I8R!CE15Y\ 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVEHS'TY OF 
 CAi»fO«NIA J 
 

 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
Scots Poems 
 
 AND 
 
 Ballants 
 
 BY 
 
 J. WILSON M'LAREN 
 
 Author of "" Rhymes frae the Chimla-Lug" 
 " Tommy Catchiron" etc. 
 
 AT EDINBVRGH 
 
 IMPRINTED BY THE AUTHOR 
 
 177 DALKEITH ROAD 
 
 MDCCCXCII 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
■41 & 
 
 Of this Book only one hundred and fifty copies have 
 been printed. 
 
 535 
 
TO BRITHER SCOTS 
 
 THE WORLD O'ER. 
 
 A Scot here endeavours to depict only that which is 
 trtie to nature. His earnest desire is to be homely and 
 natural ; to touch a tender chord that may awaken the 
 susceptibilities to a more ennobling state, or with a 
 gleam of humour demolish the cobivebs of Melancholia 
 from the mind. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Printing Press 
 
 A Godly Ballant . 
 
 Stanzas anent a Cudgel . 
 
 A Scot Abroad 
 
 Greyfriars Bobby 
 
 White Heather 
 
 Henry Irving . 
 
 Tibbie .... 
 
 A Fallen one Dead . 
 
 The Lass d Logan Lee 
 
 Mist .... 
 
 Shouggie Shou, my Bairnie 
 
 Oh, Waes Me . 
 
 To Alfred, Lord Tennyson 
 
 Ladye Rea 
 
 A Summer-Day Dream 
 
 A Screed to Hugh Haliburton 
 
 Page 1 
 3 
 5 
 6 
 8 
 
 15 
 16 
 17 
 18 
 19 
 20 
 21 
 22 
 24 
 24 
 28 
 29 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Wa-Gaun d the Wean 
 Jock. 
 
 A t the Grave of Knox 
 Jeannie . 
 Aspirations 
 
 The Wee Orphan Laddie 
 The Land we Love . 
 Henry W. Longfellow 
 The cosy Chimla-Lug 
 Burns 
 Stanzas . 
 The bonnie Lass d Lnvcrary 
 Robert Fergusson 
 Tammas Stark's Drucken 
 Within my Den 
 A Country Idyll 
 An auld warV Wail 
 A Reverie 
 To a Brither Scot . 
 Dunnottar 
 Owre the Faem 
 Doubt 
 Gowff 
 
 Adelaide Detchon 
 Only a Face 
 
 Wife 
 
 Page 32 
 
 . 37 
 
 . 39 
 
 . 40 
 
 . 41 
 
 . 43 
 
 . 44 
 
 . 40 
 
 . 47 
 
 . 49 
 
 . 50 
 
 . 56 
 
 . 57 
 
 . 58 
 
 . 66 
 
 . 69 
 
 . 70 
 
 . 73 
 
 . r ih 
 
 . 78 
 
 . 79 
 
 . 81 
 
 . 83 
 
 . 85 
 
 . 86 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 xi 
 
 Hozvgate Jock . 
 
 . Page 88 
 
 Bygone Days . 
 
 
 . 97 
 
 The Haudiri d the Bairn 
 
 
 . 98 
 
 The Fisher Lass 
 
 
 . 102 
 
 " Nana " . 
 
 
 . 104 
 
 " English as She is Spoke " 
 
 
 . 105 
 
 Lenore .... 
 
 
 . 107 
 
 Fishing in the Tiveed 
 
 
 . 109 
 
 James Smith . 
 
 
 . Ill 
 
 John Bremnar . 
 
 
 . 112 
 
 To His Memory 
 
 
 . 114 
 
The die is cast ! With trembling fear 
 I scan tlie printed pages ?wzv, 
 While Care still hovers on my broiv t 
 
 A nd click of type rings in my ear. 
 
 I see the Press frail and antique, — 
 And troublesome, — a dwarf in size ; 
 Yet soon I leant 'd to love and prize 
 
 At midnight's hour its cheery creak ! 
 
 Its compass only would give birth 
 A nd slowly, to one little page, 
 But Pleasure is a golden wage, 
 
 And I had faith in hearts on earth. 
 
 Love's labour lost ? A vaunt, grim Dread ! 
 From all things simple yet sincere, 
 Good still may wing its fight, and rear 
 
 On barren soil a pyramid. 
 
SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 THE PRINTING PRESS. 
 "Let light be." 
 
 God speed the craft whose potent power 
 
 Iirthralls the world to-day ; 
 And tho' brain-rack'd hour after hour, 
 
 We only Life's part play ; 
 Yet what a part ! let glib-tongued voice 
 
 Deride the " art " at will ; 
 But we as craftsmen may rejoice 
 
 O'er no unworthy skill. 
 
 Mark Learning at the gamer'd fruits ! — 
 
 While Rank and Wealth stand near — 
 Of those whose hearts in their pursuits 
 
 On eveiy page is clear ! 
 Who fed the mind — altho' assail'd — 
 
 With floods of heavenly light, 
 When venom'd Bigotry prevail'd, 
 
 And all was dark as night I 
 
SCOTS POEMS AND BALL ANTS. 
 
 Then let us humbly bow the head, 
 
 And stand with bated breath, 
 When Fame's emblaxou'd scroll is read 
 
 And "names that know not death !" 
 Behold our Masters foremost placed ! 
 
 And rightly so, for they 
 Foul fantasies from men's hearts chased, 
 
 And Truth held glorious sway ! 
 
 The world moves on ! Great changes come, 
 
 Until our power's ten-fold ; 
 But tho' the Press of old be dumb, 
 
 No purer is the gold ! 
 Now pulse of engines ever beat, 
 
 The ground throbs where we stand, 
 And cylinders clank ! God ! what a treat 
 
 Is modern printing-land ! 
 
 Lo ! look ! the paper that was dead, 
 
 Hath life in every vein ; 
 And laughter round the hearth is shed, 
 
 Where sadness once did reign ! 
 The greatest thoughts of master-minds, 
 
 Thus scatter' d far and wide, 
 Wields moral power, and closer binds 
 
 All nations to our side ! 
 
A GODLY BALLANT. 
 
 What of our sires begrimed and worn, 
 
 Whose sweat-drops dyed the brow % 
 Oh ! million millions yet unborn, 
 
 I charge you ne'er allow 
 Oblivion to east its shroud 
 
 Around their honour'd names, 
 For Genius hath to them endow'd 
 
 Imperishable claims ! 
 
 A GODLY BALLANT. 
 MARK xii. 41-44. 
 The auld kirk bells were jowlin' lood, 
 
 An' thrang was the hie an' laigh road, 
 Wi' haly folk an' hypocrites, 
 
 On their way to the hoose o' God. 
 
 The Maister at the kirk-yett stuid, 
 As a laird wi' his heid fu' hie, 
 
 In gangin' by drapt in the plate 
 What he could weel afford to gie. 
 
 An' mony mair cam' stappin' in, 
 But oh, in heart thae werena' true, 
 
 Yet that gied them fu' little thocht, 
 For grand were thae in ootward view. 
 
SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 Syne in a widow hirplin' cam', 
 Wha was righteous in heart tho' puir, 
 
 An' put a farden canny doon — 
 
 'Twas a' the auld body could spare. 
 
 The Maister's een were wat wi' tears 
 As he turn'd to the Twal' an' said — 
 
 " Mark'd ye the walthy carles wha 
 Mak' liberality a trade ; 
 
 An' this puir wifie ? she has gien 
 Far mair to God's service than a' 
 
 This day, for oh, her heart was true 
 In the gie'in' o' it awa ! " 
 
 Ay, e'en to this day ye will find monie folk — 
 Their sauls black wi' vice, whyles in fear 
 
 To God's hoose repair in hypocrisy's cloak, 
 An' wi' aumus their conscience wad clear ! 
 
 But priceless the dower in Death's fell glamourie, 
 Whilk in scripture like this somehow rins — 
 
 Respecter o' persons God never can be, 
 An' gowd winna blot oot oor sins ! 
 
STANZAS ANENT A CUDGEL. 
 
 STANZAS ANENT A CUDGEL. 
 
 Preserve us ! what a muckle stick ! 
 'Twad tak' the breath e'en frae Auld Nick ! 
 Or better still some Home Rule Mick, 
 
 Help in debate ; 
 For chiels wi' it wha got a lick, 
 
 "Wad soou be quate ! 
 
 When I, fu prood, the stick produced, 
 My mither vow'd she wadna' hoose't, — 
 An' waur, I'd in the bine be soused, 
 
 Gin I'd no burn it ! 
 I'se half inclined frae words she used, 
 
 Then to return it ! 
 
 But courage ! quick I to the flare, 
 An' dang the leg clean aff a chair ! 
 Waesucks ! she could do nocht but stare, 
 
 Wi' hands aloft, 
 An' cry, "My conscience! Jock, tak' care ! 
 
 Ye're surely dauft ! " 
 
 " Dauft 1 far frae that," I made reply, 
 As, swish ! three mair legs gaed awry ; 
 
SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 " There ! that's a proof ye needna' try 
 To put me past it ; 
 
 Frae oot the hoose, tho' sair ye ciy, 
 
 I ne'er will cast it !" 
 
 Losh keep's ! gin my respectit mither, 
 Had got the hale length o' her tether, 
 The keepsakes folk gie ane anither 
 
 At antrin times, 
 She'd sweep frae sicht withoot a swither 
 
 Like my puir rhymes ! 
 
 Richt fervently I've often prayed 
 That when my part in life is played, 
 This stick will be 'neath nae glass shade, 
 
 But ever ready 
 For some frien' wha micht need its aid, 
 
 Wi' steps unsteady. 
 
 — o — 
 A SCOT ABROAD. 
 
 >'V 
 
 TlS meet that we should sit within our room 
 Alone, to-night, in sweetest reverie, 
 And let our thoughts be wafted o'er the sea, 
 And break the year's dull, melancholy gloom. 
 
A SCOT ABROAD. 7 
 
 Yet why be sad ? June, with its balmy breath, 
 Draws fragrance sweet from every budding flower, 
 So let us now but consecrate an hour, 
 
 And from the Past weave Bygones as from death ! 
 
 Alive — yet dead ! for in that distant clime 
 His voice is heard not, nor his smiling face 
 Is with us now the homely hearth to grace, 
 
 As in our childhood's joyous summer-time. 
 
 So, on his natal day, 'tis fitly we, 
 
 As Scots, remembrance prove for auld langsyne, 
 And toast his worth, that ne'er with us will tine — 
 
 God's grace, good health, and fair prosperity ! 
 
 May such be his : and when Life's cherished prize 
 In after years he holds in faithful trust ; 
 Youth, battling on, with hope will look, and must 
 
 As from the mountain spring refreshed arise ! 
 
 As lovers yearn when Fate keeps them apart, 
 Thus we to-night must drop a silent tear, 
 For with our hope there always comes the fear ; 
 
 So, brother, take this song-gift from the heart ! 
 
8 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 GREYFRIARS BOBBY. 
 
 A dowg's appeal to the provost, bailies, councillors, 
 
 AND CITIZENS o' AULD REEKIE. 
 
 At a meeting of the Edinburgh Town Council on February 
 5th 1889, a letter was read from A rchibald Langwill, C. A., 
 which stated that a movement was some time ago set on foot 
 to collect subscriptions from children with the view of perpet- 
 uating the memory of the dog known as "Grey friars Bobby " 
 by erecting a monument in Grey friars Churchyard. Several 
 hundreds of children gladly subscribed, and on their behalf he 
 asked permission to do so. Councillor Gillies, in reply said 
 that the story of " Grey friars Bobby " ivas a penny-a-liner s 
 romance. T/iere was no truth in it at all. "Grey friars Bobby" 
 had no beloved master, and was just a mongrel of the High 
 Street breed. 
 
 "We have some satisfaction to-day in applying correction 
 to a serious act of injustice done to an old Edinburgh favour- 
 ite. In his haste at the Town Council meeting, Councillor 
 Gillies said that the romantic story of 'Grey friars Bobby' 
 was all humbug, and that its fame was got on false pretences. 
 According to Mr Gillies, 'Bobby' zvas a very ordinary cur 
 indeed — a mere High Street iv astral. Not a single Councillor 
 had patriotic sentiment or spirit enough to raise a word of 
 protest ; they were all as dumb dogs. It will create no sur- 
 prise if at the next meeting an attempt be made to prove that 
 Wallace and Bruce, were mythical personages. The romance 
 of 'Grey friars Bobby' is no myth?— EVENING DISPATCH. 
 
 Whaur is the dowg that bears a name, 
 That winna hand his heid wi' shame ? 
 
GRE YFRIARS BOBB Y. 
 
 Since that bauld billie in the Chaumer — 
 
 Wi' meikle o' an auld wife's yammer, 
 
 Has taen the task upon himsel', 
 
 To break the sweet romantic spell ; 
 
 To delve in history o' the past, 
 
 And now proclaim to east and wast, 
 
 To north and south, that Greyfriars Bobby, 
 
 Is just a myth — a hearsay hobby ; 
 
 In fact, to gie a dowg a bad name, 
 
 Wha only what is truthfu' wad claim. 
 
 It looks as if some civic chiels, 
 Were man than anxious for the " seals,"' 
 For like some dowgs that I could mention, 
 Thae daily bark to draw attention ; 
 And tho' chasteezed, like some puir messin, 
 Thae aye forget the painfu' lesson ! 
 Or why this idle controversy, 
 And on a dowg that's at then- mercy ? 
 
 The " laughter," and the cries " Hear, hear," 
 A' this and niair I weel can bear, 
 But when thae wander frae the truth, 
 I canna sit and haud my mooth ! 
 
 "A mongrel o' the High Street breed !" 
 Is language far owre strong, indeed ; 
 It ill befits the chiel wha said it, 
 
10 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 And folk wha live there has degraded. 
 Now in their minds they'll hae to bear, 
 That South Side villas thae maun rear, 
 And be like Councillors, snug and crouse, 
 Wi' grund at front and back o' hoose ! 
 
 Tho' for mysel', I maun confess, 
 I like the High Street nane the less, 
 For what langsyne was there enactit, 
 When women young and auld distractit, 
 View'd Scotland's sons wi' hope 'gae 'wa, 
 But doom'd on Flodden sune to fa' ! 
 Or when the charger, weary worn, 
 Wha frae the fecht had Murray borne, 
 Wi' clattering hoofs forth a' did bring, 
 To hear the fate o' Scotland's King ! 
 Or later still, when ladies fair, 
 And men chivalrous Avelcom'd there, 
 Wi' roses white that charm' d ilk e'e, 
 Prince Charlie, fresh frae victory ! 
 But words o' mine are little needit, 
 When in Scots history a' can read it. 
 
 Is there a patriotic soul, 
 Sae base as now its doonfa' thole, 
 And cast sic slurs wi' pompous air, 
 When poortith's load's eneuch to bear ? 
 
GRE YFRIARS BOBB Y. 11 
 
 But cringe I'll no, nor hing my tail, 
 When Ignorance wad thus assail ; 
 And tho' my lines I haena got 
 This mak's me nane the less a Scot ! 
 
 I maun admit it's no in keeping, 
 That I wi' Martyrs should be sleeping, 
 Tho' often I hae gaed to view 
 The tomb that tells o' men sae true : 
 The martyr'd Marquis ! — Guthrie, brave ! 
 And Renwick, wha wad be nae slave ! 
 Wi' ithers o' the fearless deid 
 Wha for the King had little dreid, 
 But focht against tyrannic laws, 
 For God, — their conscience, and a cause ! 
 And prov'd Christ's Crown and Covenant, 
 To be nae idle reel-rail rant. 
 
 Wi' a' due honour to ilk bairn, 
 I'm no in favour o' a cairn, 
 Altho' waur things hae been erectit, 
 To show how weel the deid's respectit ! 
 (Oor auld kirkyards a wheen can boast noo, 
 And keepit at the public cost, too) ; 
 While tributes oft inscribed thereon, 
 Hae gar'd oor antiquarians groan, 
 For weel thae ken the best ot's fiction, 
 
12 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 And still they're rais'cl withoot restriction ; 
 On mony a rather doubtfu' story 
 We've built the best o' Scotland's glory ! 
 
 I've long supplied a needfu' want, 
 Whilk e'en oor Council winna grant ; 
 When frae the Meadows folks returnin', 
 And wi' the summer sun are burnin' — 
 Or when wi' gowff, the quoits, or cricket, 
 Or e'en wi' Socialists been licket — 
 Wee Bobby, feth, is aye frequented, 
 And a' gang blythely aff contented ; 
 If only this, and naething mair, 
 A blessing I hae been, I'm sure. 
 
 When no lang whalpit, near St Giles, 
 Wi' twa three mair I rompit whiles, 
 But little ettled my guid name, 
 Wad there some day be brocht to shame. 
 I watched, too, chiels free o' pretence — 
 Wha aye spak' truth and common-sense, 
 Gae linkin' by in furthy crack — 
 Wha e'en straik't mongrels on the back ! 
 And tho' a dowg I maun confess 
 I glowered wi' interest nane the less ! 
 But there was ane whase honour'd name, 
 In a' Scots hearts has found a hame ; 
 
GRE YFRIARS BOBB Y. 13 
 
 A frieii' to High Street dowgs was he — 
 It matter' cl uae their pedigree, 
 Baith rich and poor he aye respec'it ; 
 In fact, mysel' wi' collar deckit ! 
 
 Hech surse the day ! when dowgs protection 
 Are forced to claim frae foul dissection, 
 "When things o' far mair consequence, 
 That baith oorsels and toon wad mense, 
 Are now ignored, while " archers wine, " 
 And sic like fads are i' the line. 
 The public guid ! alack a day ! 
 Whan useless clatter hauds the sway ! 
 Wi' sma'er rents and hooses better 
 Auld Reekie folks wad be their debtor ; 
 But progress ! — no, nor e'en attention 
 To mony things that I could mention — 
 The streets, or there's the gas we're burnin', 
 Sae poor that some to " dips " are turnin' ; 
 Wi' jobbery baith richt and left, 
 0' sense fu' sune we'll be bereft ; 
 Nae wonder whiles my een I'm dichtin', 
 When sic as this needs sae much richtin', 
 It maks folk say when they're electit 
 Thae carena then tho' a's neglectit. 
 
 By Granny Gray's auld tirlin' pin, 
 
14 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 I wadna be within their shoon, 
 But still remain a " mongrel " dowg 
 Wi' power to cock my tail or lug. 
 
 Had " Rab's " auld frien' been to the fore, 
 Wha penn'd the touching Howgate lore — 
 A story whaur a dowg play'd part, 
 That oft has moved the hardest heart, 
 And withoot whilk there's nane daur say 
 But we'd been poorer, far, the day. 
 To John nane ere tried to maintain 
 That I had sat there for a bane ; 
 But just to prove that dowgs whiles ken, 
 When richtly treated now and then, 
 And show to mony a bairn a lesson, 
 That ere thae dee may be a blessin' ! 
 
WHITE HE A THER. 15 
 
 WHITE HEATHER. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 My heart's fu' d joy, thd a tear dims ilk e'e, 
 For, oh, visions sweet come frae yont tJte braid sea ; 
 A sprig d zvhite heather this nicht zvafts me there ; 
 White heather ! white heather, I'll tend ye wi' care ! 
 
 White heather frae Scotia ! my heart throbs wi' pride, 
 And so I will cherish't as lover his bride, 
 For life's sweetest treasure I won, leal and true, 
 Ae nicht in the gloaming whare white heather grew. 
 
 How pleasant life's spring-time — to speil the hills hie, 
 Whare nocht but white heather aroon ye could see, 
 Or sit by the burnie awa' doon the glen, 
 And dream o' a lassie like far aulder men. 
 
 A sprig o' white heather I brocht Ailie Broun 
 The nicht that we parted wi' hearts broken doon ; 
 The same in return, but entwined wi' her hair, 
 I got frae the lassie I'll never see mair ! 
 
16 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 As shadows o' eventide owre my path fa', 
 
 I sigh for the wild mountain hame far awa', 
 
 For, oh, it is there now I fain would repose 
 
 Wi' my ain kith and kin whare the white heather grows ! 
 
 HENRY IRVING. 
 
 LYCEUM THEATRE, EDINBURGH, 1888. 
 
 MASTER ! may time fall lightly on thy head, 
 For such as thou this earth would miss full sore. 
 
 Thy great creations — which have nightly fed 
 So many minds, even o'er th' Atlantic's roar — 
 And others which may yet come from thy store, 
 
 Must be a priceless boon, a life's elixir which, 
 
 When thirsting youth partakes, 'twill more than gold 
 enrich ! 
 
 Devil thou art ! but if the Reigning Power 
 In Hell's abyss were privileged to view 
 
 His antitype for only one brief horn, 
 
 Remorse, so keen, might pierce his conscience thro', 
 And half the world would feel as born anew, 
 
 For this thy mission is. May God sustain thy heart 
 
 To play upon Life's stage this now much-needed part ! 
 
TIBBIE. 
 
 TIBBIE. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Heck ay ! ok, dearie vie / 
 For a drap d tke nappy what wadna Tib gie ; 
 
 My giniirf auld A?tnty, 
 
 Whase siller is scanty, 
 Maun aye kae a cinder at nickt in her tea ! 
 
 I HAE an auld Aunty ay out Wuddislee, 
 She's cock o' the middeu tho' bliu' o' au e'e, 
 
 An' tak's sic delight in 
 
 Baith girnin' an' flytm', 
 That a' in the clachan afore her will flee ! 
 
 On the croon o' her pow there's a big plaster patch, 
 But losh ! tak' guid care that her e'e doesna catch 
 
 You glowerin' at her — 
 
 Your nerves she'd sune shatter, 
 A tongue deavin' randie, you'll no find her match ! 
 
 It's seldom that Tibbie's withoot twa black een, — 
 It's Johnnie Maut's trade-mark ! she cares na a preen ; 
 
 Oor deacon Tarn Miller, 
 
 Ance tried to preach till her, 
 And for a month after't in kirk wasna seen ! 
 
IS SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 The longer folk live the mair ferlies they see, 
 An' tho' Aunty Tib is for weeks on the spree, 
 
 To turn owre a new leaf, 
 
 An' end a' this sair grief, 
 E'er neist Hallow Fair she has promised to me ! 
 
 A FALLEN ONE DEAD ! 
 
 A FALLEN one dead ! Yes, her short race is run, 
 The wan face betrays the sad life she has led ; 
 
 No sister to aid her — to pray for her — none ! 
 
 But her death-stiffened limbs and her weary head 
 
 Lie there — on the earth 'neath a cold wintry sun, 
 That shines on the wreck of a beauty that's fled, 
 
 But she heeds not the shame, nor the deed that is done- 
 
 A fallen one dead ! 
 
 Alas ! there are others, as this fallen one — 
 
 In the city's foul dons where no solace is shed ; 
 
 Oh, Christians ! think of the creatures you shun, 
 In hovels and hells, where rank infamy's fed, 
 
 There's work for redemption that's not yet begun — 
 Where Christ sends His angels, ye also may tread — 
 
 And do noble duty, ah ! thus left undone — 
 
 A fallen one dead ! 
 
THE LASS a LOGAN LEE. 19 
 
 THE LASS 0' LOGAN LEE. 
 
 The sun owe Duu-ediu was shining- fu' bonnie, 
 
 As I, and my Jeannie, strayed roun' the Braid Hills ; 
 The lassie wi' looks more bewitching than onie, 
 
 Whose voice is far sweeter than murmuring rills ; 
 The mavis was warbling his wood-notes so cheery, 
 
 And wakening the echoes o' Nature's sweet lyre, 
 As down on the brae-side I sat wi' my dearie, 
 
 Enraptured wi' songs o' the wild feathered choir. 
 
 The hum o' the bees, and the kye loudly roaring, 
 
 Brought back to our memory childhood again ; 
 While mild summer zephyrs, tired Nature restoring, 
 
 Flushed Jeannie' s fair cheeks like the rose after rain. 
 A flower is my lassie, both precious and tender — 
 
 As spotless and pure as the primrose in spring ; 
 For beauty and wealth lordlings seek the ha's splendour, 
 
 But when wi' my Jeannie I envy nae king. 
 
 How sweet is the 'oor wi' your love in the gloaming, 
 Where meanders the burnie, or down pours the linn ; 
 
 Where monie for harebell and foxglove gang roaming, 
 Awa' in the country frae Labour's loud din. 
 
20 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 Then, oh, may the Powers wha bestow on us pleasures 
 That poor o' the land like the rich aye can pree, 
 
 Guard winsome young Jeannie, first o' my heart's trea- 
 sures, 
 Wha dwells in seclusion near sweet Logan Lee. 
 
 — o — 
 MIST. 
 
 I STRAYED where wild flowers wet with dew 
 
 By mortal feet were prest, 
 
 While o'er the Pentland's breast 
 Descending mist obscured the view, 
 And there it hung with dismal frown, 
 
 Until the sun-god smote 
 
 Its density afloat — 
 And swept the mist athwart the town. 
 
 With dusky mantle it embraced 
 
 The towering city spires 
 
 That paled like beacon fires, 
 Quenched in it s wide and humid waste ; 
 Thus sorrow clouds the brow of man, 
 
 And wraps his soul in gloom, 
 
 Till hope bids joy illume 
 Creation's universal plan. 
 
SHOUGGIE SHOU, MY BAIRNIE. 21 
 
 SHOUGGIE SHOU, MY BAIRNIE. 
 A mither's sang. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Shouggie shou, shonggk shou ! 
 
 Hush-a-ba my dearie ; 
 Hech surse ! but a iv auk rife bairn 
 
 Aye mak's a wither weary ! 
 
 SHOUGGIE shou, my baimie, 
 
 Hush ! my bonnie doo ; 
 Wha sae like your ain sel' % 
 
 Sonnie, keekie boo ! 
 
 Eenie, fegs ! ye wiuna olose ; 
 
 Wirr-a-wiiT-a-wae ! 
 Tak' the rattle ; that's it noo ! 
 
 Or wi' pussy play. 
 
 There's the boo-man f the stair, 
 
 Wi' the muckle pock ; 
 Steek your een ! cuddle close, 
 
 And the door I'll lock ! 
 
22 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 Losh ! but ye're a waukrife bairn — 
 Shouggie, shouggie shou ! 
 
 Here, big dowgie, come ye ben, — 
 Tak' him in your mou' ! 
 
 Bless the lamb, he's noo asleep, 
 
 Soun' as soun' can be ; 
 Noo the hearthstane I maun wash, 
 
 Syne mak' daddie's tea ! 
 
 OH, WAES ME ! 
 
 I'M wae to think that poortith's load sae mony hae to 
 
 bear — 
 For, oh, the reflex o' the mind is oft found in a tear ; 
 But courage ! tho' affliction's rife, for wha hae least to dree 
 Are aye the first to prostrate fa' and cry oot — " Oh, waes 
 
 me!" 
 
 Some folk ye'll find the hale year roun' enshrouded aye 
 
 in gloom, 
 Wha speak o' hardships draggin' them to an owre early 
 
 tomb : 
 
OH, WAES ATE ! 23 
 
 Gin they wad tread life's staney road wi' hope in ilka e'e, 
 They'd aiblins hae fu' little cause to ciy oot — " Oh, waes 
 me!" 
 
 Mak' Common-sense the finger post this warld to guide 
 
 ye thro', 
 'Twill prove e'er lang 'tis folly to sit doon and sairly rue 
 The ill that's dune, or what has dimm'd at times the 
 
 wifie's e'e : 
 Up wi' a will ! there's prospects bricht, and cry na — " Oh, 
 
 waes me ! " 
 
 Then let us strive frae morn till mirk to fecht against 
 
 what's wrang; 
 Advice and solace is required whatever road we gang ; 
 We're sure to be rewarded sune, then great the joy will 
 
 be ; 
 It's neither manly nor yet wise to cry oot — " Oh, waes 
 
 me!" 
 
24 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 TO ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. 
 
 ON READING " DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS. " 
 
 To tliee, whose heart is like a golden mine — 
 
 Rich in its wealth as all may well conceive ; 
 This tribute to thy worth. bard divine, 
 
 I know thou wilt in kindly mood receive. 
 Tho' not Avith thy Promethean spirit fraught, 
 
 For thus thy verse is nerved — intense and grand ! 
 
 Whilst its impassioned ardour stirs the land, 
 And vibrates in all hearts, where it has taught 
 
 Life's deathless precepts, which I ever strive to keep ; 
 And trust that He to whom Ave humbly bend 
 May give thee strength to be man's truest friend ! 
 
 And in the good thou sowest may thou also reap ; 
 Whilst in the fervour of my heartfelt love I pray 
 Thy genius long may add its lustre to our day. 
 
 LADYE REA. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 TWAS a cauld, cauld, an' a mirky night, 
 
 An' the hinmost o' the year ; 
 The sea to the sky roAv'd mountains high, 
 
 An' the forest soucrh'd fu' drear. 
 
LAD YE RE A. 25 
 
 An' oh, but the thunder sounded loud, 
 
 An' the rain rain'd heavilie ; 
 But, hark ! a wail that might a' hearts quail — 
 
 " Whare, whare can my true hive be 1 " 
 
 'Twas Ladye Rea that gaz'd on the sea, 
 An' avow ! but she look'd fu' braw, 
 
 As there she stood in despairing mood, 
 An' aye on her luve did ca'. w „ 
 
 Nae heed took she o' the light'ning's flash, 
 
 Nor the rain so heavilie, 
 But wi' waefu' mein an' tearfu' een, 
 
 Sobb'd — " Whare can my true luve be ? " 
 
 A sea-maw perch' d on a cliff near hand, 
 
 Wail'd thae words mournfullie — 
 " Ladye, ladye fair, greet thou nae mail*, 
 
 But list what I tell to thee — 
 
 Yon braw sailor lad thou lo'ed so weel, 
 
 Fause, fause has prov'd to thee, 
 An' taen a bride, an' gane to abide 
 
 Awa' in a far countrie ! " 
 
 " Why, an' oh why, have ye prov'd so fause, 
 Oh ! Leslie, come tell to me I " 
 
26 SCOTS POEMS AND BALL ANTS. 
 
 She spak' in vain, for never again 
 On earth her luve she would see ! 
 
 "An' now, fare thee weel, " the weird maw cried, 
 As it took a seaward flight, 
 " It's down i' the deep e'er long ye'll sleep, 
 Ay, even this vera night ! " 
 
 Walie ! an' wae ! but the maw sang true, 
 For e'er that wild night had gane, 
 
 The ladye fair wi' the gowden hair 
 Slept soun' i' the raging main ! 
 
 When the morning dawn'd wi' red-wat een, 
 The laud rade oot frae the ha', 
 
 For the silence there he ill could bear ; 
 Her voice answered no his ca' ! 
 
 An' as he rade no ae word spak' he, 
 But his face his grief betray' d ; 
 
 An' stalworth men frae hillside an' glen, 
 A' vow'd thae would find the maid ! 
 
 Thae socht her down by the birken shaw, 
 Near to her statelv dwellin', 
 
LAD YE REA. 21 
 
 Whare oft she stray' d an' fondly play'd 
 Wi' fause young Lord Dunellin. 
 
 But for 'oors in vain, tlio' hearts were stirr'd, 
 
 An' fleet o' limb were thae ; 
 Owre rock an' scaur, ay, even as far 
 
 As the dreaded Martyr's Brae ! 
 
 Thae found her at last upon the beach, 
 
 The wild waves lashing o'er her ; 
 While her father's heart wi' woe did smart, 
 
 For well he did adore her ! 
 
 Thae howkit a grave i' the auld kirkyard, 
 
 An' buried twa on the morrow ; 
 An' far, far aroun' was heard the soun' 
 
 O' meikle dule an' sorrow ! 
 
28 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 A SUMMER-DAY DREAM. 
 " From Nature up to Natures God. " 
 
 Above, a canopy of blue, 
 
 While gowans with their hearts of gold 
 My wayward steps to-day bestrew, 
 
 And mirrors back the days of old. 
 
 Life unalloyed ! as virgin sweet 
 I lived and envied not the Great ; 
 
 But now a slave to toil ; 'tis meet 
 My soul rebels against such fate. 
 
 For freedom, yearn I ever must, 
 
 When earth's sweet breath around me play ; 
 And like my forebears in the dust, 
 
 A wanderer Avild I feel to-day. 
 
 The trembling wind, the laverock's lay, 
 The scented briar, and stretch of green, 
 
 Full regal homage needs must pay, 
 And browsing kine enhance the scene. 
 
 God ! for such an hour as this. 
 
 My faitli in Thee is firmer set, 
 Tho' soured heart sapped with thoughtlessness, 
 
 Thy statutes haply may forget. 
 
A SCREED TO HUGH HAL/BURTON. 29 
 
 A SCREED TO HUGH HALIBURTON. 
 
 Heth ! Hughie, man, your Ocliil lays, 
 Like purple heather frae the braes, 
 Reca' to mind the langsyne days, 
 
 An' sets me thinkin', 
 An' sae this nieht I maun your praise 
 
 In rhyme be clinkin'. 
 
 For sic as I, born in the toon, 
 
 Wi' nocht but stane an' brick piled roun', 
 
 Fu' sairly miss the cheery soun' 
 
 0' ploomen whustlin' ; 
 Or burns in spate, whyles tumblin' doon, 
 
 An' bourtrees rustlin'. 
 
 I've Blackford Hill, an' furzy Braid, 
 Whare gowfer gangs, an' sickly maid ; 
 But folk wha buckle to a trade 
 
 Sae tight are tied, man, 
 That doctors thrive ; for Nature's aid 
 
 They are denied, man ! 
 
30 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 Ilk blab o' rhymin' wark's revealin' 
 The fact that hills ye're early speilin', 
 Or owre the muir at nicht whyles stealin', 
 
 Some lass to woo ; 
 Syne at the shrine o' Beauty kneelin', 
 
 Baith leal an' true ! 
 
 When cronies at the smiddy gather, 
 To argie-bargie 'bout the weather. 
 Or owre some plooin' match to blether, 
 
 I doubtna, Hugh, 
 Your arguments they'd whyles fain tether, 
 
 Sae deep the view. 
 
 An' when it's wat, wi' soople rod 
 Ye'll seek the burn, fu' tightly shod, 
 Or spend a nicht attoure the brod, 
 
 Or in the howff, 
 Discussing craps an' lassies snod, 
 
 Ye'll ne'er be dowfF. 
 
 An' when the win's sae awesome soughin', 
 Ye're, aiblins, at a rockin' hoochin'. 
 An' hoastin' sair at times wi' leughin' 
 
 Gin some hind tell 
 Hoo he ae nicht a dirty sheugh in, 
 
 No kennin' fell ! 
 
A SCREED TO HUGH HALIBURTON. 31 
 
 Syne some ane else a tale may raise, 
 When Scots heroic met the faes ; 
 Their victories an' a' their waes — 
 
 A wond'rous story, 
 To hear rehears' d reca' the days 
 
 Owre whilk I glory ! 
 
 For sires o' mine at fatefu' Flodden, 
 Wha rather than be aye doon-trodden, 
 Stood by their king, on ground bluid-sodden, 
 
 That waefu' mora 
 The Scots, faitli in their James aye hauden', 
 
 O' life were shorn ! 
 
 Sae, Hughie, wad ye deem it richt 
 That bard like you I'd baud fu' licht, 
 Wha never yet did Scotland slicht, 
 
 But love an' honour, 
 In ilka grand poetic flicht 
 
 Ye fling upon her ! 
 
 Then ill befa' me for neglect 
 
 To show ere this my deep respect, 
 
 Or sowth a sang wi' guid effect 
 
 An' roosin' chorus, 
 An' pray Scots hearts may ne'er be sneck't 
 
 To " Homespun Horace ! " 
 
32 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 THE WA-GAUN 0' THE WEAN. 
 
 'TlS summer again, and the blue-bells in bloom, 
 A mothers heart cheers like sun piercing the gloom, 
 As she stands in the kirkyard beside a sraa' grave, 
 Where they laid her wee Johnnie, along wi' the lave. 
 
 And as she looks doon wi' the tears in her een, 
 Wee Johnnie, before her fu' plainly is seen ! 
 And his words aye sae pawky, like melody sweet, 
 Seem to float thro' the air, and she canna but greet. 
 
 A towmont has gane, but affection still keeps 
 Hi.s memory green, like the grave where he sleeps ; 
 And the gowans he loved in the spring-time to pu', 
 Frae the howe are transplanted and wave owre him noo. 
 
 'Twas the deid 'oor o' nicht when the angel cam' doon, 
 
 Wi' joy everlasting, Wee Johnnie, to croon, 
 
 And tho' he had suffered for weeks imco sair, 
 
 She thocht that the Lord her wee treasure would spare. 
 
 But it wasna God's will : in the auld-farrant face, 
 As he sat up in bed a' could Paradise trace ; 
 
THE WA-GAUN O' THE WEAN. 33 
 
 For shadows o' death like dark clouds roim' ilk e'e, 
 Had gather'd, and oh, it was waefu' to see. 
 
 In a voice faint and low for his father he socht, 
 And John to the bed-side grief-stricken they brocht ; 
 Syne bending to catch what the wean had to say, 
 That night the best part in his life he did play. 
 
 Few words 'tween them pass'd, but the hand cauld as snaw, 
 And the blae lips wi' kisses again seem'd to thaw, 
 While the glisk o' a smile sune displaced the wild stare, 
 Ere he fell on the pillow and spak' nevermair. 
 
 When a' in the hoose, later on, sleepit soun', 
 
 The mother to where Johnnie lay, slippit doon, 
 
 And as she there stood and oft kiss'd the cauld cheek, 
 
 Sae life-like he look'd that she thocht he would speak. 
 
 Fu' lanesome and dreary that day was their hame, 
 Tho' mony folk gaed, ay, and mony folk came ; 
 But few are the mothers wha haena to bear, 
 Some time in their lives o' sic sorrow a share. 
 
 'Twas June, balmy June ; the young laverock on high, 
 Carolled loud, and the merle essay'd a reply ; 
 While the butterflee flutter d among the wild flow'rs, 
 That grew roun' the door where the wean sat for 'oors. 
 
34 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 The mignonette sweet, and the buttercups too, 
 
 On ilka leaf seem'd to hae keepit their dew, 
 
 To show fond affection, like tears in the e'e, 
 
 For Johnnie wha nursed them wi' self-conscious glee. 
 
 But sadness that morning had dimm'd the display, 
 Suggestive o' homage e'en Nature would pay, 
 For ere Sol the tap o' the Ochils had kiss'd, 
 The patter o' wee feet and sweet voice were miss'd. 
 
 When gently they bore her wee Johnnie awa, 
 Mony follow'd behind ; blinds were drawn doon by a' ; 
 E'en wee Effie Gordon sobb'd sairly that day 
 For Johnnie wha wi' her sae often did play. 
 
 When the guidman cam' hame frae the dreary kirkyard, 
 Withoot speaking a word to the room he repair'd, 
 And there to his Maker he vow'd he would keep 
 The promise for his sake wha'd noo fa'n asleep. 
 
 As he slowly cam' ben she could easily see 
 
 The big tears o' sorrow well'd up in his e'e, 
 
 And the first Avords he spak were — " Oh, Ailie, tak' care 
 
 That ye put awa' carefu' this wee lock o' hair. " 
 
 He gied her the lock that he got frae the wean, 
 When he promised he'd never taste whisky again ; 
 
THE WA-GAUN O THE WEAN. 35 
 
 " He tauld me, " quo' John, a that it was a great sin. 
 And drunkards to heaven would ne'er enter in. 
 
 " But sit ye doon, Ailie, " John tenderly said, 
 As owre to the chimla his dazed wife he led, 
 " And hear oot the on-gauns o' mony a year, 
 That's ruin'd and wreck'd me for life, noo, I fear. 
 
 " Sax years come this Christmas, a bonnie young bride, 
 
 Ye vow'd in the kirk that whate'er would betide, 
 
 B aith faithfu' and true until death to remain, 
 
 And tho* ye've had guid cause your love ne'er did wane. 
 
 " For a while a' gaed weel ; and when Johnnie was born, 
 A prooder man ne'er to his wark trudged that morn ; 
 And tho' 'tween oor cottage and smiddy there lay 
 Twa Scots miles, 1'se hame aboot aicht times that day. 
 
 " Hoo my heart at that time tum'd as cauld as a stane, 
 Oh, Ailie, I doot I can never explain ; 
 Depression at times in a man's life ye'll find, 
 And sic to resist tak's a Aveel-balanced mind. 
 
 " When thro' at the smiddy, or dune playin' gowft* 
 We often adjourn'd to auld Nannie Wood's howff, 
 And there owre the yill stoup I ne'er thocht o' hame, 
 That o' a man's spare time the best part should claim. 
 
36 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 'Then cam' weeks oot o' wark that sune ran into years, 
 Still I scorned the advice often gi'en in deep tears, 
 Till brocht to my senses ; was't God's ordained plan, 
 That a wean five years auld should chastise a man ? 
 
 'The orators power, now I fain would beseech, 
 That erring Humanity's heart this might reach, 
 But oft sic has failed like the words o' a wife, 
 When a deeia' wean's faith to a soul gied new life. " 
 
 He raise frae the chimla, syne fell on her neck, 
 And sabbit ftf sair AVi' a heart like to break ; 
 She had to forgi'e him— what wife could dae less ? 
 He wasna the warst in the 'oor o' distress. 
 
 Mony years slippit by ; and baith geyan auld, 
 Sat patiently waiting His ca' to the fauld, 
 And often the twa, as they quately mused there, 
 Thocht on the langsyne and the wee lock o' hair. 
 
 But ae nicht at gloamin' when a thing was quate, 
 The angel o' death stappit in at the gate, 
 And tauld them his message : " Prepared, " they replied. 
 And craed where nae trouble their souls can divide. 
 
JOCK. 37 
 
 In the lanely kirkyard at the back o' the toon, 
 To the stranger wha happens to gang passing roun', 
 These words might be read on a simple heidstane — 
 " He keepit the promise he made to the wean. " 
 
 JOCK. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 O but there's lear in Jock's pow, — 
 A far-seeing callant, and con thy ; 
 
 He's set monie hearts in a lozvc, 
 
 And cares na althd he's cdd drouthy. 
 
 A DOUCE, bnirdly fallow is Jock, 
 
 I'm tauld he has plenty o' siller, 
 By clish-ma-clash Liberton folk, 
 
 Wha lang kent his father, the miller. 
 Rob's gowd, when he dee'd, gaed to Johnnie, 
 And now he is bauthered by monie 
 
 A kimmer, wha's reckoned by a' 
 Bien, blythsome, guid-natured, and bonnie. 
 
38 SCOTS POEMS AND BALL ANTS. 
 
 He has acres o' ground, and twa coos 
 That romp in the field wi' the cuddy ; 
 
 Cocks, hens, bubblyjocks, weel-creeshed soos, 
 And a frail, boo-backit auld body, 
 
 Wha keeps the " big hoose " for douce Johnnie 
 
 She's no what you'd ca' awfu' bonnie, 
 But there lurks in the auld wifie's e'e 
 
 A something that fascinates onie ! 
 
 The kimmers hae a' gane clean gyte, 
 Because the auld body's aye there yet ; 
 
 They're jealous, and, ill-ton gued wi' spite, 
 Say Jock and the wifie'll pair yet. 
 
 A' this has been whispered to Johnnie 
 
 By a sneevlin', decreepit auld cronie ; 
 
 And they laugh owre the gill-stoup at nicht, 
 
 As they picture the sail* hearts o' monie. 
 
 The gossips are seeking a clue, 
 
 Sae's to ken wha Jock's gaun to marry ; 
 
 But that is a secret, I troo, 
 
 And queer are the stories they carry 
 
 Aboot the grand waddin' o' Johnnie, 
 
 And ferlie what gars him tak' onie 
 
 Auld body sae deaf, dottered, and frail, 
 
 When lassies there are young and bonnie. 
 
A T THE GRA VE OF KNOX. 39 
 
 The minister gaed doon the road, 
 And fcwa o' the kimmers throughither 
 
 Sune speired at the guid man o' God, 
 
 Quo' he wi' a smile — w Yon's Jock's mither ! " 
 
 He rued what he said mair than onie, 
 
 For into his arms fell Kate Louie ! 
 Sic a gliff she ne'er gat in her life — 
 
 The wifie the mitJier o' Johnuie ! 
 
 Jock married the lass he lang kent, 
 
 Altho' monie fallows had socht her ; 
 It wasna the presents he sent, 
 
 Nor yet the fu' stockin' that bocht her. 
 The sense and guid nature o' Johnnie, 
 
 Gar'd Mysie tak' him before onie ; 
 And now Jock's mither relates wi' a smile 
 
 How she in auld age deceived monie. 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF KNOX. 
 
 I STOOD where he was laid — Elijah of his time — 
 And noted " I. K. " on the simple stone, 
 
 And marvelled much if this be a neglectful crime 
 Or honour to the Godly hero shown. — 
 
40 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 Au honour, yea ; as heaven's glorious orb of light 
 
 So will his name resplendent ever shine 
 
 When graven stones as dust none can define. 
 So there alone I woo'd the silence of the night, 
 And weigh'd the mighty deeds accomplish'd for our sake 
 
 By lion-hearted Knox, who fought the battle well 
 "Gainst anti-Christian foes, and worthily did make 
 
 A roadway to the Christ, thro' carnal hell ! 
 Thank God, the heavenly flame that burn'd within his 
 
 soul, 
 The power of Rome could quench not, nor a nation's 
 queen control ! 
 
 JEANNIE. 
 
 Let Doric bards in dolefu' strain 
 
 Lament the freaks o' Boreas, 
 And when blythe summer smiles again 
 
 Their wood-notes wild throw o'er us. 
 Joy this to mony may impart, 
 
 But sway'd by love, — life's dream, 
 The lassie wha has stown my heart 
 
 Shall be the foremost theme. 
 
ASPIRATIONS. 41 
 
 The fond embrace I'll ne'er deny, 
 
 Nor yet the sacred feeling ; 
 The throb o' love in ilka sigh 
 
 Unconscious she's revealing. 
 Her bonnie mou' I aye maun pree, 
 
 As Jeannie cares confide, 
 And tho' a tear may weet her e'e, 
 
 Love's smile drives it aside. 
 
 Earth's star, protect,— =0 ! Thou, above — 
 
 Wha frae my soul is never, 
 Whose constancy more true will prove 
 
 Than the inconstant river, 
 For, oh, wi' winter's chilling breath, 
 
 The water's flow may cease, 
 But no the love that outlives death, 
 
 And gie's my life new lease. 
 
 ASPIRATIONS. 
 
 Long I've striven to control 
 The emotions of my soul — 
 
 In its ever fitful flight 
 To reach a higher goal, 
 
42 SCOTS POEMS AND BALL ANTS. 
 
 Where a light, 
 
 Ever bright, 
 On the lofty hill of fame, 
 
 Lures me on, and I long 
 To immortalise my name 
 
 In a song. 
 
 In thus striving night and day 
 Do I idly throw away 
 
 What in solitude I prize ? 
 No ! a spirit seems to say 
 
 In soft sighs — 
 
 " arise ! 
 For vicissitudes of life 
 
 111 to bear are below — 
 Labour nobly in the strife, 
 
 Soothing woe. " 
 
 So, in trying to impart 
 Vital joy to every heart 
 
 I will emblaze with song 
 The glory of the art ! — 
 
 Feeling strong. 
 
 In Life's throng ; 
 
THE WEE ORPHAN LADDIE. 43 
 
 And waking up my lyre 
 
 With renewed delight, 
 I will in soul aspire — 
 
 Still, to-night. 
 
 THE WEE ORPHAN LADDIE. 
 
 Barefitit and raggit, he hirples alang, 
 
 'Mang the rich and the poor on Life's roadway sae thrang, 
 
 And mony wi' tears in their een ye will meet, 
 
 At the sicht o' the orphan wha sings on the street. 
 
 Nae kind loving mother to ca' him her ain, 
 Or teach him fu' carefu' his bawbees to hain ; 
 He misses her sairly ; when rain fa's, or sleet, 
 I'm wae for the orphan wha sings ou the street. 
 
 His claes are aye duddy, and as for his hair, 
 Frae Monday to Sunday the kaim's never there ; 
 When snaw's on the ground e'en a crust is a treat 
 To shriv'ring wee Bobby wha sings on the street. 
 
44 SCOTS POEMS AND BALL ANTS. 
 
 Yet, aiblins, some day siine his struggles may cease; 
 And when frae Life's burden Death gie's him release, 
 There's nane but the collie that oft licks his feet 
 Will miss the wee orphan wha sings on the street. 
 
 But, oh, while he's here mak' his burden fu' licht ; 
 Strive to guide the wee waif in the path that is richt, 
 And pray in your pity as a' your hearts beat — 
 God bless the wee orphan wha sings on the street. 
 
 THE LAND WE LOVE. 
 
 The land we love ! — with pride I sing her dappled dells 
 
 and knowes, 
 Where woodland burnies wimple, aud the purple heather 
 
 grows ; 
 The thistle, emblem o' the brave, blooms there owre 
 
 cherished dead, 
 And on hillsides, immortal made, in grandeur rears its 
 
 head ! 
 
THE LAND WE LOVE. 45 
 
 Her grim, scarr'd, rugged mountains ! ay, our hearts 
 
 with joy may bound, 
 When history's page o' heroes tell wha rest there often 
 
 found, 
 When footsore, worn, and wearied, frae the battle's 
 
 bluidy fray, 
 Where they for Scotland's weal had foclit in persecution's 
 
 day. 
 
 They say the maids o' ither lands are gracefu and 
 
 divine, 
 We'll let them claim the laurels, but they never can 
 
 ootshine 
 The rosy-cheekit lassies, wha sae blythe a-milking 
 
 gang, 
 And charm the rural echoes wi' some guid auld 
 
 Scottish sang. 
 
 The flowers o' ither countries may shed perfume thro' 
 
 the air, 
 But wi' our bonnie blue-bells I canna them compare, 
 Or the gowans and forget-me-nots that deck the 
 
 verdant lea — 
 The theme o' mony priceless sangs, auld Scotland's 
 
 flowers for me. 
 
46 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 Arise, ye poet preachers, and attune tlie deathless lyre, 
 To celebrate our rugged coast with grand poetic fire, 
 And toast — " May Peace and Plenty reign, while 
 
 Worth and Valour shine, " 
 And aye uphaud auld Scotland's fame whose sun shall 
 
 ne'er decline ! 
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, 
 Born February 27, 1807. Died March 24, 1882. 
 
 A REQUIEM. 
 
 The nations mourn ! their gentle poet's dead ! — 
 
 Who strewed our pathway with undying flowers, 
 And by the life he ever humbly led, 
 
 Portrayed the bliss that might by faith be ours 1 
 No vain eulogium of tongue or pen 
 
 Can e'er depict the glory of his lyre — 
 Now mute, alas ! to be ne'er strung again 
 
 Respousive to the Muse's sacred fire. 
 
 Not his to sing of sanguinary wars, 
 Nor in heroic measure paint the field, 
 
THE COSY CHIMLA-LUG. 47 
 
 But rather to commune with night's lone stars, 
 And aid what Science hath to us revealed. 
 
 The simpler and yet higher aims he sought 
 To lay before the humble and the proud, 
 
 Shone out like sunbursts in the good they wrought, 
 While fame proclaimed their influence aloud ! 
 
 So when the evening of his life came round, 
 
 And Death the reaper closed his glorious day, 
 The bard, prepared, reposed in faith profound, 
 
 And thus his spirit calmly passed away ! 
 Weep not ! nor deem the poet dead — for thou 
 
 Whose soul is bowed in sorrow's sanctity 
 May yet behold the patriarchal brow 
 
 Of him whose dower is immortality ! 
 
 THE COSY CHIMLA-LUG. 
 
 There's chiels wha aye stravaig aboot, 
 And carena for their hame, 
 
 The comforts o' the chimla-lug, 
 Whare burns love's sacred flame, 
 
48 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 Within their hearts ne'er find a place — 
 Fules ! they micht aye be snug 
 
 When sitting wi' the wife and bairns 
 Beside the chimla-lug. 
 
 When trauchlin' roun' aboot the toon 
 
 Some folk whyles get a staw, 
 Wi' snares fu' mony, and the vice 
 
 That soon wad taint us a', 
 For sic but tempts ye to defile — 
 
 Ye may your shouthers shrug — 
 But peace and virtue aye ye'll find 
 
 Beside the chimla-lug. 
 
 Wi' baisiries clinging roun' their knees 
 
 Some folk can ne'er be fashed, 
 But gie to me heaven's pledge o' love 
 
 When tidy and clean washed ; 
 There's treasures in its sweet, sweet smile, 
 
 When lying on the rug, 
 Losh ! I delighted, sit and watch 
 
 Beside the chimla-lug. 
 
 The cosy chimla-lug I loe, 
 And aye I will maintain 
 
BURNS. 49 
 
 There's iiae place like the chimla-lug, 
 
 Tho' it be e'er sae plain. 
 A proof ? 'tis said some beasts are wise — 
 
 Let's tak' oor collie dowg, 
 You'll find when he is in the hoose, 
 
 He*s at the chimla-lug ! 
 
 BURNS. 
 January 25, 1890. 
 
 Beloved by all ! this day but closer brings 
 
 Each throbbing heart to still sustain thy name, 
 And justly so, for in our wanderings, 
 
 Where'er we may, progressive is thy fame. 
 Invested with such genius Scotland shines, 
 
 And " blither Scots, " enriched, thy memory toast, 
 Nor wonder thou, for as the tendril twines, 
 
 So doth thy songs, and fitly thus we boast. 
 Thy Avorth, bard ! few fully comprehend, 
 
 Nor realise the good thou doth create, 
 
50 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 For this I claim — the heart is man's best friend, 
 
 Not sordid wealth, nor lordliest estate ! 
 And who so much that vital part hath swayed, 
 And Right since then in truer garb arrayed ? 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 On reading in the Scotsman John Stuart Blaekie's letter 
 anent the seeming pit b lie apathy toivards Scots song. 
 
 Guid save us a' ! is Robbie deid 
 That Blackie maun pen sic a screed ? 
 I'm unco laith to think, indeed, 
 
 That the Professor, 
 Should tak' sic notions in his heid 
 
 An' turn transgressor. 
 
 Has oor enthusiastic fiien', 
 
 Ance mair amang the mummies been, 
 
 Or Celtic studies morn an' een, 
 
 Sae dreich an' kittle, 
 
STANZAS. 51 
 
 Cam' him an' common-sense atween, 
 For, oh, he's little ? 
 
 Or is he wi' Home Rule engross' d, 
 Like mony mair, wha, to their cost, 
 Noo count the hunners they hae lost 
 
 Wi' sair distraction, 
 As owre the fire their taes they toast, 
 
 An' wait re-action ? 
 
 Na feth ! John's never aff his feet — 
 Climbs hills, in fact, like Arthur Seat ; 
 In spite o' snaw or scorchin' heat, 
 
 Kail runt in hand, 
 He howks thro' ilk historic street, 
 
 Baith steive an' grand. 
 
 That he sic nonsense should declare, 
 Wha's here an' there an' everywhere, 
 Wha, too, at socials tak's the chair. 
 
 An' sae befittin' ; 
 Losh ! by some mad dowg unaware, 
 
 Is Blackie bitten ? 
 
 Waes me ! it's past a' comprehension, 
 Hoo sic rash statements claim attention ; 
 
52 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 Tliro'oot the warld's wide dimension, 
 
 Sair I regret, 
 This theory o' sang dissension, 
 
 Micht tak' root yet. 
 
 What tho' his patriotic zeal, 
 West-End auld leddies canna feel, 
 And glaikit dochters skirl an' squeal 
 
 High operatic; 
 Their lack o' sense they dae reveal, — 
 
 Ay, maist emphatic ! 
 
 What tho' the lords o' Moray Place — 
 Wha justice deal withoot disgrace — 
 Wad fain see his familiar face 
 
 Within the dock, 
 An" thus revenge that injured race — 
 
 The West-End folk. 
 
 What tho' they'd stop his waggin' tongue, 
 That often has their nerves unstrung, 
 Until wi' passion fairly dung 
 
 Commandment three, 
 They whyles forget, an' swear that hung 
 
 The fule .should be ! 
 
STANZAS. 53 
 
 To ither bards, if some gang fleein', 
 
 An' let's ken, too, that they've been preein', 
 
 That's no to say that oors are deein', 
 
 Na, deil a bit ; 
 As lyric king — an' I'm no leein' — 
 
 Rob aye will sit. 
 
 To sing Scots sangs a's no expected, 
 Sae think na then that they're neglected, 
 Ye wha owre sic micht be affected, 
 
 Because a few, 
 Wham Labour has fu' hie erected, 
 
 Keep shut their mou'. 
 
 We're no the least inclined to banish 
 
 Italian lays, or even Spanish ; 
 
 It's no the thing to be owre clandish, 
 
 An' aye find faut, 
 For hasna ane whase bluid is Danish, 
 
 A lesson taught ? 
 
 If Blackie wants us stirr'd anew, 
 Comparison he maun aloo, 
 'Twill dae mair guid— an' this is true— 
 Than his lang screed, 
 
54 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 Owre whilk, I'm tliinkin', very few, 
 Tak' teut wba read. 
 
 He'll maybe no admire my strain, 
 
 But feth ! oor sangs can stand their lane — 
 
 Nae clap-trap this — they will remain, 
 
 The truth I'm speakin', 
 When in the yird his big heid-stane, 
 
 Unborn are seekin' ! 
 
 There's countless thousands nicht an' day, 
 Charmed wi' their sweet magnetic sway, 
 Sae wi' his havers baud away, 
 
 An' ne'er mak' mention ; 
 It's infamy for him to play, 
 
 For folk's attention. 
 
 Just let him practise what he'll preach, 
 Sae that the auld the young may teach, 
 An' editors then legs may stretch, 
 
 Wba sit demented, 
 Oh, then I fervently beseech, 
 
 He'll be contented ! 
 
 Baith " Kelvingrove, " an' " Johnnie Cope, ' 
 Stock pieces are — but why there stop ? 
 
STANZAS. 55 
 
 It is tlie country's earnest hope, 
 
 He'll try the ithers, 
 E'en tho' dour critics on him drop, 
 
 They 11 please oor withers / 
 
 In auld Scots sangs I've muckle faith. 
 
 To set them doon as deid I'm laith, 
 
 Na feth ! for while her sons draw breath, 
 
 Ye may be certain, 
 That there is naethin' but grim death, 
 
 Will mak' a partin'. 
 
 Sae let oor sonneteering frien' 
 Put on guid specs, or rub his een, 
 An' he'll discover like a wheen, 
 
 He's got nae gumption, 
 An' a' alang been unco green, 
 
 Trick'd by assumption ! 
 
 — o- 
 
56 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 THE BONNIE LASS 0' INVERARY. 
 
 Oh, mony lassies hae I seen, 
 
 But none, I trow, can equal Mary, 
 The bonnie lass wha cam' yestreen 
 
 A' the gate frae Inverary. 
 The lowe o' luve both night and day, 
 
 My heart has nursed a towmont nearly, 
 And now at ilka glance I hae, 
 
 I seem to loe her mail sincerely. 
 
 My Mary's cheeks might shame the rose — 
 
 The blushing rose, and oh, her eenie 
 Are jewels brighter far than those 
 
 0' either Jessie, Nell, or Jeannie. 
 Her snaw- white teeth and ruby lips, 
 
 Are just as tempting to her Johnnie, 
 As flowers are to the bee that sips 
 
 Their fragrant sweets when blooming boriuie. 
 
ROBERT FERGUSSON. 57 
 
 E'er Summer's smile forsakes the earth 
 
 I mean to leave Auld Reekie's clamour, 
 And hie to her sae fu' o' mirth, 
 
 For owre my heart she's cuist a glamour. 
 Through glens romantic then I'll stray, 
 
 And speil Duniquoich's hill wi' Mary, 
 And view the scenes o' love's young day, 
 
 When first we met in Inverary. 
 
 ROBERT FERGUSSON, 
 
 CANOXGATE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 A flower cull'd from the grave of one whose fate 
 
 I mourn : nipt in its bloom, just like the bard 
 Whose dust lies here. I stand and gazing wait, 
 
 As if he'd rise and eye me with regard. 
 Fergusson ! immortal youth ! how hard 
 
 And rough the road thou had'st to travel o'er ; 
 How soon, great light ! thy genius bright was marr'd 
 
 By Death, who led thee to another shore ! 
 Some clay, perchance, I musing here may stray, 
 
 And place immortelles over thy loved dust, 
 
58 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 And shed a tear, as I have done to-day : 
 
 Fain would I linger yet, but ah ! I must 
 Depart in sadness as I think of thee, 
 Whose fate I mourn — which yet mine own may be. 
 
 TAMMAS STARK'S DRUCKEN WIFE. 
 
 Tak' tent a' ye wha tak' a drap, 
 And aft into the yill-hoose stap ; 
 Come, hear ye this queer story oot, 
 I'se warn it's true, withoot a doot ; 
 Tak' tent, I say, frae what ye hear, 
 And dinna ghaists or bogles fear. 
 
 A sober chiel was Tammas Stark, 
 Baith late and early at his wark ; 
 In a' he did he socht the richt, 
 And tried to mak' his ingle bricht, 
 Tho' troubled wi' a randie wife, — 
 The plague and terror o' his life ; 
 
TAMMAS STARK'S DRUCKEN WIFE. 59 
 
 A lazy guid-for-naething jaud, 
 Wha, when in drink, a' folk misca'd — 
 And sic a tongue ! to match't we'd need 
 Big Peggy Stalker, lang syne deid ! 
 
 At ither times Meg was fell dour, 
 And sulk'd and girn'd frae 'oor to 'oor ; 
 Whyles she wad stacher up the stair, 
 And wi' a guid braid aith declare 
 That she, tho' seldom sober seen, 
 Ne'er drank in hiddlin's like a wheen ! 
 
 Ae day Tarn's wife was unco foil' — 
 A waesome sicht, ye weel may troo ; 
 She pech't and sprauehi'd up the stair, 
 Wi' bauchl'd feet, and tousie hair ; 
 Her shauchliu', shufflin', noisy din, 
 Brocht piying neebors ane by ane : 
 " Losh keep's ! it's Meg Stark drunk again, 
 And canna speil the stair, tho' fain." 
 This roos'd Meg up, and to Kate Lloyd, 
 The wife wha spak' she thus replied — 
 " It's strange wi' me ye aye maun fash, 
 Ye sleekit, clish-ma-clashiu' hash ! 
 Gang ben and mind your ain fireside— 
 
60 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 A pity but ye there wad bide ; 
 
 Ye blether sae 'boot ither folk, 
 
 Wha siller waste on driiik and smoke, 
 
 But far waur things anent yersel', 
 
 Maist ilka ane can aiblins tell. 
 
 They say your rent is far ahint, 
 
 While aft your man o' meat ye stint ; 
 
 Your claes and gear are in the pawn, 
 
 And a' the neebors roun' ye're awn ; 
 
 Tak' my advice, e'er ye complain 
 
 'Boot folk wi' fauts, scoore oot your ain !" 
 
 Kate, a* this time as quiet's a moose. 
 At length gaed ben into the hoose ; 
 While neebors on the stair and street, 
 Held weel their sides for fear they'd spleet. 
 
 That vera nicht hame frae his wark, 
 At hauf-past six cam' Tammas Stark, 
 And saw a sicht that made him stare — 
 His wife lay deid drunk on the flair ! 
 Quo' Tarn, " I'll gie the jaud a fricht, 
 Before I sleep ae wink the nicht :" 
 And wi' a sigh o' deep despair, 
 He gaed straucht doon to Hugh M'Nair, 
 
TAMMAS STARK'S DRUCKEN WIFE. 61 
 
 As Tarn stapt into Hugliie'8 hoose, 
 And saw baith man and wife aae crouse, 
 A short heart' s-wish his lips did frame — 
 " Oh, wad to God I'd sic a harae ! " 
 
 Hugh's wife sat by the ingle-cheek, 
 Their bonnie wean play'd hide aud seek, 
 Hughie, hirasel', sat in the nook, 
 And on the table lay his book ; 
 A cheeiy fire burn'd in the grate, 
 Near whilk Tarn took the proffer'd sate. 
 Nae words were needed to explain 
 The auld, auld story owre again ; 
 Sae Hugh gied counsel wi' the knack 
 To blend sic touches in the crack — 
 " A toom meal-pock will mak' Meg think, 
 And maybe, too, forsake the drink ; " 
 And sae a scheme was thus conceived, 
 That wad dae guid Tam Stark believed. 
 
 As twalve chim'd on the Tron Kirk nock, 
 The door-key grated in the lock, 
 And in there slade to Tain's hearthstane, 
 An eldritch wraith wi' waesome grane. 
 The sleeping baudrons fuft and glowered, 
 
62 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 Syne as wi' common-sense empowered, 
 Lowpt into bed and claucht Meg's face — 
 ( Long after't Tabby's scarts ye'd trace ! ) 
 Meg sprang attoure, and gied a skirl 
 That made the rafters a' to dirl, 
 For, wow ! she saw an unco sicht — 
 Nae wonner sair she swat wi' fricht. 
 A ghaist wi' face as white as death, 
 Sat on a kist in snaw-white claith ! 
 Meg rubbed her een, gazed and wondered, 
 And aye the mair she was dumfoundered. 
 Wi' ootstretch'd haun's the figure raise, — 
 Whilk gar'd her een the mair to daize, 
 Syne slowly to the bed-stock slade, 
 And thus in hollow tones begade — 
 " I come frae regions doon below, 
 Whare ghaists and bogles glide in woe ; 
 Meg Stark, be warn'd in time, beware I 
 Gie owre the drink, or ill ye'll fare, 
 For Tammas Stark nae mair ye'll see, 
 As lang's ye tak' the barley-bree. 
 Sax weeks ye'll get your ways to mend — 
 Sax weeks, and syne your chance will end, 
 Then ye will maybe ca' to mind, 
 Tarn, wha was aye eae guid and kind." 
 
TAMMAS STARK'S DRUCKEN WIFE. 63 
 
 As Meg noo ettled to get up, 
 
 The ghaist a blanket up did whupp, 
 
 And flang't richt owre her heid and shouther, 
 
 Then vanish'd like a puff o' pouther. 
 
 Meg scream' d and cried baith lang and lood, 
 
 Until she saw a hauf-cled crood 
 
 0' neebor folk come rushing in, 
 
 Whase sympathy was " What a sin ; " 
 
 " Losh preserve's ! what is the maitter? " 
 
 " Wha's sae abused the puir auld crature % " 
 
 " A cryin' sin, it's past a' joke 
 
 To fricht the wuts oot harmless folk." 
 
 The wraith had sober'd Meggie weel, — 
 She hauflin's thocht she'd seen the deil ; 
 And tauld them hoo Auld Nick had come, 
 Syne vanish'd, she thocht, up the lum ! 
 
 The auld wives gaped and cried "My conscience!" 
 While at sic superstitious nonsense 
 A hizzie to suppress her laugh, 
 Look'd up the lum, and thus got aff! 
 Meg trembling sat, and tears, too, shed, 
 Syne cannilie gaed back to bed. 
 
64 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 For sax weeks Tarn gaed whare nane kent, 
 'Twas then puir Meg did weel repent ; 
 She look'd sae pale, wi' chafts sae thin — 
 The vera banes shone thro' the skin ! 
 When ask't to share the whiskey bottle, 
 She answer d " No, I'm noo teetotal." 
 Oh, God, if folk this aye wad say, 
 When drink is put within their way, 
 I'm sure the wickedness on earth 
 Wad turn to virtue, joy and mirth. 
 Drink, cursed drink ! man's bitt'rest foe ! 
 Parent o' murder, want and woe ! 
 Help, brither man, the fiend to kill, 
 Whase victims work sae muckle ill ; 
 Ne'er put the bottle to your mooth, 
 And ye'll be happier far, in truth. 
 Bring helping hand and warm desire, 
 To raise the temperance banner higher, 
 Till a' shall worship at the shrine 
 0' water pure, the best o' wine. 
 
 Tam, honest chiel, is noo at hame, 
 Wi' smiling face and weel-filled wame ; 
 His wife's a pleasure noo to see, 
 As she sits pourin' oot the tea ; 
 
TAMMAS STARK'S DRUCKEN WIFE. 65 
 
 The Loose belike is greatly changed, 
 The pleuishiu' sae neatly ranged ; 
 The cups and saucers on the shelf, 
 Shine braw wi' ither pig and delf ; 
 E'en auld pot-lids upon the wa', 
 You'd tak' for mirrors, they're sae braw ! 
 
 When Tarn at nicht sits doon to tea, 
 His sonsy Meg's a sicht to see ; 
 Her cheery voice ilk ache and pain 
 Brocht on by toil can ease again ; 
 Yet whyles beside the ingle-cheek, 
 Fu' lang they'll sit afore they speak, 
 For visions are revealed at nicht, 
 0' clouded past and future bricht. 
 
 ! happy change I aye try thro' life 
 
 To keep in view Tarn Stark's drunk wife. 
 
 — o- 
 
66 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 WITHIN MY DEN. 
 
 'TlS midnight ! yet before the flick'ring fire 
 I sit with treasures priceless and sublime ; 
 
 Men's mirror'd minds, that strengthen and inspire — 
 Whose brilliancy illumes the realms of rhyme. 
 
 I read — and lo ! in ecstasy am led 
 
 Thro' " Nature's " glory, by the poet true, 
 Who grasp'd the lyre, and boldly thunder'd forth, 
 
 Electrifying all, excell'd by few. 
 The air is fill'd with perfume of sweet flowers, 
 
 I hear the warblers, and the babbling brook ; 
 On all sides how transcendently portray' d, 
 
 While genius glows with power. Again I look ; — 
 
 " Wee Jamie's chair " is close by " Nature's " side, 
 I try, but cannot staunch the falling tears, — 
 
 The spring of feeling overflows so fast, 
 Altho' it has been diy for many years. 
 
 And who is he that sketches thus so well ! 
 
 A genius great, whose arms have long been bare ; 
 
WITHIN MY DEN. 67 
 
 A prince of song, a navvy on the rail ! 
 
 World ! think of it ! and let thy great ones stare ! 
 
 Here, by the good and gifted man of God, 
 
 Who in life's happy-time did help to keep 
 My footsteps in their proper course, and thus 
 
 The many tempting snares of youth o'erleap, 
 I " Raban " find, and mark it long and well, 
 
 For who can e'er gainsay the limner hath 
 Succeeded not, nor soothed the soul perverse, 
 
 And stemm'd the tide of discontent and wrath. 
 
 I turn me to " The Breeks o' Hodden Grey, " 
 
 And see the men who wear them, swarthy, strong, 
 And high above the stir and noise I hear 
 
 The anvil ringing forth its sturdy song. 
 A priceless dower ! — his mission while on earth, 
 
 To dignify our toiling sons in song, 
 Whose very life's-blood on their sweat-dyed brows 
 
 Makes Labour march right manfully along ! 
 
 " Burd Ailie " sitting dowie by the burn, 
 
 Arrests my gaze, and moralising, I 
 Its pathos own a mental triumph vast, 
 
 Tho' lowly hearths it may but glorify. 
 
68 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 "While iu the distance " Ochil Idylls" rise, 
 Like zephyrs sweet to cool the fevered brow 
 
 Of city men when Commerce jades the brain ; 
 Than this, forsooth, what is more needed now ? 
 
 Now straths and glens, wild, bleak and desolate, 
 
 Where waves the broom once dyed with righteous 
 blood : 
 God's grace attend the patriotic Scot, 
 
 High-souTd and loved, for nobly he hath stood 
 Unflinchingly for Scotland's rights ; and tho' 
 
 Years now fourscore hath pass'd, undimm'd 
 His genius, for with master-hand each day 
 
 The " Highland Lays and Sonnets " still are limned. 
 
 Within my den are gather' d many more, 
 By souls who sit upon the heights of fame ! 
 
 Brave athletes ! who 'gainst fate have nobly fought 
 And conquered. Blessed be the poet's name ! 
 
A COUNTR Y ID YLL. 69 
 
 A COUNTRY IDYLL. 
 
 Wl' scented briar, and hawthorn here, 
 
 What mair need I be wanting, 
 And yonder burnie wimpling clear, 
 
 Thro' hermitage and planting ; 
 And eke Craigmillar's loved retreat, 
 
 A sacred spot, and bonnie, 
 Where love, sweet rapture to the sweet, 
 
 Reigns in the hearts o' mony. 
 
 Edina's sons, ne'er hang your heids, 
 
 Nor let your cheeks turn blae, 
 But tak' the road ilk nicht that leads 
 
 Where Nature holds the sway ! 
 Where laverocks' songs and breath o' flowers 
 
 Refresh the soul anew, 
 As doth the simmer morning showers 
 
 That fa' as fresh as dew. 
 
70 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 So let me hie frae Labour's din 
 
 To some sequestered glade 
 Wf Jeannie — gem my heart set in, 
 
 And song-inspiring maid ; 
 Her charms I scarcely can define — 
 
 A fairer flower ne'er grew, 
 And sweet as ony o' the Nine, 
 
 That ever poet knew. 
 
 AN AULD WARL' WAIL. 
 
 " LoSH ! " quo' my granny late ae nicht, 
 
 As she sat by the ingle, 
 " I ferlie, Johnnie, gif it's richt 
 
 For you to keep aye single, 
 For, 'od the lassocks, noo-a-days 
 
 Are past my comprehension, 
 Wi' havers lang aboot their claes, 
 
 A thing I ne'er did mention. 
 
 The papers I read ilka day, 
 An' note the sad disasters ; 
 
AN AULD WARL WAIL. 71 
 
 The hardships poor folk often hae 
 
 Wi' tyranizing masters. 
 Nae wonder that I oft exclaim, 
 
 ' Hech surse ! but this is awfu' ! ' 
 An', ferlie wha on earth's to blame, 
 
 For it is mair than lawfu'. 
 
 The ' iron horse,' by some folk ca'd, 
 
 Has lang been prais'd an' vaunted ; 
 Noo, this is naething but a fraud, 
 
 For it could weel be wanted ! 
 The lives that's lost astonish me, 
 
 An' yet folk doucely stand it ; 
 Gif I'd my will, withoot a lee, 
 
 I'd geyan soon disband it ! 
 
 The ' Daphne,' that caused meikle tears, 
 
 An' warl'-wide consternation, 
 Has drawn frae would-be engineers 
 
 Mony a lang oration. 
 Frae this what guid will folk derive % 
 
 Nane ! but I hae been thinkin', 
 To dae withoot them gif we'd strive 
 
 There would be less ship-sinkin' ! 
 
72 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 A birkie, too, ca'd Matthew Webb, 
 
 Wi' meikle skill an' darin', 
 Life that is dearly prized lat ebb 
 
 For nocht but fame to earn. 
 A foolish chiel he surely was, 
 
 To work 'gainst God an' nature, 
 A' for the warl's lood applause — 
 
 A maist ungodly feature. 
 
 Wi' fine persuasive airs a gowk, 
 
 To me ae day cam' stappin' ; — 
 ' A hole 'neath oor best street ye'd howk 1 ' * 
 
 Quo' I, ' That ne'er maun happen ; 
 Baith Scott, an' Allan, vandal rogue ! 
 
 Their sauls o' stane ye'd harrow, 
 An' mak' them envy Jamie Hogg, 
 
 In peace beside the Yarrow ! ' 
 
 In days langsyne sic freaks as they 
 
 Were never hatched, I'll warrant ; 
 The folk then — this I'm proud to say — 
 
 Were wise an' mair auld-farrant. 
 A quiet, peacefu' life a' led, 
 
 Free frae inventive fever ; 
 Up wi' the lark an' soon to bed, 
 
 Lang jinking Death the reiver ! " 
 
 * The proposed Princes Street tunnel. 
 
A REVERIE. 73 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 I MUSING sit, 
 
 The earth is lit 
 With Luna's silv'iy light ; 
 
 I see a star, 
 
 How bright, how far ! 
 I dream of one to-night. 
 
 How pleasant thus 
 
 It is for us, 
 Poor toiling sons of men, 
 
 To sit and dream 
 
 By some sweet stream, 
 Or daisy-dappled glen. 
 
 Quietness prevails — 
 No sound assails 
 My ear, all now is hushed 
 
74 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 I muse on youth, 
 Hard times, forsooth, 
 Bright aspirations crushed. 
 
 But why repine ? 
 
 A star doth shine 
 Resplendent night and day ; 
 
 Where'er I go 
 
 My heart doth glow, 
 And Love supreme holds sway. 
 
 That star I own 
 
 As one alone 
 Who keeps me from all harm ; 
 
 Her winning smile 
 
 Is free of guile ; 
 Her voice it hath a charm. 
 
 Dear, beauteous star ! 
 
 Oh, may nought mar 
 Thy prospects, now so bright ; 
 
 May God above 
 
 Protect thee, love, 
 And keep thee in the right. 
 
TO A BRIT HER SCOT. 75 
 
 TO A BRITHER SCOT. 
 
 Your ban', my frieii', an' Doric brither, 
 Ye'll gie't I ken, withoot a swither ; 
 In Glasgow toon there's no anither 
 
 Like you, in fack, 
 Wi' wba I'd like, man, to forgather, 
 
 An' hae a crack. 
 
 It warms my heart an' mak's it licht, 
 An' keeps the bonds o' frieu'ship ticht, 
 Lifting the soul aboon the blicbt 
 
 O' cauld despair, 
 That often sinks me day an' nicht 
 
 Wi' heavy care. 
 
 I like your frien'ly way, dear Charlie, 
 For losh ! man, I've ta'en to you fairly, 
 An' even noo I miss ye sairly ; 
 
 Mind, I'm no jokin', 
 Altho' I'm oot baith late an' early, 
 
 At mony a rockin'. 
 
76 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 But, heth, we'll meet again, I think — 
 Ay, mony a time, an' hae a drink, 
 Until — , a' ricbt, ye needna wink — 
 
 I understaun' — 
 Ye gowk ! nae wife wad gar me shrink, 
 
 Nor even fawn ! 
 
 I read your lines wi' muckle pleasure, 
 An' lang the sentiment I'll treasure, 
 Tho' justice in poetic measure, 
 
 I scarce can dae 
 To ane wha sae adorns his leisure, 
 
 An' sings away. 
 
 You say my muse, wi' ardour fired, 
 Has a' the gifts that are required 
 To soar, like ither bards inspired 
 
 Wi' aim sublime ; 
 Man ! that's whare I hae aye aspired 
 
 Frae early time. 
 
 I've socht a seat on famed Parnassus, 
 Beside the nine immortal lassies, 
 But boo to gain it still harasses 
 My burnin' brain ; 
 
TO A BRIT HER SCOT. 11 
 
 Dod ! poets surely are but asses, 
 Or else insane ! 
 
 I fear 'twill eud in Moraingside — 
 A place wliare I could scarcely bide ; 
 I'd rather jump into the Clyde, 
 
 Or Firth o' Forth, 
 An' let my corpus wi' the tide, 
 
 Be drifted North ! 
 
 Then it micht float near hau' Dundee, 
 An' lie ashore in state awee, 
 Whare fishermen would charge a fee 
 
 To view the body, 
 0' " Laddie Bard, " noo drowned, ye see, 
 
 Thro' rhyme an' toddy ! 
 
 Meanwhile, accept o' this rough screed, 
 An' when the same ye chance to read, 
 Between the lines ye'll find decreed 
 
 Still fond regard, 
 Sae wishin' you an' yours guid speed, 
 
 The « Laddie Bard." 
 
 Postscript. 
 Man ! Charlie, I had maist forgot, 
 To say, yestreen, my heid gaed stot 
 
78 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 Upon the grand, for, like a lot, 
 The cycling craze 
 
 Has nail'd me, sure as I'm a Scot, 
 
 An' changed my ways ! 
 
 Sae dinna be surprised if soon 
 I tak' a run to Glasgow toon, 
 An' spend wi' you an' afternoon — 
 
 But haud your breath — 
 Frae aff my " bike " I micht come doon, 
 
 An' meet my death ! 
 
 -o — 
 
 DUNNOTTAR. 
 
 Dunnottar ! once impregnable and grim, 
 Confronts me now ! — a skeleton of old ! 
 The longing wish that I might thus behold 
 
 It so, is realised : — from out the dim 
 
 And doughty age, when king and men upstood, 
 And fighting dyed the battlements with blood, 
 
 Where devastating Time still onward creeps ; 
 
DUNNOTTAR. 79 
 
 The wrathful sea, with spray-toss' d spotless hood, 
 
 Around the dismal dungeons battle fierce ! 
 For centuries meet dirge of restless mood 
 
 And ceaseless wail. Gaunt ghost ! still stay to pierce 
 The soul unpatriotic, for there sleeps 
 In yonder hallow'd moat, the martyr'd Scots who broke 
 Oppression's lance, so keen, and stifled bigots' croak. 
 
 OVVRE THE FAEM. 
 
 " Fate has ivilPd, and we must part." 
 
 The burnie sweetly sings its sang, 
 
 The maukins frisk an' play ; 
 But Ailie's heart gie's monie a twang, - 
 
 It's fu', alack ! o' wae. 
 The primrose that in spring appears, 
 
 She heeds na noo ava', 
 An' bleart's her een wi' meikle tears, 
 
 For Jamie, far awa'. 
 
 Oh, Ailie little thocht lang syne, 
 
 When gazing on his face, 
 That thus the namely muse o' mine 
 
 For frien'ship-sake should place 
 
80 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 A simple tribute, yet sincere, 
 
 To prove to ane an' a', 
 That still her laddie's heart is here, 
 
 Altho' he's far awa'. 
 
 His native hame he'll cherish mair 
 
 When faemy seas divide ; 
 An' in the braid Scots tongue declare, 
 
 Whatever may betide, 
 Auld Reekie, noblest to remain. 
 
 In sunshine, rain, or snaw — 
 A vision sweet, that haunts the brain, 
 
 In countries far awa'. 
 
 Like birds when nicht is near at haun', 
 
 I cease my song an' rest, 
 Yet know that ere the morrow's dawn 
 
 'Twill soothe a troubled breast. 
 In ither lands gin this he read, 
 
 It aiblins, may reca' 
 The chiel wha wishes him God-speed 
 
 Where'er his footsteps fa'. 
 
DOUBT. 81 
 
 DOUBT. 
 " Deatli levels all." 
 
 I STOOD within the solemn city of the dead, 
 
 'Twas Autumn brown, and sear leaves thickly lay 
 Close to the margin of the lone and narrow bed 
 
 Of her who nursed me in life's early day. 
 And as I stood, my wayward, trembling soul 
 
 O'erflowed with grief, and filled my eyes with tears, 
 And in its sweep vile Doubt, that long held stern control, 
 
 Destroyed, and inundated madd'ning fears. 
 
 Start not ! for I had reckon d death life's final goal — 
 
 The great Beyond was fathomless to me, 
 But now in deepest sanctity my thirsting soul 
 
 His power and mighty majesty could see. 
 And as I moved around I marvelled much that stone 
 
 Aud sculp tur'd pyramid should thus be rear'd 
 To wrestle with stern Time, and to the world make known 
 
 Mens virtues, whom poor abject mortals fear'd. 
 
82 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 Then saitli I to myself, " Surely the mighty deeds 
 
 Of kindness will outlive the stone, for hearts 
 Speak when Generosity rears its front, and seeds 
 
 Of immortality spring from all parts." 
 So with a sickening sense I turn'd again, and sought 
 
 The unmark'd spot where lay my love of old, 
 And bending low, I laid the immortelles I'd brought, 
 
 Above the dust more precious far than gold. 
 
 And unobserved I knelt upon the clammy clod, 
 
 The quiet seem'd my thirsting soul to fill 
 With deep contrition, and I sought the grace of God, 
 
 Whom I had haply found at last, until 
 Dark ominous clouds athwart the heavens crept 
 
 Like hideous phantoms, then I homeward turn'd, 
 Nor dreaded midnight's grim and lazy hours, but slept 
 
 Untroubled, for the soul no longer mourn'd. 
 
GOWFF. 83 
 
 GOWFF. 
 
 ( BY A NOVICE.) 
 
 The cares o' wark confused my brain, 
 
 An' feeling unco' dowff, 
 I thocht I'd ease the mental strain 
 
 By gangin' in for gowff. 
 
 " A simpler game than this there's nocht," 
 
 Said I to Meg, my lassie ; 
 An' sae neist morn wi' pride I bocht 
 
 A putter, cleek an' brassy. 
 
 Dark thunder-cluds the lift owre-cast, 
 
 As doon the toon I hurried, 
 But what tho' win' was east or wast, 
 
 When I wi' " Rules " was flurried. 
 
 Ecstatic joy reign'd in my breist 
 
 When on the links I stappit ; 
 An' tho' it rain'd, a round at least 
 
 I'd hae afore I'd drap it. 
 
84 SCOTS POEMS AND B ALLAN TS. 
 
 A birkie, clad in gowfin' suit, 
 Wi's blae, sair-drookit caddie, 
 
 Frae yont a dyke sat peerin' oot, 
 Like some wild munelicht Paddy ! 
 
 But sic I scorn'd ! nae devotee 
 Seeks shelter tbo' it's rainin' ; 
 
 Besides, this gied the links to me — 
 Long wish't-for luck I'se gainin'. 
 
 Frae aff my sbouther gaed the clubs, 
 
 For action noo prepared, 
 But clean bambazed, och ! at the dubs 
 
 I spell-bund stood an' stared. 
 
 Ay, horror ! — mixed wi' deep remorse — 
 Nae ba's I'd brocht ! unlucky ! 
 
 But rather noo than leave the course, 
 I'd play it wi' a chuckie ! 
 
 Wi' wistfu* mien I e'ed the dyke, 
 
 For wi' the rain I'se soakit, 
 But shelter tak' I didna like, 
 
 Sae to the gowfin' yokit ! 
 
 The teein' grund I never socht, 
 But doon the stane I set it, 
 
ADELAIDE DETCHON. 85 
 
 My nerves at highest pitch uoo wrocht 
 To owre the bunker get it. 
 
 Alack-a-day ! ill luck, indeed ! 
 
 Nae wonder I did mutter 
 A smother'd aith, when swish ! the heid 
 
 Gaed birlin' aff my putter ! 
 
 Here for a month, as on a rack, 
 
 I've lain up in the attics : — 
 GowfFs legacy ! a sair attack 
 
 0' what is ca'd rheumatics ! 
 
 ADELAIDE DETCHON. 
 
 QUEEN STREET HALL, EDINBURGH, DEC. 3, 1887. 
 
 COUSIN, adieu ! a fond adieu, for thou 
 
 Within us hath created deathless claim ! 
 Thou'rt forced, perchance, to cross the friendly sea, 
 Where others wait to wreathe anew thy brow, 
 
86 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 And to their children's children hand thy name ; 
 But cherish'd memories must rise, and in thy reverie, 
 Undimm'd, Dunedin will remain, "whose heart went 
 
 out to thee. 
 When sour'd and sadden'd with the world's strife, 
 
 Thine art, a potent spell, uplifts the soul, 
 For in " The Charcoal Man," — a lesson strong 
 In all the stern realities of life — 
 
 Our conscience conquer'd, owns thy vast control. 
 New love ! again farewell ! but let it be not long, 
 Until our hearts are thrill'd with matchless old Scots 
 
 song. 
 
 ONLY A FACE. 
 
 Only a face, but a tale I could read 
 In the hollow and pitiful eyes, 
 
 But oh, at what cost a moral it taught, 
 Thus depicting the snares that arise. 
 
 Only a face, once as sweet as the rose — 
 And her fate, too, like it, — bitter bane ; 
 
ONLY A FACE. 87 
 
 Worshippers many while beauty did last, 
 But when wither'd, they pass in disdain. 
 
 Only a face, with a wearisome look, 
 That, alas ! speaks too plainly of grief; 
 
 She pines for the grave, and knows well enough 
 That her life here on earth will be brief. 
 
 Only a face, and a woman's it was, 
 
 That one cold night I saw passing by ; 
 
 It moved me I own ; once pure she had been, 
 And the pride of a fond mother's eye. 
 
 Only a face that would soon pass from earth, 
 
 And forgotten, fade quickly away ; 
 Wayfarer, alas ! thou know'st full well 
 
 The sad penalty frailty must pay. 
 
 Only a face, but this lesson it taught — 
 Seek to know and perform what is right ; 
 
 Vice, rampant stalks forth ; be led not astray, 
 But have faith in the Beacon of Light. 
 
88 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 HOWGATE JOCK. 
 
 QUEER stories noo are gaun aroon' 
 
 Aboot the hairum-scairum loon, 
 
 Wha set the folk yont Logan Lee 
 
 As daft as honest folk could be. 
 
 A lazy, guid-for-naethin' tyke, 
 
 Wha late at nicht, ahint some dyke, 
 
 Wad sit for 'oors (nae fear had Jock), 
 
 Dress'd in his mither's muslin frock, 
 
 Wi' blaeken'd face an' lang white bannet — 
 
 Cross-banes an' big green skulls owre-ran it ! 
 
 An' a' to gie douce folk a fricht 
 
 Wha chanced to be oot late at nicht ; 
 
 Jock ne'er was pleased unless aye bent 
 
 On some freak o' sly deevilment. 
 
 Weel, scarce a mile frae this fule's hoose, 
 There lived, on what he could produce, 
 A dour, ill-natured, girnin' body, 
 Ca'd Farmer Grieve, wha had a cuddy, 
 
HO WGA TE JOCK. 89 
 
 'Boot whilk at feeiu', tryst an' market, 
 Fu' mony to the tale hae harkit. 
 
 Some hare-brain'd chiel', wi' little sense, 
 Had got attour the farmer's fence, 
 An' ta'en Grieve's cuddy frae the shed, 
 Ae nicht when he was in his bed, 
 Syne put it in a field o' corn 
 That hadna jist as yet been shorn. 
 Next momin', when Grieve heard aboot it, 
 He was at first inclined to doot it, 
 Until he saw the corn low laid, 
 That to him siller wad hae made ; 
 Then in a rantin' passion flew, 
 An' swore he'd mak' the villains rue 
 The trick they play'd that nicht, tho' he 
 Should swing for it upon a tree ! 
 
 Sae, thinkin' owre't, as quate's a moose, 
 Next nicht auld Grieve slipt oot the hoose, 
 Roon' to the back to watch the door — 
 A thing he ne'er had dune afore. 
 
 An 'oor ootside he hadna sat, 
 When up he gat wi', " Eh 1 what's that ? 
 
90 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 It's fitsteps, surely, creepin' slow — 
 Noo is the chance to strike the blow ! " 
 Dark was the nicht — ye scarce could see 
 At aicht yards aff, a hoose or tree ; 
 But jist that meeuit at his lug, 
 A man cam' by him wi' a dowg ; 
 Sae Grieve turn'd roon' wi' boiliu bluid, 
 An' rush'd to whare the figure stuid, 
 An' gript him firmly by the throat — 
 But, by my feth ! he met a Scot, 
 Wha there an' then did use his nieve 
 In spite o' cries for ae reprieve. 
 
 At length Grieve rose upon his feet, 
 As sair a sicht as ane could meet ; 
 Syne gaed an' wauken'd up the hoose, 
 An' gar'd them let the watch-do wg loose. 
 To Tarn an' Pate he gied command 
 To scoore the wuds wi' gun in hand, 
 Or wi' the dowg hunt doon the villain 
 Wha gied him sic a fearfu' millin'. 
 
 Sae aff they set for near a mile, 
 When they cam' slap against a stile 
 Whare gipsy tents were pitch'd aroon', 
 
HOWGATE JOCK. 91 
 
 An a' the gangrels sleepiu' soun' ! 
 
 But riclit afore them, near a tree, 
 
 A form, wi' three dowgs they could see 
 
 Move on below the pale munelicht, 
 
 Like some dreid warlock o' the nicht ; 
 
 An' jist as they turn'd roon' to flee, 
 
 The dowgs rushed at them furiouslie, 
 
 An' wurried first the farmer's dowg, 
 
 An' chowed its jaws frae lug to lug, 
 
 Then set upon the ploughman, Pate, 
 
 An' bit him at an awfu' rate, 
 
 While Tarn cried " Murder ! " whare he stuid 
 
 A' covered owre wi' dreepin' bluid. 
 
 This rous'd the gipsies frae then tents, 
 
 Wha gather'd roun' wi' fierce comments, 
 
 That werena vera nice to hear 
 
 To ony decent body's ear ; 
 
 While Tam an' Pate ta'en to their heels, 
 
 As if beset by howlin' deils, 
 
 An' sune got hanie wi' ruefu' faces, 
 
 Their claes a' torn in shamefu' places. 
 
 A week gaed by ere girnin' Grieve 
 Could his ain ruif wi' safetv leave ; 
 
92 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 His nerves had been sae sairly shaken 
 That thochts o' death had left him quakin' ; 
 But sune as strength cam' back again, 
 Revengefu' plans bum'd in his brain. 
 Syne he gar'd Tammas dig a pit, 
 Near twa ell deep by thirteen fit 
 Or mair in length ; an awfu' hole 
 To bury ony livin' soul ! — 
 Jist richt foment the widden shed 
 Whare the auld cuddy had its bed. 
 The trap was fill'd hauf fu' o' glaur, 
 To mak' the tummle a' the waur ; 
 Saugh twigs an' grass the pit-mooth hid, 
 That nane micht ken — but them wha did. 
 Grieve chuckled owre the artfu' plan, 
 An' made cock-sure to catch his man ; 
 But och ! sic schemes " gang aft aglee," 
 An' this did too, as you will see. 
 
 That nicht when Pate was in the toon, 
 He had a crack wi' Jock Colquhoun, 
 Aboot the trap that had been set, 
 An' three times warn'd him what he'd get 
 If gript, — but Jock jist only laughed, 
 An' said, "Ye surely think me daft ! 
 
HOWGATE JOCK. 93 
 
 Catch me ! my feth — as sure's a wuddy — 
 Instead o' me he'll trap his cuddy." 
 For be it kent, 'twas Jock Colquhoun 
 That frae auld Howgate had cam' doon, 
 An' ta'en the cuddy oot the shed 
 When folk were soun' asleep in bed. 
 
 Next mornin', near han' twa o'clock, 
 Grieve frae his sleep in fricht awoke, 
 On hearin' cries an' Wallace barkin' ; 
 He rais'd the winnock sash to harken', 
 When on his ear an awfu' bray 
 Was heard, like thunder far away ; — 
 " God ! that's the cuddy oot again — 
 I ken his roar — the thing's quite plain ; " 
 An' chucklin' as he thus withdrew, 
 He cried, " I hae the villain noo ; 
 Success at last has croon'd my plan, 
 An' feth ! I'll trap the guilty man 1 " 
 
 Wi' dowg he set aff by the burn, 
 Jist whare it tak's a sudden turn 
 To brawl alang a darksome wood, 
 Whare ance a creakin' gibbet stood ; 
 An' there he's ta'en his eerie stan', 
 The dowg ahint, an' stick in han' — 
 
94 SCOTS POEMS AND BALL A NTS. 
 
 A cudgel, feth ! as thick's my arm, 
 
 Eneuch to dae the deevil harm ; 
 
 When lo ! before his glow'rin' een 
 
 A spectre on a beast was seen, 
 
 That gied his soul an awfu' fricht, 
 
 As on it cam' in braid munelicht, 
 
 A' dress'd in white, an' moving slow, 
 
 Like some appalling shade o' woe ! 
 
 The farmer's senses seem'd to reel, 
 
 An' e'en his collie gied a squeal, 
 
 When afl wi' licht'nin' speed he flew, 
 
 An' then was heard a wild halloo ; 
 
 The spectre followed het an* fast, 
 
 An' yell'd like murder in the blast, 
 
 Across the burn an' up the gate, 
 
 They drave alang, but ah ! owre late — 
 
 The farmer an' the dowg an' a', 
 
 Ran richt against a ruin'd wa' ! 
 
 Owre whilk Grieve loup'd like some gorilla- 
 
 The vera dowg seem'd made a fule o', 
 
 Then sprang attour his master's heid 
 
 An' scoor'd awa' wi' reekin' speed ! 
 
 His master tummle't ance or twice, 
 
 Then up again jist in a trice, 
 
HO WG ATE JOCK. 95 
 
 An' made richt for the cuddy's shed — 
 
 The ghaist ahint whare'er he led ; 
 
 Syne jist as he got to the pit, 
 
 A saughlin' twig tript up his fit, 
 
 An' owre he fell in his ain trap, 
 
 Wi' sic an awfu' yell an' slap, 
 
 As doon beside him, glaur'd an' muddy, 
 
 In rows his aia lang-luggit cuddy ! 
 
 The servants roos'd wi' auld Grieve's cries, 
 To show a bold front ilk ane tries, 
 An' quickly jump frae oot their beds, 
 Wi' fear like what the guilty dreads 
 When death comes starin' in their face, 
 As hope forsakes their hopeless case ; 
 Sae, rushin' oot at ilka door, 
 Like Bedlamites in some wild splore, 
 They ran to whare the noise was heard, 
 An' there, in truth, some monster stirr'd — 
 Yet they could scarce believe their een, 
 That it was auld Rob Grieve they'd seen, 
 Until he roar'd, " What niak's ye wait ? 
 Come, help me oot this dreidfu' state ; " 
 An' then wi' rakes they got him up, 
 An' drew him oot wi' nervous grup, 
 
96 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 An' didna' fear to laugh ootricht, 
 When they saw Grieve in sic a plicht ; 
 An' then they tried to save the cuddy, 
 Row'd up in something glaur'd an' duddy, 
 For it was covered wi' a sheet 
 That hung doon nearly to its feet. 
 A' this was dune by Jock Colquhoun, 
 The tricky, mischief-makin' loon, 
 Wha dress'd himsel' as weel in white, 
 Resolved to hae a nicht's delight 
 In hunting Grieve into his pit, 
 An' weel the rogue accomplished it ; 
 Syne as he near'd the hidden snare, 
 The cunning fox ta'en every care 
 To leave the cuddy's back in time, 
 Tho' ane could scarcely see a stime, 
 Then pusht the brute richt in the hole 
 Whare Grieve knee-deep in mud did roll, 
 While Jock made aff wi' inward glee, 
 An' left them there to do or dee ! 
 
 Next day the news spread a' aroon' 
 Hoo Grieve had been sae sair ta'en doon, 
 An' hoo his wife, near-han' dementit, 
 Fell in the pit owre him an' fentit ! 
 
B YGONE DA YS. 97 
 
 The gossips roon' by Logan Lee — 
 A hantle mair than twa or three — 
 Long wonder'd wha had been aboot 
 That nicht, but it was ne'er fand oot — 
 For Howgate Jock, the slee an' bauld, 
 The secret ne'er to ony tauld. 
 
 BYGONE DAYS. 
 
 " Sublimely free ; where none intrudes, 
 I feel the trance of loneliness." 
 
 From labour's turmoil let me steal away 
 
 To where the burnie smoothly glides along; 
 Half-hid by foliage from the glare of day, 
 Where I may sing an unpretending song. 
 Sweet the release, as thus I roam with joy 
 Back to the haunts oft traversed when a boy ; 
 Light-hearted then, before dark grief and care 
 Oppress'd my soul with sadness and despair. 
 
 The village churchyard wears a peaceful look, 
 So thitherward I slowly wend my way ; 
 
98 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 How changed seems all since that last part I took 
 
 In laying her in death's cold bed of clay. 
 Here undisturbed I raise the veil of years, 
 And see the maiden of my heart in tears ! 
 We loved too fondly — but life's hopes were marred, 
 And now she sleeps within the old churchyard. 
 
 Time's ruthless hand hath many changes made : 
 Now Commerce reigns where once sweet Nature 
 smiled ; 
 The lover's haunt is now the seat of trade, 
 
 Where sordid crowds resort with souls denied. 
 Still old Craigmillar meets my ardent gaze, 
 And yonder fane revives the hymn of praise, 
 Where mother taught me early to adore — 
 O God ! renew the dream of youth once more. 
 
 — o— 
 THE HAUDIN' 0' THE BAIRN. 
 
 A DORIC DOMESTIC COMEDY. 
 
 " Sit doon an' baud the bairn, Jock, for oh, I'm tired 
 
 an' sair ; 
 There ! gie it, man, that stick o' rock — its heid ! losh 
 
 keep's ! tak' care ! 
 
THE HA UDHST a THE BAIRN. 99 
 
 Whaever saw the like o' that ? ye glaikit, senseless fule, 
 It's time, I'm thinkin', ye were at some oot-day rmrsin' 
 schule ! 
 
 " Ye canna haud the bairn"? o'dsake ! ye're jist like a' 
 
 the men ; 
 Put on your braws, an' gang an' rake the streets till after 
 
 ten. 
 What ! haud my tongue ? I'll no the nicht, unless you 
 
 tak' the bairn, 
 An' let me gie my haun's a dicht, for I've the claes to 
 
 airn. 
 
 " A bannet wi' a moss-rose flower, Jean, too's, been 
 
 makin' up, 
 An' sae this nicht I maun rin owre, but losh ! your 
 
 parritch sup." 
 " A' richt ! " quo' I ; " but dinna stey, for when his sicht 
 
 ye leave 
 There's naethin' but a girnin' aye, that micht the hale 
 
 land deave ! 
 
 " You see as weel as me, guidwife, the bairn'll no keep 
 
 quate ; " 
 Thae twa three simple words meant strife, (your ear, I 
 
 dreided Kate ! ) 
 
100 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 She took her shawl frae oot the kist, syne stapt to whaur 
 
 I sat, 
 Dealt me a firm blow wi' her fist, an' cried, " Guidman, 
 
 tak' that ! 
 
 " Ye'll no begin your pranks wi' me ! na, feth ! I'll rule 
 
 the hoose, 
 An' let folk see I'll rather gie than tak' frae you abuse. 
 Mind, here at nicht I'll hae nae strife, an' gin ye lift your 
 
 haun', 
 I'll aiblins gie ye single life for sax weeks, understaun' ! " 
 
 Wi' that she left the hoose, an' clashed the door ahint 
 
 her back, 
 The shock o' whilk aicht pictures smash'd, an' brocht 
 
 doon, too, the rack 
 Whereon the delf sae showy stuid — delf she had kept 
 
 for years ; 
 This I kenn'd weel wad raise her bluid, an' bring words 
 
 to my ears. 
 
 I didna wait till she got hame but quickly gaed to 
 
 bed 
 An' fell asleep ; when mornin' came she wauken'd me 
 
 an' said — 
 
THE HAUDIN' O THE BAIRN. 101 
 
 " What gar'd ye lose your temper, Jock, an' smash the 
 
 delf like that 1 " 
 But I ae single word ne'er spoke, altho' her een were 
 
 wat. 
 
 She noo saw plainly she'd been rash, but little guess'd 
 
 the door 
 Had been the cause o' a' the smash that still lay on the 
 
 floor ; 
 Kate thocht that I in passion Strang, whene'er she had 
 
 gane oot, 
 Pu'd doon the pictures wi' a bang, an' flang the bowls 
 
 aboot. 
 
 Noo, I, in keeping to mysel' the rale facts o' the case, 
 Hae gied— an' I am prood to tell — dour Discontent, a 
 
 chase 
 Far frae the hoose whaur I reside in comfort wi' my 
 
 Kate, 
 Whase tongue at first I couldna bide— oh, wonderfu' is 
 
 Fate! 
 
 Noo, when my wife at nicht wants oot she doesna staun* 
 
 an' flyte, 
 Nor fling a bauchle nor a cloot like some ane gane clean 
 
 gyte, 
 
102 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 But saftly tak's me roun' the neck an' says, " Gin ye're 
 
 no carein', 
 I'd like to see Jean Auchinleck ; John, dear, ye'll haud 
 
 the bairn ! " 
 
 THE FISHER LASS. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 When breezes soft were blawid, 
 Ae niclit at gloamid grey, 
 
 Ari ploomen wild d been sawin\ 
 Did hameward tak" their way, 
 
 On Bervie Braes, a lassie fair 
 
 I met wi' bonnie gowden hair, 
 Ad spati her by the way. 
 
 The lassies o' Auld Reekie toun 
 Are weel-faur'd, blythe, an' braw, 
 
 An' gin ye gang the waiT aroun' 
 Ye canna them owrethraw ; 
 
 But whiles, far frae life's bizzin' race, 
 A flower ye'll aiblins see 
 
THE FISHER LASS. 103 
 
 Whose modest, unassuming grace, 
 WT ithers bears the gree. 
 
 A fisher lass o' low degree 
 
 May hae a heart fu' leal, 
 Tho' lacking gear — a glancing e'e — 
 
 An' rowth o' love as weel. 
 An' tent ye, tho' her humble hame 
 
 The gaudy may pass by, 
 There's ane upon the saut sea faem 
 
 Whase thochfs a' micht envie. 
 
 By auld Dunnottar's castled wa's 
 
 Love's pledge at mirk is gi'en, 
 But ere another morning daws, 
 
 Tears may start to the een. 
 But gin this fisher lassie wed 
 
 The chiel wha gangs to sea, 
 May Fortune favours on her shed 
 
 Where'er life's voyage be. 
 
104 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 "NANA." 
 
 BY GOSPODIN MARCELL DE SUCHOROWSKY. 
 
 WHAT brilliant and consummate art is here revealed ! 
 A faultless form and face, whose liquid living eyes 
 Prove far above the art's mere technique thou can'st 
 rise. 
 limner great ! God spare thee long, that thou may'st 
 
 wield 
 The brush, and Pygmalion-like, work into life 
 
 By masterly manipulation such as this, 
 For sensuous passions universally are rife ; 
 
 But this ethereal and vivifying bliss 
 Makes earth a heaven, forsooth, and woman's worth 
 ten-fold ! 
 Enthrall'd I gaze! and know not which most to 
 admire, 
 Thyself or her whose lineaments confront me now ? 
 To both I would bequeath the wreath that crowns thy 
 brow. 
 For did not Love and " Nana's " prototype inspire, 
 Till Genius, charmed at length, her aid could not 
 withhold. 
 
"ENGLISH AS SHE IS SPOKE." 105 
 
 " ENGLISH AS SHE IS SPOKE." 
 
 "An almost incredible atrocity has been perpetrated in 
 Glasgow. That home of English undefiled has been griev- 
 ously insulted by a priggish educationist." — SCOTSMAN, 
 Sept. 16, 1886. 
 
 " Oh, ivad some poiver the giftie gie us, 
 To see oorsels as ithers see us" 
 
 Waes me ! St Mmigo's in a plicht, 
 For wow ! she's got an unco slicht, 
 Frae Education's august hicht, 
 
 An unctious wail 
 Deservedly is brocht to liclit, 
 
 An' mak's a' quail. 
 
 Time there was when the mither tongue, 
 Was deftly woo'd by auld an' young, 
 But on your pride cauld water's flung, 
 
 So tak' ye care ; 
 Nae auld Scots sangs maun noo be sung, 
 
 For poison's there ! 
 
106 SCOTS POEMS AND BALL ANTS. 
 
 The "mincing, mumbling" Glasgow folk, 
 Guid English jilt " as she is spoke," 
 And doctor bodies greatly shock, 
 
 Wi' accent rough ; 
 Then comes the loud official croak — 
 
 A selfish puff; 
 
 " Until enunciation's clear, 
 The nursery's meet place I fear, 
 For jargon that assails the ear 
 
 At ilka stap ; 
 Contamination's gaun to bear 
 
 A fruitfu' crap ! " 
 
 To air this bauld pedantic view, 
 A whurly birkie starts up noo, 
 An' wi' remarks that arena true, 
 
 He tak's in haun', 
 To foist on us a Cockney stew — 
 
 Presumptuous spawn ! 
 
 A weak-knee'd naig for you to ride, 
 Was Vanity, oh, Dr Clyde, 
 So stay ye at your ain fireside, 
 
 An' dry the cloak 
 
LENORE. 107 
 
 That sank ye i' the surgin' tide 
 O' wrathfu* folk ; 
 
 St Mungo, hang fu' laigh your heid, 
 An' frae a hank o' Jamie's threed, 
 Tie weel the tongue that does secede 
 
 Frae accent pure, 
 Until in Cockney dress ye dead 
 
 Your voice so soor ! 
 
 LENORE. 
 
 Oh, lovely, fair ; oh, lovely, fair, 
 
 You move this heart of mine, 
 And bring to mind one as refined — 
 
 Whom I adored langsyne. 
 Thy sweetness, too, revives anew 
 
 The flame of love once more ; 
 And oh, thine eyes secure the ties 
 
 That bound me to Lenore. 
 
 She sought in life to lessen strife, 
 Where crime and folly reigned, 
 
108 SCOTS POEMS AND BALL ANTS. 
 
 And overthrow the sin and woe 
 
 Of Passion foully stained, 
 That thus the soul might own control — 
 
 And seek God to adore ; 
 Oh, yonder sun ne'er shone on one 
 
 As good as my Lenore. 
 
 With winter came Death's silent claim — 
 
 And shrined my saintly maid, 
 Whose acts of grace still find a place 
 
 Where they will never fade. 
 And tho' the tears of bygone years 
 
 Flow not ; still, in my heart, 
 I proudly own, in thee, Unknown, 
 
 I've found her counterpart. 
 
FISHING IN THE TWEED. 109 
 
 FISHING IN THE TWEED, 
 
 The ither mom wi' joy an' speed — for lang't had been 
 
 my wish — 
 I set aff for the banks o' Tweed, wi' rod in han' to fish 
 Below the brig that half across puts you on English 
 
 soil, 
 An' as I had nae time to loss I cuist my line for spoil. 
 
 The first twa 'oors the sun shone forth, an' sport was 
 
 unco guid, 
 But soon a cauld win' frae the north began to freeze my 
 
 bluid ; 
 However, up the Tweed I kept slow moving wi' my 
 
 line, 
 An' into mony dubs aft stept, like Paddy Murphy's swine. 
 
 My hooks I'd soon hung in my hat, there is nae doubt, 
 
 had I 
 No promised to the wifie that I'd bring her hame a fry ; 
 
110 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 Sae no to mak' mysel' a fule, an' baud her scaulding 
 
 tongue, 
 I left the hame resolve to cool, an' " Caller Herring" 
 
 sung. 
 
 I just was at " Wha'll buy my ca — " when oot my 
 
 trembling han' 
 The rod was nearly pu'd awa' — wi' fricht I scarce could 
 
 stan' ! 
 Guid save us a' ! what can it be ? quick — oot I swish'd 
 
 the line, 
 But owre my heid it gript a tree whilk some folk ca' a 
 
 pine. 
 
 Here was a fix ! up soon I gaed, but quicker, feth ! cam' 
 
 doon ; 
 The only thing that made me fleyed was, had I split 
 
 my croon % 
 Wi' ae big lump upon my heid, I gat the line a' richt, 
 An' thocht I'd try ance mair the Tweed ere leaving for 
 
 the nicht. 
 
 In gaed the line ! what — what is that ? " By gosh ! " 
 
 cried I, " a troot ! " 
 An' fair owrecome wi' nerves I sat doon ere I'd draw it 
 
 oot ; 
 
JAMES SMITH. Ill 
 
 But up at last, a' owre wi' sweat, thro' mony a thrawsome 
 
 wauchle, 
 I landed safely at my feet a — what dae ye think ? — 
 
 a bauchle ! 
 
 — o- 
 
 JAMES SMITH. 
 
 PRINTER-POET, AND STORY WRITER. 
 
 Born March 2, 1824. Died Dec. 12, 1887. 
 
 GONE from our midst ! that manly heart of hearts, 
 Whose unpretentious efforts lessons taught 
 When deep-mind ministrations went for naught ! 
 
 A player on Life's stage, whose many humble parts 
 He play'd, and well. Adversity's most direful hour 
 He felt ; but in its soul-refining power, 
 
 His Doric lyre, with nature's chords now strung, 
 
 Vibrated wheresoe'er was heard the Scottish tongue. 
 
 Create no sad regret ! hath Death claim'd all control ? 
 A triumph over humble efforts done ? 
 Ah ! surely not ; for as the glorious sun, 
 
 Uplifting in its daily course the sadden' d soul, 
 So will Smith's songs a life's elixir prove 
 Wherever human hearts fraternally may move. 
 
112 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 JOHN BREMNAR. 
 
 (on seeing his photo.) 
 
 John Bremnar ! ay, assuredly this whim 
 With truthfulness brings back the sight of him 
 With lyart haffets, and the shrivelled form ; — 
 Who fear'd no man, and faced the wildest storm ; 
 Who grumbles not, but still with head erect, 
 Moves on and gains the burgh's deep respect, 
 
 Describe John Bremnar ? — strange that's ne'er been 
 done ! — 
 Honest of purpose, face as sweet's the sun ! 
 Sturdy and strong once, back now bent with years, 
 And broad brow bronzed and wrinkled; — voice that 
 
 cheers. 
 His old surtout's been thirty summers worn, 
 And truth to tell no part of it is torn ; 
 Antique % undoubtedly, and meets the knee 
 Whereon the bairns are dandled — sight to see — 
 Young life and old in joyous ecstasy. 
 
JOHN BREMNAR. 113 
 
 His pow is towzy, and his eyes ne'er lack 
 Deep sympathy ; voluminous his crack, 
 And connoisseur of quaintest bric-a-brac. 
 His wide- a wake's familiar, and his " tile " 
 Has oft evoked the stranger's brightest smile ; 
 His wit and humour's ever crisp and keen, 
 Recalling what the bygone days have been. 
 Twice forty years life's ceaseless ebb and flow, 
 He's viewed, and strives even yet by acts to show 
 The noble mind triumphant will prevail, 
 Tho' flaunting Pomp and Arrogance assail. 
 
 Such is John Bremnar, honest soul and true, 
 Whose outward semblance now confronts my view ; 
 "Whose words and deeds are photographed to-day 
 In hearts, and generations yet may sway. 
 
 True ! art as this must soon give way to dust, 
 But old John's worth will live in memory's trust. 
 
114 SCOTS POEMS AND BALLANTS. 
 
 TO HIS MEMORY. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 HEARTS grief-stricken, irreparable thy loss ! 
 And nations bow in veneration for the dead — 
 Great and illustrious. Across the bar hath sped 
 
 The high-soul'd Song God, shrined in immortality. 
 
 Not long the waves of knawing anguish deign'd to toss 
 The aged barque whose treasures, no need now to 
 
 presage, 
 As the meridian sun, a glorious heritage. 
 
 His song of vestal purity and nobleness, 
 
 Heart-throbb'd, illumes the dark recesses of the mind, 
 And in the hazy labyrinth of Creeds combined, 
 
 The' mysticism rent reveals Doubt's dull abyss. 
 
 Still'd now the voice % Nay, nay ; all is not o'er and 
 
 past, — 
 The garland drops not from the Poet's brow who 
 taught 
 Love, Faith profound, and Hope, that ages will outlast. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
RHYMES FRAE THE CHIMLA-LUG. 
 
 By J. W. M'LAREN, "The Laddie Bard.". 
 (Out of Print.) 
 
 Extracts from Opinions of the Press. 
 
 "T.iero la unquestionable simplicity and freshness, both of mood and expression 
 of promise "X™™" S eQUJDe "uinour, and a sprightliness of diction that is fuli 
 
 ,»!? h f ap Pf a ™! ce of s " ch , a b00k »« 'Rhymes frae the Chimla-Lug,' agreeably 
 
 Uiat ttifi ud ^'«M / " r, R " ??' yet AeeA \ These dor,c lu.-ub™ti„L show 
 w5£*t2 m au " ,0 , r '. r ', ie Laddie Bard,' possesses in some degree the natural sim- 
 plicity, the impu lsive freshness the genuine pathos, the exquisite humour of our 
 national poet. — Glasgow Herald. ul uur 
 
 = ^?M ditaU ' e °°l °" ly to tu< ;;, Laddie.' but might almost be the productions of 
 a much more mature poet All the pieces have a purity of tone and refinement 
 throughout which give au additional value to them."— Dahy Review. reuuemenc 
 „ "His descriptions of nature are vivid and truthful, while he hits off the foibles 
 and frailties of humanity with much humour and tenderness. The ' Rhymes ' ore- 
 sent features of inters surpassed by the lucuorations of few who have wooed the 
 muse at ins age. — Kaiaouryk Evening Xews. 
 
 "Highly creditable to the author His homely, everyday pictures of humble 
 life show a close observer of, and a keen sympathiser with, men in many of the 
 passing incident, of their lives. The -Rhymes' show that the ' Laddie Bard' has 
 a good share of the poetic faculty, and with care and culture he will likelv "ive the 
 world something more enduring than the present volume, praiseworthy as°it is "— 
 Dundee Courier and A ry us. #«»»»«. 
 
 «vi The PJ odu ^ions do the author great credit. To the lovers of the muse 
 Rhymes frae the Ch.mla-Lug' should be a welcome little treasure."- -Dumbarton 
 
 "When we consider that the author of this little volume of poems and son<*s is 
 yet a mere youth, being known chiefly as 'The Laddie Bard.' we are artonishedat 
 the amount of insight into human nature which the writer seems to possess and of 
 the happy gift of turning all around him into 'sweet flowing song ' We trust that 
 the author maybe spared to maturer years to add yet more to the songs of his 
 country. —Hawick Advertiser. 
 
 "Wonderful specimens of precocious talent."— West Lothian Courier. 
 
 "The themes are all a hearty and healthy class, showing a creative imagination 
 without much artificial polish. Poems which speak to the heart «-S 
 A.dver titter. ' **■ «*»••« 
 
 "He depicts with much truthfulness, in Embro-Scotch, a variety of scenes at 
 once life-hke and humorous. His couplets run smoothly, while at no time does he 
 sacrifice sense to sound. Humorous and pathetic by turns, a good moral strain runs 
 through all Ins songs."— Ardrossan Herald. ™ 
 
 "A youthful poet of no mean order. We wish for the volume an extensive cir- 
 Jfeforroer PamS bestowed by the clever r0UI1 B author."- BmOterg^t 
 
 " A couthy casket."— Scotsman {America). 
 
 . . . . "Much enjoyment I have found in their perusal. You have struck the 
 chord of nature. Go ou and prosper."— Rev. David Macrae, Dundee. 
 
 «\V-- " l h ? Ve r ! ad enou g h .°f '"em already to form a very favourable opinion 
 of their merits, and to appreciate the simple and sincere spirit in which thev are 
 written. I congratulate you on your success." -Henry W. Longfellow. 
 
 . . . . "Read many of them with pleasure. They are fuller of dialect than most 
 Scottish poems, but interest me none the less on that account, while to your own 
 countrymen they must have a flavour of nationality which will render them espe- 
 cially acceptable. I hope you will continue to find the flowery path of literature 
 into which you have ventured more and more agreeable the further you wander m 
 it. —Oliver Wendell Holmes. J m»"»oi m 
 
Uomm^ CatcMron; 
 
 OB, PATCHES FRAE A PRINTER'S POUCH. 
 
 By J. W. M'LAREN. 
 Opinions of the Press. 
 
 " Mr. M'Laren gives abundant proofs in this publication that he possesses 
 a rich fund of humour and a rare vocabulary of Scotch words, phrases, and 
 idioms. Tommy's funny 'ploys' and escapades, in most of which his wife 
 Tibbie takes a prominent if not a leading part, are described in a most amusing 
 way. Most of the dozen articles which go to make up the tiny volume could 
 be effectively used as 'Scotch Readings,' which have become somewhat fashion- 
 able in these limes at festive entertainments." — People's Journal. 
 
 " We have derived much pleasure from the perusal of this book. The stories 
 — which are twelve in number— describe the experiences of Tommy Catchiron 
 and his better half Tibbie, and are very humorous. Mr. M'Laren is evidently a 
 keen observer of human nature, and his pictures of the every day life of the 
 lower classes are vivid and truthful." — Scottish Nights. 
 "Written in a spirit of broad humour." — literary World. 
 
 "Mr. M'Laren has in this entertaining collection shown his ability to write 
 prose as well as poetry. Tommy's experiences with Tibbie, the guidwife, are 
 most amusing, and many of the readings might be found suitable for evening 
 entertainments. The illustrations, which are comical in the extreme, give zest to 
 the sketches." — Hawick Advertiser. 
 
 " This is a series of very humorous sketches in the Scotch dialect. It comes 
 from the East whence is supposed to spring all erudition, and is a credit to its 
 class of works. Mr. M'Laren does not, for the first time, court public favour ; 
 he has already won his laurels as a homely poet of no mean standing. His 
 ' Rhymes frae the Chim'.ey Lug' still ring in the public ear, and are still read 
 round many ai'chimley.' Though he hails from the East, whose Scotch may 
 not always be said to be classic, he has benefited so much by his acquaintance 
 with west-country Scotch literature as to keep his pen clear of the many peculi- 
 arities that are to be found amongst oriental (Scotch) writers of the same class. 
 His Scotch is, despite its nativity, decidedly Burnsonian, and therefore appeals 
 more to us in the West Mr. M'Laren's humour is of that knock-about kind 
 which never fails to raise the laugh, and so graphic is he in his description, that 
 his pictures are produced with a vividness worthy of a Flaubert or a Rabelais. 
 The author has no mean power in setting off the salient points of a person's 
 personality, and many a time one cannot help thinking that his characters are 
 sketched from life, so realistic are they. In conversation he is quite at home, 
 and many of his situations are not only very funny but highly dramatic. But 
 you must read 'Tommy Catchiron ' lor yourself. Taken now and again it will 
 while away many a morbid minute, and help to make a pleasant evening pass 
 more pleasantly." — The Chiel. 
 
 "There is real humour in this little book, so readers, professional and 
 amateur, should buy it." — The Elocutionist. 
 
 " The broad Doric humour of ' Tommy Catchiron ' delineates Scottish home 
 life in its humble aspects with rare fidelity. Though the fun is of a rollocking 
 order, it is unmistakably natural, and is also distinguished by dramatic force 
 and familiarity, which arrests attention, while the risibility of the reader follows 
 the perusal of the sketches with refreshing zest. A healthy moral pervades the 
 book and counteracts the levity of dramatic action."— Dundee Weekly News. 
 
 " These really racy and amusing sketches of the mishaps and adventures of 
 an aged couple of 'Scottish Worthies,' by the author of 'Rhymes Frae tho 
 Chiniia-Lug,' are worthy of a place beside ' Jeems Kaye,' or 'Tammas Bodkin.' 
 It is a little publication' that will not be loitered over, and it will afford many a 
 hearty and healthy laugh. The author's Doric is generally pure, and such 
 sketches as 'A Visit to the Waxwork.' 'Wannert in Lunnon,' 'The Hoose- 
 takin.' and others we could mention, contain much genuine humour, as well as 
 exquisite pathos, and touches that reveal a careful study of what is curious and 
 droll in human nature. The most of the chapters r»re very suitable for public 
 reading, and would take immensely."— Brechin Advertiser. 
 
 Mr. Gladstone and "Tommy Catchiron. " — " From a glance already taken I 
 anticipate much entertainment on perusal. (Signed)— Yours faithful and obedient, 
 W. E Gladstone." 
 

 AT ARDOCH ROMAN CAMP. 
 
 A BHYME TO HUGH HALIBCRTON*, ANDREW LANG, AND 
 R. L. STEVENSON. 
 
 To-DAY I lie wharo Romans lay 
 
 iJare-brow'd an' fu' o' fight ; 
 The Ochils stretching far away, 
 
 An' bathed in gowden light. 
 
 Heart free frae city din an' strife, 
 The breezes round me playing ; 
 
 An' thochts wi' cankered cares fu' rife^ 
 To fancies sweet are swaying. 
 
 Attoure the hills I cast a glance 
 To hamlets brichtly gleaming, 
 
 An oh the sights amaist entrance- 
 There Hughie micht be dreaming. 
 
 A'lld Scotland ! Wale o' a' an' mair, 
 
 His footsteps shadow ever, 
 An' mak' the chiel thy special care— 
 
 The frien'ship lose it never ! 
 
 Thv herops an' ilk noble deed, < 
 
 He weaves in sang an' story, „ 
 
 Wi' hichts an' bowes that often lead 
 To whare they foeht for glory. 
 
 An' musing thus, I fain wad share 
 
 The honours wi' anither — 
 "Dear Andrew wi' the brindled hair, 
 
 Wha hauds us a' thegither. 
 
 To tak' the gate to him I'm fain, 
 Though langsome be the journey, 
 
 But gin I gang, he's maybe ta'en ^5 
 
 His rod an' to some burnie. ^ 
 
 An' what o' ane wham Logan Lee * 
 
 Has missed, but aye reveres ? 
 The Scots romancer owre the sea, 
 
 Wha Wattie's laurel wears. 
 
 Ah, Rah • Samoa may be blest ! 
 
 But picture Scotland greeting ! 
 Ye doubt ? Then put it to the test, 
 
 I'll wad I'm at the meeting. 
 
 The shadows gather on the hills 
 As back my way I'm wending, 
 
 An' but ae wish rr.y bosom 611s — 
 May a' three weel be fending. 
 
 J. Wilson M'Laren. 
 
 $ 
 
 4 
 
 e^ 
 

 
YD 49044 
 
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