crabbit. 
 
 It maitters not, I plainly see, 
 How otherwise a man may be, 
 Can he but ready money gi'e, 
 
 To pay his way, 
 He 's sir'd and honoured, coonted aye 
 
 The time o' day.
 
 EPISTLE TO JAMIE. 103 
 
 Away vvi' hollow, false pretence, 
 Gi'e me the man o' common sense ; 
 Can either shillings, pounds, or pence 
 
 E'er make a man ? 
 No, Nature surely had more mense 
 
 Than spoil her plan. 
 
 Believe me, things are ordered right, 
 Though dimly seen by our weak sight, 
 God, in the wisdom of his might 
 
 And majesty, 
 Hath made the darkness and the light, 
 
 Gloriously. 
 
 God, of a truth, is Nature's God, 
 Creation doth in every road 
 Declare his handiworks abroad, 
 
 His praises sing ; 
 The little daisy on the sod 
 
 Yea, every thing. 
 
 Within my heart, yea, often I 
 Have wondered how men could deny 
 That there exists a God on high. 
 
 A drop of dew 
 Might well convince them that they lie, 
 
 The atheist crew. 
 
 How beautiful the fleecy clouds, 
 The autumn heath, October woods !
 
 104 EPISTLE TO JAMIE. 
 
 They send me off in rhymin' screeds 
 Gudeness kens where 
 
 And though I canna ripe the buds, 
 My fancy 's there. 
 
 Sma' time has only come an' gane 
 Since I could ca' the muse ma ain ; 
 But, oh, 'tis nice to be ane's lane 
 
 Within her shroud, 
 And sing her beauties ower again, 
 
 Baith lang an loud. 
 
 Of coorse it 's richt eneugh, nae doot, 
 When ane can bring a volume out, 
 And to be ca'd a clever cowt 
 
 Is awfu' nice. 
 Yet some have published, had they not, 
 
 Wad been as wice. 
 
 My kind regards to you I send, 
 My rhymin' billy, trusty friend. 
 Dear Jamie, lang may love be kenn'd 
 
 'Tween you an me, 
 And in that world where joys ne'er end 
 
 Together be.
 
 EPISTLE TO JOHNNY. 105 
 
 to 
 
 I lang hae hed it in ma heid, 
 Whether for evil or for guid 
 I dinna ken, tae gi'e a screed 
 
 O' tousy rhyme, 
 Ca'd poetry. I daurna dae 't 
 
 Juist at this time. 
 
 The trees are castin' off their duds 
 'Neath dull November's leaden cluds, 
 All silent stand the naked wuds 
 
 In shiverin' line ; 
 Nae mair we hear the joyous floods 
 
 O' sangs divine. 
 
 Hoo sweet the floory month o' May, 
 When birdies warble on the spray, 
 The spreadin' hazel, primrose brae, 
 
 In bonny spring, 
 The lav'rock in the cluds sae hie, 
 
 O' birds the king ! 
 
 The gapin', glowrin', wanton minnow, 
 The spreckled parr sae sleek an' canny, 
 Sport in the bubbling stream fu' funny, 
 
 In harmless glee ; 
 The eident bee, intent on honey, 
 
 Skims the white lea.
 
 IO6 EPISTLE TO JOHNNY. 
 
 The muircocks browse amang the heather, 
 Companions o' the whistlin' plover ; 
 While snug and cosy sleeps the adder 
 
 'Mong breckins green, 
 Where maukins doze secure a' weather 
 
 'Neath tufted screen. 
 
 But hoo 's my sonsie, gifted brother ? 
 In Hawick there 's nae sic another. 
 Lang may the Muse, thy bonnie mother, 
 
 Smile sweet on thee ; 
 And gin she draps anither feather, 
 
 Pray for 't to me. 
 
 Thy muse can tak' sublimer flichts, 
 An' scale Parnassus' lofty hichts, " 
 And revel in their hidden sichts 
 
 Wi' raptured stare, 
 Than I, or all such prosy wichts, 
 
 Who languish here. 
 
 A gross o' thanks for thy kind line. 
 I hope that a' thy kith and kin 
 Are in guid health an' thrivin' fine 
 
 Aboot thy bit. 
 I 'm glad to say that me an' mine 
 
 Are a' afit. 
 
 My kindest love I here dae send 'e ; 
 May a' the poo'rs abune defend 'e,
 
 LASSES, DINNA LEE. IO7 
 
 Watch o'er thy life, an' ever tend 'e 
 
 Frae puirtith's blast ; 
 May Heaven be, when daith shall end 'e, 
 
 Thy hame at last ! 
 
 passes, )inna Js> 
 
 asses, nna s>ee. 
 
 Come here, ye bonny lasses a', 
 An' rale guid news I '11 gi'e, 
 
 For I will tell a tale fu' braw 
 Experience tauld to me. 
 
 But, lasses, take a bit advice, 
 Though gi'en by only me 
 
 Whene'er ye meet a lad that 's nice 
 Be cautious hoo ye lee. 
 
 The only lad I likit weel 
 
 (I like him to this day) 
 Cam coortin' like an honest chiel ; 
 
 In jest, I said him nay. 
 
 I thocht, as lasses often dae, 
 He sune wad come again, 
 
 And never to my dying day 
 Shall I outlive the pain.
 
 108 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 He lo'ed me weel, I brawly knew, 
 Love swelled unto the brim ; 
 
 I lo'ed him in return sae true, 
 I wad hae died for him. 
 
 But God forgi'e the lee, I pray ; 
 
 I suffered for my sin, 
 And lost into the bargain tae 
 
 The lad I could have won. 
 
 Oh, bonny, dainty lasses a', 
 Take warnin', dears, frae me ; 
 
 And whether in a cot or ha' 
 Remember, dinna lee. 
 
 Cheer up your hert, my wee, sweet wife, 
 
 And dinna look sae glum ; 
 Why should the cares o' mairrit life 
 
 Drive frae your cheek the bloom ? 
 
 The derkest oor, ye ken, sweet dove, 
 
 Is the oor afore the dawn ; 
 And I have pledged my honour, love, 
 
 To be a kind guidman.
 
 TO MY WIFE. ICQ 
 
 Then wherefore should your cheek be pale, 
 
 Your bonnie e'e sae sad ? 
 Hast thou forgot the lover's tale 
 
 That I am still your lad ? 
 
 Cheer up, gutdwife, and wear the smile, 
 
 Oh, grudge it not to me 
 The smile that did me sae beguile 
 
 When you were fancy free. 
 
 What though oor backs be tae the wa', 
 
 An' puirtith glow'rin in ? 
 We yet may gowf the gowden ba', 
 
 An' a' oor wishes win. 
 
 Though I had a' that wealth could gi'e, 
 
 An' a' that joy could bring, 
 Unless it were to share 't with thee 
 
 It were a worthless thin^r.
 
 110 TO MINE ANCIENT FATHER IN THE MUSES. 
 
 Dflline jfncient {fattier in tfie 
 
 9 
 
 A guid New Year I wish 'e, Mick, 
 May time be lang ere 'e be sick ; 
 Again, for even countless wealth, 
 'Snae recompense for want o' health, 
 Tho' we had millions in oor pooch, 
 Yet could not leave the sick bed couch 
 The meanest vagrant in the fair 
 Had blessings, lad, we couldna share. 
 
 But, man, when we are strong an' weel, 
 We never think o' being ill ; 
 Sic mournfu' thochts we winna bide, 
 Health aye as yet 's been on oor side. 
 But dinna think, robust young man, 
 Life reaches aye the allotted span ; 
 The strongest trees when rude winds blow 
 Are aye the first that are laid low. 
 
 I wish 'e, Mick, a happy life, 
 
 A peacefu' hame unkenn'd tae strife ; 
 
 May grief aye find a lockit door, 
 
 May joys frequent 'e by the score | 
 
 Thy wife be a' she oucht tae be, 
 
 Sweet mother o' a family ; 
 
 Like flowers thy smiling babes appear, 
 
 Frank, manly, generous, sincere.
 
 EPISTLE TO WILLIE. Ill 
 
 Spistk to ^iffie. 
 
 
 Willie, to warstle time awa, 
 
 I pen you this bit letter; 
 Though I my spirits won't misca', 
 
 They yiblins hae been better. 
 But, Willie, I can ne'er forget, 
 
 Till death the link releases, 
 The hour I met my bonny pet, 
 
 Or how at times she pleases. 
 
 Joy of my heart, O darling care, 
 
 To fan the starry flicker 
 That blazes steady anywhere 
 
 Sae honest, douce, an' siccar. 
 Alang the fresh green velvet sward, 
 
 Where bonny birds are singin', 
 On mossy bed reclined the bard, 
 
 His uncouth rhymes is stringin'. 
 
 Imagination cleaves the way 
 
 For robes of fancy's knittin', 
 While music from the hawthorn spray 
 
 Mocks at his tuneless twittin'. 
 The primrose blinks his dainty e'e 
 
 To catch the early glimmer, 
 And keps the pearly draps o' dew 
 
 That glorifies the simmer. 
 
 The snawdrap peeps its milky crest 
 In spring whiles raither hasty,
 
 112 POINT MEDAL DAY. 
 
 And sweetly shows 'neath fleecy vest 
 Its snaw-white bonnie breastie. 
 
 Ah ! could I paint bright scenes like these 
 With master hand ; ah, sketch them 
 
 In vain, but aft among the trees 
 Delighted oft I watch them. 
 
 Dear Willie, send a line or twa, 
 
 Tho' I like ill tae crave ye ; 
 May richer gifts upon you fa' 
 
 Than ever favoured Davie. 
 
 Point Jtiledai )ay. 
 
 'Tis medal day ; losh, what a steer ! 
 Curlers flock in frae far an' near, 
 Auld men weel doon life's shady brae 
 Meet here wi' young chaps blithe an' gay. 
 
 Tobacco fabs are toomed a wee, 
 The fresh-filled mull gangs roond wi' glee, 
 The couthy flask, wi' cheerin' dram, 
 Is preed and passed frae Jock to Tarn. 
 
 Some tak' advantage o' the lull 
 Tae see gin ice or stanes are dull ; 
 Some work the finger oot, some in, 
 Some borrow, some lay fair deid on.
 
 POINT MEDAL DAY. 
 
 The secretary, busy man, 
 Looks up the " Annual" for the plan, 
 Tells hoo the rings an' lines should be 
 How near an' how far off the tee. 
 
 The numbers frae a hat are drawn 
 Losh, see hoo yon ane's face is thrawn. 
 Intae himsel' " My luck be curst, 
 Whae ever wan when playin' first ? " 
 
 But he leads off as weel 's could be, 
 
 The first roond ower, his score stands three ; 
 
 The rest a' follow some mak' ane, 
 
 A few unfortunates tak' nane. 
 
 The nerves get up on ae auld man, 
 Doon ower his cheeks big sweat-draps rin ; 
 At gairds he 's hoggit every stane ; 
 At drawin', raisin', ne'er made ane. 
 
 Doon on their knees some sit an' look, 
 Thraw oot their airms, bow, gape, and jook, 
 Rin to the side at ilka stane 
 Another blank is scored again. 
 
 At strikin', wickin', chap an' lie, 
 Some steady rin their scores gey high ; 
 An' true as I 'm a leevin' sinner, 
 Ane tak's four shots at chip the winner. 
 
 H
 
 114 IN MEMORIAL JAMES RUSSELL, D.D. 
 
 Ane turns as white as ony sheet, 
 His looks wad mak a puggy greet, 
 For merks the buik in vain 's explored, 
 He's played a' day an' never scored. 
 
 The scores are coonted. Tarn 's eleven ; 
 His heart 's raised to the seventh heaven ; 
 Amid loud cries of ". Guid lad, game ! " 
 Tam proodly tak's the medal hame. 
 
 jn Sflfamoriam fames Russell, 
 
 MINISTER OF YARROW. 
 Died January 9, 1883. 
 
 The dear old man has passed away, 
 
 Gone to his rest and glory ; 
 And now there's nought but dool and wae 
 
 In bonny classic Yarrow. 
 
 No more we see his genial face, 
 
 Where beamed with joy each furrow, 
 
 Bespeaking kind and courtly grace 
 That never had its marrow. 
 
 All silent now that matchless tongue, 
 
 Alike in joy or sorrow, 
 No minstrel's harp more sweetly strung 
 
 He was thy king, O Yarrow.
 
 SAFE IN THE FOLD ABOVE. 115 
 
 His charity it knew no bounds, 
 
 'T was neither scant nor narrow ; 
 How often hath it gone the rounds 
 
 Among thy dens, O Yarrow ? 
 
 No more he '11 break the bread of life, 
 
 Nor to his people carry 
 The message, not of war or strife, 
 
 But peace and love to Yarrow. 
 
 The songs that sweet in Zion glide, 
 
 Now dawns a brighter morrow 
 To him, where crystal streams abide, 
 
 Far purer than the Yarrow. 
 
 n 
 
 tfie 
 
 <( Where is my wandering boy to-night ? 
 
 Safe in the fold above, 
 Wearing the heavenly robe of white, 
 
 Singing sweet songs of love. 
 
 Safe in the blissful land of light, 
 
 Beautiful, fair to see ; 
 Safe in those glorious mansions bright, 
 
 Safe for eternity.
 
 Il6 BEAUTY. 
 
 " Where is my wandering boy to-night ? 
 
 Where does his head recline ? 
 On pillows soft, where joys delight, 
 
 Because they are divine 
 
 Where golden harps of sweetest sound 
 
 Give praises unto God, 
 And all felicities abound 
 Within the blest abode. 
 
 " Where is my wandering boy to-night ? 
 
 Sadly the mother sighs ; 
 Many have perished in the fight, 
 
 And never won the prize. 
 
 Bright is the heavenly land so fair, 
 Down by the pearly shore. 
 
 Mother, your boy shall meet you there, 
 Where parting is no more. 
 
 Beauty. 
 
 Sad ruler of the world. Oh ! fatal gift ; 
 Worse than poesy, for the poet may 
 At times sing, to improve the human mind, 
 Those trying truths felicitously expressed. 
 Thus Dante wrote. But what good comes from 
 thee?
 
 BEAUTY. II 
 
 Thy tendency is but to deform it. 
 
 Crippler of the noblest resolutions, 
 
 Wise men shun thee ; foolish men adore thee. 
 
 Cruelly deceptive and seductive 
 
 Are the witching smiles of prideful beauty. 
 
 The purest of lives have been crushed by thee ; 
 
 Virtue has been ineffably soiled 
 
 By thy sooty hands ; and honour dethroned 
 
 From its pure and lofty elevation 
 
 By the sweet deceivery of thy power. 
 
 Have not I myself felt the troublings, 
 
 The bitter taunts of an injured conscience 
 
 That executioner acquaint with all 
 
 Pricking like nut-brown thorns that have bedded 
 
 In the fleshy couch ; and kept not the peace 
 
 When, unadvisedly, I left the face, 
 
 Plain but honest, for the showy picture, 
 
 So soon to be despised ? Yet lessons such 
 
 As these contain the germ of improvement. 
 
 Friendship seared thro' affliction's fire becomes 
 
 A thing worth the having. The finest gold 
 
 Is lustreless beside a chastened love. 
 
 Beauty is nice and fair to look upon 
 
 A silly pride. A noble intellect 
 
 'S worth more than a thousand bonnie faces. 
 
 Death respects thee not, and cares as little 
 
 For thy lily bloom as the vilest weed 
 
 That grows unheeded. O, lovely face, 
 
 Think not that the spoiler shall not find thee. 
 
 The worm, forgetful of thy triumphs here,
 
 IlS SUMMER TIME. 
 
 Unchecked in the cold grave, shall soon devour 
 Thy artificial blossom, and feel no 
 Better fed than when confined to coarser 
 Victuals. Such be thy end, sweet face, beware! 
 Make thy heart as beautiful as thy face ; 
 Then wilt thou become a thing of beauty, 
 A priceless, undying joy for ever. 
 
 f (oime. 
 
 Bright Summer hath come with her gay green bowers, 
 With her azure skies and her balmy showers. 
 The ash leaves flutter and bend to the gale, 
 And joy is abroad in the rural vale. 
 The lovely flowers, with their beautiful dyes 
 The violet, unmatched for its pure, sweet eyes ; 
 The daisies now cover the green fields quite, 
 The mantle of beauty is spread so bright. 
 
 We have waited long, and with patient grace, 
 For the cheery smiles of thy winsome face ; 
 We have waited long for thy welcome tread, 
 As the bride adorned for the nuptial bed. 
 How softly and tender the south winds sigh ; 
 How bonnie the ocean of clear blue sky ! 
 Though the parting is always mixed with pain, 
 Thou 'rt welcome, aye welcome, to come again.
 
 TO JOHN LAIDLAW, HOPEHOUSE, ETTRICK. 
 
 '(50 (jcifin Jsaidfaw, J^opefiouse, 
 
 OF VIOLIN RENOIVN. 
 
 Auld Mother Scotia, honest dame, 
 
 Land of strathspeys an' reels sae bonny, 
 
 Among thy sons of violin fame 
 
 John Laidlaw stands as high as ony. 
 
 Had Dan M'Pherson, Baillie, Gow 
 (Sons worthy of sae kind a mother) 
 
 Heard Laidlaw draw his glorious bow, 
 Wad claimed him as an elder brother. 
 
 The slurrin', quiverin' semitone, 
 Wi' him are a' a simple matter ; 
 
 He aye can be depended on 
 
 To sharp the notes or make them flatter. 
 
 How fine his fingers dot the strings ! 
 
 To hear him is the highest pleasure ; 
 And what a tone he from them brings ! 
 
 The music gets a perfect measure. 
 
 Let Austria and Italy brag 
 
 Of Joachim and Paginini ; 
 I 'm thinking, though the preen may jag, 
 
 Nae mony points they could hae gi'en 'e. 
 
 Gi'e me Pate Baillie's grand strathspey, 
 
 Wi' Delvinside or Tullogorm, 
 An' foreign lilts, as weel they may, 
 
 Are smothered in oor Hielant storm.
 
 120 SABBATH BELLS. 
 
 O, darling Scotia, dearest hame, 
 Land of the rosy, richest splendour, 
 
 Protect and guard young Laidlaw's fame, 
 Make his reward of princely grandeur. 
 
 Sweet the Sabbath bells are ringing, 
 Sweet the notes float in the air, 
 
 Rousing worshippers, and bringing 
 Them into the house of prayer. 
 
 'T is the voice of God that 's calling 
 " There is plenty room for all ; " 
 
 Let our hearts with joy be swelling, 
 And embrace His gracious call. 
 
 Let us, then, our steps be wending, 
 Let us all our voices raise, 
 
 Till the angels, condescending, 
 Join our earthly hymn of praise. 
 
 Life is fleeting, life is ending ; 
 
 Let us work while yet 'tis day. 
 Night is coming, fast descending ; 
 
 Humbly let us watch and pray.
 
 HEAVEN. 121 
 
 jfeaven. 
 
 o<D 
 
 Far from this scene of earthly woe, 
 
 Its sorrows, sins, and tears, 
 There is a land where pleasures flow, 
 
 And endless spring appears. 
 
 There pleasures never know decline 
 
 In all the blest abode ; 
 Where cloudless joys for ever shine 
 
 Around the throne of God. 
 
 Disease and suffering 's known no more 
 
 In all the bright domains ; 
 Love blossoms in immortal store, 
 
 And health triumphant reigns. 
 
 No eye hath seen that shining land, 
 
 So dazzling, bright, and fair ; 
 No human mind can understand 
 
 What glories shall be there. 
 
 There blood-washed souls who here below 
 Did love the Lord their King, 
 
 And noble martyrs robed in snow, 
 Their Maker's praise doth sing. 
 
 Can we to all this bliss attain ? 
 
 Yes, Christ this gift did give ; 
 Salvation 's free to every man 
 
 Believe, accept, and live.
 
 122 PILLARS OF HIS TEMPLE. 
 
 &UTars of 3is ^empie. 
 
 Pillars of His temple, 
 
 Crowned with glory bright, 
 
 Robed in snow-white garments, 
 Within the realms of light. 
 
 Sweetly are the praises, 
 
 Joyous songs of love ; 
 Happy are the singers, 
 
 Within the courts above. 
 
 Where no sin nor sorrow, 
 
 Sickness, pain, or care 
 Trouble more believers : 
 
 They cannot enter there. 
 
 All is love and beauty 
 
 Round the throne on high, 
 
 Where the day infinite 
 Lighteth all the sky. 
 
 Sinners, do not tremble, 
 
 Though pale death doth come ; 
 There 's a mansion ready 
 
 In the heavenly home. 
 
 Plunge deep in the fountain, 
 
 Softly He doth call ; 
 Lay your sins on Jesus, 
 
 He can bear them all.
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 123 
 
 
 mes 
 
 SHEPHERD, WHITEHOPE. YARROW. 
 Died Dec. 7, 1882. 
 
 The heavens were draped with frozen clouds, 
 
 The snow was fast descending, 
 The wind drove through the feathery shrouds, 
 
 The drift was almost blinding. 
 By ten o'clock the storm was fierce, 
 
 And raging most severely ; 
 The snow lay deep ; oh ! who can pierce 
 
 Out through the wreaths securely ? 
 
 The shepherd opened wide his door, 
 
 His heart with fear unshaken ; 
 Must my sheep perish on the moor, 
 
 While I have them forsaken ? 
 No ! duty calls, I must obey, 
 
 Despite the stormy weather ; 
 Ere time be lost I must away 
 
 My fleecy flocks to gather. 
 
 He bravely climbed the mountain's brow, 
 
 The storm aye growing fiercer ; 
 I hear their bleat, I see them now ; 
 
 My blood is flowing faster. 
 The faithful collie round them ran 
 
 The straggling ones to gather ; 
 His master tried to drive them on, 
 
 O ! 'twas a vain endeavour.
 
 124 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 The snow now lay a good yard deep, 
 
 So white and fearful level ; 
 Sunk overpowered, the wearied sheep 
 
 No further could they travel. 
 By this the landmarks all were lost 
 
 On his own hill a stranger ; 
 The shepherd felt and knew the cost, 
 
 His own life was in danger. 
 
 With staggering limbs and sinking heart, 
 
 The pall of darkness o'er him, 
 He thought of home, Oh, bitter dart, 
 
 Where joys lay sweet before him. 
 Sunk 'neath the overwhelming drift, 
 
 A virgin wreath his pillow ; 
 The pale moon in the starry lift, 
 
 Shone like a weeping willow. 
 
 The morning sun rose bright and clear, 
 
 The Dowie Dens adorning, 
 As eager searchers did appear, 
 
 Once more yon Sabbath morning 
 So near his home the hero lay, 
 
 Embalmed in deathless glory; 
 And strong men wept their grief away 
 
 In Ettrick and in Yarrow.
 
 FARE-YE-WEEL, MY BONNIE LASS. 125 
 
 ^Bonnie Mass. 
 
 Now fare-ye-weel, my bonnie lass, 
 
 May joy an' a' guid things gang wi' thee ! 
 
 Gin I am spared till Martinmas, 
 
 For auld langsyne I '11 come an' see thee. 
 
 O happy, happy we hae been, 
 
 And mony joys we 've had thegither ; 
 
 Nought could oor friendship come between,* 
 Sae unco fond we were o' ither.. 
 
 Around the kitchen fire at night 
 
 Our taes we toasted on the fender, 
 While your sweet eyes shed forth a light 
 
 That rested aye on me sae tender. 
 
 We built big castles in the air, 
 
 We a' the warld were to each ither ; 
 
 We dreamt of future blessings rare 
 
 When some day we 'd keep hoose thegither. 
 
 We saw sweet bairns around the cot, 
 
 The wee yin toddlin', cryin' " Mammie ; " 
 
 May blessings rest on ilka spot 
 
 That boasts o' sic a darling lammie. 
 
 But dinna think, though far apart, 
 
 That I can e'er forget my dearie ; 
 To sing thy praise, my ain sweetheart, 
 
 My tongue and pen shall ne'er grow weary.
 
 126 JOHN TOOK THE PLEDGE. 
 
 (fofin 
 
 tfie 
 
 John was ill for drink, 
 The truth must be told ; 
 
 And Nancy his wife 
 Her manner was cold. 
 
 They courted five years, 
 A pretty long while ; 
 
 But love is so sweet, 
 Who counts it a toil ? 
 
 Then they got married, 
 As some people do ; 
 
 And sometimes I think 
 The rash step they rue. 
 
 ' Old slippers were thrown 
 For luck, so 'twas said ; 
 
 Unlucky for John, 
 
 For one struck his head. 
 
 The honeymoon waned, 
 They came back to town 
 
 And Nancy displayed 
 Her rich wedding gown. 
 
 His friends crowded round 
 Like bees in a bink ; 
 
 They all wished him joy, 
 While John paid the drink.
 
 JOHN TOOK THE PLEDGE. 127 
 
 His money got scarce, 
 
 His friends they got few ; 
 His credit was gone, 
 
 Which some people knew. 
 
 The winter was hard 
 
 Before it was old ; 
 Like Nancy his wife, 
 
 The weather was cold. 
 
 John loved not to work 
 
 A common disease ; 
 'T is nicer by far 
 
 To sit at one's ease. 
 
 But John was not born 
 
 To live by his wit, 
 As some people do, 
 
 And plenty aye get. 
 
 So he signed the pledge, 
 
 And touch drink he won't ; 
 What 's more, he 's kept it, 
 
 Which some people don't.
 
 128 LORD BYRON, POET. 
 
 M>$rd Z&yron, $W. 
 
 Mighty Byron, the sceptred crown is thine ; 
 Rival thou never hadst. How tersely sweet 
 Thy powerful verse, thy eagle muse so fleet ; 
 Winging the heights her glory forth doth shine ; 
 Proud monarch of the art men call divine ; 
 Chieftain of song. Unparelleled, complete, 
 Thy rich descriptions are beyond defeat. 
 The trade mark is embossed on every line. 
 I love thee, not because thou art a lord, 
 With all the privileges that birth bestows ; 
 It was thy gift that drew my heart to thine ; 
 Thy endless wealth of learning I adored. 
 Safe is thy fame. Where thy dust doth repose 
 Shall ever be to poetry the shrine. 
 
 ARCHIBALD BROWN, ETTRICK SHAWS. 
 
 The face I loved so well is gone, 
 
 So honest, free, and fair; 
 The smile where kindness ever shone 
 
 With love beyond compare. 
 
 His heart was open as the day ; 
 
 Truth was his compass square ; 
 His cheery voice, his Yea or Nay, 
 
 Told manliness was there.
 
 OOR WEE DARLIN . I2g 
 
 His mind was large, his gifts were great ; 
 
 That intellect so keen 
 It was my joy, my noble mate, 
 
 Thy comrade to have been. 
 
 Communion sweet we often had, 
 
 When others were not near ; 
 My feeble steps were kindly led 
 
 Up to the truth so clear. 
 
 Where death, the solemn end of all 
 
 No life beyond the tomb 
 It mattered little when the call 
 
 Conveyed man to his doom. 
 
 But far beyond this vale of woe 
 
 There is a land so fair ; 
 Dear Archie, in that land, I know, 
 
 Thy friend shall meet you there. 
 
 Oor wee darlin' a twalmonth 's gane, 
 Since oor wee pet frae us was ta'en, 
 The joy an' licht o' oor fireside, 
 Her mammie's pet and daidie's pride.
 
 130 OOR WEE DARLIN'. 
 
 Weel dae I mind the joyous hoor 
 She toddled first across the floor ; 
 She managed fine withoot mishap, 
 And laid her heid in mammie's lap. 
 
 Her wee bit innocent, sweet smile, 
 Unsoiled wi' sin, unstained wi' guile ; 
 She watched the door when nicht aye came, 
 Tae gie her daidie welcome hame. 
 
 His supper aye wi' her he shared ; 
 Croon'd on his knee, she pu'd his beard ; 
 While mammie sat an' eyed the pair, 
 Her love divided, balanced fair. 
 
 Though oft a tear steals down my cheek, 
 When at her grave I solace seek, 
 I know my darlin 's noo at rest 
 Among the babes whom Jesus blest. 
 
 'T is hard to pairt wi' those we love, 
 Yet harder far when a' is taen : 
 But some day we shall meet above, 
 And mammie get her pet again.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A POET. 131 
 
 On ffie QeatK of a $W, 
 
 Hail to the shade of our wee bard, 
 
 In peace we did inurn him ; 
 A quiet spot in yon churchyard, 
 
 Beside the sweet" laburnum. 
 
 Our cheeks were wet, as well they might, 
 
 Befitting our great sorrow ; 
 Hope oped her golden gates of light, 
 
 And dawned a bright to-morrow. 
 
 The din and noise of life afar 
 
 Ne'er cross the darksome river, 
 
 Where love, pure love 's the shining star, 
 Whose lustre dimmeth never. 
 
 There fields of green, eternal green, 
 
 A lifelong summer morning ; 
 Perfumed with flowers, a living sheen, 
 
 Adorable, adorning. 
 
 A thick veiled cloud of woe and bliss, 
 
 Unpierced by living mortal, 
 Is hung between that land and this ; 
 
 Faith is the only portal 
 
 Whence we can join the sacred throng. 
 
 Sin is our great deceiver; 
 Till overcome we hymn our song, 
 
 The joys of a believer.
 
 132 LINES ADDRESSED TO A VIOLIN. 
 
 Mines jfddressed to a ffhRn. 
 
 Sweetest instrument I know, 
 Magic music 's in the bow ; 
 Beautiful thy tone, so clear, 
 Ravishing both heart and ear. 
 Glorious thy harmony, 
 Queen of sweetest melody ; 
 In the homes of poor and great 
 Thou art found enthroned in state. 
 Prince and peasant homage pay 
 To thy sweet, unrivalled sway. 
 On the happy bridal morn, 
 At the roaring country kirn, 
 Thou art ne'er unwelcome guest, 
 Purest instrument and best. 
 O how vain to sing thy praise 
 Polkas, Highland reels, strathspeys, 
 Are interpreted by thee 
 In the choicest melody. 
 Charming sweet 's the " Brig o' Dee,' 
 Or Pate Baillie's grand strathspey ; 
 But to hear thee in thy pride 
 Thou must give me " Delvinside." 
 But it needs not song of mine 
 To make all thy beauties shine. 
 He who first thee did invent 
 Unto all the world hath lent 
 Evidence of genius bright, 
 Grander than the poet's might.
 
 WHAT MY LOVE IS LIKE. 133 
 
 He whose fingers first caress'd 
 Lovingly thy matchless breast, 
 Sweet and peaceful be his rest ! 
 Glorious thy harmony, 
 Queen of sweetest melody! 
 
 fflfiat Jtily Move is 
 
 1 '11 tell you what my love is like, 
 
 The lass that I lo'e best o' a' ; 
 Her form is of an angel make, 
 
 Her bosom 's purer than the snaw. 
 
 I 've seen the sun in simmer set 
 Far i' the west 'mid golden rays ; 
 
 I 've seen the rosebud dewy wet, 
 Sae bonnie far ayont a' praise. 
 
 I 've seen the woodlands in their pride 
 Wi' flowers o' every kind and hue ; 
 
 But Nature, love, has lavished wide 
 Her choicest sweets to garland you. 
 
 Sweet Isabel, my darling love, 
 
 Sweet empress of my heart and soul, 
 
 Without thee life would misery prove ; 
 
 With thee how sweet, though thou wert all.
 
 134 THOUGHTS ON THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 on tfie Q 
 
 Another year is on the wing, 
 
 But have we spent it well ? 
 To what side doth the balance swing ? 
 
 Alone let conscience tell. 
 
 Have we been true unto ourselves, 
 
 Employed the talent given, 
 Or has 't lain rusting on the shelves, 
 
 No interest in Heaven. 
 
 Have we assisted with our wealth 
 
 The helpless and forlorn ? 
 Have we been thankful for the health 
 
 The rose without the thorn 
 
 That was vouchsafed to us each day, 
 
 In purest, richest store ? 
 Dear friends have swiftly passed away, 
 
 And now are known no more. 
 
 Have we amid those precious hours 
 
 Planted the seed of faith, 
 That shall adorn with rosy flowers 
 
 The solemn bed of death ?
 
 NAE GAME LIKE CURLIN'. 135 
 
 JQae (tfame [ike Curfin'. 
 
 t_s*> \ 
 
 The grund was hard, the frost was keen, 
 The glitterin' ice lay like a sheen 
 O' silver white, while Crawfordjohns, 
 Nice Burnocks, Ailsa Craigs, and Hons 
 Were put in trim for curlin'. 
 
 The clachan 's fair deserted clean ; 
 Aboot the place nae men are seen, 
 But bairns are yellin' at their play 
 " We winna get oor licks the day, 
 
 The Maister's at the curlin'." 
 
 The parish priest, wi' reverent face, 
 Can tak' and gi'e a joke wi' grace, 
 Enjoy himsel' like ither men 
 There 's nae distinctions here, ye ken ; 
 We're brithers a' when curlin'. 
 
 The game proceeds ; the fun is guid 
 Nae danger here o' frozen bluid ; 
 Adoon oor cheeks the sweat-draps rin, 
 Like splashin' spray oot ower a linn, 
 
 At the roarin' game o' curlin'. 
 
 " Losh, soop her up ! man, bring 'er on ; 
 She'll get a chip and gaird the stone; 
 Stop noo haud up ! the vera thing. 
 Man, Jock, ye 're juist a curlin' king." 
 There's nae game like curlin'.
 
 136 NAE GAME LIKE CURLIN.' 
 
 " Ye see that pat-lid on the tee ? 
 Man, Tam, play that yin oot for me ; 
 Ye 've dune't afore clear oot the lot ! 
 She 's portin' grand Hoo ! shot ! shot ! shot ! " 
 There 's nae game like curlin'. 
 
 " Man, for a gaird ; oh, noo, be shuir ; 
 Plant weel yer feet ; be cautious there : 
 Haud off the broom ! be cannie noo 
 Ye 've played it, lad ! Huroo ! Huroo ! " 
 There 's nae game like curlin'. 
 
 "Jim, tak' an inwick off this stane, 
 And sune we '11 lie the shot again ; 
 They little ken yer skeel, I wot ; 
 Ye lick a' for a kittle shot 
 
 At the slid game o' curlin'." 
 
 " Noo, Bauldy, ye 've the hin'mist stane ; 
 They're three aheed that fact is plain ; 
 Tak' this yin oot, and we lie four. 
 Ye 've dune it weel we tap the score ! " 
 There 's nae game like curlin'.
 
 LINES ON GEORGE LORD BYRON. 137 
 
 Mines on ^eorge Js>crd ZByron. 
 
 It needs no bronze nor marble bust to keep alive his 
 
 name, 
 Each wave upon the ocean's breast but adds to 
 
 Byron's fame ; 
 And Time's destroying chisel strong may hew at it 
 
 in vain ; 
 Hid, like the sun behind a cloud, to shine more 
 
 bright again. 
 
 Enshrined within a nation's heart, his name shall 
 
 never die ; 
 
 Magnificent 's yon comet star, the glory of the sky ; 
 The other stars that round him shine all sweet 
 
 allegiance own, 
 Unchallenged in his royal right to wear the 
 
 monarch's crown. 
 
 Enthroned upon his princely couch, the sweetest bed 
 
 of song, 
 By what magnetic influence draws he the listening 
 
 throng ? 
 'T is that of song, and sweet the sound that flows 
 
 serenely on ; 
 A master's touch alone can bring so ravishing a 
 
 tone.
 
 138 LINES TO GEORGE LORD BYRON. 
 
 And Byron's was a master's hand, we feel it as he 
 
 sings ; 
 The eloquence of all the chords, the trembling of the 
 
 strings, 
 The passions of the human heart, its depth, its 
 
 breadth, its length, 
 Are interwoven in the chain of matchless beauty, 
 
 strength. 
 
 Crowned on the lofty hill of rhyme, methinks I see 
 
 him now, 
 His calm and clear majestic eye, his intellectual 
 
 brow ; 
 
 Oh, for a pen like his, that I may wield it at my will, 
 To picture England's greatest bard with all the 
 
 artist's skill. 
 
 But, ah ! it needs not pen like mine, nor lisping 
 
 tuneless song 
 To sing his praise, the wind that blows doth carry it 
 
 along ; 
 The fragrance of the budding rose burns incense to 
 
 his fame, 
 And long as poetry is read shall live Lord Byron's 
 
 name.
 
 AE SIMMER NICHT. . 139 
 
 4 
 
 nmmer 
 
 Twa couples braw ae simmer nicht 
 
 On Shaws hill did forgether, 
 Tae view the glowing landscape bricht, 
 
 And scent the fragrant heather. 
 Deep in their hearts love had its seat, 
 
 That shrine of sweet devotion, 
 That shrine that makes a barren state 
 
 Smile like the land of Goshen. 
 
 Twa nicer lasses ne'er were seen, 
 
 Were ne'er eclipsed by ony ; 
 I muckle doot if Burns's Jean 
 
 Looked half sae sweet or bonny. 
 The lads looked pleased, as weel they micht, 
 
 Their glances were most tender ; 
 The lasses were uncommon bricht, 
 
 And couldna hae been kinder. 
 
 Oh ! love, pure love, nought can excel 
 
 Thy influence majestic ; 
 The hardest heart beneath thy spell 
 
 Becomes soft and elastic. 
 The lovely scenery was grand, 
 
 An' glorious athegither ; 
 Wild violets bloomed on ilka hand 
 
 Among the bloomin' heather.
 
 140 AE SIMMER NICHT. 
 
 The larks sang sweetly up abune, 
 
 Their splendid music trilling, 
 While doon below that efternune 
 
 Responsive echoes, willing, 
 Went up and joined the choir above 
 
 In blissful exultation, 
 And every chord was chanting love 
 
 In joyous adoration. 
 
 The courtier may smoother speak 
 
 Wi' words refined and ready, 
 And volley cannonades o' reek, 
 
 Prefaced aye wi' " My lady." 
 Oh, could he leave the gay saloon, 
 
 Wi' a' its pomp an' glitter, 
 To revel wild this afternoon, 
 
 And taste the sweets o' Natur. 
 
 Oh, wad he leave the princely show 
 
 O' money, pride, an' fashion, 
 For yon sweet glen where, far below, 
 
 Yon bonnie lassie 's washin'. 
 She spreads her claes upon the green, 
 
 And laves the burnie ower them, 
 An' meets her lad at dewy e'en 
 
 Where naebody can glower them. 
 
 In bidding them a sweet good-bye, 
 May Fate aye prove propitious,
 
 YARROW. 141 
 
 To shower upon them every joy 
 
 That can make life delicious. 
 May strength, an' health, an' plenty wealth 
 
 Be aye within their hallan ; 
 May poverty an' ill-health be 
 
 Aye strangers at their dwellin'. 
 
 Have mercy on my aching brain, 
 My keen conception spare O 
 
 Who ever thought I 'd hear again 
 That sung-to-death stream, Yarrow! 
 
 Sma' wonder that my thochts gang wrang, 
 My muse chirps like a sparrow, 
 
 Gang where ye like, the same auld sang 
 Is Yarrow, ever Yarrow. 
 
 Has Scotland only ae spot green, 
 
 Its boundaries sae narrow, 
 That tourists ne'er the world have seen, 
 
 Unless they 'd been in Yarrow. 
 
 I 've been ower a' the " Dowie Dens," 
 
 In rain and sunny weather, 
 But never saw the bonnie glens 
 
 Just common hills and heather.
 
 142 BIG DRUCKEN WULL. 
 
 It micht be that my sicht was biassed, 
 So missed the fine reflection ; 
 
 If not, thy sweets were a' disguised 
 From one poor bard's detection. 
 
 Another book, enough of this 
 Yarrow's threadbare already ; 
 
 Of course where ignorance is bliss, 
 Wisdom 's a foolish lady. 
 
 I doot some winna be weel pleased 
 At my weel-meant oration ; 
 
 But let them be far better teased 
 Than killed wi' adulation. 
 
 Ettrick, cock up, haud up thy heid, 
 Thou hast no cause for sorrow ; 
 
 A share of gifts are o'er thee spread, 
 As rich as bloom in Yarrow. 
 
 This story that I 'm gaun to tell 
 
 Is neither unco strange nor queer, 
 It 's a' aboot big Drucken Wull, 
 
 That signed the pledge juist last New Year. 
 Wull was a joiner to his trade, 
 
 A clever, handy man was he ; 
 But every nicht his wage was paid 
 
 That nicht he aye got on the spree.
 
 BIG DRUCKEN WULL. 143 
 
 He wasna fear'd to stand a round, 
 
 Be 't either sweet or bitter ale ; 
 A blyther lad could not be found 
 
 Than Wull when he was 'bout half sail. 
 The sangs he sang were aye the best, 
 
 Sangs o' the guid auld Burns kind ; 
 There 's noucht like them to stand the test 
 
 Sangs nooadays are sae refined. 
 
 Forbye he played the fiddle too, 
 
 A better never wielded bow 
 Since Scotia lost long, long ago 
 
 The famous gifted chiel ca'd Gow. 
 Syne when aff hame he set at last, 
 
 He scarcely could vacate his chair ; 
 Wi' swaggering gait, unsteady step, 
 
 He'd whiles sair play to find the door. 
 
 Not that he didna ken the place, 
 
 But then his eyes saw things so queer, 
 And magnified at sic a pace ; 
 
 Nae wonder oft he wasna sure. 
 His bonnie Jeanie oft was vexed 
 
 To see her man to drink a slave ; 
 Her temper oft was sorely taxed, 
 
 And sadly oft her heart misgave. 
 
 Experiments were tried in vain 
 
 To wean him from the public-hoose. 
 
 But such the stubbornness of men, 
 As weel hae spoken tae a mouse.
 
 144 BIG DRUCKEN WULL. 
 
 But accidents hae aye a cause, 
 
 When we the weak point can discern ; 
 
 And nae man yet sae clever was 
 
 But aye saw something he could learn. 
 
 Atweel, to make my story short, 
 
 As I believe some 's whiles ower lang, 
 Wull was a chap of the richt sort, 
 
 'Twas a' the drink that put him wrang. 
 Ae nicht he set off to a ball, 
 
 And drink ye may be shure was there ; 
 And lang before the hour o' twal 
 
 I 'm certain Wull had ta'en his share. 
 
 He set off name in merry mood, 
 
 Ne'er dreaming what would him befall ; 
 Or that again he never would 
 
 Drink, handle, touch, or taste at all. 
 A quarry hole lay in his way, 
 
 But then his e'en were dazed wi' drink 
 Or he Jock Robison could say, 
 
 His leg was broken in a wink. 
 
 The miseries he did endure, 
 
 Till he was rescued later on, 
 Had pairt ado, you may be sure, 
 
 When he our Band of Hope did join. 
 Frae that nicht even to this time 
 
 A steadier man there couldna be ; 
 Peace and contentment reign at hame 
 
 And love blinks sweet in Jeanie's e'e.
 
 SONNET SCOTLAND. 145 
 
 Sonnet ScotCand. 
 
 Dear Auld Scotland, the dearest land on earth, 
 
 My blood dances with joy to hear thee praised. 
 
 Other lands may boast of a purer sun, 
 
 Where the sky is ever clear, where the fig 
 
 Tree and the rich orange tree blossom in 
 
 Unequalled splendour, where one has only 
 
 To stretch forth and pluck luxurious fruits. 
 
 But what are these to me ? Thou hast a charm 
 
 For me, for art thou not the land of my 
 
 Nativity ? I drew on thy hallowed 
 
 Soil my first breath of life, and on it I 
 
 Will draw my last. Thy heather-clad mountains, 
 
 With their towering peaks, where the eagle hath 
 
 His eerie, where the lark soars till he is 
 
 Lost in the fleecy clouds, where the foxglove 
 
 Nods in majestic stateliness to me, 
 
 Are dearer far than all the lands on earth. 
 
 The cradle of liberty was rocked in 
 
 Thy solitary glens. Here freedom's muse 
 
 Lisped its sweet numbers and rolled into a 
 
 Wealth of song, that made thee the queen of 
 
 Nations and exalted thy fame to heaven. 
 
 Thy noble son, the heroic Wallace, 
 
 Unfurled his banners and bade defiance 
 
 To thy Southern foes, that thou mightest be free. 
 
 Foully betrayed, inhumanly butchered, 
 
 His spirit still haunts his native valleys, 
 
 And Scotland exults o'er her darling son. 
 
 K
 
 146 SONNET SCOTLAND. 
 
 'T was on the green haughs of Caledonia 
 
 That lovely Coila, with modest mein, threw 
 
 Her mantle o'er Robert Burns, and tuned his 
 
 Harp to sing those artless notes that hath charmed 
 
 The ears of a world. The crown of berries 
 
 That she placed on his manly brow, instead 
 
 Of losing their brightness, to-day are as 
 
 Rosy as that hour she crowned him ; and where- 
 
 Ever poetry is read and genius 
 
 Adored thy national bard occupies 
 
 An honoured niche in the temple of fame. 
 
 Oh, dear Scotia, my beloved country, 
 
 Thy mists are more congenial to me 
 
 Than the sunshine of France or Italy. 
 
 Where shall I find brave sons like Scotland's sons ? 
 
 Where, oh where'shall I find bonny lasses 
 
 That for beauty can take the pass off thine ? 
 
 The rosy cheek and the soft, sparkling eye, 
 
 Where love luxuriates, proclaims the fact 
 
 That beauty thrives in thy northern home, 
 
 And is perfected in thy misty clime. 
 
 Oh, darling Scotland, what more can I say 
 
 Of thee, most favoured nation under Heaven ? 
 
 Thou hast a goodly heritage; may peace 
 
 Abound within thy walls, and joy, love, and 
 
 Prosperity within thy palaces !
 
 SONNET DEATH. 147 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 Death comes to all men whether they try to 
 
 Avoid it or not. None are exempted ; 
 
 The millionaire on his princely bed, as 
 
 Well as the beggar on his lowly cot, 
 
 Must pass through those portals, from whence there 
 
 is 
 
 No returning. Of what use are millions 
 To him now ? He must die and leave them all ; 
 Yea, die as poor as he had had them not. 
 Oh that men would live so as they could die ! 
 The Christian can meet thee with unblanched 
 Countenance, and tell thee bluntly to thy 
 Face thou hast no terrors for him ; he can 
 Even welcome thee to his bosom as 
 His dearest friend and kindest physician. 
 Thy medicine to the sinner may be 
 A little too purging, yet to him it 
 Is the queen of drugs, the passport to heaven. 
 O Death, thou art only but the ladder 
 By which we mount to the regions of bliss, 
 Where the fountains of joy are opened, where 
 The souls of just men shall revel in all 
 The innocent pleasures of the redeemed. 
 It is a very solemn thing to die ; 
 But, my friends, it is much more so to live ; 
 Dost thou want to see a man in his true 
 Colours ? Yes, you do. Well, then, come with me.
 
 148 SONNET PEACE. 
 
 You see yon sick bed, and its occupant ? 
 
 He is dying, and he knows it. Ask him 
 
 If he is prepared to speak the truth. The 
 
 Look he gives you will be answer enough. 
 
 Art thou satisfied ? Need'st thou other proof ? 
 
 This is the truest moment of his life. 
 
 Death, thou hast no victory to boast of; 
 
 Why should we fear thee ? Trust in God, and we 
 
 Are safe ; safe for time and eternity. 
 
 Sonnet tyea.ce. 
 
 Peace, how glorious are all thy blessings ! 
 
 In thy rest the wearied soul finds repose, 
 
 And saith to itself, yea verily I 
 
 Will make my habitation here : here is 
 
 My rest and stay, for I do love it well. 
 
 Thou art no mischief-maker, thou hast no 
 
 Delight in brawls ; from thy beautiful lips 
 
 The words of love in purity do flow. 
 
 Thou art no respecter of persons, thou 
 
 Dwellest as frankly 'neath the thatched roof 
 
 As in the corniced halls of royalty. 
 
 The monarch on whose brow the diamonds blaze, 
 
 To whose slightest nod men bow obedience,
 
 SONNET PEACE. 149 
 
 May yet be a total stranger to thee, 
 
 And never know the worth of happiness ; 
 
 While a humble casket may conceal the 
 
 Jewel that can neither be bought nor sold. 
 
 How rich the altar of thy sanctuary, 
 
 From whence smokes the clouded incense of love. 
 
 Thou makest life enjoyable ; to the soul 
 
 Who finds thee paradise has been regained, 
 
 And, best of all, no more again be lost. 
 
 The soldier, inured to the din of war 
 
 And the strife of camps, longs for the time when 
 
 The bugles shall sound the notes of peace, and 
 
 The scarlet lines shall melt to form no more ; 
 
 When the cruel sword, varnished with human 
 
 Blood, shall no more decide disputes, but leave 
 
 The issues with his more powerful brother 
 
 That noble instrument men call the pen. 
 
 Oh, that men would give up the strife of war, 
 
 And glory in the nobler paths of peace.
 
 150 THE HAZEL GLEN. 
 
 azeC G-f 
 
 O= 
 
 en. 
 
 Dearly I love the hazel glen, 
 
 In the summer bright and sunny ; 
 
 The lark sings sweet above my head, 
 And the primrose bank is bonny. 
 
 The pure air clears the wearied brain, 
 Prepares the mind for thinking ; 
 
 Down on the grass I musing lie, 
 The chain of life new linking. 
 
 I hear the river sounding on 
 
 O'er rocky throat it gurgles ; 
 Far down below, around the foam, 
 
 The waltzing bubble sparkles. 
 
 The gleg-eyed weasel hunts his prey, 
 
 By fairy rings undaunted, 
 Where fairies langsyne held the dance, 
 
 And simple folk enchanted. 
 
 Here sweetest flowers of richest hues 
 
 Grow where the green leaves shade them 
 
 Beneath yon stone, true martyrs lie, 
 Where persecution laid them. 
 
 Give studied art to those who wish, 
 Give wealth to fools to squander ; 
 
 Give me the glory of the glen, 
 With freedom there to wander.
 
 THE TURKISH ATROCITIES. 15! 
 
 ^fie ^ur^isK J^trociiies. 
 
 Brave Albion, put forth thy might, 
 
 Proud mistress of the sea 
 Bold champion of every right, 
 
 And glorious liberty. 
 
 To whom could weak Armenia cry, 
 
 But to the people brave ? 
 The land where Bruce and Cromwell lie, 
 
 Where jaggy thistles wave. 
 
 O Britain, by thy glorious fame, 
 
 That makes the tyrant fear ; 
 By all humanity can name, 
 
 Or liberty hold dear, 
 
 Go forth and stop the brutal work. 
 
 To stay thy hand none dare ; 
 And, if need be, remove the Turk 
 
 From off God's landscape fair. 
 
 Ten thousand of our kilted lads 
 
 Could marches redd, I ween ; 
 Sweet maids would bless the tartan plaids 
 
 That made their sleep serene. 
 
 The horrors done on Turkish soil, 
 
 Where crime and lust prevail 
 It makes the British blood to boil, 
 
 To read the shameful tale.
 
 152 THE FALSE LOVER. 
 
 J-ake M 
 
 With heavy heart I pen this note in answer to thine 
 
 own ; 
 How sad to think that thou art false ; oh, had I only 
 
 known ! 
 But now I write to let thee know that thou art once 
 
 more free ; 
 Thy secret I will closely guard, that once thou 
 
 lovedst me. 
 
 Oh, where are all thy solemn vows and honied words 
 
 so sweet ? 
 A maiden's love thou hast betrayed, and trampled 
 
 'neath thy feet ; 
 But still the love I bear to you my tongue can never 
 
 tell; 
 My love to hatred ne'er could turn ; for I have loved 
 
 too well. 
 
 "Pis sad to think that all my love should thus be 
 
 thrown away ; 
 
 A broken heart is my reward, my rest a bed of clay ; 
 And when my grave is withered bare the snow lies 
 
 on the braes 
 
 My spirit, in the spirit land, shall wish you well 
 always.
 
 SUNSET. 153 
 
 For if the God who rules above can e'er forgive your 
 
 sin, 
 It to your charge shall ne'er be laid by your forsaken 
 
 one ; 
 Though thou a traitor proved to me, and robbed me 
 
 of my joy, 
 My bleeding heart to you doth wish a sweet, a sweet 
 
 good-bye. 
 
 Sunset. 
 
 The setting sun glorious shone 
 
 'Mid a sea of blue ; far upon 
 
 The vaulted space the parting rays 
 
 Set all the sky into a blaze 
 
 Of blended light ; the dark recess 
 
 Of green shaggy wood made no less 
 
 Sweet the scene. Piping on each bush, 
 
 Keather'd songsters encored the thrush 
 
 With lusty vigour ; such a scene 
 
 Is beautiful, before the green 
 
 Summer merges into the brown 
 
 Of mellow autumn's golden crown 
 
 Exquisite, magnificent, grand, 
 
 Sweet as a dream of fairyland.
 
 154 RURAL POETRY. 
 
 Untutored in poetic art, 
 Unknown at her auction mart, 
 Fit subject for vile critic sport, 
 
 While smaller fry, 
 Like echoes distant rocks impart, 
 
 Tak' up the cry. 
 
 The rustic bard is hunted doon, 
 Puir silly, crack'd, demented clown, 
 That scarcely kens a harvest moon 
 
 Frae 'mong the others ; 
 Forsaken, friendlsss, left tae droon 
 
 'Mong lots o' haivers. 
 
 Hail poesy ! thou queen enthroned, 
 How often hath thy life been maimed, 
 Or thy majestic shin banes lamed 
 
 By prosy fetters, 
 And thy sublimity inflamed 
 
 Wi' dull Greek letters. 
 
 While thy true sons by thee inspired, 
 The glowing eye by genius fired, 
 The language all that is desired, 
 
 The guid braid tongue ; 
 How sweet the sang, like lightning wired,. 
 
 Thy bards have sung.
 
 RURAL POETRY. 155 
 
 O bonnie hill o' sweet Parnass', 
 How mony a Greek an' Latin ass 
 Hath fondly wooed thee for his lass, 
 
 But all in vain ; 
 Half fell'd, disjaskit, on the grass, 
 
 For weeks he's lain. 
 
 Just as I write this sonnet queer, 
 A bonnie bird is whistling near, 
 Its melody, sae sweet and clear, 
 
 Thrills through my heart ; 
 Each note says, take a lesson here 
 
 From nature's art. 
 
 Among the bonnie brackens green, 
 The wavin' corn at dewy een, 
 The trottin' burnie's misty sheen, 
 
 The jappin' spray, 
 Contentedly, by a' unseen, 
 
 I rhyme away. 
 
 'Mong sweet blue bells the mountain air 
 Blaws fresh and caller everywhere, 
 Eneugh and plenty aye to spare 
 
 To smoky toons, 
 Where wives an' sickly weans pine sair, 
 
 Wi' heidache croons. 
 
 How nice the fields at even tide, 
 When nature looks braw as a bride,
 
 156 THE LOVERS RECONCILED. 
 
 Disgorgin' flowers in heidlang flood 
 Across the earth, 
 
 While spring, the howdy wife, wi' pride 
 Assists at birth. 
 
 Or winter wi' his hoary pow, 
 
 The meltin' wreaths, the roarin' thow, 
 
 The rattlin' ice boards wildly row 
 
 Frae side to side, 
 And flooding ilka haugh an' howe, 
 
 Deep, fer and wide. 
 
 With joyous, lightsome heart I write to let my 
 
 darling know 
 He's lifted from my wearied breast a heavy load of 
 
 woe ; 
 Thrice happy was I to receive your kind and 
 
 welcome line ; 
 Blest consolation 'tis to know your heart beats true 
 
 to mine. 
 
 But wherefore did you send me word that you had 
 
 changed your mind ? 
 Which of the two must I believe that I the truth 
 
 may find ?
 
 ONLY SIX YEARS. 157 
 
 I must confess I am perplexed between those letters 
 
 two ; 
 The first one showed that you were false, the second 
 
 proved you true. 
 
 But since you say that you are true, and still my 
 
 own dear lad, 
 To test the truth of what you say I purpose to get 
 
 wed ; 
 Put in the banns, make no delay, and see that all is 
 
 square ; 
 And happy, happy is that home when love's a 
 
 dweller there. 
 
 No more to part, but always love, how happy we 
 
 shall be ; 
 
 Tho' poor our lot, our cot will be a paradise to me, 
 Where we shall taste the sweetest joys that ever 
 
 mortals knew, 
 And live a sweet, contented life devoted, faithful, 
 
 true. 
 
 Onl Si 
 
 x 
 
 Only six years, my darling boy, 
 
 Thy life was scarce begun 
 Ere thou wert called to taste Heaven's joy, 
 
 And wear its golden crown.
 
 158 TO MY ISABEL. 
 
 Only six years ! to me it seems 
 
 Thy life was but a day, 
 And thy fond mother's hopeful dreams 
 
 Of manhood, where are they ? 
 
 Only six years, my little flower, 
 
 Since thou to earth did come ; 
 But now eternal in that bower, 
 
 Thy Heavenly Father's home. 
 Only six years ! We meet again, 
 
 Yes, meet to part no more ; 
 Complete in Heaven 's the broken chain- 
 
 Thou art but gone before. 
 
 ^(50 my 
 
 Dear Isabella, sweetest maid 
 That ere the heart of man did move, 
 Sweet as the rosebud tint arrayed, 
 Bright as yon twinkling orbs above, 
 Pure as the snowdrop in the glade, 
 Or sweetest violet in the grove, 
 Or lovely moss rose in the shade, 
 All want the sweetness of my love.
 
 TO MY ISABEL. 159 
 
 Dear to my soul and inmost heart, 
 Life were a blank without thy smile; 
 How fond to meet, how sad to part, 
 Though only for a little while ; 
 Oh how devoid is love of art, 
 A stranger to dishonoured guile, 
 How sensitive to every smart, 
 Or ecstasy that thrills the soul. 
 
 Accept this pledge of love, sweet maid, 
 Which this poor card to you conveys ; 
 May every mountain, stream, and flood, 
 The rocky glens, the daisied braes, 
 Combined with virtue's powerful aid, 
 The swelling chorus joyful raise, 
 Till universal nature wide, 
 Proclaim aloud my darling's praise. 
 
 Oh, Thou the Great All-seeing Power, 
 Oh, hear my ardent, fervent prayer, 
 Watch o'er and tend my darling flower, 
 Make her Thy most peculiar care ! 
 Oh, guard her footsteps every hour 
 From foul temptation's fatal snare, 
 And lead her to that blissful bower, 
 Where joys eternal blossom fair.
 
 l6o ETTRICK. 
 
 Oh ! river of my boyhood's mirth, 
 
 Oh ! river of my native dale, 
 To me the dearest spot on earth 
 
 Is Ettrick's quiet, peaceful vale. 
 
 When spring, the charming damsel, green t 
 Wi' snawdraps cleads thy bonnie braes, 
 
 The primrose bank so sweet, serene, 
 Were a' beyond my power to praise. 
 
 When autumn wi' its yellow crest 
 
 Brown'd deep my bonnie Forest grey, 
 
 Thou bonnie stream, that I lo'e best, 
 Wi' joy I've heard thy ripplets play. 
 
 When winter rains did fiercely blaw 
 And tinged thy placid waters clear, 
 
 I've listened to thy roaring fa' 
 The music I so loved to hear. 
 
 And now that I am leaving thee, 
 The parting oh, it gives me pain ; 
 
 Though grim despair looms gloomily, 
 Hope whispers, "We may meet again." 
 
 Fareweel, my comrades, ane an' a', 
 The playmates of my early years 
 
 The joys we've had are a' awa', 
 
 Like snaw-wreaths when the thow appears.
 
 JOTTINGS. l6l 
 
 (fittings. 
 
 She trusted me. Her love was ocean deep, 
 Boundless as air, pure as the blue above, 
 
 Strong as the bolts that priceless jewels keep ; 
 O, what a precious thing is woman's love ! 
 
 We both were young life then is sweet to live 
 We never saw the fields so green before, 
 
 Nor knew that life such happiness could give : 
 Two souls, yet one in union evermore, 
 Locked in each other's arms the rain of love did pour. 
 
 Our tongues were mute, we communed with our eyes, 
 
 In language richer far than pen could write ; 
 Their liquid softness shamed the balmy skies, 
 
 Their brilliancy eclipsed the stars at night. 
 Love was our sun, we saw no other light ; 
 
 It was enough, we loved as few have done ; 
 But destiny, that worketh ever right, 
 
 Diverged our paths; cross purposes were run ; 
 
 Stern fate closed up the book auspiciously begun. 
 Sweet is the glen where beauty sleeps unseen, 
 
 The stately foxglove rears its head on high ; 
 With hazelly banks the burnie runs between, 
 
 Fed by the spring no sultry sun can dry ; 
 So fresh the green, so soothing to the eye 
 
 Jaded with toil ; the weary brow of care 
 Can here relax, anxiety defy. 
 
 O lovely glen ! thy jewelled sward so rare 
 
 Would make an ideal grave, so calm and peaceful 
 there. 
 
 L
 
 l62 JOTTINGS. 
 
 Vain is the man who for ambition toils, 
 Destroying health for such a bauble vain ; 
 
 Deceitful glory, what are all thy spoils ? 
 Too oft regretted by a life-long pain ; 
 
 Oh, give me virtue's path, unrugged, plain 
 The mind serene, contentment's sweetest bliss ; 
 
 Then in yon hour life has not been in vain. 
 What pleasure is 't the cup of joy to kiss, 
 If we the great reward, the crown of life, do miss ? 
 
 'T was thee, sweet maid, that woke my muse to sing, 
 Nor think it strange that I should sing of thee ; 
 
 To sing of thee doth ever pleasure bring ; 
 I nurse the thought because it pleases me. 
 
 My fancy roams oft to the trysting tree, 
 Sacred because thy name is on the stem. 
 
 Ah ! happy youth, the hours right pleasantly 
 
 Were freely spent, unknown those dreams of fame, 
 That tease the after life in fortune's fickle game. 
 
 Give me the brook, the cool and shady grove, 
 Where nature's sweets at random are displayed ; 
 
 There I can read deep in the book of love, 
 Again caress and converse with the maid 
 
 Who, to my eye, by fancy's kindly aid, 
 Is ever young. I see again those eyes 
 
 Two starry dewdrops, with a purer shade 
 Than ever blazed at eve in diamond skies 
 I commune with her yet, for true love never dies.
 
 JOTTINGS. 163 
 
 O, who can gauge the depth of woman's love ? 
 
 What mind can grasp the sweetness of the same ? 
 Its constancy no logic can disprove, 
 
 No envy blur the whiteness of the flame, 
 Nor death destroy the fragrance of its name. 
 
 Its worth to me my tongue can never tell, 
 Alike in hours of poverty and fame, 
 
 Sweet as the moss rose in the shady dell ; 
 
 Oft have I sung of love, the theme I love so well. 
 
 O, wearied heart, that found at last its mate, 
 Green were thy joys in youth's gay, sunny days. 
 
 Could ever wealth or friendship of the great 
 Bestow on life these juicy, palmy rays 
 
 That melt the heart when in the rosy maze 
 
 Of love's gay dance we waltzed dull care away ? 
 
 Too good to hate, too beautiful to praise, 
 Life was compressed into a summer day, 
 Where flowers for ever bloomed in lovely land- 
 scapes gay. 
 
 \Vith arm in arm we strolled beneath the shade 
 
 Of leafy trees, in Brockhill's flowery grove ; 
 Sweet were the tunes the band above us played 
 
 Enchanting airs so redolent of love. 
 Love, glorious love ! meek as a turtle dove, 
 
 Attended us with all her gifts divine ; 
 We were on earth, but far in heaven above 
 
 Our minds did roam, where pleasures ne'er decline; 
 
 Our thoughts were poetry deliciously fine.
 
 164 JOTTINGS. 
 
 Behold the sun in majesty arise 
 
 From ocean'd pillows bathed in deepest blue ; 
 Sweeping across the vast unmeasured skies, 
 
 His daily routine journey doth pursue. 
 Rising at eve, when falls the gentle dew 
 
 O'er palmy isles, shedding his rays serene ; 
 Spreading a glory Scotland never knew 
 
 Where through the year the leaf is ever green ; 
 
 Where east winds are unknown, and snowflakes 
 never seen. 
 
 But dearer far are Scotia's mountains wild, 
 Where screaming eagles freedom do proclaim, 
 
 And rocky glens where liberty beheld 
 
 With streaming eyes heroic deeds of fame. 
 
 Wallace and Bruce, with others I could name, 
 Whose claymores swept the tyrant to his grave, 
 
 The tartan plaids aye set my heart on flame, 
 And heather red, where stalwart thistles wave, 
 Guarding our bonnie fatherland Scotland the 
 brave. 
 
 O, Scotia, dear ! Land of the Heaven-taught bard, 
 Of foaming floods, and towering mountains green, 
 
 Around thy shores the rolling waves keep guard; 
 Within thy homes are gallant hearts, I ween. 
 
 Safe is the throne of our beloved Queen 
 Complacently we gaze across the sea 
 
 Upon the world ; our slumbers are serene ; 
 The bagpipes sound the notes of liberty, 
 For Scotsmen aye have been and ever shall be free.
 
 JEANIE'S BONNIE, JEANIE'S SWEET. 165 
 
 Oh, come my muse, and strike a major key ! 
 
 The pith is thine, the instrument is tuned, 
 And sing a song of sweetest melody, 
 
 That to thy fame and credit shall redound, 
 When daisies white bloom o'er the singer's mound, 
 
 And pilgrims come to gaze with wond'ring eyes 
 Upon the harp that gave so sweet a sound ; 
 
 Know thine own power, on eagle's wings arise, 
 
 Earth never was thy home, thou lived in purer skies. 
 
 For I have sung so oft of love that I 
 
 Am half afraid my song is growing stale, 
 
 Yet 't is a subject wide as earth and sky, 
 And ever shall remain the sweetest tale. 
 
 But, hark ! my muse, I hear the cuckoo's wail ; 
 'Tis spring again, the woods are waving green, 
 
 And softer winds invade the flowery dale, 
 
 Where truant snows did loiter long, I ween 
 How changed the landscape now ; O, what a 
 lovely scene ! 
 
 Beanie 's ^Bonnie, Beanie 's 
 
 Her rosy cheeks aglow wi' health 
 
 Would ornament a palace ha'; 
 But dearer far than untold wealth, 
 
 Because she lo'es me best o' a'. 
 
 CHORUS. Jeanie's bonnie, Jeanie's sweet, 
 
 And she has twa sic bonnie een ; 
 Jeanie's modest, trig, an' neat, 
 
 The sweetest flower I 've ever seen.
 
 1 66 JENNY, LOVE. 
 
 Her smile would make the slave forget 
 The precious want of liberty. 
 
 I '11 ne'er forget the hour we met 
 
 When Jeanie pledged her love to me. 
 
 The mavis sang his sweetest sang 
 As gloamin' did her curtains draw ; 
 
 Wi' love we thocht the time nae lang, 
 For it will aye be king o' a'. 
 
 Wi' ae fond kiss and sweet embrace 
 Kind love it was between us twa ; 
 
 Nae jealous thochts my mind did chase,. 
 For Jeanie lo'es me best o' a'. 
 
 Move. 
 
 Oh, Jenny, love ! sweet Jenny, love, 
 Sair is the breast forsaken ; 
 
 Some pity have an' let me live, 
 My wearied heart is breakin'. 
 
 My youthfu' heart ye stole awa 
 The first time I was near 'e ; 
 
 Gi'e rne yer ain, ye need na twa, 
 My sweet an' bonnie dearie. 
 
 O, wha can look into thine eyes 
 But ever after bless them ; 
 
 Or near those lips an' not arise 
 The burning wish to kiss them ?
 
 ISABEL. 167 
 
 The blushing rose, wi' tender grace, 
 
 Doth yield' the palm serenely, 
 Forgets her ain sweet royal face 
 
 To gaze on one more queenly. 
 
 TsaBef. 
 
 Let poets sing, their voices ring 
 
 Wi' echoes loud o' fame ; 
 My musing well, thy bonnie sel', 
 
 And love shall be the theme. 
 
 When on Parnass', my lovely lass, 
 
 I glance upon the fair, 
 I canna see a floo'r like thee, 
 
 Thou gem beyond compare. 
 
 I canna sing, far less can bring 
 
 My feeble tongue to tell 
 The loveliness, the comeliness, 
 
 O' winsome Isabel. 
 
 Her kindly look my fancy took, 
 
 So sweet, majestic, tender, 
 Did melt my soul to pay the toll 
 
 For viewing so much grandeur. 
 
 Her ruby lips what dainty sips 
 
 Await the favoured lover ; 
 The rosy draught wi' pleasure fraught, 
 
 A bee among the clover.
 
 168 THE FLOO'R o' THE DEE. 
 
 The galley slave doomed to the grave 
 Would hug the tyrant's chain, 
 
 At freedom blush, nor ever wish 
 To taste its sweets again. 
 
 tfko'r o' tKe ee. 
 
 Blythe warbles the lark o'er the mountain an' lea, 
 The rose blushes crimson to hail the bright dawn ; 
 
 But to me a" the pleasures that Nature can gi'e 
 My bonnie young Jessie's the sweetest o' a'. 
 
 The dews o' the morn the pale lilies adorn, 
 
 The violet blooms sweet wi' its modest blue e'e ; 
 
 A' Nature gi'es welcome to Spring's rosy morn, 
 But 'tis nae sae kind as my Jessie's to me. 
 
 The oors they are lang till the day wears awa ; 
 
 But then, oh how sweet is the gloamin' to me ! 
 At the edge o' the e'enin' love blossoms fu' braw, 
 
 'Tis then I woo Jessie, the floo'r o' the Dee. 
 
 What care I for titles or couches o' doon, 
 
 Where the braw folk cauld poverty never dae see ? 
 
 To be happy is something worth mair than a croon, 
 I ask for nae mair than my Jessie can gi'e. 
 
 THE END.
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 PRINTED IN U 6
 
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