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WAIFS OF RHYME 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME 
 
 Rolling in his mind 
 Old Waifs of Rhyme 
 
 Tennyson's "Brook" 
 
 ABERDEEN 
 
 LEWIS SMITH & SON 
 
 1890 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
ANOTHER WORD. 
 
 The present edition of WAIFS OF RHYME is the outcome 
 of requests by friends in humble life, the life which the 
 Author, through various causes, knows best. 
 
 When the RHYMES came from the Printers hands, in 1887, 
 they were intended solely for private circulation, as indicated 
 in the Prefatory Couplets, repeated here, the prevailing motive 
 of Publication at all being the acknowledged impatience of the 
 writer in making copies of this and that special WAIF. 
 The private circulation design was overruled by voices to which 
 there was grateful reason the Author should listen, with the 
 result that the booklet got, in Publisher's phrase, out of print 
 in a couple of days, and can now, it appears, be only obtained, 
 at a somewhat prohibitive price. Hence, and with the above 
 opening explanation, this new issue. 
 
 The first edition of the WAIFS had an introductory, " One 
 Word" In now prefixing ANOTHER WORD, the Author 
 desires to repeat that there must be scores of things of like 
 
 384 
 
vi. ANOTHER WORD 
 
 character from the same pen floating about here and there , but 
 as they took form through momentary promptings, so they, 
 apparently, found no abiding place in print. At any rate they 
 are not at command. It may be noted, however, that the pieces 
 here included from Page 63 are additions to the original 
 collection. 
 
 If these wandering WAIFS OF RHYME afford some amuse- 
 ment to folks strange to our Northern ways, and bring back to 
 others pleasant blinks from LANG SYNE, they will have fully 
 answered their purpose : 
 
 "I softly trill my sparrow reed, 
 
 Blest if but one should like the twitter, 
 Humbly I lay it down to heed, 
 A music or a minstrel Jitter. " 
 
 WILLIAM CARNIE. 
 Aberdeen, Christmas, 1890. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 WAIFS ... ... ... i 
 
 BONNIE DEESIDE ... ... ... ... 2 
 
 DAY DREAMING ... ... ... ... 3 
 
 DRAMATIC ADDRESS (1856) ... ... ... 4 
 
 REMEMBRANCE ... ... ... ... 8 
 
 TAM TEUCHIT ... ... ... ... 9 
 
 SUMMER TIME (Part Song) ... ... ... 10 
 
 THE TIFF ... ... ... ... ... n 
 
 To ANE FAR AWA' ... ... ... ... 12 
 
 DRAMATIC ADDRESS (1856) ... ... ... 13 
 
 OUR PURVEYOR ROYAL ... ... ... 17 
 
 A FACTORY LASSIE'S SANG ... ... ... 19 
 
 To ... ... ... ... ... 20 
 
 VOLUNTEER ADDRESS ... ... ... ... 21 
 
 BRIDAL SONG ... ... ... ... 23 
 
 THE PLOUGH... ... ... ... ... 25 
 
 SADLY IN A VALE ALONE (Madrigal) ... ... 26 
 
 THERE'S AYE SOME WATER, &c. ... ... 27 
 
 DRAMATIC EPILOGUE (1859) ... ... ... 29 
 
 LIVE AND LET LIVE ... ... ... ... 32 
 
 To CELIA ... ... ... ... ... 33 
 
 AGGIE'S NEW GOON ... ... ... ... 34 
 
 DRAMATIC ADDRESS (1865) ... ... ... 35 
 
 Ho! GROOM BRING FORTH, &c. (Part Song) ... 37 
 
 THE LAIRD o' MORKEU ... ... ... 38 
 
 COME, LADY, AND GLADDEN, &c. ... ... 40 
 
 NAY! NEVER SAY, &c. (Part Song) ... ... 41 
 
 HOOTY-TOOTY (Part Song) ... ... ... 42 
 
iii. CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MILK AND SCONES ... ... ... ... 43 
 
 DRAMATIC ADDRESS (1880) ... ... ... 44 
 
 A VAGRANT VALENTINE ... ... ... 47 
 
 BRIDAL SONG ... ... ... ... 48 
 
 MY NEIGHBOUR THE MILLER ... ... ... 49 
 
 VOLUNTEER PROLOGUE (1865) ... ... ... 50 
 
 WITH THE FLEET ... ... ... ... 53 
 
 MY PRINCESS OF THE HILL ... ... ... 55 
 
 DRAMATIC ADDRESS (1873) ... ... ... 57 
 
 WICKET, BAT AND BALL ... ... ... 60 
 
 A MEMORY ... ... ... ... ... 62 
 
 KATE o' KIRKHILL ... ... ... ... 63 
 
 To J. T. ... 64 
 
 SCENE IN THE CIRCLE ... ... ... 65 
 
 PEACE OFFERINGS ... ... ... ... 68 
 
 A CRICKET LAY ... ... ... ... 69 
 
 THE FLOWING CATARRH ... ... ... 72 
 
 THE FARMER'S LIFE ... ... ... ... 73 
 
 W. S. 74 
 
 DRAMATIC ADDRESS (1890) ... ... ... 75 
 
 THE QUEER CARLE ... ... ... ... 77 
 
 DEE AND DON ... ... ... ... 81 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 WAIFS of a wilful fancy ; fruit of varied years : 
 Gladsome with fond memories ; chastened by sad tears. 
 
 WAIFS with little reason, perchance of doubtful rhyme ; 
 Spurrings of good comradeship to hasten tardy time. 
 
 WAIFS of changeful humour, of bright and cloudy hours, 
 Treasured love and sorrow, mingled thorns and flowers. 
 
 WAIFS scarce worth the storing. Friend, take them as they stand. 
 They may recall, in days to come, a humble " vanish'd hand." 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 BONNIE DEESIDE. 
 
 When the birk tree like silver is shining, 
 
 And the broom on the brae gleams like gold : 
 
 When the stag for the deep pool is pining, 
 And the shorn ewe seeks shelter nor fold : 
 
 ! then would I roam o'er the heather, 
 Where often I've wandered in pride, 
 
 And twined fern and blue-bell together 
 Sae blithesome on bonnie Deeside. 
 
 1 can see the grey auld Kirk o' Crathie 
 Balmoral and lythe Carnaquheen ! 
 
 In the glen glints the hill-shepherd's bothie, 
 
 Wi' dark Lochnagar far abeen. 
 I know not the journey before me ! 
 
 I care not what troubles betide ! 
 While memory thus can restore me 
 
 The joys o' lang-syne on Deeside. 
 
 The gloamin' brings back days departed, 
 
 I see weel-kent faces ance mair ; 
 They come, the beloved and leal-hearted, 
 
 From silence to solace my care. 
 Oh ! stay happy dreams of life's morning, 
 
 Ye visions of past hours abide, 
 For ever ye bring in returning 
 
 New blessings frae bonnie Deeside. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 DAY DREAMING. 
 
 ! that you and I were nutting 
 In some pleasant English glade, 
 
 Our shelter from the summer's sun 
 
 The hazel tree's dim shade, 
 With the woodlark and the linnet gay singing overhead. 
 
 Even now my fancy pictures 
 
 The spot I long to see, 
 The home of thy blithe early days 
 
 Ere first I looked on thee 
 And your sweet voice woke up feelings I deemed were dead in me. 
 
 1 can trace the path thy footsteps 
 
 Made glad with childish mirth ; 
 (To me there seems no holier place 
 
 On this fair bounteous earth 
 Than the valley of thy girlhood the cottage of thy birth). 
 
 Then I think that we are straying 
 
 Silent 'mid that happy scene, 
 And there comes a peal of bridal bells 
 
 From yon old church by the green, 
 And I muse, had we but earlier met, of what there might have been. 
 
 'Twas a web of fancy's weaving 
 
 Stray, olden, golden gleams 
 Of youth's warm spring deceiving ; 
 
 Hope's sun now colder beams, 
 
 And my love-thoughts, and my longings, are but vain and idle 
 dreams. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 ADDRESS 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. POLLOCK, ON BENEFIT NIGHT, IN 
 OLD HOUSE, MARISCHAL STREET. 
 
 [SCENE. An Apartment with table, sofa, &c. Casket on table, 
 and books lying around. Mrs. Pollock sitting reading. 
 After a pause she speaks.] 
 
 Ah ! well-a-day ! 'tis utterly in vain, 
 
 I've scanned these volumes o'er and o'er again, 
 
 In hope to find some simple hint or cue 
 
 Might aid me in returning thanks {advances to audience] to you. 
 
 But no, 'tis fruitless all, "Love's Labour's Lost," 
 
 And language fails me when I need it most. 
 
 True, I have found much measured phrase ; but cold, 
 
 And foreign to the heart that would unfold 
 
 In words, brief, pointed, easily understood, 
 
 How much it feels of deepest gratitude 
 
 To those now round me who for years on years, 
 
 Have felt my gladness, ay ! and shared my tears. 
 
 But this, you'll say, is scarce the time for weeping, 
 
 And Mrs. P. is used to public speaking : 
 
 Ay ! true again ; but feelings, fancies twine, 
 
 And memories crowd amain from Auld Langsyne. 
 
 But let that pass. My friends, it seems an age 
 Since first I trod this dear familiar stage 
 Since first, when tended by a father's hand, 
 I formed the youngest of a once famed band ; 
 Since first, when but a girl, I strove to gain 
 Your approbation and strove not in vain. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 Since first I fell in love I may reveal it 
 
 With you, and you, and you [points round theatre] ; why now 
 
 conceal it? 
 
 Ah, me ! how many scenes these words renew, 
 Since first I sought your "hands," and found you true. 
 Then I got lots of vows, love gifts, and letters, 
 From youths who raved 'bout Cupid's wings and fetters. 
 Some of these billet-doux lie by me yet, 
 And one there is I never could forget. 
 
 [Goes to casket on table and takes out an old letter. 
 It was so greenly soft, so full of Hymen's fire 
 The writer was a bard, and thus he struck his lyre : 
 
 [Reads from letter] 
 "Grant me, Apollo, all thy power, 
 
 That I may fitly praise her ; 
 Fortune, I ask no other dower, 
 
 Than just the charming Fraser." 
 Isn't that very innocent and pretty? 
 But mark the next verse of the fond youth's ditty, 
 
 [Reads] " Her form it is divinely fair," 
 That line, I'll vow, he must have stolen somewhere ! 
 [Reads'] "Her form it is divinely fair, 
 
 Her eyes sharp as a r&zer; 
 They've cut into my inmost heart, 
 
 And there reigns sweet Miss Fraser." 
 Ay ! once I " reign 'd," you see, and had my day, 
 But those fond times are past I've lost my sway, 
 For all love notes are now addressed expressly 
 To Langley, Jackman, or Miss Clara Leslie. 
 Yet, why complain ? Although these things are o'er, 
 Some joys I have will last for evermore, 
 Fond cherish'd thoughts that while in time I grew 
 From Girl to Wife, ye aye were kind and true. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 Whate'er my fate where-'er my steps might roam, 
 
 Here still I found a welcome and a home. \Goes to casket. 
 
 Within this casket treasured tokens lie 
 
 That link us all in one strong mutual tie ; 
 
 Symbols of seasons fled still prized and dear 
 
 Some tempt a smile, while others claim a tear. 
 
 Rare hoarded things I would be loath to miss, 
 
 Records of days departed, such as this 
 
 [Displays large bill inscribed 
 
 " BENEFIT OF MRS. RYDER." 
 Of later years I do not need to tell, 
 The parts I've played ye know them all full well. 
 I've had my share of sorrow and of gladness 
 Our brightest hours have all a tinge of sadness 
 I bow submissive hold the proverb true 
 " Ilk blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew." 
 
 [Prompters bell rings. 
 
 But, hark ! I'm called, the Prompter's bell has rung, 
 (When loosed, stop if you can a woman's tongue) ! 
 Just let me say and proudly too, with reason 
 We're winding up u a most successful season." 
 No doubt we had our jars and opposition, 
 Yet there's no cause to mourn "a sad condition." 
 We've had to face of small guns quite a storm 
 "Grand" Musical displays "Great" Do-Re-Mi reform. 
 The College Question, too with prosy Lectures 
 From Parsons, Doctors, Editors, and Rectors 
 Parochial Cab-hires Railway competition- 
 Mackenzie's Act and WombwelPs "^jribition." 
 Poses Plastiques bewitching raree-shows, 
 And other ways in which the money goes. 
 Yet, spite of all these matters to contend with, 
 I have a very pleasing tale to end with : 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 Ye have been kind therefore let me be frank, 
 The Funds are up we stand well at the bank ! 
 
 And now I'm done yet ere I quit the scene, 
 One word at parting of our friend M 'Lein. 
 He's gained your favour and approving smiles, 
 He's earned my gratitude and shared my toils, 
 Breathed words of comfort wrought with willing hand 
 Divined my wishes your enjoyment planned. 
 From saddest woe some soothing balm is won 
 I lost a Husband, but I found a Son. 
 
 And now, kind friends once more a brief farewell, 
 
 [Prompter's bell rings sharply. 
 Time's up for hark ! the final warning bell. 
 May-day is here, and we must haste away 
 To other spheres our mimic parts to play. 
 Blithe Summer and fair Peace have come together, 
 The sword is sheathed, the swallow's winging hither. 
 When "wintr'y winds" drive Autumn from the plain 
 Here will we pitch our tent and sport again, 
 With new-culled sweets we'll speed to pleasure you : 
 Till then we part. Adieu ! [to Boxes. ] Adieu ! [to Pit.] Adieu ! 
 
 [to Gallery.] 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 "Though parted, I shall never forget the days when I felt you had^the power 
 to make me do anything." 
 
 I. 
 Were I a perfect Artist, with skill of brain and hand, 
 
 I would set that simple legend in scroll of purest gold ; 
 With pearls from the utmost depths and gems from furthest strand, 
 And its splendour should endazzle with a brilliancy untold : 
 So beautiful and rare, 
 So exquisite and fair, 
 And its sheen would never darken nor its loveliness grow old. 
 
 n. 
 Had I the Poet's genius, the Singer's sacred fire, 
 
 I would set that simple legend in verse to never die ; 
 The music should take birth as from some old prophetic lyre, 
 And the Poet and the Singer in richest strain should vie 
 Now softly sweet, now loudly grand, 
 Even as from full seraphic band : 
 And the hymning chords should echo like the harmonies on high. 
 
 in. 
 Though no Artist skill be mine, nor gifted Minstrel power, 
 
 I have set that simple legend on a life-enduring page : 
 Within my ever faithful breast 'tis treasured as a dower, 
 To be erased nor altered by tempest nor by age : 
 To last and ever linger 
 Till Time's defacing finger 
 Breaks the memory of a hopeless love, a lone heart's heritage. 
 

 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 TAM TEUCHIT'S REFLECTIONS AMANG 
 THE STOOKS. 
 
 I winder gin the hairst Meen shines wi' sic a glarin' licht 
 On ither toons and pairishes as she glower'd doon here yestreen? 
 
 I'm sure a' owre the steadin' 'twas far mair day than nicht 
 I kenna hoo aboot this time they aye sen' sic a Meen ! 
 
 Some o' oor chaps were greezin' beets, twa-three were readin' books, 
 
 And a' my airt I couldna get Jinse furth amang the stocks. 
 
 I like the Simmer weel eneuch, and I like the Winter tee ; 
 
 The ane brings leefy hidin' holes the tither's dark as pitch, 
 Sae that a tryste ye safe may haud and nae gleg body see, 
 
 But losh me when the hairst begins ye scarce can heeze or hitch ; 
 The Meen lichts up a' corners, steals roon the dykes and neuks, 
 And sit fat side ye like ye're seen if oot amang the stooks. 
 
 On Feersday last the maister raise I saw 'tween four and five, 
 Sae thinkin' he wad weir-awa gey early till his bed, 
 
 I tell't Jinse that we had a chance, if she wid but contrive 
 
 To slip oot, whan her wark was deen, ahint the auld neep shed 
 
 We'd jink the lave, and baffle them, for a' their wiles and crooks 
 
 To catch us, and we'd hae an 'oor oorsels amang the stooks. 
 
 Jinse cam': O ! she wiz bonnie : if ye'd only seen her hair 
 A' glancin' dark and wavy, wi' a ribbony roon her neck ; 
 
 I think that I could look at her until my een grew sair, 
 
 Espeeshly whan she's on yon goon a white-like tartan check ; 
 
 They brag aboot braw ladies in their dresses tuck'd wi' hooks, 
 
 They're better in fine drawin'-rooms than oot amang the stooks. 
 
10 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 Weel, as I said, Jinse cam', and we sat kindly doon thegither, 
 And happy were we there oor lanes, tho' I didna' like the Meen : 
 
 We spoke aboot the klyack nicht, then neist aboot the weather, 
 And syne a sid stack in my teeth, and I wid steal a preen, 
 
 Sae I wiz slippin' roon my airm, whan baith oor wits forsook's 
 
 For wha appears but auld Sauchtoon gaun danderin' 'mang his stooks ! 
 
 * We'll leid the morn, we'll leid the morn ' (he mutters to himsel), 
 *For tho' the corn's a thochty weet, 'twill mak' the meal the free-er. 
 
 Peer Jinse, her wee bit heart I fand wiz beatin' like a bell, 
 She kent it wid be flittin' term if he should chance to see'er. 
 
 When jist in time, the cunnin' Meen behint a black clood jouks, 
 
 And in a jiffy we were aff, safe oot amang the stooks ! 
 
 I said afore I liket weel the Winter and the Simmer, 
 
 And I winna' say a wird against the Owtum or the Spring ; 
 
 But I'm dootfu' o' a glarin' Meen, she mines me on some limmer 
 That seeks to spy oot fairlies and syne clype ilka thing : 
 
 Yet hairstin, whan the crap is gweed, wirk ye wi' scythes or heuks, 
 
 Has mony joys and neen mair dear than coorthV 'mang the stooks. 
 
 SUMMER TIME. 
 (Part Song Words). 
 
 Soft falling showers refresh the flowers, 
 
 The lark aloft is singing ; 
 While blithe and free across the lea 
 
 The school-boy's laugh is ringing, 
 The kine are browsing on the wold, 
 
 The rose the morn perfumeth, 
 The violet sweet and marigold 
 
 In mead and garden bloometh. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. II 
 
 THE TIFF. 
 
 Ye manna grip me roun' the waist, 
 
 Ye needna dawt my broo ; 
 Nor sail ye press yer cheek to mine, 
 
 And syne slip to my moo : 
 I maybe like it weel eneuch 
 
 But ye deet to Crissy Dollar, 
 Sae Sandy lat me be besides 
 
 Ye're brackin a' my collar ! 
 
 Ye needna speer what's ailin' me 
 Ye ken fine what I mean ; 
 
 Be quate I winna lat ye noo ! 
 Fa wiz ye wi' yestreen ? 
 
 O, I ken a' aboot it lad- 
 Sandy it's a shame 
 
 To tak' up wi' sae mony mair 
 There, now ! ye've split my kame. 
 
 Weel, if yer tellin' true and say 
 
 Ye dinna care for Crissy 
 I'll no be angry ony mair, 
 
 And ye may tak' ae' kissie : 
 On Sunday nicht I'll meet ye tee 
 
 Tho' my feelin's ye've been hurtin, 
 And weer the bonnet that ye like 
 
 But ye mauna crush its curtain. 
 
12 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 TO ANE FAR AWA'. 
 
 I'll sing a sang to thee, Tom, 
 
 Though far frae me and hame ; 
 For leal thochts come o' thee, Tom, 
 
 At the whisper o' thy name. 
 The waves may beat, the winds may blaw, 
 The Simmer bloom and Winter snaw, 
 But morn or nicht sail brak nor fa' 
 That yer' nae dear to me, Tom. 
 
 'Tis years, O ! langsome years, Tom, 
 
 Since last I saw yer' face ; 
 And sometimes I hae fears, Tom, 
 
 Anither fills my place. 
 But hap what will, or come what may, 
 I'll ne'er forget or blame the day 
 I promised to be thine for aye, 
 
 For thine I hope to be, Tom. 
 
 Ye'll read this simple sang, Tom, 
 
 In yer hame across the sea ; 
 And ye'll ken I'm thinking lang, Tom, 
 
 To look again on thee : 
 To hear yer kindly voice ance mair, 
 To hear ye praise my face and hair, 
 To hear ye say that nane shall share 
 
 Yer heart and hame, but me, Tom. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 13 
 
 ADDRESS 
 
 BY MRS. POLLOCK, ON OPENING NIGHT OF SEASON, 
 MARISCHAL STREET THEATRE. 
 
 [SCENE A Parlour. Mrs. Pollock enters at stage door> and 
 advancing to the middle of the stage, looks cautiously off at 
 the wings.'} 
 
 They're busy there [points behind scenes'], so I've stolen out a 
 
 minute, 
 
 To try a speech if I could but begin it ; 
 I fain would say how much I thank you all, 
 For thus responding to our early call, 
 
 ! pleasant 'tis to look around and see 
 So many faces brimming o'er with glee ; 
 
 The Pit quite crammed the Boxes, they will do, 
 
 And of the Gods Gods ! what a jolly crew ! 
 
 Some come to laugh at little Elliot's frolic, 
 
 And not a few to welcome Mrs. Pollock. 
 
 For many griefs your presence makes amends 
 
 Who could be dumpish with such "troops of friends ! " 
 
 Friends, young and old wedged everywhere so tight, 
 
 And all to grace us on our Opening Night : 
 
 Thanks, patrons, thanks each kindly heart and face 
 
 O, "may your shadows never here be less." 
 
 Dear, generous friends, but four short months are past, 
 Since in a scene like this we parted last, 
 
 1 promised then, from "fields and pastures new," 
 To cull fresh sweets to tempt and pleasure you, 
 
14 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 So I have roamed like some blithe busy bee 
 
 (Forgive the self-complacent similie), 
 
 And, stored, brought home a goodly "swarm" with me; 
 
 At least / think so you will justly try, 
 
 And let us know the verdict by-and-by. 
 
 I hope they'll stand the test and so may thrive, 
 
 And bring much honey to our little hive. 
 
 Old Time proves all things he will prove this too 
 
 Meanwhile, pray tell me, will the Theatre do ? 
 
 [Points round Theatre. 
 
 The Queen Bee roved, but when across the Border, 
 She left not drones to put the house in order ! 
 
 If I can read aright those nods and smiles, 
 Your taste approves the artist's careful toils. 
 Our labour thus has not been spent in vain, 
 So now a word about our year's campaign. 
 We purpose, then, if Fortune plays us fair, 
 To bring forth novelties both " rich and rare " 
 Love Dramas where some interesting maiden 
 Is woo'd forsaken then with anguish laden, 
 In tears, and sighing sore with hapless moan, 
 Wins you to make her sorrow half your own. 
 Then changed the theme, we'll paint in martial story, 
 How Britons climbed steep "Alma's hill to glory ! " 
 And when chill Christmas comes, by trick and rhyme, 
 We'll frighten Care with merry pantomime, 
 Yet ever keeping open ears and eyes, 
 For rising "stars," in home and foreign skies. 
 All this we'll do, and more, if ye prove heedful, 
 And keep the wheels agoing with the needful ! 
 Trusting our mimic efforts ne'er may fail 
 "To point a moral, or adorn a tale." 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 15 
 
 But while devising new, be not afraid 
 The grand old drama's power shall ever fade. 
 Shakespere but second since the world began 
 To fathom Nature, or to measure Man 
 Shakespere, immortal ! thy life-glowing page 
 Shall still shed lustre on the modern stage ! 
 Even now, methinks, thy chief creations rise, 
 And tread these boards in old familiar guise. 
 See ! who approaches 'tis the fiendish Jew 
 " The pound of flesh I here demand my due ; 
 I stand for judgment." [Gives imitations. 
 
 Soft, we have a change, 
 The sweetest love tale in the drama's range 
 'Tis Romeo to fair Juliet fond plaint makes, 
 
 As angel "light 'through yonder window breaks." 
 
 " It is my lady, O ! it is my love, 
 
 O, that she knew she were ! 
 
 She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that ? 
 
 Her eye discourses, I will answer it. 
 
 I am too bold ; 'tis not to me she speaks : 
 
 Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, 
 
 Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
 
 To twinkle in their spheres till they return. 
 
 What if her eyes were there, they in her head ? 
 
 The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, 
 
 As daylight doth a lamp ; her eyes in heaven 
 
 Would through the airy region stream so bright 
 
 That birds would sing and think it were not night." 
 
 But hark ! who calls with such impetuous force : 
 "A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse ; 
 I think there be six Richmonds in the field, 
 Five have I slain to-day." 
 
 The bell hath pealed, 
 
16 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 And hush ! the Thane's wife dreaming comes this way. 
 She speaks "Out damned spot ! out, out, I say, 
 Fie, my Lord, fie ! a soldier and afeard ? 
 
 Come, come, come, come, to bed, to bed, to bed." 
 
 Scarce hath she left when, lo ! the clang of swords 
 Rings from the plain with loud and angry words ; 
 Macbeth's at bay he fights "Lay on MacdufF, 
 And damned be he that first cries hold, enough." 
 
 But I presume yorfve quite enough of this 
 Though, really, you must own, 'twas not amiss. 
 Yet if 'twere wanted I might change the scene, 
 And give a touch of Melnotte and Pauline ; 
 Or coming nearer home, with Highland fire and vigour, 
 Mount plaid and plume, and shout, "my name's Macgregor.' 
 
 But all this by-and-by 't is getting late, 
 The Prompter beckons [looks out} will not longer wait. 
 On things in general, I need scarcely touch, 
 There's nothing stirring, or, at most, not much ; 
 There are no mighty questions to propound 
 The Links are quiet, and the Czar is crown'd. 
 Just one word more Walk from the city forth, 
 A bounteous harvest decks the kindly earth ; 
 The ruddy reaper sweating o'er his scythe, 
 With steady stroke keeps all the field full blithe ; 
 The farmer smiles to see the laden wain 
 Hie cheerily homewards with the golden grain. 
 Now, look within our harvest has begun 
 Shall we smile proudly when the season's done ? 
 Shall we reap richly have a fair reward 
 For studious midnights, and for labour hard ? 
 That lies with you, and there I let it lie, 
 Hoping the best, and with that hope Good-bye ! 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 17 
 
 "OUR" PURVEYOR-ROYAL. 
 
 I ken a winsome wifikie that keeps a snug bit shoppie, 
 (It's nae ane o' the temptin' kind whaur ye may get a " droppie,") 
 For ever brisk and business-like wi' mony gweed things packit 
 If hungry Frenchmen e'er come here they will be sure to sack it. 
 Gin ye wad learn its whaur-aboots gang up the Windmillbrae 
 But the number or the corner I mauna print or say, 
 For that wad be ower personal, and I might for my folly 
 Lose baith the service and respect o' blithesome Jeannie Jolly. 
 
 O, Jeannie's skill is dear to me, and will be evermair 
 
 And lang, I pray, that Jeannie's life auld ruthless Time may spare ; 
 
 For whaur's a cook o' Jeannie's worth sae tidy and sae keen 
 
 As sharp and bright, frae morn till night, as ony new made preen ? 
 
 If ye gaze into her window and yer moo it disna water, 
 
 Your thrapple maun be gizzand, like a chiel's fresh aff the batter ; 
 
 The bairns stan' roun't in boorichies, and whisper aft "O, golly, 
 
 I wiss I bide-it aye in there wi' happy Jeannie Jolly. 
 
 Feich ! fa wid live on blubber stuff, and cauld ice made to jelly ? 
 I pity folk that maun tak' things enough to freeze their belly 
 Their salads vile o' eggs and ile mixed up in sic a mess, 
 I canna think hoo Christian men daur ower them say a grace ! 
 Tairts, turtle soops, and sic like trash to me were ne'er a treat, 
 Nor yon green gear a frien' o' mine ca's "just kye's common meat." 
 To see hoo fashion hardens folk it's really melancholy 
 Ye'll get nae sic unnateral stews fae kindly Jeannie Jolly, 
 c 
 
1 8 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 Jist study Jeannie's stock-in-trade : Look at the pottit-heid 
 Set oot in canty bowlies there : examine next her brcid ; 
 Observe the fresh-pluck'd chuckies syne, hoo temptingly they 
 
 hing, 
 
 Wi' "dainty dishes in a row micht sit afore a king ; " 
 Her puddins they are peerless, and speakin' o' her tripe, 
 O' mortal bliss supreme and full it is the test and type ! 
 My brakfast I wad gladly mak' oot o* a mornin' rollie, 
 If I were sure o' tripe at nicht prepared by Jeannie Jolly. 
 
 Nae wonder Jeannie's popular, sma' marvel she's respeckit 
 
 The best o' Ladies in the toon, in silks and satins deckit, 
 
 Ca' aft at her bit shoppikie, weel kennan they'll get there 
 
 The fattest, tenderest goose or hen on whilk their Lords may fare ; 
 
 They ken that Jeannie's honour bright, that a' she sells is clean, 
 
 Nae dirt e'er grows 'neath her thoom nails, nor roost on knife or 
 
 speen. 
 
 If ye're to hae a pairty send roun' yer servant Polly 
 To say yer wantin' " something nice " then trust to Jeannie Jolly. 
 
 Last night there was a Regal feast and who was King but he 
 That writes this idle rhyme : The guests his wife and children 
 
 three. 
 
 No lacquered valets hung around, no pert inquiring page 
 This Sovereign pair do "serve themselves till their bairns shall 
 
 come of age. " 
 
 Before the Noble household lay five " white puds " in a plate, 
 One dish of tripe, a jug of milkand there they supped in state, 
 Yet ere the meal was ended quite, they gave one loyal volley 
 To their own Purvey or- Royal the matchless Jeannie Jolly. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 19 
 
 A FACTORY LASSIE'S SANG. 
 
 (Air : The Kye comes hame). 
 
 My lad he is a bonnie lad, and bides in Aberdeen, 
 He's aye richt frank and kindly, sae pintit aye and clean, 
 An' tho' I'm but a lassie yet and wirkin at the mill, 
 He's liket me since first we met, and says he likes me still, 
 He says he likes me still, he says he likes me still, 
 Sae I'll try to be as gweed's I can, tho' wirkin at the mill. 
 
 I ken some folk look doon on us and ca' us orra trag, 
 But hearts may love and thochts be pure tho' cover'd by a rag ; 
 On Feersday nicht when wages comes I pay a' that I'm due, 
 An' weir the auld claes oot until I'm able to get new, 
 Until I can get new, takin' up nae shooster's bill, 
 For I'll try to be aye clear o' debt tho' wirkin at the mill. 
 
 There's mony lassies that we meet wad like to win my lad, 
 And whan they see me gaun wi' him its like to pit them mad ; 
 They think I'm far aneath them, an' wid treat me wi' disdain, 
 But I never wore a bonnet yet that wisna' a' my ain, 
 That wisna' a' my ain, sae lat them jeer wha will, 
 Ane needna haud their heid aye doon tho' wirkin at the mill. 
 
 There's Peggy she's a polisher, Jean's at the envelopes, 
 Flo and Kate wad fain be ladies, an' sae they serve in shops ; 
 Jemima stitches printet books, Miss Alice shoos at hame, 
 Sly Annie cures provisions, and there's some I wadna name, 
 There's some I wadna name, bit wi' a' their airt and skill, 
 They canna ding the lassie oot that's wirkin' at the mill. 
 
2O WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 My lad he's nae a baker, they hae to rise owre seen, 
 Nor yet is he a sailor, for fa' wid lie their leen ; 
 The sooter nor the tailor chaps on Monday's winna wirk, 
 An' I never kent a kamemacker that gaed to ony kirk, 
 They never fyle the kirk bit play mischief and ill, 
 Yet some o' them hae made gweed men to lassies at the mill. 
 
 My dear lad's name ye'd like tae ken, bit that I mauna tell, 
 For love is nae the richt heart love that clashes o' itsel ; 
 He's maybe doon the Fittie way, or oot at Ferryhill, 
 Or maybe he's nae far fae me an' wirkin at the mill, 
 He's maybe at the mill, maybe Tom or Jim or Bill, 
 An' he's promised in a year or twa to tak' me fae the mill. 
 
 TO 
 
 O, Marion, my Marion, 
 
 The rose is on thy cheek ; 
 Yet Marion, fair Marion, 
 
 Ye tremble while I speak : 
 I look into your eyes and see 
 A love-licht glancin' back to me, 
 And then sic thochts I hae o' thee, 
 I daurna tell them Marion. 
 
 My Marion, my Marion, 
 
 I canna read your smiles ; 
 Nor Marion, sweet Marion, 
 Can I resist your wiles, 
 For O ! sae saft's this heart o' mine, 
 I'm sometimes like my wits to tyne 
 When gazing on sic charms as thine, 
 Then spare me, spare me, Marion. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 ADDRESS. 
 
 SPOKEN AT THE NETHERLEY AND PORTLETHEN 
 VOLUNTEER ASSEMBLY, l86l. 
 
 In days gone by within our rugged land 
 Rude tumult raged, by jealous faction fanned ; 
 Clan fought with clan the wild deer from his corrie, 
 Flew not more swift than brethren sought the foray ; 
 Kindred forgot its ties ; Love knew nor grace nor art 
 To soothe the vengeful nature of the Gael heart. 
 
 A happier era dawned. Peace with her heavenly smile 
 
 Benignant came to bless our dear loved Scottish isle. 
 
 No more from castled steep and rampart high 
 
 Proud challenge waved or rang the battle cry ; 
 
 No beacon lights blazed up : the hill-tops dimmed their fires, 
 
 Nor longer signals sped, as speed the worded wires. 
 
 Peace rose and reigned ; men "hostile feuds," forbore 
 
 "To ploughshares beat their swords, and studied war no more." 
 
 Thus rested our old land ; Art, Science, Letters, grew 
 Far mightier in their strength than steel or shaft of yew. 
 
 But change must have its sway. Across the channel came 
 
 A vaunting threat that stirred the ancient flame. 
 
 A seeming friend an ally for occasion 
 
 Muttered a tone whose echoing breathed "invasion." 
 
 That tone must have reply ; and soon the whispered hum 
 
 Of careless doubt re-echoed " Let him come : 
 
 Ay let him ! and though peace hath wrought her charms 
 
 We have not quite forgot our former skill in arms." 
 
22 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 Wide rolled the summons. Heart with heart then beat 
 In unison of purpose. Village and crowded street, 
 Sequestered valley, farm-field, and quiet glen 
 Saw hurried mustering of undaunted men 
 Men loving freedom which their fathers won, 
 Resolved the sire should still live in the son. 
 The summons rolled and at the call appears 
 A hundred thousand patriot Volunteers ! 
 
 A humble unit of that glorious band, 
 
 Thus firmly knit to guard their native land 
 
 We Portlethen's sons, the men of Netherley 
 
 To our loved country willing service pay. 
 
 Though few our numbers, yet amid that host 
 
 Have we not some good right to count and boast ? 
 
 Who gave to England her first Champion Shot ? 
 
 Who for old Scotland's fame so nobly fought ? 
 
 Who from all compeers bore the bell away ? 
 
 Who but young Edward of fair Netherley. 
 
 We taught the world this task "Devotion honour earns," 
 
 "As the auld cock craws, be sure the young ane learns." 
 
 Our Captain, too, our chiefest boast and pride 
 Whose deeds have rung 'yond Europe's empire wide ; 
 Where is the arm that may with his compare 
 'Gainst mountain hart or bird that soars in air ? 
 No braggart he, or idle dreaming talker, 
 Let acts approve the man "The Old Deer-Stalker." 
 
 Honour where honour's due : so lads again I say 
 Busk ye your bonnets braw Portlethen Netherley ! 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 23 
 
 VERSES 
 GIVEN AT DUNECHT HOUSE, JULY, 1869, 
 
 IN HONOUR OF THE 
 MARRIAGE OF THE MASTER OF LINDSAY AND MISS WILBRAHAM. 
 
 " Sir David Lindsay of the Mount, Lord Lyon King-at-Arms, 
 Still is thy name of high account, and still thy verse hath charms;" 
 And while the world hath ear for song or deeds of chivalry, 
 The Lindsay's fame, the Lindsay's claim, shall ne'er forgotten be 
 True gallant Scottish Gentlemen for all for every time. 
 
 Unfold the records of the past, old Scotland's peerless roll 
 Count ye the Warriors, Statesmen, Poets, emblazoning the scroll ; 
 And say 'mid all the names that stir the pulses of the heart, 
 If Lindsay's race for valour, grace, doth not play noblest part ? 
 True gallant Scottish Gentlemen for all for every time. 
 
 Ah ! "Scotsmen ken that gallant men" the Lindsay line hath been, 
 From Otterburn to Alma's height have flashed their weapons keen ; 
 "The Stars our Camp, God our Defence," bore crested squire and 
 
 knight 
 
 To Scotland's weal aye fest and leal then Heaven defend the right ! 
 True doughty Scottish Gentlemen for all for every time. 
 
 And still the Lindsay verse has charms to wile the hours away, 
 And never will its Music cease while lives Auld Robin Gray ; 
 For men will list and maidens weep in cot and courtly hall, 
 O'er Jeannie's faith and Jamie's wraith, for " Love is Lord of all" 
 In camp and grove, fond Love fause Love ruler of every time. 
 
24 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 And Love should be my theme to-night, could I strike fitting chord, 
 For golden rings and silken strings outshine now shield and sword : 
 A comely " Lass of Lancashire," with guileless grace and spell, 
 Hath witched away our Master gay in Love's domain to dwell 
 And spend the hours in bridal bowers : God speed the merry time. 
 
 "The glory of the Children are their Fathers "hath been writ 
 And the Lindsays, Wilbrahams, Stanleys, to-day in clanship knit, 
 With noble heritage of fame, renown, and acres wide 
 To ward and keep, to sow and reap, dower our young groom and 
 
 bride 
 Well tochered they to climb life's brae and meet the coming time. 
 
 The summer sun shines brightly o'er Dunecht's fair woods and 
 
 towers ; 
 O come sweet "Rose o' Lindsaye," bloom 'mang our buds and 
 
 flowers : 
 Come with your lightsome English smile to cheer our Northern 
 
 hame 
 
 And ear' or late The Master's Mate shall find us aye the same 
 True-hearted Scottish Gentlemen, sons of the olden time. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 25 
 
 THE PLOUGH. 
 
 My song shall be of the noblest art 
 
 That man hath ever known ; 
 Whose labours glad hearth, home, and heart 
 
 The cottage and the throne. 
 For they who raise our daily bread 
 
 Deserve our thanks I vow ; 
 So hurrah, hurrah, for the scythe and spade, 
 The Farmer and his Plough. 
 
 Then brothers all in hut and hall, 
 In chorus join me now ; 
 And pray success may ever bless 
 The work of the goodly Plough. 
 
 Let others sing of the sword and shield, 
 
 Of blood and the battle plain ; 
 I have no wish such arms to wield, 
 
 They neither bring good nor gain. 
 But with nobler brand I'd take my stand, 
 
 And corn not men I'd mow, 
 For 'twere better far if the weapons of war, 
 Were turned to the Scythe and Plough. 
 
 Then the blade I'd bear is a good ploughshare, 
 A trusty one I trow ; 
 My crest a hive with a spade and scythe, 
 My motto SPEED THE PLOUGH. 
 
26 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 We will toast the Queen, and our native land, 
 
 The Pen and the mighty Press ; 
 The Wire and Steam that at man's command, 
 
 Have conquered time and space. 
 But while we sit round the festive hearth, 
 
 And honour to all allow, 
 We will use not abuse the fruits of the earth 
 For they all spring up from the Plough. 
 
 Then hurrah for the arms that till the farms, 
 Who harrow, reap, and sow, 
 To the flail, the flake, the hoe and rake, 
 And ever GOD SPEED THE PLOUGH. 
 
 MADRIGAL. 
 
 Sadly in a vale alone, 
 
 Sat the fair nymph Vilapone, 
 Sighing, crying, desolate 
 Longing for her forest mate. 
 
 Hush ! a voice sounds thro' the grove, - 
 "Vilapone, where art thou, love ! " 
 No longer sighing, 
 
 But quick replying, 
 Meeting greeting. 
 
 Soon the woods melodious ring : 
 List the lay the fond twain sing, 
 "With thou not near, 
 
 Life's sand seems run, 
 When thou art here, 
 Love pales the sun." 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 27 
 
 "THERE'S AYE SOME WATER WHAUR 
 THE STIRKIE DROONS ! " 
 
 My auld Grannie had a fret, O weel I mind it yet, 
 For aften roun' my memory and in my lug it croons ; 
 
 Whan curious things cam' oot, she wid shak' her heid in doot, 
 Wi', " There's aye some water, laddie, whaur the stirkie droons!" 
 
 There wiz henpeck'd Lawyer Rae, the Laird o' Scutterbrae, 
 His wife, wi' dress and denner-gien, ootran a' common bouns ; 
 
 The Laird's gear grew fu' sma', and whan he dwyned awa' 
 Folk said "There's aye some water whaur the stirkie droons!" 
 
 Mrs. Councillor McFell sae at least weel-wishers tell 
 Is subject maist untimeously to sudden faints and swoons 
 
 But the virtue o' a dram, quickly dissipates her dwam ; 
 Ay ! there's medicine in some waters tho' the stirkie droons ! 
 
 Ye ken cripple Tailor Black he's a wylin tongue and slack 
 And ye min' the bonnie servin' lassie up at Lucky Broon's ! 
 
 They've been sessioned baith thegither but ye mauna heed folks' 
 
 blether, 
 Tho' there be some water ever whaur the stirkie droons ! 
 
 Sly hoastin' Heckler Fyfe wish'd to insure his life, 
 
 But whan he wiz examin'd there were heard sepulchral soun's : 
 
 His life it wizna "gweed," for the doctor wrote this screed 
 "Aquapura quantum suff:" and the stirkie droons ! 
 
28 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 There's blithesome Charlie Senter oor Parish kirk precenter, 
 Grows nervous aft on Sundays pitchin' up his psalms and tunes ; 
 
 The lad's a staunch tee-totaller, but bein' by trade a bottler, 
 He mistak's the strength o' water and the stirkie droons ! 
 
 I've a frien' he's maybe here whaun he waukens and feels queer- 
 Try's to look as sage as Wisdom while his heid wi' Folly stouns ; 
 
 But suggest that he's been fou', and he'll swear it isna true 
 Yet we ken there's aye some water whaur the stirkie droons ! 
 
 Oor wee Jock bides oot at nicht, till his mither's in a fricht 
 Syne threeps he wiz "deem' naething, wi' a lot o' ither loons;" 
 
 But if ye his pouches rype, ye'll fin something like a pipe 
 And a smell betok'nin water whaur the stirkie droons ! 
 
 Mrs. Gab, she gied a pairty, and ye min' we a' were hearty, 
 Yet she vows she's never seen sin' -syne twa o' her silver spoons, 
 
 While the last to tak' their tea was either you or me 
 
 And she hints, " There maun be water whaur the stirkie droons !" 
 
 Gin yer cairt-wheel should tak' fire, mair grease is its desire, 
 It hiz grow'n dry as rosit in its mony weary rouns ; 
 
 Sae I maun stop my verse, for ye hear I'm turnin' hearse 
 Yer health : " There's aye some water whaur the stirkie droons ! 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 29 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 SPOKEN BY MRS. POLLOCK, AT CLOSE OF SEASON, 
 ABERDEEN THEATRE ROYAL. 
 
 So, once again the parting hour has come, 
 
 And, like the schoolboy loath to leave his home 
 
 When holiday is o'er, we sadly pack our kit, 
 
 Bid loving friends adieu, and, heart-sore, haste to quit. 
 
 Yet, like the lad who hies to book and task, 
 
 Of coming joys in Hope's bright sun we bask ; 
 
 Far in the future with fond eyes we strain 
 
 And dream of days when we'll be "back again." 
 
 Be timely back to weep, laugh, dance, and sing, 
 
 And hear your gladsome shout "the play's the thing." 
 
 Be back to strut kings, beggars, wits, and fools, 
 
 As earnest, ay! as laddies at the bools. 
 
 Still, ere we go, a word or two I'd say 
 
 Indeed, I'd scold you if I had my way : 
 
 For surely you must own 'tis most ungallant, 
 
 Alike of lady, gentleman, and callant, 
 
 That you of late have not been oftener near us 
 
 With glistening eye, and ready hand to cheer us, 
 
 When well you know our open door solicits 
 
 Your ever welcome step and frequent visits. 
 
 "Tis shameful, cruel my anger is so deep, 
 
 If it would have effect, I I I really think I'd weep. 
 
 [Comes forward to front and listens. 
 Pray, did you speak, Sir ? Please to say't again. 
 O ! yes ; you think me in a railing vein ! 
 
3O WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 [To the audience farthest off. 
 My friend here says that this is something more 
 Than what he paid for at the Theatre door : 
 He'd have it stated duly in the bill 
 In taking type, with all the printer's skill, 
 That, "For the benefit of Mrs. P., 
 Will be produced A Woman Ta'en the Gee." 
 So you smile too, and my sad tale you mock it 
 There's little laughter in an empty pocket. 
 
 [Shakes dress , and a jingling is heard. 
 No ; not quite empty ; a something still is over, 
 Will help to keep's in grass if not in clover. 
 The truth is this and now I speak sincerely, 
 That after weighing matters fair and clearly, 
 The Season, on the whole, has paid itself, 
 So that we're not just yet laid on the shelf. 
 But let us own, we've had an uphill fight, 
 'Tween Circus, Waxwork, Concerts every night ; 
 While spare cash went for music Bells, and Hall, 
 Those Grand Assemblies, and that sweet Trades' Ball. 
 But each thing has its hour why, therefore, fret ? 
 /'// hopeful bide " the good time coming yet." 
 Meanwhile, I trust no fault you have to find 
 With my share of the work ? 
 
 I thank you, now thafs kind. 
 Week after week brought forth some shining "star," 
 W T hose bright attraction reached us from afar. 
 (Here I may state, in case my memory slips, 
 It was not I produced the late Eclipse.) 
 Week after week, you had the primest fare 
 Served up with taste, and all were asked to share ; 
 And if all did not come our feast to grace, 
 The cause, I dare say, is not hard to guess. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 31 
 
 Dull trade, hard times, the money market tight, 
 Gave other things than Theatres a fright. 
 But now the worst is past, the panic's at an end, 
 And everything gives promise fast to mend ; 
 Bear witness ye who wanting room to sit, 
 Stand by me now on this my Benefit. 
 
 But time and tide wait not for man or woman ; 
 I see my cue, the Prompter 'gins to summon. 
 So, then, good-bye : may a' that's guid attend ye 
 May fortune ne'er look glum, but aye befriend ye. 
 Fair be the flowers ye pu' in nature's garden ; 
 Sweet be the maids ye woo Ladies, I beg pardon : 
 All maids are sweet when woo'd ; 'tis only after 
 That 
 
 You men, I scorn your laughter 
 And so proceed to say, as said it must be, 
 The parting word Farewell : I fondly trust we 
 Here may meet when some six months are run, 
 To teach you by our tears, and please you with our fun ; 
 To cheat old Winter of his dreary reign, 
 And make ye blithe to see us *' back again." 
 
32 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 "LIVE AND LET LIVE." 
 
 Live and let live be your watchword for ever, 
 
 The bond of true union between man and man ; 
 A union that time nor contention shall sever, 
 
 A link in the chain forming heaven's perfect plan. 
 Though the path the poor travel be careworn and lowly, 
 
 And scanty their portion to store or to give 
 Remember the mite of the widow was holy, 
 
 And earth's noblest maxim is Live and let live. 
 
 Live and let live wherefore stand strangely parted, 
 
 The best of us boast but a fast fleeting day ; 
 The richest of men is the man largest hearted, 
 
 Whose hand can the dictates of duty obey. 
 When the green grass waves o'er us and friends tell our story, 
 
 May this prove the brief, faithful record they give 
 " He was neighbour to all, to do good was his glory, 
 
 For the rule of his conscience was Live and let live." 
 
 Live and let live we have all our set places, 
 
 And most of us fare quite as well as we ought ; 
 There are lessons of wisdom in cares and distresses, 
 
 As the sweetest of pleasure by labour is bought. 
 Never fret though the sunshine of luck fall on others, 
 
 There are heart joys the world cannot lessen or give 
 Go on your way gaily, count all men as brothers, 
 
 And mind the old maxim of Live and let live. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 33 
 
 TO CELIA. 
 
 Nay ! not " too bold " my Celia fair ; 
 
 Press closer still those lips of thine, 
 More glowing sweet and warm, I swear, 
 
 Than July rose or Cyprian wine. 
 Clasp that soft arm around my neck, 
 
 Caress with tender touch my brow ; 
 Come grief or joy come fame or wreck 
 
 I ne'er was nearer heaven than now. 
 
 My Celia, whatsoe'er my fate 
 
 Whate'er the tale of after years, 
 Though sorrow should beside me wait, 
 
 And hope accompanied be by tears ; 
 While memory lasts and reason reigns 
 
 I'll ne'er forget the hour divine, 
 When bound in Love's resistless chains 
 
 I held thy yielding breast to mine. 
 
 Dear Celia, charmer, here to-night 
 
 Thy presence haunts me like a spell ; 
 I see a face all radiant, bright, 
 
 I breathe a wish I may not tell ; 
 In fancy I embrace thy form, 
 
 A thousand kisses try to win ; 
 I feel a touch brings calm or storm 
 
 "The touch that makes the whole world kin." 
 
34 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 AGGIE'S NEW GOON. 
 
 (A Nursery Lilt.) 
 
 O ! Aggie has gotten a bonnie new goon, 
 O ! Aggie has gotten a bonnie new goon, 
 It's a wee winsome strippie wi' flounces a' roon 
 And it fits her fu' finely her bonnie new goon. 
 Jist look at her waistie sae jimp and sae sma' 
 There's nae ither lassie's can match it ava ; 
 Ilka time that I meet her my heart gies a stoon 
 She's sae neat and complete in her bonnie new goon. 
 
 Wi' a facie as fair as the dawnin' o' morn, 
 Her cheekies as red as the rose on the thorn j 
 An' lips, O ! to kiss them a saint micht boo doon, 
 Sae sweet is the lass wi' the bonnie new goon. 
 
 O gin I should win her an ca' her my ain, 
 Then Fate do your warst, I've a balm for ilk pain, 
 Wi' her in my bosom dark fortune may froon, 
 If bless'd wi' the lass in the bonnie new goon. 
 
 Then blithely I'll sing o' my Aggie's new goon, 
 Its winsome wee strippies an' flounces a' roon, 
 To me there's nane like it in country or toon 
 She's the joy o' my heart wi' her bonnie new goon. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 35 
 
 ADDRESS 
 
 SPOKEN BY MANAGER MCNEILL, AT CLOSE OF SEASON, 
 ABERDEEN THEATRE ROYAL. 
 
 " Should auld acquaintance be forgot ? " These words 
 Touch like a spell the full heart's tenderest chords ; 
 Gone days come back that long had fled away, 
 And joys return we wish would ever stay. 
 Lost hours of Love and Friendship : who, oh ! who hath not 
 Some hidden memories of the past that ne'er may be forgot ? 
 The dear, old, simple, sweet refrain hath magic in its tone 
 To summon back our "life's young day," tho' years on years have 
 flown. 
 
 And as a spell these words to-night serve me, 
 For "auld acquaintance " is the witcherie 
 That weaves the magnet links that draw you here 
 To say, good-bye, and give a parting cheer. 
 For, like a ship that hath discharged its stores 
 Hies boldly forth again for distant shores, 
 Fearless of racking wind or raging foam, 
 To gather wealth anew for those at home 
 So we, our spoils unloaded, canvas all unfurled, 
 Prepare to shift the scene of our bright mimic world : 
 We haste to reap for you fresh intellectual sport, 
 And bring the harvest home to this loved little port. 
 
 Yet, ere we fairly start upon our duteous trip, 
 'Tis meet I should recount my season's stewardship ; 
 Show you, as 'twere, the vessel's log-book. Be it so ; 
 I'll gladly pay a debt I am most proud to owe. 
 Well, then, in sterling terms of pounds and pence 
 (And terms I know none likelier to convince), 
 
36 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 We're sounder at the Bank than e'er before we stood 
 We carry a round sum forward, and our credit's good. 
 With gratitude, my friends, I cheerfully confess, 
 The season closing now has been a rare success. 
 Our tidy craft, by willing workers manned, 
 Has never, since I took the helm in hand, 
 Made voyage so pleasant, met more favouring gales, 
 Or found the tide of Fortune steadier with our sails. 
 
 For this be honour given where honour's justly due, 
 Therefore, my heartfelt thanks I humbly offer you. 
 Without your generous presence ever welcome smiles 
 Of small avail, indeed, were our best art or wiles. 
 And then, a meed of praise I tender to my crew 
 Right faithful, ready shipmates all the season through. 
 
 Who to name first I'm really at a loss. 
 Eh ! did I hear a whisper which meant the Misses Ross ? 
 The hint is good. Who now " The fair girl with the blarney," 
 You're right : You mean, of course, our Irish gem, Kate Kearney. 
 The sprightly Birkett, too, has title to a line- 
 So neat and light of foot as tricky Columbine. 
 And now, the sterner sex claim notice. Let me see 
 Who's worthiest in your judgment Waverley ? 
 I thought so. Then Barrett, Coutts, Macfarren, Kay, 
 Wharton and Wilmot but you deem that I 
 Have left two from the list. Ah ! much I'd be to blame 
 If I forgot the Watsons, each and both, to name. 
 
 Nor, while we thus divide our wintry laurel-wreath, 
 Omit the stars the Webbs, Talbot, and graceful Heath ; 
 And, young folks, be ye sure, for reasons good I don't 
 Neglect what's due to Pantomime our Jones and Pont. 
 My own "guid wife " too, still my anxious labour shares 
 Though kept behind the scenes by yes growing family cares ! 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 37 
 
 Andjsay, while naming those who yield delight and frolic 
 " Should auld acquaintance be forgot " and Mrs. Pollock ? 
 
 And now, again with gratitude sincere, 
 I thank each friend each brother Volunteer. 
 This little house, meanwhile so full and bright, 
 Will soon be lone and dull. Gone the sweet light 
 Of cheerful beaming eyes. Fled all those happy faces, 
 And nought but Fancy left to fill the vacant places. 
 Yet oft, as memory fondly from the vanish'd past recalls 
 Loved and familiar tones and haunts, so I within these walls 
 Shall often rest and wander wafted by the wizard spell 
 Of "auld langsyne" that brings you here to list, and say FARE- 
 WELL ! 
 
 PART SONG. 
 
 Ho ! groom bring forth my gallant steed, 
 
 To horse, and on with me ; 
 We'll buckle gear, and gaily speed 
 
 A captive maid to free. 
 And bid thy 'comrades arm for fight, 
 
 And follow in our train ; 
 Love-laden we'll return to-night, 
 
 Or come back not again. 
 
 When we have reached her father's gate, 
 
 A bugle note thou'lt wind ; 
 And if they bid us lingering wait, 
 
 We'll point to those behind. 
 For love ne'er palls at strength of walls, 
 
 Nor yields to parent scorn ; 
 The crest I wear the name I bear 
 
 May match with any born. 
 
38 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 THE LAIRD O' MORKEU. 
 
 Awa wi' your Emperors, Sultans, Rajahs, 
 We care nae for Khedive, Porte, Pope, or Pachas ; 
 To nane sic we're subject the monarch we loe 
 He reigns and gies law frae the tap o' Morkeu. 
 
 The Laird o' Morkeu sits afar on a hicht, 
 His candle ye'll see't in the sma' oors o' nicht, 
 Nae bushel for him save a bushel to brew 
 Wi' licht aye confeerin' aroon blithe Morkeu. 
 
 He's canny and carefu', stan's up for his ain, 
 Yet Poverty ne'er sought his ha' door in vain ; 
 There's nae a bit bird thing, lark, lintie, or doo, 
 But coonts on free aumrie to crumbs at Morkeu. 
 
 The Laird he lives single owns nae household chips. 
 He likes weel the ladies, but doots wedlock grips ; 
 He jinks wi' fond widows, pits maids in a stew, 
 Then lats the heat cool, and roams free 'roon Morkeu. 
 
 He's soun on theology firm in the faith, 
 Aye cosh wi' the clergy whatever their claith, 
 Sly Priest and slee Presbyter auld kirk or new, 
 They a' hae a share in the creed o' Morkeu. 
 
 In the toon a keen trader o' credence and fame 
 The Laird hauds his head wi' the proodest ye'll name ; 
 'Mang lang rows o' figures, the learned Mackildhu 
 Maun aften sing sma' when confrontin' Morkeu. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 39 
 
 He's fit for a Provost, or even a Deen 
 
 Weel gifted wi' speech, he says ditto to neen ; 
 
 He'll nail you on politics, science, airt, oo' 
 
 He's a wide range o* thocht, has the Laird o' Morkeu. 
 
 The flowers are unborn yet in garden or field, 
 That sweetness and joy to the Laird cannot yield ; 
 His coat button-hole glows a marvel in hue, 
 When summer is bloomin' 'roon bonny Morkeu. 
 
 Jist see him at glomin' leal frien's by him set, 
 The lamp o' wit lichtet cheer, plenty and het ; 
 Syne follows a rubber at short whist or loo, 
 And happiness hallows the house o' Morkeu. 
 
 Ye ken the Laird's kith there's the said learned Mac, 
 At kdrkstile or coonter, keen aye for a crack ; 
 The thread o' a sermon, the hair o' a soo', 
 He'll split or explain wi' the best at Morkeu. 
 
 With courtly salute comes the Chief o' Sang-Schule, 
 His hand and heart open to love-darg or dool ; 
 For big nibbet words he'd blake Gentile or Jew 
 It's whisper'd he sometimes dumfounders Morkeu. 
 
 And sib to the same sits a queer rhymster chiel, 
 Whiles wantin' in ballast, but scarcely a feel ; 
 When psalms or when sangs shape the crook o' his mou', 
 There's nae coontin' tumblers or time at Morkeu. 
 
 But thinkna' low voices ne'er chasten the glee, 
 
 When the wine micht grow red and the tongue wad gang free ; 
 
 Soft words, aye in season, like sweet fa'in dew, 
 
 Refreshen and gladden hame-life at Morkeu. 
 
40 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 Then lang life we'll pray for oor Bachelor Laird, 
 Wha'ever is ta'en he canna be spared ; 
 Yet" when the cord breaketh and Time claims his due, 
 May the Laird rest in peace as he lived at Morkeu. 
 
 "COME." 
 
 Come, lady, and gladden my lone little home, 
 Come, bid a waiting heart fondly rejoice ; 
 
 Come as sweet sunshine and music, love, come, 
 With the light of thy presence, the sound of thy voice. 
 
 Though the morning of youth hath its place in the past, 
 And the noontime of life fades to calm eventide, 
 
 Yet the gloaming were joyous if round it were cast 
 The charm of contentment with thee by my side. 
 
 O come and be near me when shades of night fall, 
 Come counsel and cheer when by friendship forgot ; 
 
 And mine be the tribute to bear with thee all 
 The sorrows the Master may will in thy lot. 
 
 Forgive, when we meet, if my words are but few, 
 Forgive, if my lips leave their longing untold, 
 
 Believe the old proverb is potent and true, 
 That speech is but silver while silence is gold. 
 
 Then come, lady, come, to my lone little home, 
 Come, bid a waiting heart fondly rejoice ; 
 
 Bring sunshine for shadow around me, love, come, 
 With the light of thy presence, the sound of thy voice. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 4! 
 
 VOLUNTEER PART SONG. 
 
 (Air: The Hardy Norseman). 
 
 Nay ! never say our arms are weak, 
 
 Or that our hearts are cold ; 
 The blood still rusheth to the cheek 
 
 At brave deeds done of old. 
 We softly tread where rest the dead 
 
 A true devoted band ; 
 We boast their name, we chant their fame, 
 
 Who kept our father- land. 
 
 Nay ! never say though on the wall, 
 
 The sword hangs in its sheath, 
 That silent now to honour's call 
 
 We covet not its wreath : 
 We pray for peace with love's increase 
 
 But war's red flag unrolled 
 The sword we'll clasp with ready grasp 
 
 As in the days of old. 
 
 Nay ! never say our native shore 
 
 Shall know the invader's sway ; 
 Our fathers stood her shield of yore 
 
 We claim that right to-day ; 
 From busy town, and breezy down, 
 
 Shall gather on her strand, 
 Hearts warm and true, arms strong nor few 
 
 To guard the dear old land. 
 
42 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 HOOTY-TOOTY. 
 
 Last night I talked thus with my bird, 
 Thou pretty warbler tell me, do, 
 
 Hast ever seen hast ever heard, 
 Lady like my mistress true, 
 
 Rare in mien, and rich in beauty ? 
 Quoth the bird" Twit, Hooty-Tooty ! " 
 
 I bade the bird approve my choice, 
 For she was gentle as the dove ; 
 
 With gracious smile, sweet eyes, and voice 
 Soft as ever whisper'd love : 
 
 Mine her heart and her's my duty, 
 
 vStill the bird chirp'd " Hooty-Tooty ! " 
 
 I warmly vowed my mistress young 
 Was pure as new-born flower in spring ; 
 
 Had pleasant temper and a tongue 
 Here the bird began to sing, 
 
 " Loving maids are precious booty, 
 But they're women Hooty-Tooty ! " 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 43 
 
 MILK AND SCONES. 
 
 Speak nae to me o' turtle soup, 
 
 Wi' oysters fae the sea ; 
 To French snail pies I'll never stoop, 
 
 Nor common puddock bree : 
 My thochts ging back to lythe Lairshill, 
 
 I hear fond welcome tones, 
 Sae I will sing o' Mary's skill, 
 
 Her matchless milk and scones. 
 
 I've dined wi' Lairds o' micht and means, 
 
 Wi' Factors I've been fou'; 
 Hae Provosts, Baillies, 'mang my frien's 
 
 And Ministers anew : 
 I've kissed and coortit maidens fair, 
 
 Confab'd wi' learned dons ; 
 But a' sic joys will ne'er compare 
 
 Wi' Mary's milk and scones. 
 
 Now let me whisper in your ear 
 
 But this ye mauna tell 
 Tho' Mary's skill to me is dear, 
 
 I like her some hersel' ; 
 That winsome face that modest grace 
 
 For gowd and gear atones, 
 Sae fill your glass, drink to the lass 
 
 That bakes the Lairshill scones. 
 
44 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS, 
 
 SPOKEN BY MISS ANNIE BALDWIN, 
 HER MAJESTY'S OPERA HOUSE, JUNE, 1880. 
 
 LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, 
 
 " Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest " 
 A golden rule in homely terms exprest ; 
 How fondly do I hope such " claim of right " 
 May prove sure talisman for me to-night ; 
 A charm to aid my simple, earnest words 
 As now I plead acceptance on these boards 
 Acceptance here, within each generous heart 
 That loves the Drama and the Actor's art. 
 Your gracious smiles set half my fears at rest 
 Pray may I deem myself " a welcome guest ? " 
 
 These faltering lines of introduction spoken, 
 I gladly hold the ice between us broken, 
 And, warming to my work, proceed to say 
 How I the part of Hostess mean to play. 
 
 (But here I maunna craw owre croose, 
 'Tis serious business takin' up a hoose ; 
 Yet naething venture ye can naething gain 
 A' women like a fireside o' their ain. 
 Forgive my Scotch tho' scarcely pure or thorough ; 
 Yet I have been The Witch of Edinboro!} 
 
 We players share but scanty steadfast joys 
 Spoiled, petted, scorned, like children with their toys, 
 So as a " wandering star " I cease to roam, 
 And make this northern sphere my chosen home 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 45 
 
 A home to which I heartly invite you 
 With fixed intent to humour and delight you : 
 Sit where you please, in that I ask no voice 
 "You pays your money and you takes your choice." 
 
 And now, methinks, I hear some patron hint 
 " Your programme, Madam Hostess, pray present, 
 Give us the cue." Well, sir,. of course I mean 
 To signalise my sway in Aberdeen 
 By potent acts, to please both grave and gay 
 Through " tales oft told " stage pictures of the day ; 
 Shakespere and kin must, king-like, grace our bills, 
 While Robertson, with Byron, Harvey, Wills, 
 Shall yield fresh mental fare strong, caustic, light, 
 Set fitly forth judge by our start to-night. 
 Music, be sure, will grant rich store of pleasure 
 Parisian movements England's comelier measure. 
 Fair, pleasant fruit the summer eves will bring 
 Our autumn hours may hear " Les Cloches " ring ; 
 Then heavier staple on to Christmas time, 
 When, presto ! change to gorgeous Pantomime. 
 
 Next, what of stars? some longing soul may ask. 
 Well, frankly, 'tis no easy, hopeful task 
 To catch theatric orbs of " light and leading " 
 The mighty dollar our front rank is weeding ; 
 But I may mention, I shall make a rule 
 To draw this way both Sullivan and Toole. 
 Ah ! how I'd joy to mark you thrill, weep, cower 
 Beneath the spell of Henry Irving's power. 
 So trust me trust an earnest woman's wit, 
 Here you have cause to prize such influence yet ; 
 Proud shall I be if I can justly claim 
 Such love as clings round Mrs. Pollock's name. 
 
46 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 " Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest : 
 Yes, there I'll close and let you guess the rest. 
 And yet, before these greeting lines take end, 
 Just one kind word to our way-going friend 
 To him whose ruling, managerial wand 
 Must now be held by my less practised hand ; 
 Where'er his lot, doubt not but memory's chord 
 Will leally wake at thought of Bon- Accord 
 My chosen home for his he goes in quest ; 
 You've welcomed me, so "speed the parting guest." 
 
 Thus ends scene first in my new Lessee life 
 Keep now your plaudits for 
 
 "THE WORKMAN'S WIFE." 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 47 
 
 A VAGRANT VALENTINE. 
 
 O blessings on ye, Lilian dear, 
 
 Fond blessing on ye fa' ; 
 For I have watch 'd your smile, your tear, 
 
 Unseen, unkent by a' : 
 The wealth o' joy that has been mine, 
 When I hae pressed my lips to thine, 
 Shall round this heart aye closely twine 
 Till life's cord breaks, my Lilian. 
 
 Last night, alone, my Lilian dear, 
 
 Ye lay upon my breast ; 
 And whispered words 'twas heav'n to hear, 
 
 Your secret love confest : 
 O treasured ever be the hour 
 When passion held us in its power, 
 Earth hath for me no richer dower, 
 Then thy soul's truth, my Lilian. 
 
 When years have flown, my Lilian dear, 
 
 And this poor hand is cold ; 
 When other eyes your smiles may cheer, 
 
 And other arms enfold, 
 Perchance as evening shadows fall, 
 And memory past times will recall, 
 Thou 'It think of one you said was all 
 Yes, all the world to thee, Lilian. 
 
48 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 BRIDAL SONG 
 
 CONTRIBUTED FROM THE PRESS TABLE AT MARRIAGE OF THE 
 PRINCESS ROYAL, BALMORAL, 1858. 
 
 While gaily proud City bells ring bridal chimes, 
 And laureates and minstrels in sweet flowing rhymes 
 
 Sing welcome and greeting to this festal day : 
 Here far 'mid our Highland hills join we the strain, 
 While loud-pealing pibrochs take up the refrain, 
 Shouting joy to thy daughter, fair Queen of our Isles, 
 May her path, like thine own, be encircled with smiles 
 
 Her presence a blessing, and gentle her sway. 
 
 What though no rich splendour, no pageant be here, 
 Though deep frowns the corrie, wild boundeth the deer, 
 
 And "dark Lochnagar " clad in snow gloometh grey : 
 Yet mark ye yon beacon fires gleaming afar, 
 From lofty Craig-gowan to rocky Braemar ; 
 O ! these are ottr love-lights ; the quaich and the horn 
 The goblets we drain to thee England's first-born, 
 
 And joyously hail we thy blithe bridal day. 
 
 Although never more may our valley rejoice 
 
 At the fall of thy footstep, the sound of thy voice, 
 
 And thy coming be welcomed by dowie and gay : 
 Yet often thy thoughts may in after years roam 
 To the scene of thy life's-morn thy loved Highland home ; 
 And true shall our hearts beat to thee and to thine, 
 While the Dee runs its course, or Craig Nich rears a pine, 
 
 And fondly we'll cherish this blithe bridal day. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 49 
 
 MY NEIGHBOUR THE MILLER. 
 
 My neighbour the Miller has muscle and girth, 
 
 His foot tak's the grun' like the dunt o' a hammer ; 
 His laugh soons like music, leal soul-heezing mirth, 
 
 His word comes fair-furth-the-gait, nae halt nor stammer. 
 A chip o' langsyne, he prefers grog to wine, 
 
 An oxter pouch lined weel wi' honest won siller, 
 Frae Fittie to Fife, I wad lay ye my life 
 
 There's nae truer man than my neighbour the Miller. 
 
 When the mill wheel is silent, the water at rest, 
 
 My frien' fills his pipe, treasured joy, to content him ; 
 Sits 'neath his ain fig-tree, like saint pure and blest, 
 
 At peace wi' the warl, pleased wi' what Fate hath sent him. 
 When at Market or Fair, ye'll fin' nane trusted mair, 
 
 In the Kirk he's a power as a ne'er failing pillar ; 
 To anger full slow kind to age, want or woe, 
 
 There's a big human heart in my neighbour the Miller. 
 
 He's fond o' a cronie to join in a rubber, 
 
 Can share a safe tumbler, and loes a bit sang ; 
 Tho' still at his table-heid wise-like and sober 
 
 Yet under his shadow nicht never grows lang. 
 Roun' his blithesome fireside, tender father and guide ; 
 
 His wife, happy helpmate, he's aye bringin' till her ; 
 While seed time and rain gladden ploo-land and plain, 
 
 He hopes and looks heaven-ward my neighbour the Miller. 
 
50 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 Spoken by Mr. A. McNeill, Manager, Aberdeen Theatre Royal, at Performance 
 
 given in the Music Hall, by the Volunteers, for the benefit of a comrade 
 
 who, passing safely as a soldier through the Indian Mutiny, lost 
 
 his arm on resuming work at a local foundry , 1865. 
 
 LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, 
 
 I, a humble player, 
 
 Whose chosen task is setting brain- wrought mimic fare 
 In varied form and dress before your ears and eyes, 
 Assuming many parts to teach, warn, and surprise 
 Through aid of tinsel show, stage trick, and masked plaint . 
 Venture, with diffidence, sans powder, patch, or paint, 
 A character quite new though strict in keeping here 
 I come a self-enlisted, loyal Volunteer 
 A Volunteer sent forward with a flag of truce 
 The aim and actors of the night to introduce. 
 
 Ah me ! how much I miss the well-known "sets" and scenes, 
 The splendid airy castles ! canvas forest greens ! 
 The ever-blooming groves ! the halls of dazzling light ! 
 With beings always young, fair, beautiful, and bright ! 
 The Green-room hints, " the wings," the watchful Prompter's cue 
 Of these I'm all bereft, and so must trust to you 
 To bear with me, while for my friends behind 
 I crave you'll " to their failings be a little blind." 
 
 And yet why should they doubtful either fear or pause ! 
 Have they not half the battle with them in their cause ? 
 They ask not for themselves a comrade in his need, 
 His is the oar they pull, and his the boat they speed ; 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 5! 
 
 Lend them your cheering smiles, then with that favouring gale 
 The wished-for haven's sure : there's no such word as fail. 
 
 My gentle Ladies list, and soon thou wilt surrender, 
 The flag of truce I bear has motto True and Tender. 
 Good Gentlemen, your ears the terms I will propose 
 Would earn capitulation from the sternest foes. 
 My story's noble, sad : a broken sword in sheath : 
 The soldier's courted lot ! alas ! no soldier's wreath. 
 
 Look back across the path of time for seven peaceful years, 
 And see our weeping country bathed in vain soul-sickening tears : 
 Look back, and wander tremblingly o'er India's ravished clime, 
 And mourn the reign of mutiny its horrors and its crime : 
 Look back, and shuddering think upon dark Cawnpore and its 
 
 well 
 
 No bloodier page of history our annals ere may tell 
 Look back, and sigh for helpless babe and loving mother's fate, 
 Then give the meed of glory due th' unconquered " Seventy-Eight :" 
 Look back, at Lucknow's longing ones their all undaunted stand, 
 Then follow, as your hearts beat high, that little kilted band : 
 Look back, and watch like forlorn hope old Scotland's tartans 
 
 stream, 
 
 The bagpipes' challenge ringing shrill the ready claymores' gleam : 
 Look back, and join, as join ye would, upon their matchless march, 
 Those shot nor shell can halt nor pale, no noon-tide heat may parch : 
 Look back, ye see them day by day go fighting inch by inch. 
 No arm grows weary of the fray, no sleepless eye doth flinch : 
 Look back, to find one conflict close when sinks the evening sun 
 Look back, and when the morning wakes another strife's begun : 
 Look back, and hail them hastening on to succour and to save 
 Grey Havelock's bearded Highlanders, the bravest of the brave ! 
 
 Our comrade's tale is well nigh told. Of that leal kilted band 
 Who shed a halo ne'er to fade upon their native land, 
 
$2 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 Who from the first dread warning flash until the flame burnt done, 
 Ne'er uttered plaint or thought of self he of that few was one ; 
 And one and all were heroes there, as Europe wide confess'd, 
 Both those who stood and those who fell all hallowed be their rest ! 
 
 When India's soil again was ours, and " wild war's blast was 
 
 blawn," 
 
 When from a grim and gory night joy brought a gladsome dawn, 
 Our comrade leaned upon his arms and welcomed blood's surcease, 
 Sought home and friends, put past the sword and joined the ranks 
 
 of peace : 
 
 Yet such Life's all uncertain lot though spared by shot and shell, 
 Amongst the shafts of Industry our gallant comrade fell ! 
 
 My duty's done. My mates plead not with faint and abject 
 
 whine 
 They fight for one who in sore strait fought well for their's and 
 
 thine. 
 
 Then in their generous sport to-night excuse slight specks and flaws, 
 Be not too critical, I pray, look at them through their cause. 
 That noble cause as Volunteers your sympathy commands, 
 So as they justly have your hearts why, do not spare your hands ! 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 53 
 
 WITH THE FLEET 1878. 
 
 Come, lads, and listen to a stave 
 
 Our ship goes softly slow 
 There's scarce a ripple on the wave, 
 
 No sound above below. 
 Our Captain reads, as from a book, 
 
 Yon message hoisted high, 
 There's longing in his eager look, 
 
 And dare-do in his eye. 
 
 Perchance this stillness doth forewarn 
 
 The brewing of the blast, 
 And then, mates, this must be our yarn- 
 
 " Nail colours to the mast.' 
 
 'Tis silent all on sea and shore, 
 
 But fancy, weaving spells, 
 Brings, echo-like, the ocean o'er 
 
 The chime of Sabbath bells : 
 And psalms we sung, with holy words 
 
 Of youth's bright sunny days, 
 Come back again on memory's chords, 
 
 To chasten manhood's ways. 
 
 But, mates, this stillness may forewarn 
 
 The brewing of the blast, 
 And, then, good-bye to song and yarn 
 
 " Nail colours to the mast." 
 
54 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 We leave fine talk and jawing fuss 
 
 To wiser heads than ours ; 
 We bear no grudge to Turk or Russ, 
 
 Or t' other stuck-up Powers. 
 But if there's fighting friends or foes 
 
 We claim what's right and fair ; 
 We don't much care what tack it blows, 
 
 Just let us have our share. 
 
 So, if this stillness should forewarn 
 
 The brewing of the blast, 
 Why, then, mates, pass the good old yarn- 
 
 ff Nail colours to the mast." 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 55 
 
 MY PRINCESS OF THE HILL. 
 
 Come genial Spring with bud and bloom, come with thy strength- 
 ening breeze, 
 
 Come with new verdure to the field, fresh leaflet to the trees ; 
 My soul exults with glad delight to hail thy lengthening day, 
 My spirit warms with ardent glow even as a boy at play : 
 My heart beats fast and fondly with manhood's noblest thrill 
 In thought I'm in the presence of my Princess of the Hill. 
 
 'Twas on a bleak November day when first I felt her spell, 
 
 I walked beside her wonder-struck, strange silence o'er me fell ; 
 
 All nature looked so bare and blank, a chill was in the air, 
 
 But 'neath her smile the sodden ground, the barren bush, grew fair ; 
 
 That graceful form, those soft low tones, worked with enchantress 
 
 skill, 
 Earth even as I her influence owned my Princess of the Hill. 
 
 Ah me ! how poor a thing am I this lady's love to win, 
 A weary brain-tasked labourer 'mid worldly strife and sin ; 
 Whilst she a being of purer sphere moves stately as a queen 
 With radiant face and lustrous eyes all star-like in their sheen : 
 I dreamt I might but worship her, admire and gaze my fill 
 But joy ! she deigned to smile on me, my Princess of the Hill. 
 
 O, kind hath been her gracious ways, and passing sweet her words ; 
 A whisper and my willing ear rings with harmonious chords ; 
 A pressure of her soft white hand my heart's blood runneth fast ; 
 A kiss, a swift and rose-flush kiss 'tis bliss too great to last : 
 I look not into Fate's dread book, but Future have thy will 
 No shadows cloud our bye-gone hours, my Princess of the Hill. 
 
56 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 I know not if Love's alchemy beguiles the gazer's eye 
 
 And makes the flower of yester-eve to-day of rarer dye ; 
 
 Yet this I vow my lady's face more beautiful doth grow 
 
 Her sylph-like form more perfect still more radiant bright her 
 
 brow : 
 
 Is this Love's raptured limner power ? nay, look ! she doth fulfil 
 Far more than feeble pen may trace my Princess of the Hill. 
 
 There's a glory in the summer morn, a paradise in flowers, 
 There's happiness to each and all in this changeful world of ours ; 
 The true heart ever trusteth with a strength no blow may rend 
 So fond memories abiding will cheer me to the end. 
 Speed on swift Time but in your flight leave, leave unbroken still 
 The chain that binds this soul to hers my Princess of the Hill. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 57 
 
 ADDRESS 
 
 SPOKEN BY MR. JAMES R. GIBSON, LEADING ACTOR, ON HIS 
 BENEFIT NIGHT, THEATRE ROYAL, ABERDEEN, 1873. 
 
 [The Play had been "Rob Roy" The Hoiise crowded. 
 As curtain falls the Baillie steps to front. ~\ 
 
 My conscience ! Helen ? Rab ? They a' are gane, 
 And left the Baillie, blatelike, here alane ! 
 I'm in a swither : sail I rin or bide ? 
 There's nae place hereaboot whaur ane micht hide, 
 Nae open door, a press, or handy him 
 
 \Speaking to ancient member of the orchestra. 
 Man, ye micht stow's awa' within your drum ! 
 He shaks his heid : na, that cock winna fecht ! 
 And I'm in sair distress wi' doonricht fricht. 
 A Baillie feart ! There's nae man here my foe ? 
 Sail I then, coor'd like, flee ? My conscience no ! 
 
 [ Taking off wig, etc. , and advancing to foot -lights. 
 
 LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, 
 
 With the Poet and the Painter, ye have lingered o'er " Langsyne," 
 While the Actor lent his meed of Art, and Music gift divine 
 Made melody with voice and string to win the willing ear, 
 To stir the sympathetic soul, and wake responsive tear ; 
 Ye have followed at the Wizard's call by mountain, lake, and stream, 
 Till in fancy 'neath his conjuring there passed a living dream 
 A vanish 'd page of olden days, but ah ! how potent still 
 To fan the flame in Scottish breast that time nor change can chill : 
 
58 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 Then while the charm of plaid and pipe, the tartan, snood, and 
 
 plume 
 
 Hangs round ye, like an incense sweet of heath and hill perfume 
 While yet these feelings pulse and sway Pardon if I intrude 
 To offer not as Actor now a full heart's gratitude. 
 
 No : not the mime or actor, it is the man would speak, 
 If fitting words might form and flow, though words indeed are weak 
 To utter half the debt of thanks I at your feet could lay : 
 The heart is rich in eloquence the lips but poor to pay. 
 
 Not now as Mountebank or King Belphegor or Macbeth 
 I conjure with the ball and bowl, do battle to the death ; 
 Not now as Melnotte, Romeo, I dream of naught but love, 
 Rave of " sweet orange groves, soft lutes," and "kiss my lady's 
 
 glove;" 
 
 Not now as &o\&John Howieson, I rescue good King James, 
 And " fin mysel' clean oot o' breath " 'mang courtly knights and 
 
 dames ; 
 
 Not now I woo leal Jeannie Deans, as pauky Dumbiedykes, 
 Or brag wi' Dandie Dinmont o' his terriers and his tykes ; 
 Not now doon Glasgow Gallowgate, wi' Mattie I step gaily, 
 A portrait from langsyne re-framed, "a hale Sautmarket Baillie." 
 The tinsel, paint, and spangles, the trappings of my art, 
 From these I borrow touch nor trick to aid my present part, 
 That part the man's true character Pardon, nor deem me rude, 
 In offering not as Actor now a full heart's gratitude. 
 
 I look up into your faces with a pleased and proud surprise, 
 I can see a wealth of kindness beaming from your generous eyes ; 
 My ears drink in with eager joy your hand and voice acclaim 
 And I feel I'm not unworthy all to bear the honoured name 
 Of true-born son of Bon- Accord for dear, aye dear to me 
 Is the ever brave and comely " Silver City by the Sea." 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 59 
 
 Ah ! oft, my friends, when wandering far, fond thought would 
 
 yearning roam 
 
 Hack to the scenes of early days, my own beloved home, 
 And when the fight was hard and long, when Faith's lamp flicker'd 
 
 low, 
 
 When the future seemed an emptiness, Fortune a jealous foe, 
 Some pitying angel whispered me " Still onward, upward press ! " 
 Then Hope's bright star arose and shone upon a night like this I 
 
 \The Prompter's bell rings. 
 
 The Prompter calls : And this his cue " No longer, sir, intrude, 
 To offer such poor tribute of a full heart's gratitude." 
 
 Then, friends, adieu ! Whate'er my fate, whate'er my lot may be, 
 There's nought can rend my longings from "the City by the Sea." 
 And when I dare forget this scene the halo it hath flung 
 About my path then I'll forget my ain auld mither tongue. 
 The road to fame the Actor treads is a steep and slippery brae, 
 But your voices like a trumpet shall herald me on the way ; 
 By thee to-night I feel love's might girt round me as a sword, 
 To strive, wait, serve soul, brain and nerve for home, for Bon- 
 Accord. 
 
60 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 WICKET, BAT AND BALL. 
 (Air: Lass of Richmond Hill). 
 
 O ! Dick may gaily hunt his hounds, 
 
 And Jack set sail for sea : 
 While soldier Ralph courts fame and wounds, 
 
 Bill loves the forest free ; 
 Let Jack, Dick, Bill, rove at their will, 
 
 And brave Ralph proudly fall, 
 Their sport can ne'er with ours compare 
 
 The wicket, bat and ball. 
 
 Chorus The jolly bat and ball, 
 The merry bat and ball, 
 
 No sport say I, 'neath heaven's blue sky, 
 Like wicket, bat and ball. 
 
 There's Ned he is an angler keen, 
 
 Tom boasts a rifle true : 
 Fred holds high " court " on tennis green, 
 
 With Mabel, Maud and Prue. 
 Let Ned go fish, give Tom his wish, 
 
 And soft Fred vow "loves-all," 
 We envy not their choice and lot, 
 
 Be ours the bat and ball. 
 
 Chorus The jolly bat and ball, 
 The merry bat and ball, 
 
 No sport say I, 'neath heaven's blue sky, 
 Like wicket, bat and ball. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 6l 
 
 Then prosper aye our noble game, 
 
 To none it e'er shall yield, 
 While we can cheerily chant its fame, 
 
 And hit, guard, bowl or field : 
 'Gainst stump and bail, e'en age wont rail, 
 
 Their pleasures never pall : 
 Strength, courage, youth hope, patience, truth, 
 
 Meet round the bat and ball. 
 
 Chorus The jolly bat and ball, 
 
 The merry bat and ball, 
 No sport say I, 'neath heaven's bhie sky, 
 
 Like wicket, bat and ball. 
 
62 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 MARION 
 
 So dearly loved in blissful bye-gone years, 
 
 Here lone to-night, with reverent sorrow bowed, 
 I mourn thy fate with sad and silent tears, 
 And fain would kiss thee in thy snowy shroud : 
 
 But, ah ! it may not be 
 Ne'er shall again mine eyes that sweet face see. 
 
 MARION 
 
 Although our paths for long have lain apart, 
 
 And word nor look hath passed us twain between, 
 Yet thou belov'd hast held within my heart 
 A sacred place, a memory ever green : 
 
 But now the shadow falls, 
 Life's Eventide hath come : The Master calls. 
 
 MARION 
 
 To-morrow they will lay thee in thy grave, 
 
 And o'er thee will be placed a wreath of flowers, 
 But none may know the grateful hand that gave 
 Such offering meet of unforgotten hours : 
 
 Nor lips nor pen may tell 
 Of what hath been. Marion, pure-souled, Farewell ! 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 63 
 
 KATE O' KIRKHILL. 
 
 " 7 he gloomy night iv as gathering fast " say at Nigg! 
 
 Witches and fairies, Fairies and witches, 
 
 Beings o' flesh and blood, imps i' the air ; 
 Coupin' Hope's cairt now 'mang daisies, now ditches, 
 
 Atween ye, heaven help us ! come canker and care. 
 Through glamour and glances ye whiles drive me doitet, 
 
 At times 'tis conjectured, I'm past doctor's skill ; 
 My cronies they hint, I think nae shame to write it, 
 
 I've saftnin' o' brain aboot Kate o' Kirkhill. 
 
 Witches and fairies, Fairies and witches, 
 
 Wills-o'-the-wisp, mortals steadfast as truth ; 
 Some trachel'd and auld ridin' broomsticks and crutches,- 
 
 And mony o' Angel mould, golden wi' youth. 
 Jist tell me, my brither, if ne'er in your bosom 
 
 Ye fand the fond jaggin o' Love's fiery thrill ? 
 If ye did, then ye'll ken hoo I shun a' that's gruesome 
 
 To live in the sunshine o' Kate o' Kirkhill. 
 
 Witches and fairies, Fairies and witches, 
 
 Ah ! why will ye no lat a trustin' soul be ? 
 I carena' for honours, I crave fame nor riches, 
 
 Content is the dower far dearer to me. 
 O ! love leave your hame by the wild beatin' ocean, 
 
 My heart like the sobbin' waves ne'er can be still ; 
 Come end wi' ae' laigh word this weary commotion, 
 
 Jist say you're my ain, my sweet Kate o' Kirkhill. 
 
64 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 TO J. T. 
 
 " 'A friend of mine in his journey." St. Luke. 
 
 Go on thy way. Tread the appointed path, 
 
 And own, by sea and land, what love the Father hath. 
 
 Be of good cheer : let hope inspire thy breast ; 
 
 Even as thy days thy strength shall be, then cometh rest. 
 
 Fear not nor doubt : fond hearts will faithful be, 
 And love, with old time sway, unseen encircle thee. 
 
 For thee afar fair flowers, unborn, shall spring, 
 
 Bright bows of promise break, and birds new carols sing. 
 
 Keep summer in thy soul. We part to meet 
 Here or the Master calling near the mercy seat. 
 
 Then forward friend. Trust in the coming day ; 
 Heav'n's gifts are manifold. Farewell. Go on thy way. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 65 
 
 "SCENE IN THE CIRCLE," 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE BENEFIT NIGHT OF A FAVOURITE 
 CIRCUS JESTER. 
 
 The Jester is leaving the Circle when the Ring Master speaks: 
 
 Why, Seal, it strikes me you might air your wit 
 By offering thanks for this rare benefit ? 
 
 fester Give thanks ! Ah yes, if words could but express 
 The feeling born of this night's happiness 
 Quick to my lips with welling joy would start 
 Thanksgiving tribute from a grateful heart. 
 
 Ring Master Bravo ! good fool : you've struck the key for sermon 
 
 or for song, 
 Proceed, your friends will listen, only don't spin out too long. 
 
 fester " Good fool," you say : the character I fondly try to earn 
 From gentle folks, and simple folks, from grey-beard and from 
 
 bairn. 
 A moment's space then grant me, while in words, poor, but 
 
 sincere, 
 I strive to thank all round and round for their welcome presence 
 
 here. 
 
 LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, 
 There's an old story of an Eastern Prince, 
 Who lived, I really know not how long since, 
 But he was robed in gold, and moved in wondrous state, 
 Beauty knelt at his feet, tried warriors kept his gate ; 
 Both far and near, alike by land and sea, 
 His word was law, so great a Prince was he. 
 
66 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 Obedience was his due, yet all in vain he strove 
 
 To touch one human heart, or wake one smile of love. 
 
 To him no voice for friend or foe e'er sued, 
 
 He felt not, proved not, won not Gratitude, 
 
 So when this monarch died his own Court Jester's wit 
 
 Took form of epitaph and thus he gravely writ : 
 
 Dust rest in dust: below this stone is laid 
 A Prince who lived, a Prince who now is dead; 
 He ruled unloved, unwept he passed away: 
 The curtails down ; each dog must have his day. 
 Reader in silence muse, this history is ended: 
 The less thafs said, the sooner 'twill be mended. 
 
 Ring Master A shrewd fool that, sarcastic too, I wean, 
 
 But tell me pray, what doth the riddle mean ? 
 jester Ay, there's the rub ! Perchance not much one of those 
 
 quips and cranks 
 
 On which I, fool like, find a peg to hang my humble thanks ; 
 For, Sir, were I of regal rank, a Sultan, Czar, or King, 
 My sceptre power should be displayed within this magic ring, 
 My motley dress as medicine should wake the dullest brain, 
 " Laugh and be happy all who may, "prescription, wholesome, 
 
 plain. 
 
 Gay cheerfulness should spread around till with conceit and jest 
 I'd make each fair maid's temper, the sweetest, gentlest, best ! 
 Young men should wooing go with speed, and prove so kind 
 
 and true 
 That 'midst the flowers of wedded bliss, there nought could be 
 
 of rue ! 
 
 Yes, quite a wealth of marriages the Parsons would proclaim, 
 The stakes being now but " two-and-six," at that engaging 
 
 game ! 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 67 
 
 Thus would I reign and ever prize my generous patron's weal, 
 While 'gainst Church strife, Town Council tiffs I'd set my 
 
 hand and Seal ! 
 
 So ends my little story, and now to all Good Night ! 
 Houp la ! the Queen of Beauty comes to take her aerial flight, 
 Music, brave minstrels, music ! hark to the entrance bell ! 
 Houp la ! again, Ring Master thanks, yea, thanks and fond 
 
 Farewell. 
 
68 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 "PEACE OFFERINGS." 
 
 Thanks Eldra for your flowers. Though withered, cold and broken 
 
 They breathe to me thoughts tender, true and warm ; 
 Lifeless and odour-dead, yet are they welcome token, 
 
 Old times and feelings still have power to charm, 
 That in thy nobler word when thine own self thou art, 
 
 Hope, trust and ruth, enduring, simple, free, 
 Hold rule and triumph in thy generous heart, 
 
 And I am sharer in their victory. 
 
 " Peace offerings," ye say. Dearer to me as such 
 
 Than jewelled gift, or far brought costly gem : 
 Of this world's rusting wealth my store can ne'er be much, 
 
 Yet I have some rare treasures, and 'mongst them 
 Hereafter when I reckon up what most I prize, 
 
 These wasted violets, all scentless though they be, 
 Shall yield the grateful joy that changeth not nor dies 
 
 The memory of moments spent with thee. 
 
 Ye smile at this my verse. Ye know me all unread 
 
 In floral lore. Not mine the wit or spell 
 Twinned lovers fondly fancy lurk in bud and blade 
 
 And yet, methinks, I should interpret well 
 The secret of these leaves, a secret tho' unspoken 
 
 In silence eloquent to me of happy hours : 
 " Peace offerings," ye say : A peace ne'er to be broken 
 
 By unkind word again. Thanks Eldra for your flowers. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 69 
 
 A CRICKET LAY. 
 
 ToJ. A. A. in the Book of the Aberdeenshire Cricket Club Bazaar , 188$. 
 
 "A bit of rhyme for your Bazaar?" why, certainly, here goes 
 Tho* let me tell you in my time they didn't have such shows ; 
 But then things alter, and folks must go moving quick along 
 " Keep to the right ! " is now the cry, and do not stop the throng. 
 Yet some things, Jack, know little change, aye ready ! is the ticket, 
 And patience, temper, fair play, pluck, are watchwords still at 
 Cricket. 
 
 You'd like to hear about the Elevens the cracks of my young days? 
 
 Ah ! sir, they're scattered far and wide, who then won willow-bays 
 
 'Tis an innings over two score years since first I watched the bails, 
 
 But yet you know of early joys fond memory rarely fails 
 
 So looking in my fire to-night I see a crowd of faces, 
 
 A picture, Jack, in miniature, of the Broadhill at the races. 
 
 We had not daily broad-sheets then, nor telegraphic wire, 
 
 To give the tip from London straight who stood the Champion shire 
 
 Twas oft a week before we heard from the "Oval" or from 
 
 "Lord's" 
 
 What now you read at any hour on big newspaper boards. 
 No picked Australian teams came o'er to fright our English players 
 With "demon" Spofforth funking fits, or "terror" Turner scares ! 
 
 But don't mistake ! you must not think there were no giants then, 
 To count with Grace, Reid, Lohmann, Wood, and other first-class 
 
 men 
 
 Why, there was good old Fuller Pilch, for "centuries" in he went 
 (He was only a working tailor, sir, but also " Lion of Kent.") 
 Stout Alfred Mynn, Box, Felix, old Lilywhite, and Clarke, 
 Then Wisden, Tarrant, Lock wood Myres, Chatter ton, and Dark. 
 
70 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 But now mayhaps you'd like a word about my own kind mates, 
 Who used to gather on the Links we nothing knew of " gates" 
 Ah ! sir, you bring back halcyon days, and touch a tender theme 
 I can see them rising one by one here through my fireside dream 
 But few remain of that far time, they greet old friends no more, 
 Their " silver city by the sea" is now yon "golden shore." 
 
 Well, Jack, that was a minor touch so again the major key, 
 For Auld Lang Syne rings in my ear I watch them in their glee 
 There's Nisbet with his twister lobs then Alick Watt's full pitch 
 And Brown whose swinging swipes meant 6, to the Bannermill 
 
 dyke ditch, 
 
 Jim Forbes of the horny hand, who never missed a catch 
 And Miller who from hottest fire drew many a doubtful match. 
 
 Dear Davie Duguid, deaf but sure, the prince of all our bowlers, 
 Z, who never could be out you always get some growlers 
 The Walkers, Playfair, Nornable Pape, Mitchell, Riddell, Allan 
 (A very king of bankers, Jack, and Melbourne is his dwallin',) 
 Bob Maitland, handsome Gosden, of medicals the swell 
 His batting was a study, and the ladies loved him well. 
 
 And what about yourself? you ask: well, they dubbed me, fact, 
 
 "Hawk-eye," 
 
 My post was "slip," because, you see, I was no good to "shy" 
 But a warrior bold I was to block, a Bannerman to stay, 
 The slow game of this ancient child it wouldn't do to-day 
 Still runs are runs, got how or where, in singles or in lumps, 
 And if you double figures mean, why, you must mind your stumps. 
 
 But look, hurrah ! the tartans come, the Barracks' choice Eleven, 
 Amongst them Knights and Honourables first number, yes, a "7," 
 Lord William Russell captained them stood point close to the 
 
 wicket, 
 A soldier frank, cared not for caste, liked all who played true cricket, 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 7 1 
 
 With courtly Captain Chichester, tall Ensign Brickenden 
 On Alma's height, in after years, they won their spurs like men. 
 
 Of later times and fresher hands, 'tis not for me to tell : 
 You've been, Jack, in the thick of it and know the "talent" well. 
 Look round the Ground Pavilion Wall, and mark the roll-call there 
 Of those we're proud to honour, in whose victories we share ; 
 Yet if these lines should see the light as record of the game, 
 Let the printer choose his biggest type when setting LUMSDEN'S 
 name. 
 
 And so I end this rambling rhyme with " Success to the Bazaar," 
 And lift my cap to Cricketers here, near us, or afar, 
 It makes not what their calling is sword, hammer, pen, or file, 
 Whether they live by sweat of brow or boast an honest "pile," 
 Be this their maxim o'er the world whatever may befall 
 Boys, always keep an upright bat and a sure eye on the ball. 
 
72 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 THE FLOWING CATARRH. 
 
 Apologetic Postscript read by President Smith-Shandy at the 
 
 Centenary Dinner of Aberdeen Medico- Chirurgical 
 
 Society, ijth December , 1889. 
 
 When the cold of December comes freezing, 
 
 With the morning sharp, bracing, and clear ; 
 When by night you are snifting and sneezing, 
 
 And your eye yields the unbidden tear 
 Why, then, don your cosiest linder, 
 
 See no window or door stands ajar, 
 Get hot water and double the " cinder " 
 
 And sing hey ! for a flowing Catarrh ! 
 
 When a chill creeps the whole body over, 
 
 And anon you're at high fever heat ; 
 When to send for the Doctor you hover, 
 
 And muse what he'll give you to eat ; 
 Then your thoughts conjure up a vile mixture, 
 
 With a taste between "castor" and tar, 
 So you vote Stay at home like a fixture 
 
 And nurse your free-flowing Catarrh. 
 
 The Medicos form a great faction 
 
 Chirurgery noble, of course ; 
 And a hundred full years of their action 
 
 Well the world might be better or worse : 
 So I waft you, Sir Chairman, a greeting 
 
 May no " sends for " your dinner joys mar, 
 Here's success to your cent'nary meeting 
 
 While I treat my free-flowing Catarrh ! 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 73 
 
 THE FARMER'S LIFE. 
 (With Old English Refrain). 
 
 The farmer leads a kingly life true monarch of the field ; 
 
 By day and night the generous earth to him doth tribute yield ; 
 
 The Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring, bring mercies ever new, 
 
 " Singing wo ! my lads, gee wo ! 
 
 Drive on my boys, hi, ho ! " 
 O ! who could live a nobler life than happy farmers do? 
 
 In Spring the quickened verdure peeps from the teeming soil 
 
 Each tender leaf and opening bud rewards the sower's toil 
 
 He watcheth well their gentle growth nursed by the rain and dew, 
 
 "And sings wo ! my lads gee wo ! 
 
 Drive on my boys, hi, ho ! " 
 Say, who could live a nobler life than happy farmers do? 
 
 When Summer, in full glory, reigneth o'er the gladsome earth, 
 The tuneful birds and nodding flowers make melody and mirth ; 
 The farmer marks the ripening corn put on its harvest hue, 
 
 " And sings wo ! my lads gee wo ! 
 
 Drive on my boys, hi, ho ! " 
 Yea, none may lead a nobler life than happy farmers do. 
 
 See Autumn lovely Autumn now her richest robes unfold, 
 
 And smiling plenty waving wide in ranks of gleaming gold, 
 
 Then grateful hearts o'erflow with love for blessings rare nor few, 
 
 " Singing wo ! my lads gee wo ! 
 
 Drive on my boys, hi, ho ! " 
 O ! who could live a nobler life than happy farmers do ? 
 
74 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 When Winter rules, the furrowed land rests 'neath the freshning snow, 
 The farmers ingle brightly then sends forth a welcome glow ; 
 He joys to see around his hearth friends and companions true, 
 
 "And sings wo ! my lads gee wo; 
 
 Drive on my boys, hi, ho ! " 
 None, none may live a nobler life than happy farmers do ! 
 
 "W. S." 
 
 Lines accompanying Portrait of the Right Reverend Monsignot 
 
 Stopani in Book of Grand Indian Bazaar, 
 
 December, 1890. 
 
 In gloomy narrow lane, in stirring wide-spread street 
 See him with earnest face, and never-tiring feet. 
 
 The light, swift, welcome step; the frank, sweet, ready smile; 
 His heart upon his sleeve, a nature free of wile. 
 
 List, as in tender accents he entreats his flock, 
 To cling unto the Cross, and build upon the Rock. 
 
 Mark, how with outstretched hand he meets the poor, opprest, 
 And gently guides the young in ways of truth and rest. 
 
 Priest, Preacher, to his own, in verity and deed ; 
 Friend, Citizen, beloved of every sect and creed. 
 
 Speed, faithful servant, on ; brave messenger of peace : 
 The Master's business thine thine that it yield increase. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 75 
 
 ADDRESS 
 / 
 SPOKEN BY MR. JOHN CAVANAH, GENERAL MANAGER, HER 
 
 MAJESTY'S THEATRE, ABERDEEN, ON HIS BENEFIT 
 
 NIGHT, Qth JUNE, 1890. 
 
 LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, 
 
 Although 'tis not according to my general use and wont 
 To face you o'er the footlights, my "stage-land " being in front, 
 Yet at your kind indulgent call I venture on the boards 
 To offer you my grateful thanks in few but earnest words. 
 
 Three years ago a hopeful friend, in phrase with good-will stored, 
 Said "Try your fortune in the North, try brave old Bon-Accord, 
 The heads are hard, the granite too, but folks there have a way 
 Of keeping good things they may get the chance is you will stay.' 
 
 The prophecy, I gladly own, in this case has proved right ; 
 I do not seem a stranger now witness the house to-night ; 
 Leal, generous friends, with welcome warm, on every side I've met, 
 And memory will be tenantless when I your deeds forget. 
 Not mine the ready speaker's gift, not mine the writer's skill 
 I would be eloquent indeed, if the lips obeyed the will ; 
 Could the full, silent heart take voice if feeling might have sway, 
 My gratitude in "flower of speech " would blossom like the May; 
 My thanks should fall upon your ears on this fair eve in June, 
 As loesome as "a melody that's sweetly played in tune." 
 
 Pardon weak words. I've said enough : Yes, there we all agree ; 
 Just let me add, before we part, I'm very pleased to see 
 So many of the Order gathered round me here to-night 
 Their's is the "mystic tie" that keeps a brother's burden light. 
 
76 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 And you my loyal patrons who with chorus, shout and song 
 Unite to help our mimic sport so tunefully along 
 How like, how generous 'tis of you to rest from Student toil, 
 And for a moment cease to burn the midnight * 'grinding" oil! 
 Bright, prosperous, be your coming years be leaders in the van 
 Of right 'gainst might, and proudly bear the badge of Gentleman, 
 
 Adieu. Once more I proffer all my thanks, devoted, true, 
 Your kindness long shall hold my heart. Adieu, again, Adieu. 
 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 77 
 
 THE QUEER CARLE. 
 
 A Carle cam* to the auld Laird's door, 
 He played Scots springs mair than a score, 
 He liltit strains o' youth and yore, 
 
 And deftly changed the key : 
 His music breathed o' hills and howes, 
 Whaur Dee, the Don, and Ythan rows, 
 O' battle fields and fairy knowes 
 
 Seen far aff Benachie. 
 
 We set him by the ingle neuk 
 The lads forgot dam-brod and book, 
 The lasses roon him a' did jouk, 
 
 He sang sae winningly : 
 He pettit Mary 'neath the chin, 
 Jean couldna' wyve nor Lizzie spin, 
 Wee Ailie said 'twad be nae sin, 
 
 A kiss to him to gie. 
 
 The Laird, he heard the fiddle fine, 
 Thocht to himsel', but made nae sign, 
 Jist knacket's thooms oot-owre his wine, 
 
 And set his wig a-jee ; 
 Bell vowed she saw him tak' the fleer, 
 Whan the Carle strak' up "A wife wi' gear,"- 
 In dum'-show pairtner'd wi' his cheir, 
 
 And danced richt merrily. 
 
78 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 Neist week he lan'it at the Manse, 
 
 Sat cheek-for-chow wi' douce cook Nance, 
 
 Screwed up his pegs, and, as by chance, 
 
 Played " Whisky mak's gweed tea ": 
 The Minister could write nae mair, 
 His dothers hearken'd on the stair, 
 Their mither froon'd, yet fain wad share 
 
 The blithesome revelry. 
 
 Oor deen Precenter, Jamie Yule, 
 
 He couldna' start his Singin' School 
 
 'Tween Kirk o' Rayne and Folia- Rule 
 
 The Carle kent Do-Re-Mi! 
 He filled the lateran for a raith, 
 He chantit hymns and anthems baith 
 At sic a rate folk hadna' breath, 
 
 Nor time, the words to see. 
 
 Whane'er 't got oot The Carle is come ! 
 The wabster left pirn, loom and thrum, 
 The tailor tired owre 's steeks to bum, 
 
 The sooter raxed his knee ; 
 The blacksmith flang his hammer bye, 
 The herd loon hurriet hame his kye, 
 The vera' dogs wad crouchin' try, 
 
 To catch his kindly e'e. 
 
 By turns he crooned sae slow and sweet 
 O' frien's noo gane nae mair to meet, 
 That hearts in sympathy wad beat, 
 
 And tears come drappin free ; 
 Then looder grew the swellin' chords, 
 The notes rang forth like clash o' swords 
 " For Scotland onward ! loons and lords, 
 
 And quit ye valiantlie. " 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 79 
 
 He laid aff ballads, auld and new, 
 Queer stories tauld, some fause some true, 
 And far owre fest the hairst nichts flew 
 
 Whan the Carle was in his glee. 
 But here nor there lang wad he bide, 
 Few tried to bleck, nane daured to guide, 
 There was a something, wrath or pride, 
 
 Folk didna' care to dree. 
 
 On Saturdays, at broadest Meen, 
 Whan neighbour Dominies convene 
 To hae a rubber, weet their speen, 
 
 And swap theology, 
 The Carle, aye a welcome guest, 
 Appeared, unfailin', in his best, 
 And took his place amang the rest, 
 
 Whate'er the company. 
 
 On Kirk law, keen to cope wi' Pirie, 
 At reels, a match for Greig o' Garioch, 
 Even Bourtie's Latin he wad query 
 
 By Melvin's verity ; 
 
 Owre Darwin's scheme he cautioned truce ; 
 Held views now vexin' Dods and Bruce, 
 And leuch 'boot some scribe playin' the deuce 
 
 Wi' Eden's aipple tree ! 
 
 Gane, gane alas ! that hope-bricht time 
 Whan hapless Smith was in his prime, 
 Then Tennyson, and homelier rhyme 
 
 Soul-stirring psalmody 
 Would warm and win, be sung and read 
 Till some young hearts thocht what was said 
 Mair precious far than daily bread : 
 
 But that's a memory. 
 
80 WAIFS OF RHYME. 
 
 A bee in's bonnet ? Mayhap twa', 
 We'll lat that flee stick to the wa', 
 The noblest wark has aye some flaw, 
 
 Herein is mystery : 
 His faith displayed the Poet's plan, 
 Wi' him a man was still a man, 
 Whate'er his station, creed or clan, 
 
 If stamped wi' honesty. 
 
 At length and last an Uncle deid, 
 
 Wha's gospel had through life been Greed ; 
 
 O' testament he left nae screed, 
 
 Nor wife, nor bairn had he : 
 Oor Carle, coontin' next o' kin, 
 To acres rich and braid cam' in, 
 Ceased wanderin' ways and minstrel din, 
 
 For County dignity. 
 
 Nae hungry man need pass his door, 
 
 He giveth freely of his store, 
 
 'Twas only lent him, that, no more 
 
 A sacred trust in fee : 
 Then when the sun sinks in the west, 
 And shadows wrap Buck-Cabrach's crest, 
 The Carle, contented, dreams of rest, 
 
 In a grave by Benachie. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME. 8l 
 
 DEE AND DON. 
 
 "Dee and Don shall run in one," 
 
 So the olden fret foretells; 
 But till memory hath flown 
 
 While life's current ebbs and swells 
 Parted evermore to me 
 Silent Don and silvery Dee. 
 
 Heart to heart must linked be, 
 Joy and sorrow still to share, 
 Good with ill 'tis heaven's decree 
 Youth and age the false, the fair 
 
 Pain and balm, but smiles or tears 
 Love endures even as the years. 
 
 Gadie, constant to the Don, 
 
 Sighs farewell to Benachie ; 
 Brawling Feugh o'er moor and stone, 
 Sinks to rest in peaceful Dee : 
 
 Sunder'd streams to ocean roll 
 Seek and find your destined goal. 
 
 Boyhood's day, hope's golden prime, 
 
 Hath a glory all its own, 
 Rich with melodies sublime, 
 Heard for aye in undertone : 
 Not to me till fades the sun 
 "Dee and Don shall run in one." 
 
ABERDEEN : 
 PRINTED BY LEWIS SMITH AND SON. 
 
WAIFS OF RHYME First Edition, pp. 62. 
 
 We have seldom met with racier bits of Scottish humour. Dundee Advertiser. 
 
 The song, "The Plough," ought to be a Classic. THE WAIFS will meet a warm 
 welcome in Northern homes. Banffshire Journal. 
 
 Some of the Scotch Ballads remind us greatly of Allan Ramsay at his best. 
 "Tarn Teuchit" is instinct with the poetry of love and nature. Aberdeen Journal. 
 
 There is no effort or elaboration in this Poet's strains. "Tarn Teu chit's Reflec- 
 tions amang the Stocks" will live as long as the Scottish language. The British 
 Weekly. 
 
 The Dramatic Addresses written for high occasions at the "Old House in 
 Marischal Street," will bring back pleasant memories. It is in the English and 
 pathetic lyrics that the literary art of the writer is seen at its best. Aberdeen Free 
 Press. 
 
 Sixty-Fifth Thousand. 
 
 THE NORTHERN PSALTER AND HYMN TUNE 
 BOOK, 
 
 Edited by WILLIAM CARNIE, Aberdeen. 
 
 Edited with great care and skill. Scotsman. 
 
 Far and away the best book of its kind in Scotland for congregational worship. 
 Perthshire Magazine. 
 
 Without any reservation, we place "THE NORTHERN PSALTER" first amongst 
 Scottish Collections. Dundee Advertiser. 
 
 A treasure of Sacred Song that will stand comparison with any that has appeared 
 in this country. Presbyterian Psalmodist. 
 
 Nothing which the Aberdeen people have ever done, skilled as they are in 
 Psalmody, can be compared with this collection of tunes. Fifeshire Journal. 
 
 Will stand comparison with any collection published in the North since Edward 
 Raban produced his "ABERDEEN PSALTER," nearly two centuries ago. Glasgow 
 Daily Mail.