r .- cr < (ft h h 3 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND (Dther ftonnB atib Jleabmga. By JAMES NICHOLSON, Author of " Kilwuddie," " Willie Wcuugh," "Father Femie* "Idylls o' Hame," etc. anD jnlar0efc BMtion. GLASGOW: JAMES M'GEACHY & CO., 89 UNION STREET, 1888. LOAN STACK GLASGOW : HAY NISBET & CO., PRINTERS, 25 JAMAICA STREET. CONTENTS. Tibbie her Lane, .... 9 Tibbie and Madge, Tibbie and her Faither, . . . 16 Wee Tibbie and her Bib, . . . 22 Tibbie's Welcome, ... 26 Tibbie and the Minister, ... 30 Tibbie and her Uncle, ... 34 Gran'faither in the Puir's-Hoose, . . 39 The Prodigal Faither, . . 44 Tibbie and Lizzie, . . . 48 The Auld-Farrant Wean, . . . 51 An' I were ance but Seventeen, . . 53 The Wee Laddie's First Soiree, . . 56 The Hameless Laddie, . . . 61 Jeanie's Secret, . . . . 65 The No 7 Weel Lassie, . . 69 The No' Weel Lassie's Dream, . . 72 The Wee Worn Frock, ... 75 The Wee Doug's Appeal to his Drucken Maister, 78 TheTwaDougs, ... 84 The Perplexed Preacher, . . 89 The Laird o' Derrinane, . . . 93 What's the Matter ? . . . 98 Thy Darling is not Dead ! 100 Rosamine, . . . . 102 The Frichtit Wean, . . . 105 Cor Wee Kate, . . . . 116 Tmph-m, . . . . . 118 531 8 CONTENTS. The Bonnie Templar Lassie, A Snooze in the Mornin', , What dae ye think o' Jeanie 1 Hither and Yon, . Whisky's Awa, My Bonnie Wee Wifie an' I, The Auld Hearthstane, Hoo Things cam' roun' in the Mornin', Good Templar's Marching Song, . Who are the Heroes ? Ye Daughters of Beauty, . Oor Bonnie Wee Bairns, . A Faither to ye a', A Plea for the Bairna, Cutty Sark, A Kiss frae a Bairnie's Mou', An Auld Man's Sang, To the Corncrake, . Epistle to J. P. Reid, Two Little Maidens Mine, Two Little Angels, What's the Matter? (New Version), Draw them in, An Awfu' Nicht, . New Version o' an Auld Rhyme, . The Fair Maids o' February, Fissidens Bryoides, Signs o' Spring, The Deein' Maiden, The Dyspeptic to his Stomach, Retaliation ; or the Stomach's Reply, PROSE READINGS Geordie Tulloch's Drink o' Soor Dook, Janet and the Minister, Spitting the Difference, PREFACE. WHEN the " Garland " first made its appearance, the Wee Tibbie from which it derives its name was then a little girl of ten, and though now she is a married woman, many will yet remember the deep impression she made by her choice rendering of a number of the Dialogues and Readings given in the book. Her pathetic pleading with her " faither n to give up the drink touched the hearts of all who heard her, and was the means of converting not a few to the principles of total abstinence, Knowing that Thomas Carlyle was favourable to the temperance movement, I sent him a copy of the book, which drew from him a very cordial reply, from which the following is an extract, " Mr. Carlyle read your book with real pleasure, and feels great respect for the tenderness, grace, and even pathos in it. He sends his best wishes to " Wee Tibbie," and hopes that she may, by and by, become a very useful member of society. With his best thanks and good wishes for yourself, I am, dear sir, yours very truly, " MARY CARLYLE AITKEN." C PREFACE, The "Garland" having been for sometime out of print, I have thought fit to issue a new and enlarged edition, including a number of Poems and Readings more recently written, while quite in keeping with the rest of the book. Thanking my numerous friends for their liberal patronage, and trusting my humble efforts to amuse, as well as to elevate and instruct, may find favour with all, is the highest aspiration of the author. MEBBYFLATS, Go VAN, December, 1888. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. i. TIBBIE HEE LANE. IT'S eerie, oh it's eerie ! here, To bide ane's leesome lane In this cauld hoose sae comfortless, Especially for a wean; Gin faith er were but at his wark I wadna care a preen, But a' day in the public hoose He tines his senses clean ! It's no that he has ocht to spen', But drouthies like himsel' Find ways an' means to get the drink, Yet hoo, it's hard to tell; An' Kirsty Broon the change-hoose wife, Nae doot, is sair to blame, In giein' credit, kennin' weel Hoo things are here at hame ! A 10 WEE TIBBIE S GARLAND. Oh gin be wad but fa' to wark An' crush the fell desire, I wadna need to sit my lane Withoot ae' spunk o' fire; But noo that dreary winter's gane The lang dark nichts near by, An' the frosty winds ootside the door Nae langer moan an' sigh, I'll no be feart to sit my lane, To bed I winna creep To hide my held an' nurse the thochts That winna let me sleep. An' wha kens but the Lord abune May hear my fervent prayer, An' sen' my faither hame to me A sober man ance mair. My claes are wearin' a' to rags, My cheeks are pale an' thin ; My very banes, the neebors say, Are wearin' through my skin. Upon my feet, for months an' mair I hae'na had a shae, An' oh, to think! that Kirsty Broon Should sen' the ither day An' auld pair o' her laddie's buits No worth a broon bawbee ; But I heav'd them at his muckle heid ; My sang ! I let him see That though we're puir, we hae a pride That Puirtith canna tame WEE TIBBIE'S OAKLAND. 11 Me ! to insult wi' her auld trash ; Atweel she inicht think shame ! It's no through kindness, weel I ken, She sen's sic things to me, Her conscience winna let her rest, She kens she has to dee ! The siller that should deed me weel She kens for drink she's ta'en ; An' mair sae when she minds that she Has bairnies o' her ain! Oh happy days ! oh blissfu' times ! Ere mither pass'd awa' ; They say I was a weel-faur'd wean, An' keepit bien an' braw; The only cloud that dim'd oor sky Was when the pay-nicht cam 1 , When mither saw, wi' bodin' fear His likin' for the dram. Oh mither! but I'm glad to think Ye are'na here to share Wi' me this weary, weary life 0' sorrow, want, an' care ! My waefu' thochts ye dinna ken, My tears ye dinna see, Or in my dreams ye wadna come An' smile sae sweet on me ! Sweet dreams an' visions o' the nicht! Ye've a' the bliss I hae, For I see the angels in my sleep An' hear the harpers play; 12 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. An' mither sings a sweet, sweet sang, An' the words are wondrous fine, For they bid rne put my trust in Him Wha blest wee bairns langsyne. Nae won'er at that blessed name My heart within me warms, To think he should love bairns like me, An' clasp them in his arms ! The griefs that weigh upon my heart To him I'll freely tell, An' when he hears, he'll mind that he Was ance a bairn himsel' ! For ane amang thy human flock For ane gane far astray My faither, lang the slave o' Drink For him, dear Lord, I pray ! * shed the licht o' thy rich love Upon his precious soul ; An' save him frae the demon Drink, For thou can'st mak' him whole. II. TIBBIE AND MADGE. MADGE. WHAT ails thee, Tibbie, cousin mine? Ye look sae pale an' wae; Guid bairns should aye be blythe at heart, I've heard my mither say; WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 13 Wi' lauchin' an' wi' daffin' we Should baud the hoose in glee, While in an' oot we jink aboot, Like maukens on the lea. Dae ye ken the Spring has come, my lass? The hedges budded green, Ance mair the gowans on the lea Look up wi' lauchin' een; An' the daft wee lambs are loupin' thrang Through a' the sunny day; An' the burnie singin' to itsel' Beneath the breckan brae. i TIBBIE. Oh Madie, dearest ! dinna speak To me aboot sic things, E'en Simmer wi' its scented breath To me nae pleasure brings ; To me, a' seasons are alike, : Tis Winter a' the year, The sun o' joy that shines to bless Sheds nae warm sunlicht here ! [Laying her hand on her hearth Sae lonely is the life I lead, Sae cheerless noo oor hame ; Gin folk but look me in the face I hing my heid wi' shame ; An' a' nicht lang this waefu' thocht Ne'er lets me sleep a wink, 14 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. That faither's gaun frae bad to waur Wi' the accursed drink! MADGE. Oh Tibbie, but I'm wae for thee, My very heart is sair ! An' is there nocht that I could dae To mak' thee blythe ance mair? Come hame to us, my mither says, In comfort we'll thee keep, While in the hurley bed wi' me Sae cosily ye'll sleep. An' lea' thy cruel faither, Wha o' thee tak's little heed, The a'mry toom! the coals a' dune! I won'er ye're no deid ! Ye winna come ? ye'd rather dee ; Ah, Tibbie lass, ye hae A wee proud speerit o' yer ain, A spice o' temper tae. TIBBIE. "What ! lea' my faither to himsel 1 , When maist he needs my care ; Then wha wad sit for him at e'en An' help him up the stair ? My faither cruel-hearted! Madge? Oh little dae ye ken That faither's heart! that faither's love!- ^.mang the sons o' men, WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 15 There could'na be a kinder heart. D'ye ken, he whiles tak's me, An' faulds me to his sabbin' breast While big tears blin' his ee ? But ah! that vile enslavin' drink, It hands him like a spell, An' when he thinks he's rnaist secure He maist forgets himsel'. MADGE. Oh Tibbie ! I had maist forgot The news I cam' to tell, I've been up at the Templar's Lodge An' noo I'm ane mysel', My name stan's yonder in their books, They ca' me Sister Madge ! An' like the rest, they had me dress'd In Templar's snawy badge. An' oh, the guid that's bein' dune; Losh, Tibbie ! dae ye ken, Puir daidlin 1 bodies by the score They're makin' sober men ? An' wha kens what they micht no dae To save thy faither dear, But first ye'll come an' join yersel', 'Twas that that brocht me here. TIBBIE. Oh Madie ! if thy tale be true I winna yet despair 16 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 0' winnin' faither frae the drink, An' to himsel' ance mair ! Oh, that to us were but restor'd The happy days we spent, Wi' mither in that humble hame Sae fu' o' sweet content. Aye, Madge, I'll gang wi' thee an' join,- Wear ony kin' o' bib ; This nicht yell see me at the lodge As sure's my name is Tib ; Sae ye'll be owre at aucht o'clock - Be sure noo, Madge, an' ca', For I'll be there, be't wat or fair, The foremost o' them a' ! III. TIBBIE AND HEE FAITHEE; OR, BE SURE AN' DOUK YOUR BANNOCK IN YOUR A1N KAIL PAT. TIBBIE. YE 'BE early hame the nicht, faither! I hope there's naething wrang, For ance ye're hame at sax o'clock,- An' sober tae ! my sang ! The pay-nicht, tae, the very nicht Ye maist forget yersel', WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 17 An' rne nae less, yer ain wee Tib Here sittin' by mysel' ! Oh, farther! wad ye but gie owre That hatefu' barley-bree Forsake for aye the public-hoose An' bide at hame wi' nie, The licht o' happiness wad shine Ance mair upon our hearth; An' mak' our hame, sae comfortless, A paradise on earth. FAITHER. Aye, Tib, gude kens, ye speak the truth, For weeks on weeks I've been A black disgrace, an' thy warst foe, Instead o' thy best frien' ; An' things I've said an' dune, my lass, Wad cost thee many a tear, Unhallow'd aiths an' wicked words That bairns should never hear ! What's dune we canna mend, my lass, But here am I this nicht Besolv'd, wi' help o' heav'n, ance mair, To try an' dae what's richt. Thank God ! my folly I've seen through The secret a' fan' oot, But sit thee doon, an' hear my lass, Hoo a' this cam' aboot. 'Twas jist the day, at dinner time, I doun to Luckie Broon's, 18 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Tae pay the lawin I was awn ; It cam' to three half- croons. While stan'in' at her kitchen fire In Kir sty comes full sail, An' wi' the spurtle stirs aboot Her fat an' savoury kail. Thinks I, nae won'er than ye're fat Although I ne'er lets on, But crack'd awa', while frae my pouch I ate my dinner scone ; Sae, withoot thinkin' ony ill, As we were on the chat, I gied my piece a hearty dook In Kirsty's muckle pat: When in an instant up she flew Like ony tap o' tow; Her een like lowin' can'les bleez'd On me wi' angry glow. Ye drucken ne'er-do-weel! quo she, Ye guid-for-naething sot ! D'ye see, ye've spoilt my dinner kail I Yer dirty scone deil rot ! It's weel for ye, oor Eobin's oot ; My faith ! an' he were in, He'd thraw aboot yer ugly snout An' reesle wecl yer skin! Yer touzie beard a' dreepin' wi' My bonnie gowden fat, Gae hame an' douk yer bannock In yer ain kail pat ! WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 19 TIBBIE. A bonnie stock o' impudence Her ledyship inaun hae, An' but for thee her kail wad be Like muslin in the broo ; Nae won'er she sails in an' oot In silken dresses fine Wears fancy bonnets on her heid An' parasols divine ! Her sonsy sides weel theek'd wi' beef, Her face as red's the mune, Her fingers fat stuck owre wi' rings, An' buckles in her shoon. A drucken ne'er-do-weel, said she? Wee], if it comes to that, It's you an' ithers like ye Keep up her kail pat! FAITHEE. The very thing I said, my lass, An' pay't what I was awin', An' noo that I'm come hame to thee, Here Tib, haud oot thy han'. What's left ye'se get it, ilka groat, Five shillings mak's a croon, An' there's a new half-sovereign' That's fifteen shillings doon', A saxpence an' a fourpenny bit TIBBIE. A threepenny, if ye please ! 20 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. FAITHEE. That's saxteen a' but tippence, Tib, Wi' they twa broon bawbees ; An' mony thanks to Kirsty Broon, Her loss to me is gain, She's brocht me to mysel', an' gi'en A faither to my wean ; Henceforth I'll keep my ain fire-en', Wi' Tibbie an' her cat, An' learn to dook my bannock in My ain kail pat ! TIBBIE. But, faither dear! in a' the hoose There's neither pat nor pan, Nor delf, except a broken bowl, Forbye a jelly can; The auld black tea-pat wants the spout, An' there's the han'less pail, Sae, for my life ! I dinna see Hoo we're to mak' the kail! FAITHER. But we hae got the siller, lass ! Ha, Tibbie! that's the thing Mak's peasant equal wi' the prince The beggar wi' the king. We'll want for naething, Tibbie, lass, As lang as we hae that, An' first among the things we need, We'll buy a new kail pat. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 21 An' that reminds me, Tibbie, dear! Hoo sair I've been to blame In leavin' thee, puir helpless thing ! In sic a cheerless hame; Nae ane to speak a kindly word, Whiles naething left to eat, An' scarce a rag upon thy back, Or shoon upon thy feet ! TIBBIE. Ay, faither, 'twas a weary time, My grief nae tongue can tell, An' aften hae I pray'd the Lord To tak' me to hmisel' ! An' aften on this lonely hearth I've ask'd on bended knee That God wad touch my faither's heart An' sen' him hame to me ! An' God has heard my heartfelt prayer, To me restor'd again My faither's love oh sweet reward For a' my grief an' pain ! Then let me clasp thee to my heart An' tell thee a' my bliss, An' for a token o' the same Accept a lovin' kiss ! 22 WEE TIBBIE S GARLAND IV. WEE TIBBIE AND HER BIB. A DIALOGUE. [The scene represents the father sitting leaning on his staff, and his little daughter standing dressed in her regalia.] FAITHER. WEEL, Tibbie, lass, whaur hae ye been? Ye're buskit up fu' braw ! Sae blythe ye look, yer buffy cheeks Like simmer roses blaw. I kent yer fit upon the stair Yer han' upon the sneck, But whatna daft-like faldaral Is that aboot yer neck ? A daft-like faldaral, faither! It's naething o' the kin' ; I wadna gie that snawy gear For silken robe sae fine. D'ye ken I've join'd the Templar ranks Alang wi' cousin Madge ; They've listit, testit me for life, An' that's oor bonnie badge! FAITHER. A badge, my bairn! ou aye, I see That's what they ca' the " bib"? WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 23 But dinna hing thy head, my lass ; Na, na, my darlin' Tib ! Although I like a drap my eel 1 , To keep my heart abune, I dinna want my ain dear bairn To dae as I hae dune. No, Tibbie, since I'm growin' auld An' creepin' to the grave, I maun confess that to the drink Owre langl've been a slave. It's caused me rnuckle, muckle woe, An' aften dang me gyte; An' what ye've suffered tae, my lass, Is a' yer faither's wyte! TIBBIE. Whist, faither dear ! nae mair o' that, Let bye-gane deeds alane ; Ye're still a faither dear to me To me, yer darlin' wean. [Takes off her regalia and hides it behind her lack. An' if ye dinna like the badge, I'll pit it oot o' sicht ; But I maun keep my vow, faither The vow I made this nicht. An' I maun keep my Templar badge Aye spotless, white, an' pure, For thy ain sake, for my ain sake, While life an' strength endure. 24 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 'Twas gi'en me by the president He put it roun' my neck, An' bade me in God's name preserve My soul frae spot or spec. FAITHER. Tib! an' I were young again A pure young thing like thee, I'd face the foe mysel' an' fecht For freedom an' the free. Sae wear thy Templar's bib, my lass-- Thy bonnie badge I mean; For weel I ken through life ye'll try To keep it pure an' clean. TIBBIE. Thanks, faither! thanks! ye've made me glad Far mair than I can tell I'll wear't wi' pride; but,. faither, Let me see't upon thysel' ! Here, let me pit it owre thy neck [Clothes Mm with her regalia.] My sang, but ye look braw ! Haud up yer head! a blyther sicht I'm sure I never saw. FAITHER. Tibbie, my lass ! an' I but thocht The blessed Lord abune Wad lend his aid to crush the foe, This nicht I wad begin! WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND 25 Wi' thee my angel guardian To lead me bravely on, An' God to help an' liaud me up, The battle micht be won I TIBBIE. Be won ! dear faither what for no' ? God hears us when we cry ! 'Tis He pits sic thochts in oor hearts, 'Tis He that bids us try; Tis He the blessed angels sen's To set the prisoners free ; Then, faither, be thysel' ance inair, An' God will succour thee ! FAITHEB. Amen! my lassie, may His love Still twine aroun' us twa ! Still kindly lead us by the han', An' tent us should we fa' ! The best o' us are feckless bairns, . An' need a Faither's care, The bravest need that Fait her 's help Temptations strong to bear ! [Takes off the regalia and puts it on Tibbie.~\ Sae, Tibbie, lass, tak' back thy badge, It fits thee to a tee; Nor could it grace a better, fairer, Sweeter lass than thee ! An' tell the Templar folks to hae A badge for me prepared, 26 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. For I'll be up on Monday nicht To join, if I be spared. TIBBIE. faither, but ye've made me glad Wi' joy I maist could greet ; To see ye wear the bib yersel' Will surely be a treat ! The Templar folks will a' be glad An' proud to see ye there ; An' since ye've promised, here's a kiss To mak' the bargain sure. V. TIBBIE'S WELCOME. TIBBIE. OH, faither ! are ye hame at last ? Come ben an' tell me a' Aboot the lodge ; lay by yer staff Daud frae yer feet the snaw. I ne'er saw you look half sae weel Ye 're younger, I declare ! But, losh! yer han's are freezin' cauld- Let me draw in yer chair. Ye see I've on a rousin" fire ; Tak' aff yer cauid, wat shoon, WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 27 An' warm yer taes; I'll ripe the ribs Afore that ye begin. But say, are ye a Templar noo ? [Here the father lays open Ms coat,displaying the regalia. ] ho ! ye've on the bib ! The thing ye ca'd a faldaral, An' vext yer ain wee Tib. FAITHEB. Tibbie, my lass, I've dune the job! To drink I've bade fareweel ; Noo, a' my penny siller, Tib, Maun gang for milk an' meal, An' mony needfu' things besides New claes to busk us braw ; "We'll cock oor beavers, Tibbie, yet, The vogiest o' them a' ! 0, Tibbie, but the Templar folks Hae made me blythe this nicht The glow o' joy that warms my heart Tells me they're in the richt ; Their solemn words, the heartfelt prayer, Kind faces gather' d roun' ; In spite o' a' that I could dae, The tears cam' happin' doon! Ye'd aye a feelin' heart, faither. Yet aye yer ain warst frien' , 28 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. But oh I'm glad that noo yell come Straught hame to me at e'en. An' when the pay comes roun', faither, Yell gie me a' ye hae, An' 111 lay't oot wi' a' my skill, As mither used to dae. There's first oor meat, an' then oor claes, The rest for stane an' lime The rent, I mean an' then, ye ken, I'll hae yer " over- time." We want a nock to tell the hours, A carpet for the flair ; But first o' a' to you 111 buy An auld man's easy- chair. FAITHEK. An' auld man's easy-chair, Tibbie ! I thocht I heard ye say That I was growin' young again ? What though my locks be grey, I'm still a laddie at the heart This nicht my youthfu' days Come back to mind the burnie's sang, The birds, the flowery braes. When simmer comes ance mair, my las?, An' bonnie flowerets wave, Yell see me yonder at Dumbreck, Oot daffin' wi' the lave. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 29 I won'er if I'll ken mysel', Sae chang'd will be my life ? Na, wha kens, but some day I micht Bring hame a braw young wife ! TIBBIE. Sic daft-like things ye say, faitber, Ye're growin' craz'd, I fear. Na, na! we want nae women folks, Nae cankert stepies bere; I'll keep tbe boose mysel' a wife ! To rage an' flyte on me To waste yer gear, an' break yer beart A bonnie bame 'twad be ! Wbaur will ye get a wife like me, Sae tbrifty an' sae gair To bain yer siller, snod tbe boose, To wasb, an' scrub tbe flair To brusb yer sboon an' bake yer bread, An' a' tbings safely keep An' pray for ye, on bended knee, Afore I fa' asleep ? FAITHER. Tibbie, my lass ! 'twas a' in fun ; Ye bae nae cause to fear; In life, or deatb, can I forget Tby sainted mitber dear? Tbat patient angel isna deid I see ber in tliy face 30 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. In ilka movement, look, an' smile, Her semblance I can trace. Aye, Tibbie! thou shalt keep my boose, Be mistress o't thysel' ; See there's the key, an' here's my purse, What's in't I canna tell. I'll toil for thee, thou'lt care for me, An' rin wi' eager feet, To welcome me when I come hame Wi' smiles an' kisses sweet. TIBBIE. Thanks, faither, spoken like thysel' ! My heart is licht ance mair ; God bless an' keep thee frae a' ill Frae drink's deceitfu' snare; A blyther day I couldna hae Through a' my life than this, Ye hae baith promis'd an' perform'd, Sae weel deserve a kiss. VI. TIBBIE AND THE MINISTER. MINISTEE. WELL, Tibbie, how do you do ? I am so glad To see thee look so well, so nicely clad ! And how are all at home ? Thy father well ? WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 81 TIBBIE. A' weel, I thank ye ! hqo are ye yersel' ? MINISTER. Right well, my lassie! I'm just on my way To visit a poor father, gone astray ! And by the way, your father? ah, that drop! Poor man ! a wreck, I'm told, and past all hope ! TIBBIE. My faither past a' hope, sir! what dae ye mean? That shows hoo great a stranger ye hae been. A wreck, said ye? he's naething o' the kin', But daein' weel, an' happy in his min' ; Wi' me he noo spen's a' his leisure hours At hame, or in the wuds amang the flowers; Thanks to the men wha drew him frae drink's flood, He's noo teetotal an' a Templar guid ! MINISTER. I beg your pardon, dear, perhaps in this Your father's case, I've been somewhat remiss, The fact is, I've such racing up and down My flock are scatter'd over half the town. He's join'd the Templars ? well, that's so far good ; But bibs and banners, child, are not the food Men's souls require ; the gospel, that alone Is the soul's manna, all else is but stone ! TIBBIE. An' what's the gospel, sir? but God's guid will, The blessed tidings that He lo'es us still! 32 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAJSD. Sae fain to win oor hearts, at ony cost, He sent his Son to seek an' save the lost. An' we nae less oor lives should freely spen' To raise the fa'n amang oor fellow men. Sic is the gospel oor guid Templars teach, An' mair nor that, they practise what they preach ! MINISTEK. Why comes he not to church then, Tibbie, dear? I mean, your father, whom for many a year, I've striven to reform and lead to heaven, While many a sound advice to him I've given. TIBBIE. Weel, sir, I dinna ken aboot yer ways, But I'll jist tell ye what my faither says ; He says that ministers are only men, Like ithers, maist their thocht is hoo to fen; 'Gainst mammon's godless greed fhey preach 'tis true, While tae the gowden calf themsel's they boo ; That drink's a fearfu' curse, nae doot they tell, Yet tak' their toddy ilka nicht themsel'. MINISTER. And what more does he say ? go on, my dear ! I'll hear thee out with patience, never fear; Although, no doubt, thy words are rather plain, From them, who knows, some wisdom I may gain. TIBBIE. Weel, sir, he says, yon parable was gran', Oor Saviour spak' langsyne, aboot the man, WEE TIBBJB'S GARLAND. $3 Wha wounded lay half deid upon the road, When by there cam' a stately man o' God, Wha though he saw a brither wounded lie Instead o' helpin' him, gaed stavin' by; A.n' syne cam' by a Levite, fu' o' pride Wha lampit by upon the ither side. The next cam' yont was jist a common man, Wha took his helpless brither by the han', Syne lifted him upon his cuddie's back, Bound up his sairs, an' led him in a crack Alang the road till ance they reach'd an inn, Yet even then, awa' he didna rin, Lea'in' the puir man like a knotless thread, But gied his a' to ser' him in his need. Noo, sir, that's jist what oor guid Templars dae For them wha wounded lie on Life's highway; To help, an' haud them up their best they try While ministers an' sic like pass them by. Nae doot, there are exceptions, ane by ane, The men o' worth to us are comin' in, But sir, I hope ye're no' ill-pleased wi' me For tellin' ye what ithers say o' ye ? MINISTER. Ill pleas'd, my child? ah no, thy tale's too true! Thy faithful words have pierc'd my conscience through , Too long like cowards we have lagged behind In freedom's conflict, fought for human kind! We men of God, should be the first to trample Down human wrong by setting the example ! 34 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Thy band, my child ! and tell thy father dear, Of me a good report he soon shall hear, His words through thee, I trust shall put me right ; God bless thee, Tibbie dear! good night! TIBBIE. Good night ! VII. TIBBIE AND HER UNCLE. UNCLE. HERE, Tib, I want to speak to thee, - Draw in the cutty stool I hear ye've join'd the Templar folks, Jist like some ither fuil ! I used to think my ain wee niece A sensible bit lass, But och, it seems I'm far mista'en Yer jist a silly ass ! Is that the dishclout roun' yer neck ? [Tibbie starts to her feet."] Dinna be angry Tib ! A what ? regalia, is't ye ca't ? A Templar's slav'ry bib! It's neither dress nor ornament, It's sic a daft-like shape, My patience ! I wad jist as soon Pit on a gallows-rape ! WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 85 TIBBIE. Weel, uncle dear, it's possible, Ye micht pit on some day The hangman's bib, ye're no' the first The drink has sent that way. But guid forbid that frien' o' mine Should get sae in his power, But keep yer han's aff, if ye like, Nor stain that symbol pure ! The sacred sign o' innocence, Sobriety an' truth, That lend a glory to auld age A charm to smilin' youth. That gowden badge upon thy breist, Compar'd wi' mine, is trash, A shinin' toy to tell the wail', Ye hae a pickle cash ! UNCLE. Heth, ye've araucle tongue, my lass? Behint thae twa sweet lips ; But what aboot yer secret ploys, Yer pass-words, signs, an' grips? Ye sit wi' double-lockit doors Frae aucht o'clock till ten, An' what ye dae, an' what ye say, Yer ain sel's only ken. Nor only men, but women folks, Gang sailin' in in pairs, 36 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Far better they wad bide at hame An' mind their hoose affairs ! There, lads an' lasses, by the score Meet 'neath the cloud o' nicht, An' I'm no sure if what they dae Wad stan' the mornin's licht! Ill-daers are ill-dreaders, aye; I'll say't though ye're a frien' Auld bachelors like you, bide aye The latest oot at e'en. Oor Templar lassies yet will prove The pattern o' wives, An' if ye want to see the proof, Behold it in oor lives ! As for oor pass-words, signs, an' grips, They're things we canna want, As lang as honest, upricht men Are in the warl' sae scant. We want nae wolves within oor fauld Oor solemn rites to view, Sae double lock an' bar oor doors To keep oot rogues like you ! UNCLE. Jist save yersel's the trouble, Tib, Ye'll never see me there, Yer solemn rites an' life-lang vows For them wha need them, spare; WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 37 Auld Scotlan' ne'er Will let ye spaen Her sons frae barley-bree, Thank guidness ! I can tak' the drink, Or let the drink a be. Yet that I e'er gaed stoitin' harae Nae human tongue can tell, No, Tibbie! for I've aye the sense To templarise mysel'. They're fuils wha drink till they get fou, As great fuils wha abstain, The wisest man is he that can Baith tak' an' let alane. TIBBIE. The fuil's aye wise in his ain een, Blawn up wi' sheer concait, But uncle ! dae ye min' the nicht Ye cam' hame rather late ? Nae doot ye war 'mang sober folk, An' cam' hame like a judge A pattern o' sobriety ; Though no' frae Templar lodge. Weel, here's a sample o' the sicht Next morn that met my een, When I gaed ben intae yer room To snod an' mak' it clean. There, on the table stood yer boots, Yer hat upon the flair ; Yer umbrella in the bed A' happit up wi' care. 38 WEE TIBBIE'S OAKLAND. Yer socks were in yer trousers' pouch, Yer watch upon the tray, While shillin's, saxpences, an' croons A owre the carpet lay. Yer pipe lay broken a' to bits The clean hearth-stane upon; While on the rug the can'le lay A' trampit braid's a scone. An* when I han't ye owre a drink To weet yer lips sae dry, To my surprise, ye still had on Yer collar an' yer tie ! An' when I socht yer big-coat pouch For something ye had brung, I fand instead, aye, ye may glowr! A fashionable chignon. UNCLE. Weel, Tibbie, ye're an awfu' wean, E'en frien's ye dinna spare, An' after a' that's dune an' said, The wisest need tak' care ! The chiel maun be nae dult, my lass, That pouks a craw wi' thee ; Or dreid the lash o' that wee tongue That's fa'n sae foul on me. Ye've stood yer grun' like ony rock, Thy badge is stainless still, 'Gainst facts, thae " chiels that winna ding' A' arguments are nil. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 39 Sae, Tibbie lass, I maun confess Yours is the better plan, The man that never tastes ava Is still the wisest man. VIII. GBAN'FATHER IN THE PUIE'S-HOOSE. KATIE. [ With a small basket on her arm.] WEEL, gran'father, hoo are ye ? An' Ye're sittin' a' yer lane! Wi' naebody to speak to ye No e'en a toddlin' wean ! Is this what's ca'd a puir's-hoose ? Then A sad hoose it maun be To puir auld folk at least, I ken It wad be sae tae me. A rnuckle dungeon o' a place, Wi' wa's sae blank an' bare; Nae kettle singin' on the hob, Nor e'en a stool or chair. Nae pats nor pans, nae bowls nor spoons; Nae clear things on the wa', Nor bellows tae blaw up the fire It's no a hoose ava ! 40 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. GRAN 'FATHER. I'm gled to see ye, Katie, lass; Here sit ye doon by me. An' hoo are a' the folks at harne ? Wee Tammy, hoo is he ? An' tell me, is your mither weel? My ain kin' Bessy, dear ! 'Twas kin' o' her to let ye come She's far owre kin', I fear. But, weel I wat, the puir's-hoose is Nae better than it's ca'd; An' yet, Quid kens, it micht be waur Ane canna say it's bad. We get oor kail, oor duds o' claes, Oor parritch, an' oor breid; An' a hole aneath the grun', my lass, To lay us when we're deid! KATIE. Wheesht, gran'father, I dinna like To hear sic waesome words ; D'ye ken, the ither day, I heard The liltin' o' the birds In yonder wud beside the burn, Whaur aften ye've ta'en me To pu' the primrose on its banks, An' daisies on the lea. But though the birds sang bonnily, My heart was sad an' sair ; For the burn seem'd sabbin' tae itsel* To think ye werena there ; WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 41 An' mither, wha was wi' me, could Dae nocht but sit an' greet. She says an' ye were but at hame, Oor bliss wad be complete ! GRAN'FATHEB. Ab, Katie, lass, ye're but a bairn, An* dinna un' erst an' The mony ups an' doons o' life Your day's but in its dawn. I've had my day it's a' but spent Its prime I flang awa' ; Noo I maun bear the brunt, my lass, What'er should me befa'. The siller that thae ban's hae earn't, As fast I gart it flee, Till I became a worthless wicht The slave o' barley bree. Sae noo I maun submit, my lass; Frae fate we canna swerve It's unco little noo I need. An' far less I deserve. KATIE. But, grandfather, it's no like hame That hame whaur ance ye sat, Till that sad day the letter cam' Puir mither! hoo she grat. For we were a' sae helpless left- Puir orphans, Tarn an' me ; c 42 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Yet saddest thoeht o' a' to her What was to come o' thee? But noo she's warsell'd past the warst, She keeps the hoose an' mair; Yet a' her thrift nae pleasure brings Since ye're no there to share. We brawly ken what keeps ye here Ye mauna think me rude If I coine owre her very words She says yer speerit's prood. GEAN'FATHEE. Prood ! lassie mine ; I've seen the day Yer words micht hae been true ; This speerit, though a prood ane ance, Is broken, broken, noo! It's no for puir auld bodies, Kate, To harbour senseless pride; It's no for Independence in A puir's-hoose to abide! The lessons I hae gather'd hero Wad tak' a mune to tell ; An' 'mang the lave this hae I learn'd I'm but a bairn mysel' : That there's a Faither owre us a' Still watches us wi' care, Wha fits the burden to the back, An' gies us strength to bear ! KATIE. [Uncovering her basket.] Wheesht! dad, an' dinna vex thysel' See what I've brocht to thee : WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 48 A can o' jam, twa Lunon buns, Some sugar an' some tea; Auld folk like you need something guid, Coorse meat but fills the warne, But ah ! there's nocht ye wadna get An' ye wad but come hame ! Yer chair stan's waitin' by the fire In its cosy nook sae warm, Yer slippers I laid by mysel' To keep them safe frae harm. Wee Tamie thinks ye 're comin' hame- - Yestreen he spier'd at me, If gran'father wad be his horse An' let him ride his knee. GKAN 'FATHER. I'm gled to think he's like thysel', As lovin' an' as kind But dainties sic as thae, my lass, For me ye needna mind; Auld folks like me maun learn to be Content wi' plainer stuff, But stayl there's something here, I'll tak', A pickle Taddy's snuff. [Takes a pinch.} Thy mither, Kate, wad work an' wear Her fingers to the banes, To mak' me richt, aye, even stint Hersel' an' bits o' weans; Sae to your mither toddle hame, To her a comfort be, 44 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. An' leave the auld man to hirasel', Alane to live or dee ! KATIE. Ah, yes! to dee, some cauld dark nicht, Wi' naebody at han' To read the looks that lovin' hearts Alane can un'erstan' ; Nae woman's lips to whisper love, An' kiss thy icy broo But what is that I see? A tear! I ken I'll conquer noo ! GRAN 'FATHER. Ah, winsome Kate ! though but a bairn, Ye hae a woman's heart. Yes, dearie! I'll gang hame wi' thee, Nae mair again to part. Thank God ! there's this to soothe my briest- In puirtith there's nae shame. ['11 gang wi' thee, were't but to dee 'Mang lovin' hearts at hame. THE PBODIGAL FAITHEE. ANNIE. FAITHER what's come owre ye noo, Got wanderin' here yer lane ! When wild an' wintry blaws the blast, An' weetin' fa's the rain. WEB TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 45 We've socht ye oot, we've soeht ye in, Through a' this dismal day; 'Twas early morn when ye gaed oot, An' noo it's gloamin' grey; We wonert when we heard ye rise, An' gang sae early oot ; We saw the dark cloud on yer broo', Yer face as white's a clout. Puir mither! she's in sic a state, An' Nellie lyin' ill; Wha, puir wee thing ! greets sair for ye, In bed she'll no lie still. FAITHER. Oh! Annie, haste ye hame again, An' lea' me to mysel', To hurry headlong to the pit, Drawn by some demon spell. I've done my best to blast my bairns, An' break their mither 's heart, But noo it's a' come to an en', Sae Annie, let us pairt ! Oh, Annie, dear, may Heaven forfend That ye should ever be A thing sae vile, sae lost, accurst A drucken waif like me ; The slave o' drink that cursed drink The cause o' ilka ill; An' yet, guid kens, I'd gie the worl' To get ae ither gill. 46 WEE TIBBIE'S OAKLAND. ANNIE. Then, faither, lea' the cursed drink Eesolve to taste nae mair; An' things will a' gae richt, yell see; We'll siller hae to ware. An' puir wee sister yet, wha kens, To us may be restor'd; An' health an' happiness ance mair Smile on us frae the Lord. FAITHER. I'm deein' for the want o't, lass I feel the mad desire Ragin' within this briest o' mine, Like red devourin' fire ; Will nae ane tak' this tortur'd life Tak' pity upon me An' heave me headlong frae some rock, Or droon me in the sea ? ANNIE. Oh, faither, dinna speak sic words, Nor fling thy life awa ; Me an' the lave wad break oor hearts, An' mither maist o' a'. Far rather wad I dee mysel', If that wad set ye free ; Then tak' me kill me, if ye like, For I'm no feart to dee. AE YE THINK 0' JEANIE? Am " What do yon think 6 1 that, my Joe?" I MET twa frien's at auld Nan Gray's, Wha keeps the sign o' the "Parrot;" We had some yill, an' syne we raise, But werena ony the waur o't ; Syne aff I gaed to see my Jean, A lass baith guid an' bonnie, WT gowden locks an' twa blue een, An' lips mair sweet than honey. Then what dae ye think o' that, my frien's! An' what dae ye think o' my Jeanie?" Aroun' her waist my arms I flang, An' ca'd her my dear lassie, When back she drave me wi' a bang, Maist coup'd me on the causey. I was sae ta'en I couldna speak, She seemed in sic a passion, A crimson glow on ilka cheek, Her een like diamonds flashin'. Noo, what dae ye think, &c. "Get out," quo she, "ye drunken -sicht ! Hae ye nae sense nor reason, Tae come to me in sic a piicht? Yer very breath is poozhen." WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 127 An' then yell no guess what she said My sang, it was a settler "Nae man on earth I'll ever wed, Unless he's a teetot'ler." Noo, what dae ye think, &o. Quo I, "My lass, gi'e owre sic freaks; For you my love is ended, 'Tis time aneuch to wear the breeks When ance we canna mend it ; There's as guid fish intae the sea As e'er were ta'en, in plenty; An' lassies guid an' fair as thee, I'm sure I could get twenty! " Noo, what dae ye think, &c. I couldna rest, but up an' doun I gaed, like some puir Steenie, Quite wud to think that for the drink I'd lost my winsome Jeanie. Noo, what to dae I didna ken, I seemed sae hard to want her ; Sae I resolved my life to men', In spite o' a' their banter. Noo, what dae ye think, &c. Sae aff I gaed an' signed the pledge, An' syne to see my lassie , I met her by the try s tin' -hedge, An' wow, but she was saucy; 128 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. But when she heard what I had dune, Her face a' beamed wi' pleasure ; Sweet love ance mair put a' in tune, Oor bliss was 'boon -a' measure. Noo, what dae ye think o' this, my frien'b! I've won an' wed my Jeanie. HITHEE AND YON. Am ' ' Maggie Mackie. " WAE on the day when oor Bessy Cam' into this druckensome toun, For there ne'er was a thriftier lassie In a' the hale kintra roun'. But soon wi' ill neebors she fell in ; To me, though she never loot on, 1 saw by the look o' oor dwellin', That Bess was gaun hither and yon. CHORUS. Sae lassies beware o' the drappie, Or ablins ye'll hae to atone : The woman was never yet happy, Wha learnt to gae hither and yon. Hersel' and her hoose alike toozie, Negleckit baith Johnnie an' Nell; For Bess, when she used to get boozy Could hardly tak' care o' herseT. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 129 Instead o' a bonnie trig Idmmer, Her claes wi' a graip seem'd flung on, On me she brak' oot like a limmer, Whene'er she gaed hither and yon. Sae lassies, etc. Meanwhile my heart breaking wi' sorrow, Sair toilin' a leevin' to win, A neebor's pass-key I maun borrow At e'en, or I wadna get in. Then 'stead o' a weel cookit dinner, A drap o' sour milk an' a scone ; For Bessy hersel', the puir sinner, Was sure to be hither and yon. Sae lassies, etc. My mither cam' in frae Kilwuddie Ance eeran', expectin' to see Her young folks weel daein' and steady, An' ilka thing tosh to the e'e ; But though it was naething by ornar, The sicht made the auld bodie groan, For snorin' asleep in a corner Lay Bessy, a' hither and yon. Sae lassies, etc. Now, mither 's an auld farran' bodie, To ilka ane's failin's a freen', Instead o' gaun on like a rowdy, Fell to like a gilpie to clean; 130 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Weel kenin' that Bess when she wauken'd, Wi' shame wad be like to gae on, Whereas if her name she had blacken'd, The mair she'd gane hither and yon. Sae lassies, etc. blessin's on thee, my auld mither! It cam' aboot jist as she said, For Bess, when her senses cam' till her, Wi' shame couldna hand up her heid ; But sabbin', cried "Oh, dinna lea' me! I've been sair to blame, I maun own ; But, Johnnie lad, if ye'll forgie me, 111 nae mair gae hither an' yon." Sae lassies, etc. Noo, ye'll scarce fin' a woman mair steady, Ance mair I'm the blythest o' men ; She busks hersel' noo like a leddy, An' keeps baith a but an' a ben. What though she whiles likes to be rnaister, An' threatens the breeks to put on, 1 dinna count that a disaster It's no like gaun hither an' yon. Sae lassies, etc. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 131 WHISKY'S AWA'. AIR ' ' My Nannies Awa' . " [As sung by Leezie Galbraith to a delighted audience, viz., her Guidman and Bairns.] Noo winter has blawn ilka leaf frae the tree, The bluebell an' gowan lie dead on the lea, A' roun' oor wee biggin deep lies the white snaw, But within there is simmer when whisky's awa. But within there is simmer, &c. Oor hame, ance sae haunted wi' sorrow an' eare, Noo rings wi' the music o' lovin' hearts there; While John, like a hero, noo toils for us a', In the pride o' his manhood, sin' whisky's awa. In the pride o' his manhood, &c. But the cauld days o' winter will soon whistle by, An' the green braes be clad wi' the sheep an' the kye, Then we'll aff to the glens whaur the wild roses blaw, An' sing wi' glad nature, vile whisky's awa', An' sing wi' glad nature, &c. Let warldly minds warsle for riches an' fame, Gie me but the wealth o' a love lichtit haine, An' the cloud o' affliction mair lichtly will fa' Owre the names o' the lowly, when whisky's awa'. Owre the hames o' the lowly, &c. 132 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. MY BONNIE WEE WIFIE AN' I. I'M a warkman wi' a wife an' twa laddies, The pride o' my thrifty wee dame ; Twa red-cheekit, lauchin'-e'ed, steerin' wee caddies, The joy an' the plague o' my hame. CHOEUS. For we're a' sae weel tae dae noo, d'ye see, A' things gae richt that we try ; For we've gi'en owre the drappie, and ne'er were sae happy, My bonnie wee wine an' I. Our hame's like a palace, sae trig an' weei plenished, A hearth like the new driven sna ! ; A braw chest o' drawers, an' a dresser new finished, Sax chairs an' a waggity-wa'. For we're a', &c. It would tak' twa three hours o' a house-reevin' beagle, To mark a' the gear that we hae, Forbye my black suit, that' just new aff the needle, Wi' a gloss like a bonnie ripe slae. For we're a', &c. We've rowth o' braid flannen fy! Jeanie, nae blushin' We ne'er want a guid muckle cheese; WEE TIBBIE'S UARLAND. 133 Last week, I bought her a big chair wi' a cushion, To sit like a queen at her ease. For we're a', &c. I gang to the kirk wi' the bairns an' their minnie Nae sailin' on Sunday likes she ; Short syne I bought her a new dress at a guinea, Nae won'er she's daft about me. For we're a', &c. Wi' wark an' guid health, an' the bairnies weel breekit, I wish we may never be waur; A watch in my fab, an' by ilk ane respeckit, Look doon on me noo, if ye daur. For we're a', &c. THE AULD HEARTHSTANE. WEEL I mind oor wee biggin' that stood on yon lea, Wi' its blue reek ascendin' sae joyous an' free, Wi' a cheery bit winnock afore an' behin', Reflectin' the joy o' the leal hearts within ; Noo roofless an' doorless it stan's in the rain, An' the rank nettles wave on its auld hearthstane. In winter's cauld time, when the dour winds did blaw, An' the hills roun' aboot were a' covered wi' snaw, While doon owre the easin' the icicles hang, Within', roun' the ingle, we cantily sang; Be it greyhaired auld granny or toddlin wean, They a' fand a place roun' the auld hearthstane. 134 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. There my faither wad sit while my mither did spin, An' lilt some auld sang to her wheel's cheery din, While the wee toozie heads granny drew to her knee, An' in oor lugs whispered, "Noo 'gree, bairnies, 'gree." Then faither wad lauch till the wa's rang again, At the antics we played on the auld hearthstane. 'Twas there in the neuk stood my faither's big chair ; The bink, wi' its pewter and crockery, there; An' the auld aucht-day nock, wi' its solemn tick-tack, Stood close by the wa' at my granny's chair-back, While a broken cart wheel, that was cross in the grain, Was the fender we had for the auld hearthstane. A muckle box-bed on ilk han's ye gaed in, A wisp at the door lay to keep oot the win' ; An' there in the hurley us weans took our rest, When we cuddled a' doon like wee birds in a nest. Noo sadly I muse whaur the wee feet hae gane, That danced wi' sic glee on the auld hearthstane. Noo lanely I linger, the last o' them a', Near the hame o' my kindred a' deid an' awa'. On the gate they hae gane I am followin' fast, Yet the heart, like the ivy, still clings to the past; An' I whiles hae the thocht we shall a' meet again, Though it mayna be here roun' the auld hearth- stane. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 135 HOO THINGS CAM BOUN' IN THE MOBNIN'. AIR "Hey Johnny Cope." I MIND sin' they ca'd me a drucken loon. The plague an' the pest o' a' oor toon, On me ilka honest man lookit doon, Though he tasted liimseV in the mornin'. My wife an' the bairnies aft cam', to my shame, At the dead hour o' nicht to oxter me hame ; An' she, puir thing ! gat the hale o' the blame, When we wanted a meal in the mornin'. Oor things were a' sell't, to ilk ane we were awn The very toom meal-pock was aff to the pawn We were turn'd oot o' hoose at the grey o' the dawn, To wan'er like sheep in the mornin'. An', Gudeness forgie me! the warst thing o' a', My ain winsome wife, an' oor wee lammies twa, Her Men's frae the North took them a' clean awa', An' left me alane in the mornin'. Noo hunted wi' beagles, in sorrow an' shame, I fled like an outcast frae hoose an' frae hame Fu' brawly I kent there was nae ane to blame, But my ain stupit sel' in the mornin'. I thocht me o' strychnine, I thocht o' a knife, But the best thing I saw was to alter my life 136 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. To turn a new leaf, and restore my puir wife A' the joy o' her life's young mornin'. Sae I cam' doun to Glasca, whaur frien's I had nane, I wrocht like a slave, an' I leev'd a' my lane, Till I managed to plenish a hoose o' my ain But sair I miss'd Jean in the mornin'. But I sent aff a letter ae nicht, jist to tell Hoo things had come roun', when niest mornin' the bell Play'd reenge, an' wha was't but my lassie hersel' Wi' oortwa bonnie bairns in the mornin'. Then soon as my braw plenished hoose met her view, Puir thing! her bit heart lap arnaist to her mou', Then into my arms like a birdie she flew, An sabbit wi' joy in the mornin'. Then roun' us the bairnies they danc'd an' they spield, Till wi' joy an' wi' pleasure my very head reel'd, Oor blythe bridal day owre again there we held, An' began life anew in the mornin'. Noo a' wha like me wad begin a new life, First banish the "Barley," the cause o' a' strife, Syne learn to be kind to your bairnies an' wife, An' be sure ye get up in the mornin'. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 137 GOOD TEMPLAR'S MARCHING SONG. AIR "Shall we gather at the river.'' RISE Good Templars to the rescue ! Muster wherever you be ; Thousands made happy wait to bless you, Thousands still wait to be free. While round our worthy chiefs we gather, Wife, daughter, son, husband, father, Boldly determine altogether Our land from Intemperance to free ! Marshal our lodges to their numbers, Firmly abide by our laws, Wake fellow-mortals, from your slumbers, Wake to the claims cf our cause ! While round our worthy chiefs we gather, Wife, daughter, son, husband, father, Boldly determine altogether To win all the world to our cause ! True to the pledges that bind us, Proud of the honours we wear, Leaving the dead past behind us, Onward to victory we bear ! While round our worthy chiefs we gather. Wife, daughter, son, husband, father, Boldly determine altogether That drink shall no longer ensnare. 138 WEE TIBBIE'* GARLAND. Bound by love's ties one to the other, Helpful at all times we stand, Make but the sign of a brother, Give but the grasp of the hand. While round our worthy chiefs we gather^ Wife, daughter, son, husband, father, Boldly determine altogether To banish the curse from our land ! Lift then your voices in the chorus, Whilst gaily we march along; By those bright banners waving o'er us, Eight shall prevail over wrong! While round our worthy chiefs we gather, Wife, daughter, son, husband, father, Boldly determine altogether That right shall triumph over wrong. WHO AEE THE HEROES? WHO are the heroes ? the men who labour. Who are the kings? the brave who toil, Not by the rifle, not by the sabre, Claim we a right to the fruits of the soil What though we own no fertile acres, What though no lands in tenure we hold, Ours is the might, for we are the makers Ours are the hands that gather the gold. Who are the heroes ? &c. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 139 We are the sinew and bone of the nation, We are the walls our isle to defend; Firm is the throne that has for foundation, The hearts of a people on whom to depend. Who are the, &c. Down with all tyrants ! away with oppression ! What though our land be an isle of the sea, Earth is our workfield, noble our mission, Let who will worship wealth, we are the free ! Who are the, &c. Treasures of home, so dear to our bosoms, Be our endeavour still to improve, Dear to the workman his fair buds and blossoms, Faithful his friendship, deathless his love. Who are the, &c. May the Almighty still guard and defend us From every vice that would us ensnare ; Shades of our fathers ! to bless, still attend us, God bless the labourer still be our prayer! Who are the, &c. 140 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. YE DAUGHTERS OF BEAUTY. AIR ' 'Jenny Jones. " YE daughters of beauty, with charms so bewitching, So modestly winning and dear to us all ; Our life's sweetest treasures our homes so enriching, Fair maidens and mothers, on you do we call. Strong drink like a river your pathway is strewing With the wrecks of the noble, the good, and the gay; lend us your aid then, to stem the wide ruin Now blighting the flowers on your love-lighted way ! Our homes are invaded with dark Desolation, TJiere's danger wherever the wine-cup doth flow; Then pledge your fair hands to resist the temptation, Nor stain your red lips with those waters of woe. Lift up your bright glances, put on all your beauty Your holy affections your God-given dower; Such weapons are mighty awake to your duty, The trophies you gather will add to your power. How noble your mission, when kindly ye hover Like angels of light round the pillow of pain ; The father, the brother, the husband, the lover, Are calling you now to restore them again, Then join our endeavours again we implore ye, Lo ! thousands to Bacchus are bending the knee ; The rescued will bless, and the good will adore ye ; Your tears to the captive your smiles for the free. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 141 OOR BONNIE WEE BAIRNS. AIR "Lucy's Flittin'." To me Caledonia, how dear are thy mountains, Thy hills o' red heather, and dark waving ferns, I lo'e thy deep glens, wi' their clear gushin' fountains, But dearer than a', are thy honnie wee bairns! In toons on the pavement, in fields 'mang the gowans, Wherever I meet them my heart to them yearns. Their een like wee starries, their lips like red rowans, It mak's me feel young when I gaze on the bairns. The raptures o' him wha is blest wi' a dearie, Nae auld bach'lor bodie need e'er think to learn The cosiest hame aye seems dowie an' eerie, Till sunn'd wi' the smile o' a bonnie wee bairn. The laurel o' fame on my broo wad soon wither, For riches an' grandeur still less am I carin', But gie me the bliss o' a leal-hearted farther, When first to his bosom he clasps his wee bairn. Yon statesman wha toils for oor guid, an' oor glory Yon hero wha fechts, while he gallantly earns A name an' a place in the annals o' story, Ance danc'd on the green wi' oor bonnie wee bairns. 142 WEE TIBBIES GARLAND. Oor bards o' langsyne still enliven an' cheer us, The martyrs still speak frae their auld mossy cairns, While the bluid that ance fir'd oor auld poets an' heroes, Still mantles the cheeks o' oor bonnie wee bairns. Can there be a faither sae base an' unfeelin', As squan'er the wee pickle siller he earns; When death's icy fingers are roun' his heart stealin', He'll min' the sad looks o' his wee hunger't bairns. Then ! let us keep their wee hearts frae temptation, The loon wha wad wrang them I'd hae put in aims ; The glory an' pride o' oor auld Scottish nation Her health an' her wealth, are her blithesome wee bairns. ADDITIONAL POEMS AND READINGS. A FA1THEK TO YE A 1 . A SANG ABOOT PUIR WEANS. WHA'S aucht thae wee bairnies? I aften hear folk say* As cheerily alang the road we march on ootin' day,* Wi' lichtsome heart an ; lithesome step, to breathe the caller air, Weel happit a* frae heid to heel, an* watched wf lovin' care. They're only puirshoose weans, my frien's ; nae doot ye think it queer That they should play like ither bairns, an' lauch as lood an' clear, Jist like yer ain wee tots at hame, as tosh, weel-kempt an' braw, While as for me, I'm, as ye see, a faither to them a'. * Some three years ago the members of Govan Parochial Board kindly agreed that the children of the House should be taken out occasionally to the country for a walk, under the care of their teacher and myself. It was further agreed that they should be permitted to romp and play for, at least, an hour, every afternoon in the wood at Merryflatta 144 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Sae come awa', my bairnies a', the days are growin' lang, The birds are waitin* in the wud to warble ye a sang ; The gowans glint amang the grass, the birds are on the tree, While saft an* lowne the sunlicht fa's frae heaven on you an' me. The muckle-hoose is nae disgrace, nor yet that ye are puir; An', God be praised, ye're no' to blame for ocht that's sent ye there : Nae doot ye miss the loved an' lost, yer mithers inaist o'a', But never heed while here am I, a faither to ye a'. Hoo sweet the blithe wee birdies sing, sae weel they love the Spring, An 1 blither yet they'll be to see ye dance in merry ring ; Here in the wud, ye'll sport an' play, like lambs upon the lea, An' when ye're tired, or oot o' breath, jist sit an' rest a-wee. Syne roun' ye go at jingo -ring, or row-chow doon the brae, Meanwhile the laddies by themsePs will rin, an' jump, an' play At " rounders n in the open space, or smugglers in the shaw, While in yer games I'll join myseF, the blithest o' ye a'. WEE TIBBIES GARLAND. 145 It's oh, but bairns are bonnie I hoo I like to see them rin, Their sunny locks o' wavy gowd a-streamin' in the win', Their gleefu' lauch like siller bells, their e'en wi' mirth alowe, Their lips like dew-wat roses, an' their cheeks wi' health aglow. The lassies a' sae licht o' heart, the laddies wud wi glee, The very craws keek ower their nests to get a blink o' ye; Gin there's ae hour in a' the day that passes swift awa', It's when we're in the wud, an' me the faither ower ye a*. An* gin some dark cloud in the Wast should hide frae us the sun, An' rattlin' hail or thun'er-plump fa' peltin' to the grun', We'll coorie in aneath the hedge, or closely cuddle doon By yon auld wa', whaur, cheek to cheek, an' wee han's linkit roun' Tell owre yer wee life-histories methinks even I could tell 0' sunless days an' loveless weird that I hae dree'd mysel' ; An' should the tear o' sympathy aboon some wee cheek fa', We'll kiss't awa', for weel ye ken I dearly lo'e ye a'. Wha daur look doon on sic as ye, oor ain sweet kith an' kin? For we are a' John Tamson's bairns whatever sphere we're in, 146 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. The dairy frock an* daidlie nae ane should e'er despise, For even a puirshouse wean may be an angel in disguise. An' 'tweel ye're angels a' to me, in ilk wee guileless face The tender look o' Him wha blest wee bairnies I can trace, And I, like Him, will love ye, dears, while I hae breath to draw, An' some day hence ye'll think o' him wha dearly loved ye a'. A PLEA FOE THE BAIKNS. PITY me ! an' wha's this, toddlin' by my side, Lichtsome as some fairy, rosy as a bride 1 Woman-like her ways, too, though in years a bairn Something here for you, Jamie, something here to learn. Hankerin' half a step behin', blate-like and sweet, Hidin', half in modesty, twa wee feet Twa wee lily feet, shaeless an' bare, Stockingless her wee legs, nae less, I declare ! On her heid a croon o' gowd, placed by Natures han', Sunny ringlets wavin', shinin' like the dawn, Pair tit on her snawy broo, whaur twa bonnie een Hide aneath their lang lashes, fearin' to be seen. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 147 Yet, for a' that's on her back, faith, I wadna gie Scarce a groat for a' the lot but what's this I see 1 In an' oot, roun' aboot, tags an* tatters hing, Frock an' peenie, baith alike, ready to tak' wing. Sunny locks an' duddie claes dinna weel agree, Somewhar there's a screw lowse, whaur can it be ? Leddies flauntin' in yer silks, lo'esome an' braw, Think o' bairns wi' bare feet wadin' 'mang the snaw. O, that, like the birdies, bairns had bits o' claes On their backs when they are born, to last a' their days : For, gin like the wee birds, they had wings to flee, Bairnies wi' bare feet seldomer we'd see. Oh, that sic an angel were a bairn o' mine, In the best that gowd could buy I wad busk her fine, Press her to my heart, an' kiss kiss her owre again, Syne, on bended knee, bless God for the darlin' wean. " Bonnie lassie, micht I ask, what brings you here In the morn so early, far owre soon, I fear ? Surely ye've a mither, bairn? yer faither, he'll be deid? Or to rise sae early, sure, ye wadna need." " Ay, I hae a mither, sir, guid as guid can be, A bonnie baby-brither, too, a stout wee man is he ; But, oh, my faither lo'es the drink, as ony ane can tell, An' lea's us penniless at hame, to battle for oor'sel 1 . 148 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Whiles, when mither takes her bed, an' naething comin' in, I dae my best to tak' her place, an' bits o' errands rin For neebors wha are kin' to us, though little they've to spen', Nae doot it's hard, but somehoo, sir, we manage aye to fen." My heart ran owre for the bit wean, my e'en wi' tears were dim The while I drew her to my side, an' kindly spak' o' Him Wha watches owre His human flock, His lambs, wi' tender care, Wha lo'es an' feels for a', but maist, the helpless an the puir. Tak' pity, Lord ! upon thy bairns, and drive strong drink aw a', The rulers of the Ian' gar pass some needful liquor law, To steek up a' the drink howfs, the big as weel's the wee: Mak' hame to be a paradise, and bairnies sing wi' glee. WEE TIBBIE S GARLAND, 149 CUTTY SAKK; OB, THE FOUNDLIN' DOLL. JEANIE.* SINCE ye hae been awa, faither, for twa nichts an 1 a day, Come, tell us whaur you've been, an' what friens ye hae been wi' ? Come, tell us a' thy news, an' the ferlies ye hae seen, While aiblins in yer wallet, ye hae something brocht to Jean. Say, were ye wanderin' by yersel' in green wuds far awa, In search o' ferns an' mosses? an' bonnier than a', Blue milk-worts an' forget-me-not's, an' blawarts frae the brae ? Ye're hidin' them frae me, faither, jist as ye used to dae. FAITHER. It's past the time o' flowers, Jeanie, but oh i the wuds, the trees, Are steeped in gowden splendour as they bend before the breeze ; There's ruddy hips upon the brier, while haws o' darker hue In clusters hang frae ilka hedge to tempt wee laddies' mou' : * A choice specimen of my little flock at Merry flats. 150 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. So baud yer lap, for I hae brocht to ye a denty wheen, To mak' a string o' coral for my wee fairy queen. An' here, nae less, for thy sweet lips a thing ye'll like to pree, This rosy-cheekit apple that a leddy frien 7 gied me. JEANIE. Thanks, faither ; but there's something mair, I see it in thy look, Whaur aften I can read thy thochts as in a prentit book; I see it in thy pawkie een, their lauchin' licht tells me That ye hae something in your pouch ahidin' still frae me. Sae lug it oot losh me ! a doll ! an* yet it isna' new, An', puir wee lamb ! a fearfu' cut adoon its bonnie broo ! Its wee bit nose clean cleft in twa, a hole dang in its chin; Sic cruelty to a bit doll maun surely be a sin. FAITHER. Aye, Jeanie, lass, the puir wee thing has had its weird to dree, As we crossed owre a stibble field, my frien Balfour an' me, We spied the wee thing 'mang the yird, whaur in the cauld it lay, Tts scant wee sark clung to its back, an' spattered ower wi' clay. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 151 I took the wee thing in my han', but when its face I saw A' cloured an' cut, an 7 oot o' shape, I thocht tae fling' t awa ; But while I swither'd in my mind, I heard a voice within Say, " There's a dear wee lass at hame will gladly tak' her in." Forbye, it held up to my view ae wee uplifted han' As gin it said, " Tak' haud o' me, for hame to her I'm gaun." 1 ken't ye'd tak' it to your heart, altho' withoot a name, For ilka thing in human shape oor sympathy should claim. JEANIE. Aye, that will I, tak' ye nae fear, I'll busk her like a queen But say, was't you that wash'd her face, an' made her trig an' clean ? Her wee 'oo'n sark's a bonnie sark, though scant as scant can be, But ye maun mend her nose, faither, an' patch her chin awee. I won'er wha the lassie is that aucht the wee doll- wean? Wha had the heart to fling her oot amang the weet an* rain? I only wish, when she grows up to mitherly estate, Her ain wee tots sweet gifts frae heaven, may hae a kinder fate. 152 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. FAITHEB. I took her to the sink, my lass, as sune's we got her hame, To wash her face, when Mrs. B a kind an' couthie dame, Wha should hae been a mither, wi' sweet bairns to rant an' reel She took an 3 washed the wee doll-wean, her cutty sark as weel. An' though it was the Sabbath day it was nae sinfu 7 deed, When heavenly impulse rules the heart we thinkna on oor creed. An' noo that ye're her mither, an' hae heard my simple tale, What signifies a broken nose, sae be the heart be hale? An' lastly, she maun get a name, for, though wi' you she's safe, It wadna dae to hae it said that she's a nameless waif; An since there's nocht aboot the bairn her pedigree to mark, The best thing we can dae, I think, is ca' her Cutty Sark. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 153 A KISS FRAE A BAIRNIE'S MOU'. IT'S here we get mony a foretaste o' heav'n An pleasures richt mony, I troo, But I maun declare there's nocht to compare Wi' a kiss frae a bairnie's mou'. Sae sweet, oh, sae sweet ! are the wee hinnied lips Like rose-petals wat wi' the dew ; While wee han'ies clasp roun' yer neck like a hasp. To reach ye the wee rosy mou'. Langsyne as we read when the Maister HimseP To His bosom the wee lambies drew I canna help thinkin' He'd kiss ane an* a', An' pree ilka rosy wee mou ? . I see them, methinks, wi' their wee tousie heids, An' scant in their cleedin', maybe, While shaeless an' sockless, nae less, the wee feet, That danced on the Maister's knee. Sad, sad were the days oor dear Lord spent on earth, The pleasures He had were but few ; But a glow frae aboon wad come back to His heart As He kiss'd ilka rosy wee mou'. O man, brither-man ! wi' fause pleasures misled, An' the keel-mark o' Cain on thy broo, Grin ocht oot o' heav'n that stain could efface It's the kiss frae a bairnie's mou'. K 154 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Then clasp to thy bosom some guileless wee wean, An' gaze in its twa een o' blue ; An' like me ye'll confess there is nae blessedness Like the kiss frae a bairnie's mou'. Jist ae ither word it's the will o' the Lord That they wha His followers be, When tempted an' tried, in His love should confide Like the wee tots that danced on His knee. AN AULD MAN'S SANG. THOUGH I'm an auld man, as ye see, The greatest bliss on earth to me Is when oot-by upon the lea Wi' a' the bairns aroun' me. When win's blaw saft an* skies are blue, An' flowerets deck the dells anew ; The sweetest flowers to me, I troo, Are blythesome bairns aroun' me. The birds, the flowers, the hills, the trees Pit on their best oor een to please ; But oh, there's nought my heart can heeze Like winsome weans aroun' me. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 153 Their rosy lips, their een sae clear, The fun, the frolic, an' the steer, The ringin' lauch, the rousin' cheer, Mak' heaven within an 7 roun' me. An* when in some wee lassie's face The lines o' sorrow I can trace, I fauld her in my fond embrace, An' draw my plaid aroun' me. For, oh, it's love alane can cure The heartaches auld an' young endure ; Then let it flow to rich an' puir Unstinted still aroun' ye. TO THE CORNCRAKE. THY craik, craik, craik, isna comely to the ear, An' yet there arena mony soun's I like sae weel to hear \ For it tells o' comin' summer wi' its whiffs o' hawthorn sweet, O' Westlan' win's an' gowden whins, an' rustlin' o' the wheat; O' fields wi' snawy daisies pied, o' crystal streams that glide Whaur wild rosebuds in beauty smile, an' shy wee violets hide ; 156 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Whaur maukins dern amang thy fern, an' birds, in bush and brake, In silence sit to hear at e'en, thy craik, craik, craik ! Oh, viewless bird, lang hast thou been a mystery to rne, Hoo aft I've scampered through the corn to get a glimpse o' thee ; Led onward by thy mockin* cry, the faster wad I rin, When a* at ance thy cry I'd hear a score o 7 yards behin'. Thae days are gane, yet, nevertheless, that cry is dear to me, It flegs awa' the wintry win's, John Frost we nae mair see; The blithe wee lambs jink roun' the knowes, and gi'e their tales a shake, Amused to hear frae 'mang the bere thy craik, craik, craik ! They say ye arena bonny, but a queer lang-leggit thing, In colour no' unlike a rat, short tail and stumpy wing ; But, by my feth, ye use yer legs, and stumpy wings forbye, When ye betray yer whauraboots wi' that unbird-like cry. Anither thing that gars me love, strange bird, thy raspin' strain, Ye bring to min' my youthfu' days, when sorrows I had nane, WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 157 When oot I stole at e'en to meet the lass that noo's my maikj The signal o' her comin' was thy craik, craik, craik ! But when we flitted to the toon, a' this was left behin' For the wail o' wae and poverty, the eursiri' an* the din The fruits o' drink ; on ilka han' dirt, idleness, an 7 crime ; For God's green fields, fresh air, an' skies, wide wastes o' stane an' lime. Oh, little ken oor kintra folks hoo priceless are their gains ; Though fain to hie them hame at e'en to rest their weary banes ; Nocht ken they o' oor sunless days, the nichts we lie awake, To list the din o' rain an' win', but ne'er a craik, craik! The scythe has shaved the meadows bare, the craps are gethered in ; Weird soun's o' sad forboding come frae wavin' wood an' linn ; Sune winter blae will bear the sway owre mountain, mead, and lake, Yet, gin we're spared, we'll hear ance mair thy craik, craik, craik ! 158 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. EPISTLE TO J. P. REID. A YOUNG POET. AN' sae ye thocht, my youthfu' Men,' that Nick had sailed awa' Across the river to that bourne nae mortal ever saw ? Whaur Rhadamanthus an' the lave in solemn conclave sit; But, thanks be to the Lord aboon ! he's no' deid yet. Ye say ye haena heard his lilt for gudeness kens hoo lang, An' fear he's gane anither gate to sing a sweeter sang; But whether through wanchancie fate, auld age, or in a fit, Ye dinna ken but never heed, he's no' deid yet. Ay, leevin' still, nor like to dee, but hearty, hale, an' weel, Though mony a stey an' staney brae through life he's had to spiel ; But there were lowne nooks on the road invitin' him to sit, An' scribble doon his thochts in rhyme, as he does yet. To him the birds chant as o' yore, the daisy on the lea To him unfaulds her spotless frill, her gowden heart to see ; The butterflees as bonnily oot owre the meadows flit Sae, as ye see, 'tween you an' me, he's no' deid yet. WEE TIBBIE S GARLAND. 159 He's still as fond o' bits o' bairns, though in the "House" they be, An' still a fouth o' wisdom frae their guileless lips gets he ; An' mony a bonnie blink o' Heaven through them he oft does get Nae won'er he's sae thankfu' that he's no deid yet. Wi' staff in haun he stoits alang the brig that Mirza saw, An' sune he'll reach the broken arch whaur mony reel an' fa', Whaur sullen rows the flood below, as dark as ony pit Sae let it be ! but while we're here, we're no deid yet. Life here 's a lottery at the best ; last year, nae faurer Death claimed oor frien', the author o' the " Drunkard's Raggit Wean;"* Unwarned, unlocked for by us a', the fatefu' arrow hit, An' noo he's better aff than him that's no deid yet. Wha likelier to live than he 1 gae fu' o' life an' fun, Whase heart gied oot to a'body aneath the shinin' sun, A faithfu' Men' a poet sweet, an' fu' o' mither wit ; But while his sangs remain to us, he's no deid yet. * Mr. James P. Crawford, alias Paul Rockford. 160 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Come life, come death, it's a' the same, we little hae to fear, Oor God is guid to a', or else he wadna sent us here ; Yet, till frae Him we get the ca', it's time aneuch to flit, Then let us ser' Him while we may, we're no' deid yet. TWO LITTLE MAIDENS MINE. I LOVED two little maidens once, One eight, the other ten ; Myself a man of middle age, And just like other men. And still amongst the folks around The wonder seemed to be That I should fall in love with them, And they in love with me. Yet, nevertheless, it is a fact And facts are stubborn things Two love birds fluttered to my breast And folded there their wings. Twin flowerets by a mossy stone, All beautiful did bloom, Spread all their wealth of tender leaves, Shed all their sweet perfume. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 161 Perhaps the strangest thing of all Is this I'm going to tell, My two sweethearts while loving me, Each other loved as well. No canker-worm of jealousy To torture and make sad j Pure in themselves, all love, all trust, Their hearts were ever glad. And all this store of innocence, Affection, joy, and truth, Surrounding like an aureole My Naomi and Ruth. They brought to me at close of day, When by the hearth we'd meet ; With added smiles and fond caress Heart-offering, oh, how sweet ! They came to me at evening tide, So much they had to tell ; Dear Bessie with the sunny locks, And dark-eyed Isobel. And when the flowing gold and jet Upon my bosom lay, The one I called my Queen of Night, The other, Dawn of Day. Then would I clasp my golden Dawn All dewy to my breast ; 162 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Then in the thoughtful eyes of Night Find joy and peace and rest. And all the while they'd prattle on, Sweet speech ran like a rill From rosy lips that would not rest While mine with joy were still. Oh, perfect friendship ! purest love ! As priceless as 'tis rare, Surpassing far when realised The bliss of wedded pair. Of all on earth I've striven for Truth, honour, knowledge, fame, Success in life, and more than all, A poet's deathless name I've now, thank God, two loving hearts, As guerdon and reward, Twin angels lent me for a time, To solace, guide, and guard My soul from evil thoughts, and troops Of persecuting ills. A soul athirst, to me they brought Heav'n's pure refreshing rills. I deemed the wealth thus fallen to me Might lastingly endure, To purify my heart and life, As childhood's love is pure ; WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 163 Where are my darlings now? you ask - Ah, me, they are not dead ; Yet none the less am I bereft, For both have long been wed. TWO LITTLE ANGELS. Two little angels all in white, Come to my chamber every night ; Raiment of childhood, pure and sweet, Touching the floor where little pink feet Play in and out at hide and seek. Close fitting mob-caps, faultlessly neat Framing two faces oh, how sweet ! Where from under each oval frill, Golden threadlets wander at will, Just a hint of the wealth within. i Rosy lips parted, love-lit eyes, Bright as the morning enkindling the skies; Say, could a vision more beautiful be ? Each with a message of love to me Just think ! with a message to me. Two little mouths held up to be kiss'd, Two little heads to be fondly caressed; Come to my bosom, then, leaving while there Scent of June roses to sweeten the air One kiss at at a time, dears ! Just one and away. i64 WEE TIBBIE'S OAKLAND. Softly the door closes, fain would I sleep, But, my heart follows, for one other peep ; Kneeling in snowy crib, lisping a prayer ? Weary lips closing down peacefully there 1 Ah no ! my two lambs are not there. Gone to another home, ask me not where, Sweet in their angelhood, smiling and fair ; Waiting to welcome me, welcome me home, There, with them, hand in hand^ gaily to roam, Seeing no longer in dreams. What was their errand ? you ask let me i Ay, friend, you are right, 'twas a message to me, I'd almost forgot, in my foolish delight Draw near, let me whisper' t 'twas " Grandpa, good night!" My darlings, I answer Good night ! WHAT'S THE MATTER? WHAT'S the matter 1 what's the matter 1 That a woman, and a daughter Of that God who made us all, Should from womanhood thus fall, All her sweetness turned to gall, What's the matter 1 what's the matter ? Fair by nature, and still young, Yet with rags and patches hung ! WEE TIBBIES GARLAND. 165 Hair dishevelled, bloodshot eyes ; Would thy mother, in this guise Know her once-beloved daughter ? What's the matter 1 what's the matter 1 In her laughter there's no mirth ; Cheeks where dimpling smiles had birth, Dirt-begrimed and hollow now ; Seam'd with care the youthful brow j Urchins point the finger at her What's the matter ? what's the matter 1 Eyes that once were like the dawn When the night-clouds are withdrawn ; What hath quenched their joyous light 1 Whence this soul-eclipsing blight ? Soul, once pure as sparkling water ! What's the matter ? what's the matter t Gleam of crystal, glare of brass, Hold her eye, she cannot pass. Child of wretchedness and sin ! Wilt thou, woulds't thou venture in ? Hopeless woman ! Eve's frail daughter ! Ah, I see now what's the matter ! Drink, that source of countless ills, Holds her in his grasp, and fills Heart and brain with deadly poison, Blights and blasts Life's fair horizon. Word, and look, and rag, and tatter All proclaim, Drink is the matter 166 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. God, who made yon star-gem'd roof, For how long shall this vile hoof Tread thy children under foot Sink the man, exalt the brute Even fair woman bruise and batter $ Oh, that we could mend the matter ! Till by some great purpose fired, Men may preach till they are tired ; Tongue nor pen can ne'er reveal What Drink's countless victims feel ; Deeds we want, not wordy patter, These alone will end the matter. DRAW THEM IN. DEDICATED TO THE UPHOLDERS OF THE DRINK TRAFFIC. Ho ! ye that live on drunkards, who make working men your prey, Vile vendors of those maddening drinks that steal men's wits away, To help your brother-man to rise from ignorance and sin Were better ; but, no matter, Draw them in, tempt them in. To rest, refresh, and comfort us, you promise that is well WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 167 Yet all the while ye're leading us the downward march to hell ; To lead us to the higher life, away from dram-shop's din, Were better ; but no matter, Draw us in, wile us in ! You take from men their hard- won gains, what give you in return ? Food ? raiment 1 nay ! but liquid fire their brains to scathe and burn. Had they but wit to see the wrong they do to kith and kin 'Twere better ; but, no matter, Draw them in, suck them in ! Your wives and daughters flaunt about in silks and satins fine, While poor men's wives and little ones in want and misery pine; Your wives are like the lilies, which do neither to : l nor spin, While ours are but, no matter, Draw them in, tempt them in ! All we've toiled for, ye have taken ; with our earn- ings ye have built Princely fortunes, regal mansions are your hands quite clean of guilt ? Oh, my brothers ! had ye but the sense to keep the wealth ye win, 'Twere better ; but, no matter, Stagger in, stumble in ! 168 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. That poor woman on the pavement, how she shivers in the cold ; And no wonder, since her petticoat for whisky she has sold ; Pure water, to allay her thirst, and purify her skin, Were better ; but, no matter, Have her in, haul her in ! . Know ye not the heavens are weary of the dirty work ye've done. For ye pander to all evils that exist beneath the sun. If murder, theft, and lewdness to your trade were not akin, 'Twere better ; but, no matter, Draw them in, drag them in ! Ye ministers who preach God's Word, yet fail to do His will, No longer lift your voice against our nation's vice until The demon ye have ousted both from cellar and from bin. That were better ; but, no matter, Preach away, right shall win. There's a glorious time yet coming, may God speed the happy day ! Then idleness will be a crime to work will be to pray; When drunkenness will cease to be our country's crying sin ; And we'll scatter while we batter Down the dens that sucked us in ! WEE TIBBIE'S GABLAND. 169 AN AWFU' NIGHT. THE worryin' win's took a grip o' the wuds, An' tore at their branches bare, Syne cam' to oor door wi' a thud an' a roar, Gart me spring to my feet on the flair. I drew in my chair to the chimla cheek, An' sat till the wee hours had sped j For, oh, it's sae eerie, sae lanesome an' weary To lie on a bachelor's bed. I pottert the ribs an' chappit the coal, Yet for a' feint a bit wad it bleeze, Sae I crap to my bed, drew the claes owre my heid An* up to my chin my twa knees. I tried, but in vain, to droon oot wi' my snores The wild hurly-burly withoot ; But the looder it grew as the weird lichtnin' flew, Till my heart fairly duntit wi' doot. Wi' doot 1 na, wi 1 dreed, for as trumlin' I lay, An' thocht on my sorrowfu 7 plicht, My life's sunless days and bachelor ways But I vowed they should end wi' that nicht. An' I keepit my vow, for noo, as ye see, I'm laird o' this cosy bit cot, An' nae langer complain sin' noo I hae ta'en A dear lassie to sweeten my lot. L 170 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Noo the win' an' the rain may daud at the door, An' the bolts o' the leven' flee past, While Susie sits there in her snug nursin' chair, I heedna the howl o 1 the blast. NEW VERSION O' AN AULD EHYME. "0, I'LL tell my mither when I gae hame, That the lads'll no' let the lassies alane ; " But, odsakes, I'm thinkin' my mither will say- - It's the lassies that lead the laddies astray. For mither's an auldfarrant body, ye ken, Weel read in the failings o' women an' men ; But guid keep us a', when it's only in fun For courtin' in earnest I haena begun. I'll jist speir at my mither when I gae hame Gin likin' the lads be a sin an' a shame ; An' hoo it cam' roun' that my faither an' she Got buckled ava withoot daffin' a wee 1 It's queer that the auld should forget their young days, Their lauchin' an' daffin' an' deil-ma-care ways ; It's a pawkie auld sayin' and true as the steel, That auld heids on young shouthers dinna sit weel. If true, as she says, that young folks when they're wed Sune tire o' ilk ither, an' think they're misled, WEE TIBBIES GARLAND. 171 I'm fairly determined gin that be the law, To hae oot my dafiin' while yet we are twa. Yet for a' to my mither, ance I were hame, I'll tell my heart's secret, an' think it nae shame, An' she'll tell me what's richt, an' daut me fu' fain, For she'll see herseF young in her dochter again. THE FAIR MAIDS O' FEBRUARY.* THE Fair Maids o' February cam'na the year Till the wee month had gane an' the March win's were here. An' doon frae the hill-taps they bitterly blew, While the querns o' the snawdrift like sharp needles flew. The grun' was like airn and a' withered the buds, An' no' a green leaf to be seen in the wuds ; Sair, sair lay the burden o' hardship an' care, For hope in oor hearts had gi'en place to despair. Ere yet the snaw-wreath felt the flush o' the sun, Or John Frost had let go his snell grup o' the grun', A bonnie wee flooer raised its saintly white bell In oor dowie kailyaird in a neuk by itseP. * Old name for snowdrops. 172 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. In spite o' the cauld drift, the ice-tempered breeze, The frown o' the lift, and the sough o' the trees, She lifted her head wi' the air o' a queen An' daintily shook oot her kirtle o' green. With rapture I hail the sweet herald o 7 spring ; Noo the blackbird will pipe an 7 the mavis '11 sing ; Ance mair the blithe daisies will dapple the lea, An' catkins o' silver bedeck the saugh tree. O Fair Maid o' February ! peerless as fair, Sweet-breathed as the lily, with beauty as rare ; First flooer o' the grass-plot, white star o' the lea, Like Bethlehem's thou bringest gladness to me. A voice frae the far land, a sign frae beneath, Proclaiming to mortals that death isna death : A token o' mercy, a symbol o' love, A ray frae the shining white glory above. FISSIDENS BRYOIDES. O' A* the plants that ere I saw, There's nane sae fair, I ween. The wee'st, fairest, sweetest thing That e'er wore tint o' green, Ts Fissidens bryoides. WEE TIBBIES GARLAND, 173 In shady nook, beneath a bank, Whaur briar an* bramble twine, It modestly had made its hame, An' spread its naipery fine Wee Fissidens bryoides. I slipped it' neath my keekin' glass, An' there, amazed, I saw Wee bonnie, green, owre-lappin' leaves Spread oot in double raw 'Twas Fissidens bryoides. An' frae ilk stem a tiny shaft Bore urns sae ripe an' roun ; , Wi' ring o j crimson fringe adorn'd, Like ony kingly croon Rare Fissidens bryoides. 1 bunted through my Botany-bock To get the wee thing's name ; When, to my joy, I fand at last It was a plant o' fame, This Fissidens bryoides. That fairy moss the traveller * saw In desert waste, langsyne, When on the san's he laid him doon To dee through want, and pyne Was Fissidens bryoides. * Mungo Park. 174 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. As though an angel frae the lift To him had lichtit doon, The wee thing filled his soul wi' joy An' faith in Heaven aboon Blythe Fissidens bryoides, An' while time lasts, wee darlin' moss, Thy beauty we'll revere, For Mungo's sake, whose deeds o' fame To Scottish hearts are dear Fair Fissidens bryoides. Nor think, wee moss, that I'm the less O'erjoyed to meet wi' thee, Wha in my heart get mony hints O' heav'n frae things I see Dear Fissidens bryoides ! Yet, things like thee, sae sweet and wee, Men pass unheeded by ; No kennin' God dwells in the moss, Nae less than starry sky Ah, Fissidens bryoides ! SIGNS O' SPRING. OH, weel, weel I ken when the springtime is near, When deep in the woodlands the mavis I hear, Or the flute o' the merle in the woods o' Shieldha', Or wee robin's sang, far the sweetest o' a'. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 175 Oh, what mak's the craws, when the March-days begin, To fl ichter an' flee an' to mak' sic a din 1 They are walin' their mates an' sae era win' fa' croose, Enjoy in' the pleasure o' takin' up hoose. As weel ask. the lads an' the lassies, I ween, What gars them steal doon by the burn-side at e'en, A-courtin' an' cooin' like wood-dove wi' dove There's a spirit abroad, an' the name o't is Love. There's a power in the air, there's a spirit abroad, It smiles in the sunshine, it stirs in the clod ; It sends the wee bairns out to dance on the green- The glow to their cheeks an' the licht to their een. Oh, love, blessed love ! life without thee were vain ; Sae pure an' sae precious, to mak' thee oor ain Were worth a hale lifetime o' sorrow an* care ; Gie me this ae treasure, I'll ask for nae mair. Noo the sun in his strength, like a king, mounts his throne, To weave a green robe his fair bride to put on ; Still young an' still bonnie, this planet o 1 oors, She'll bask in his smile, an' he'll busk her wi' flowers. The hedges are greenin', the snawdraps are through, An' the cup o' the crocus wi' sun-go wd is fu', The trees are in bud, an' the whins are in bloom, While the hills hide nae langer their heids in the gloom. 176 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. E'en doon in the puirshoose, whaur winter sae cauld Clings the feck o' the year to the frail an 1 the auld, Puir bodies ance mair see the fields growin' green, Wliile the sleepy wee daisies are openin' their een. The mavis sings there, whaur the trees are in bud, An* the hyacinths hide in the Merryflats wud ; For scenes sic as these e'en the pauper's heart learns To be thankfu' an' then there's the blythsome wee bairns, A' loupin' an' lauchin', o'er-lippin' wi' joy, Nae thochts o' the future their bliss to alloy. Lord lichten the lot o' puir bodies a wee, An' mak' spring a pleasure to them, as to me ! Then, awake, oh, my soul ! thy Creator is near ; His voice in the woodlands with gladness I hear, His steps o'er, the meadow in beauty I trace, While the love o' a Faither I see in his face. THE DEEIN' MAIDEN. DAE I think I'm ony better, mither 1 Weel, it's hard to tell. I canna say I'm ony waur; but what think ye yerseH Thy face, far mair than ony glass, a mirror is to me ; 0' better health, or comin 1 strength, what promise dae ye see? WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 177 D'ye see it in thae bluidless haun's, thae fingers lang an' thin ? Thae hectic cheeks, oh ! sae unlike the healthy rose o' June 1 ? D'ye hear it in this barkin' host that's like to rive in twa The very heart within my breist, an' tak's my breath The mair I read thy face, mither, the less o' hope 1 see y But there I see a mither's love, aboon a' price to me. Then clasp me to thy lovin' breist, an' kiss me ower again, For tho' a woman, I declare I'm jist a taupit wean. An' noo ye'll draw the blind, mither, an' let the sun- licht in : There's Dickie mountit on his perch, an' waiting to begin His mornin' lilt I lo'e sae weel it's health to hear him sing ; Wi' quiv'rin' wing and swellin' throat he'll gar the rafters ring. There, dancin' on the wa', I see the shadows o' the trees, The swayin' o' their branches, as they warsel wi' the breeze ; An' tappin' on the window, I can hear them as they fa'. The deid leaves tellin' as they pass the fate that comes to a'. 178 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND, That fate may soon be mine, mither, but let us hope the best Life's cup is sweet, Death's ways are dark, e'en tho' they lead to rest. When ane has youth upon their side, a wee thing brings them roun' j God ken's what's best, nae doot, for baith, sae let his will be dune. Here, sittin' in my chair, mither, in comfort, like some queen, I see afar the dim blue hills, the fields an' meadows green An' nearer han' the Craigha' Wuds, in yellow, red, an* grey- Sad emblems o* my failin' health and life's fast closin'day. [ see fu' mony tokens that foretell the closin' year The crimson haws upon the hedge, red hips upon the brier The bonnie hips, sae roun' an* ripe, and sweet to laddie's mou', Or slaes that tempt his greedy gab till sourness gars him grue. An' yonder, by the stubble-fiel', the poppies in a bleeze Ae blush o' glowin' scarlet, as they flutter in the breeze ; The cranesbill wee, upon the lea, spreads laich its crimson leaves ; In scarlet blooms the pimpernel whaur grew the autumn sheaves. WEE TIBBIES GARLAND. 179 An', by an' by, the robin will be on the window sill, In his bonnie rosy waistcoat, when the days are caulder still; An' thus the year's sad gloamin' lends to earth a ruddy glow To cheer the hearts o' rich an puir 'mang mortals here below. An' yonder the wee burn, mither, gleams like a frien'ly face, Stealin' oot yonder frae the pool tae rin its headlang race; Noo glintin' through amang the segs, noo joukin' 'neath the brae, An' singin' aye the same glad sang to cheer the shortnin' day. Noo loupin' like a thing o'life atween the stappin'stanes, Glid steps that bare our paidlin' feet when we were bits o' weans ; An' bairns will paidle there, mither, when you an' me are deid, The burn as blythely prattle on, and tak' as little heed. The flowers we gather'd on its banks short syne in dewy May, King-cup an' daisy, cuckoo flower, primroses, whaur are they ? Ilk bonnie thing seems born to dee, ae glint an' syne they pass, Like to the bonnie pictur'd scenes seen through the showman's glass. 180 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Hare-bell, nor blue forget-me-nots, nae star worts noo I see, A' perished in their simmer pride, they lie upon the lea ; For Autumn is the evenin' time, the sunset o' the year, An* Winter is the year's black night, cauld, comfort- less an' drear. They say I'm in a wastin' an' I'm sure to slip awa' In Spring-time when the leaves come on, or Autumn when they fa' ; In Autumn when the mune hangs braid aboon the ripenin' corn, Or in the kelpie's caldron laves her bonnie silver horn: In Autumn when the dawlies hang their heids as if in pain, Sair worried wi* the gurly win', or droukit wi' the rain, When leaves fa' thick upon the lawn an' grassy borders green, Wee birds sit mute, an' dowers lie deid a dreary time I ween In Autumn when the win's low wail is through the key-hole heard, An' new-made mounds o j earth rise red within the auld kirk-yard, When tears unbidden frae the heart well up an' dim the e'e A weary time, a waefu' time, for ony ane to dee. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 181 Still sadder it wad be, mither, to dee in winter-time, Unless, like birds, we flew awa' to some mair genial clime ; But though I pray the Lord aboon to guide and gie me licht, The future lies as dark to me as ony winter's nicht. Far rather wad I dee, mither, when birds wi' rapture sing, When wud and mossy dell ring oot the voices o' the Spring : When frae the gates o' morn the Sun steps royally ance mair To clasp his bonnie bride, the Earth, high in the realm o' air. For then, tho' on my deein' bed, I'd hear the bairns at play, Aiblins the bleatin' o' the lambs at morn or e'enin* grey; There scent ance mair the spicy air the winds waft frae the pine, While some kin* ban* wad bring me in the early cellandine. But, ah ! betwixt this weary time and Spring-time far awa', The year's black nicht maun intervene, death's deep- enin' shadows fa' ; Short sunless days lang days to me, and lang nichts 1 anger still To sic as me, a' day an ? nicht sae waukrife an' sae ill 182 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. An' yet it micht be waur, mither; hoo sad my lot "wad be Withoot thy love and constant care, aboon a* price to me ! Day after day, nicht after nicht, ye toil and never stint ; Sic love comes nearest the divine, there's mair than human in't. Oh, isna love a wondrous thing ! there's nocht else sae divine, For aye the darker looms the nicht, the mair its licht will shine ; Ilk morn I meet thy anxious face ye're dearer to my heart, 'Twill be a sad day for us baith that day we twa maun part. When cousin Bell fell ill, mither,she was a wedded wife, Wee toddlers twa hung at her skirts, the joy o' her young life ; Puir thing ! instead o' helpin' them, she couldna help herseP, Death held her wi' a grip o' airn alas, puir cousin Bell! Nae toddlin' wean will mourn for me; an* yet it micht hae been, Young Jamie a' but said the word last year at Hallow- e'en j An' when in thochtless glee I leuch, in pain he turn'd awa' A lad mair laithfu' in his love I'm sure I never saw. WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 183 But tho' I waited wearily, his face I ne'er saw mair, Until the news cam he had sail'd, 'twas then my heart grew sair; It's no jist that I car'd for him, but here between us twa, I maun confess that whiles I feel he's biddin' lang awa'. D'ye think he'll yet come hame, mither ? that h^'s yet to the fore, In spite o' cruel strife o' arms, an' streams o' human gore? Ance he were hame, he'll maybe come to see me, mither, dear; But will he be the same to me as when he gaed frae here] What tempit him to gang an' list, nae difference hncl we ; 'Twas a' in fun, it seem'd sae strange that I his bride should be. Puir chiel, he took it sair to heart that gilpy lauch o' mine; Waes me, to think I couldna see his feeliri's were sae fine! Yet manly was his heart, mither, an* bauld as bauld could be ; Unseemly act or sinfu' word brocht lichtnin' to his e'e; An 1 mair sae when anither's lips owre freely breathed my name, Ae look frae him the coof wad cowe, and gar him blush wi' shame. 184 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Far better for us baith, mither, that we should never meet; Young hearts should meet to loup wi' joy, an' no to mourn and greet ; An' yet 'twad be a comfort, an' the thocht my bosom warms, To ken I drew my latest breath in my dear Jamie's arms. An' even tho* I dee, mither, an' Jamie he be spared, It's sweet to think he'll aiblins come up to the auld kirk-yard. An' press the dewy daisies on my green grave when they dreep, For her dear sake wha lies below for soun'er wad I sleep. But tho' we shouldna meet on earth, in heaven, wha kens, we may, An' share for aye the joys that here are only for a day ; The thocht o't a' but mak's me weel, I'll row me in't an* sleep, An' dream than angels roun' my bed their lovin' vigils keep. THE DYSPEPTIC TO HIS STOMACH. PUIR feckless thing ! what are ye guid for ? There's no a haet ye're in the tid for ; WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 185 The wale o' food on ye I try ; A' kinds o' breid oat, wheaten, rye, Het pies an' pastries, London buns, Shortbreid an' cheese-cakes, sally-luns ; For dinner, mutton-chop or steak, An' yet, for a', I'm lean's a rake, Kyte-clung as ony reestit herrin', A 'natomy for folks to stare on. Ye're never pleased, dae a' I can, But torture still my inner man j Nae maitter though I starve till noon, Or tak' a meal at hauf-a-croon ; Guid meat or ill, it's a' the same, Ye keep my inside in a flame Wi' acid, alkali, an* bile, Aneuch a dizzen Jobs to rile ; An' as for drugs, the Lord aboon Alane kens what I've swallowed doon, Prescribed by doctors, quacks, and tricksters, A' kinds o' poothers, pills, an' mixtures ; Forbye o' yirbs, frae docken leaves To plants that grow on deid men's graves,* Bog-trefoil and tormentil roots ; I've even tried cauld water clouts Aye, clouts wat-ringing frae the well An' het anes tae, that gart me yell. Yet a' in vain, the mair I try To mak' ye weel, the mair ye fry My entrails in yer scowtherin' pan * Yarrow. 186 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Was ever sic a martyr'd man 1 Was ever sic a luckless mortal Admitted through Life's misty portal ] Oh, that I could but keek within When to yer day's darg ye begin, Though whaur ye get the stuff to brew Is mair than I can weel see through \ As soon's yer furnace fires ye blaw, A' that gaes doon ye turn to ga' Or waur, to gas syne stap the lum, Till I'm bent oot like ony drum ; Wi' that ye raise an eerie din, Like water rumbling ower a lin, Whiles no' unlike a growlin' tyke, Or puddocks croakin' in a syke. When like to screech wi' gripin' pains, The steever still ye haud the reins, Meanwhile my quiver-in' nerves ye glaum at, An' on them play yer deevil's gammut ; Then in my brain's ilk bole an' chaumer Ye place an imp wi' bell an' hammer ; An' thus the fiendish pantomime Begins ; meanwhile the imps keep time Thump, thump, pell-mell, ane after ither, Till, clean dementit a'thegither, I ramp an' dance, an' a' but swearin', Like madman through the hoose careerin ; . Xae mortal kens the life I lead, An' since for me there's nae remead, What can I dae but wish me deid 1 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 187 RETALIATION : OR, THE STOMACH'S REPLY. LOSH, man, ye micht think shame to tell Sic stories that condemn yersel' ; Yer ain confession's my defence An 7 this is a' my recompense For years o' ceaseless toil an 7 strife, An' a ? to save yer useless life. An' noo to trump up sic a tale, An' send it braid owre hill an' dale. What was I made for ? that's the question, Nae doot ye'll say it was digestion ; Digestion, truly ! but o' what ^ Horse-nails, tea-caddies ? was't for that 1 Nae man will think sae wha has reason, But to digest in proper season What God has gi'en as human food, That may be changed to healthy bluid ; An' jist aneuch o't at ilk feed To drive the mill an' ser' my need. But 'stead o' that ye stech an' cram Me fu' wi' durnplins, eggs, an' ham, Green peas, sour grossets, lettuce, jam ; Wi' oranges, musk-amons, apples Fit provender for dainty thrapples Or pentit sweetmeats warst o' poosions Figs, raisens, dates, in scores an' dizzens ; Rank puddock-stools in sauce or ketchup, Aneuch to gar a grumphie retch up ; 188 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Peppers black, grey, cayenne, Jamaica Saliva poosioned wi' tobacco. A' thae, an* mair, are at me flung, Nor dae ye then pit in the bung ; As if puir me to scad or droon, Hale seas o' drink come gushin' doon I'll no say whisky, yill, or toddy, For ye were ne'er a drucken body But soda water, soups, an' teas, Till I begin to hotch an' heeze ; What follows neist, ye ken yersel', Black shame forbids that I should tell. For days hoo can I but be sour 1 Digestion's clean oot o' my power ; Frae sicna hash wha could rnak' chyle, Or ocht save vinegar an* bile, Or foulsome gas the painch to swell ? Lord, man, ye couldna dae't yersel', Nor a' the chemists in creation For you perform the operation ! Ye cram sae muckle in yer maw-hole, Ye mak' o' me a perfect jaw-hole, A pock to haud baith rough an' raw things Or like the shop o' Jenny A'things, Wha in the Gorbals, honest woman, Sell't ilka thing, baith queer an' common. To cure me ance ye tried stewed oysters, That didna dae, syne drugs an' clysters ; WEE TIBBIE S GARLAND. 189 Fye, to the deevil wi' yer drugs ! As Shakespeare says, fling to the dougs Yer physic an' yer flummery ware, Gie me fair play, I ask nae mair ; Gie me but caller air an' rest, I'll dae my duty wi' the best. Langsyne, when ye were but a bairn, I maist could hae digested airn ; Aye, even afore ye'd gotten grinders, Halesale ye bolted coals an' cinders, Glass beads an' buttons, whiles a preen The likes o' ye was never seen. An' when a laddie, to the braes Ye gaed to gather hips and slaes ; My certy, but ye tried my mettle, Wi' siccan troke ye stowed my kettle ; There, side by side, lay hip and haw, Arnuts, black-boids, an' turnips raw, Green kail an' sourocks, ears o' wheat, 'Twas queer the thing ye couldna eat ; Yet ne'er a bit o' ill they did ye, But like a hawk as hungry made ye ; Some colic-grips micht rug yer wame, Yet aye I brocht ye starvin' hame. But since ye cam' to this vile toon, An' donn'd the literary goun, Ye care for naething but the pen, Hoo best to win the praise o' men. 190 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. Yer mental powers fain to develop, Swith to the grave sae fast ye gallop, Some day, I fear, will Ian' us baith Unbidden in the realms o' death. Gang to yer bed like ither folk, An' no* bide up till twal o'clock, Thrang scriblin' at yer bits o' rhyme, Ettlin* to catch big thochts sublime ! Yer wee bit gift, sae fain to show it, An' mak' believe that ye're a poet. Oh, that ye wad but exercise Ance mair yer reason an* be wise Resolve to practice self-denial, An' gie puir me anither trial ; Rin oot an' breathe the caller air, Hie to the fields, an' be ance mair A laddie ; lea' the rest to me, I'll bring ye roun' and that ye'll see r PROSE HEADINGS. GEORDIE TULLOCH'S DRINK O' SOOR DOOK. TAMMAS TAIT, or Laird Taifc, as the neighbours ca'd him, was a douce, weel-to-dae farmer, an' laird o' his ain bit farm till the bargain. His family consisted o' Eppie, his wife, and Jennie, his only dochter a braw, weel-faured kimmer, and guid as she was bonnie. Geordie Tulloch was the servant-man, a strappin' youth, deft at the wark, and wi' a merry twinkle in his een that spak' o' mischief to the lassies, for it acted on their sensitive hearts like a flash o' elec- tricity. Being clever at a' kinds o' farm wark, he was a great favourite wi' the laird, while his cheery disposition an 7 readiness to help endeared him alike to Jenny and her mither. Weel, ae bonnie day aboot the end o' April, the laird and Geordie were thrang at the tattie-plantin', and the weather being unco warm for the season, the latter, feelin' somewhat thirsty, said he wad hae to rin doon to the burn an' tak' a waucht o j water. " Na, na," quo* the laird, " ye'll dae nae sic thing, for it's jist leevin' wF scurs an* powheids ; but I'll tell ye what, jist rin yont to the hoose an* tell Jenny to 192 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. gie ye a guid drink o' soor dock, an* maybe a bite o' oatcake to tak' the cauld air aff't." "'Deed, laird," quo' Geordie, "I muckle fear Jenny 'ill be speirin' if it's no something o' the packman's drouth that's fashin' me, but I'se gang an 1 see at ony- rate." On entering the kitchen he found Jenny alone, and busy at wark bakin' wheaten-meal scones ; and, sud- denly seized with the spirit o' mischief, instead o' asking for a drink, he said "Jenny, lass, ye'll nae doot be surprised when I tell ye that I'm here by your faither's orders to ask ye for a kiss." " Oh, Geordie, Geordie ! " quo' Jenny, her cheeks crimsoning, "I'm sure my faither ne'er said sic a thing." " Weel, Jenny, an' ye dinna believe me, jist rin oot yersel' an' speir at him." Ere Geordie could prevent her, Jenny was out at the door, and, seeing her faither in the distance, cried at the top of her voice " Faither, am I to gie him't ?" "Ay, gie him't, to be sure," responded the laird. "An', fie, mak' haste, an' let him oot to his wark again." Jenny, wi' a puzzled air, retraced her steps to the kitchen, though at a much slower pace than she had left it, while her beating heart sent the glowing crim- son once more to her cheeks. "Weel," quo' the unabashed Geordie, " is't a' richU" " Ay, sae it wad seem," quo' Jenny ; " but for the life o' me, I canna un'erstan't." WEE TIBBIE S GARLAND. 193 " Aweel, Jenny, lass, here's the explanation ; " an', ere she could prevent him, he threw his arms around her and began to hug and kiss her in the most ap- proved rustic fashion. Jenny, meanwhile, struggling to get free, gave an involuntary scream, which had the effect of bringing another character to witness the scene, and that no less a personage than Eppie, her mither. She happened at the time to be snoddin' up the ben-en', or parlour, and, hearing Jenny's half-sup- pressed scream, made for the kitchen in her noiseless list shoes, like a cat after a mouse. Taking in the situation at a glance, she startled the pair by a stern and no less significant " Ahem ! " followed by " Ay, ay, bonnie-like on-gauns for folk wha hae their wark to attend to. Jenny, ye cutty ! say what's the meanin' o' a' this 1 " Geordie, by this time, had taken to his heels, or, in all likelihood, he would have been the first to come under the lash o' her tongue. Jenny, thus left alone to explain, told her the unvarnished truth, while with her floury hands she re-arranged her disordered locks. "A gey likely story, truly," quo' Eppie. "Tamrnas Tait's no the man to gie ony sic orders, to the scan- daleezin' o' his ain flesh an' bluid, an' mair especially to a servin' man. Na, na, ye needna tell me ony sic story; but yer faither 'ill sune be in for his twal hours, an' then we'll hear the richts an' the wrangs o't." Tammas had hardly steeked the kitchen door behint him when Eppie yoked him by saying in rather per- emptory tones : " What for, guidman, did ye gang an' tell that fal- 194 WEE T.EBIE'S GARLAND. low Geordie to vin awa' in to the Loose an' ask a kiss frae Jenny there 2 " "Ask a what 1 ?" quo' Tamraas. " Me tell Geordie to gang an' dae ony sic thing ! What pits sic non- sense i' yer heid, woman 1 " To this Eppie replied by telling him the whole story of Geordie's delinquency. "Weel," quo' the laird, "if that disna cowe the go wan ! De'il be on his impidence to say ony sic thing ; a* that I said was that he was to rin in to the hoose an' Jenny wad gie him a drink o' soor dook." " A queer kin' o' soor dook," quo' Eppie, bitin' her lip to prevent lauchin* ootricht. " An' as queer a kin' o' drouth," quo' Tarn mas, wi' a loud guffaw, in which his wife could not help joining. " Hoot, toot, gudewife," quo' the laird, recovering his dignity, " it's nae lauchin' maitter, I can tell ye, an' it maun be put a stop to this very day, sae jist open ye the aumry, Jenny, an* han' me owre my cash- box." This peremptory order Jenny rather unwill- ingly executed, while Tammas, taking a small key from his watch chain, opened the box, and took out a roll of bank notes, saying as he carefully unfolded them "The loon's fee is twal' pounds i' the hauf year, an' there it's ready for him. True, it wants maist a month yet to the term, but that's neither here nor there, an' the sunner we get redd o' him the better. Sae rin, Jenny, roun' to the hoose-en' an' let him ken that he's wanted, an' that this very meenit ; dae ye hear?" WEE TIBBIES GARLAND. 195 " But, faither," Jenny ventured to say, "ye're surely no gaun to pit the lad awa for sae sma' an affair? it was only fun on his part." " Fun ! sma' affair, lassie ! dae ye imagine 1 but be aft wi' ye at aiice, an' hoy him in when I bid ye." " But, faither," persisted Jenny, " a a I like him, an' wadna hae ye to pit him awa'." " Oh, ye like him, dae ye 1 Weel, nae doot that alters the complexion of things in your een at least, if no in mine sae be aff, I tell ye, an' cry him in this very meenit." Jenny saw there was no help for it, so with heavy step, and still heavier heart, she set out to obey the laird's orders. But when sKe got within sight o' Geordie, her heart was too full to speak, far less cry to him, so she waved her hand as a signal that he was wanted. Geordie saw, and understood at once that there was mischief a-brewing, and so made up his mind for the worst. When he entered the kitchen, and saw the laird sitting with his cash-box before him, and a number of bank notes in his hand, he knew at once that his fate was sealed, so with cap in hand, and with- out saying a word, he resolved to await his sentence. " Geordie Tulloch," began Tammas, in his senten- tious way, " there's yer fee up till the term. It wants a month o' the time yet, but that's neither here nor there ; it'll gie ye the mair time to look oot for anither place. I needna tell ye what for I hae been forced to tak' this disagreeable step, as yer ain conscience will hae dune that already, an' I wad fain hope that this will be something o' a lesson to ye in 196 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. the time to come, an* be the means o' makin' ye a wee thocht mair discreet in yer conduct. Sae there's yer siller ; coont it an' see that it's a' richt." Geordie said nothing, but took the proffered notes, which he slowly counted over, and then casting a last, longing, lingering look on Jenny, he put on his cap, and was about to turn away when Tammas said " Stop ! bide a wee. Ye hae been a guid an' faithfu' servant to me, Geordie, an 7 on that account I dinna want to be hard upon ye, sae, an' ye hae a min' to bide still, ye are welcome, but on this ae condition namely, that ye tak' Jenny there an' mak' her yer wife. What say ye?" Geordie, sadly dumbfoundered, looked at the roll of notes he held in his hand, then at Jenny, standing with her apron at her eyes ; then throwing the notes at Tammas, he exclaimed " Hae, laird, tak' back yer siller, an' I'll tak' Jenny, wha is better than a thoosan' o' yer creeshy bank notes ; that is, gin she will consent to tak' me. What say ye, Jenny, lass?" Jenny was too much overcome to reply in words, but she took his proffered hand and returned its fer- vent pressure; then, ere she could prevent him, he threw his arms around her, gave her a hearty smack, and on releasing her said " Mony thanks to ye, laird, for yer drink o' soor dock." "Noo, noo, bairns," quo' Tammas, "seeing that maitter's settled an' dune wi,' be aff to yer wark, an' lea' the soor dook to a mair befitting occasion. What say ye, guidwife ? " WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 197 " Jist this," quo' Eppie, " it's an ill win' that blaw s uaebody guid \ an', gin ye're a' pleased, sae am I." Geordie an' Jenny were soon made man and wife, an' mair than happy in each other's love. And now that the auld folks hae gane to their rest, Geordie is noo Laird Tulloch, the faither o' a braw family o' sons and dochters, an' a thriving man to the bargain. And even yet, when he comes in frae the hairst or hay- field for a drink, Jenny, wi' a pawkie look, will say " Is't to be soor dook, guidman?" JANET AND THE MINISTER. THERE'S mony a droll story tell't about ministers, an this is ane amang the lave. An' true, mind ye, for it happent no' a hunder mile frae oor parish, when I was a laddie. At that time my faither held the tack o' a big sheep farm ca'd the Mains. Some o' the servants were marrit, an' had bits o' cot hooses on the farm, while the shepherd an' his wife Janet leeved in a bit bothy awa ; oot gude kens hoo far, in the very middle o' the muir. But when her guidman, Robin, was taen awa' in the coorse o' nature, Janet was alloot jist to bide still in the auld cot-hoose, while a mair com- modious ane was bigget for the new shepherd jist beside it. Janet, leevin' sae far oot o' the warP, but seldom gaed to the kirk, but the parish minister, wi' ane o' his elders, paid her a visit aye ance i' the year. So on a memorable occasion, Janet being made aware 198 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. o' tbeir comin' had her bit hoose weel redd up, the kitchen-table spread wi' a snaw-white cover, which, forbye the precious auld-fashioned cups an* saucers, was weel heepit wi' new baked scones, new laid eggs, an' a sonsy print o' guid fresh butter. The minister an' his favourite elder duly arrived , an' received a hearty Scotch welcome frae Janet, syne, at her biddin, sat doon, wi' weel sharpened appetites, to enjoy the homely meal she had prepared for them. Janet was far owre busy attendin' on them to think o' takin' onything hersel' ; and she began to think it maybe as weel, considerin' the rapidity wi' which her heap o' scones was meltin' awa', while the braw print o' fresh butter had changed its shape frae a perfect circle to an oblong aboot twa inches across; for, ye see, the minister had been delvin' awa' at it on his side, while the elder, a puir hungry weaver, had been makin' fearfu' onslaughts on the ither, an' between the twa there wasna muckle o't left. But as ilka thing has an en', so also had the eatin' capacity o' Janet's visitors ; an' after crackin' awa' cheerily for some time, the minister, in his familiar manner, says, " Noo, Janet, ance ye hae cleared awa' yer tea paraphernalia, we'll hae worship." " Gude- sake ! " quo' Janet, " what's that ye say ? Parafin ile ! tea an' parafin ile 1 Weel, if there's the sma'est taste, or smell o' ony sic thing aboot what ye've been eatin', it's mair than I ken o'. Thae scones I bakit wi' my ain han's, thae eggs are o' my ain lay in' at least, o> my ain twa hens an' that pun' o' butter whatever it may be noo was ance as bonnie a print o' butter WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 19S as e'er cam oot o' the dairy o' Mains. Parafin ile, truly ! 'Tweel I saw na muckle signs o't sae lang's ye were at it, but, nae doot, eatin' tak's awa' ane's appetite." His reverence tried, but in vain, to put in a word o' remonstrance, an' explain his meaning sae great was Janet's flow o' eloquence in defence o' her hoose-keepin'. At length he managed to say, " My dear Janet, you have quite misunderstood the word I used. I said para-pher-nalia." " Parafin-yill-ye-a. Oh, I see, that'll be some new kin' o' drink? But be what it may, we hae nane o't here ; an' as for whisky, I never could keep it i' the hoose for oor Robin ; for as lang as he kent there was a drap left i* the bottle, he was sure to hae a grip o' the colic, or something the maiter wi' his macheenery. But speakin' o' parafin yill, sir, reminds me o' a bit droll story I heard no lang sin'syne aboot yin o' yer a in claith, too for ministers are no perfect, ony mair than puir cottar folks. Weel, ye see, the reverend gentle- man liked his dram, an* his wife, carefu' woman, kennin' his failin', keepit the whisky bottle locked awa' oot o' his reach. Sae ae day he fand himsel' sairly in want o' a toothfu', jist to help him on wi' his studies, so he said to the wife, that as he wasna a' thegither weel, he wad gae oot an' tak' a bit turn in the fresh air, to see if it wad revive him a wee. But instead o' takin' a walk he marched straight to the hoose o' a maiden leddy wha was a member o' his flock, an' wha as he brawly kent ne'er wantit for a drap guid whisky or brandy in her awmry. Weel, as usual, he pretondib to be a' oot o' sorts, an* she, dacent 200 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. woman, oot o' sympathy and kindness, proffert him a wee drap o' the best. To this he made nae objections, but kindly thanked her, while she the hoose bein' somewhat dark graipit in the press for the bottle, frae whilk she filled up a brimmin' bumper, an' haun'b owre to him, an', withoot say in' as muckle as * Here's to ye,' it was owre his throat like winkin'. But to her surprise, instead o' handin' her back the gless wi' a word o' thanks, he flung it intae the asehole, an', jumpin' to his feet, cried, 'Bin for the doctor! I'm puzhant, I'm puzhant ! ' an', haudin' his stamack, he had sic a fit o' bockin' an' vomitin', while the smell o' parafin ile was jist awfu'. For, ye see, in the dark she had grippit the wrang bottle, and there he stood, puir man ! haudin' his stamack, an' I'll no say swear-in' an' what a blessin' there wasna a lichtit match near at han', or it micht hae kin'lt his breath, an' made him for ance a burnin' an' a shinin' licht ! }> The minister an' elder laughed heartily at Janet's story, an' efter twa- three words o' benediction, bade fareweel to their faceeshious hostess. Janet tauld me the above story hersel', to which she added what follows, by way o' conclusion. Ae Sunday, no lang after, she thocht it her duty to gang to the kirk, but being rather late in startin' she arrived jist as the minister was readin* the chapter. He paused as Janet took her seat, an' fixin' his e'e upon her, continued solemnly, " How many basketsful of fragments took ye up It " Wi' a flash o' painful remembrance Janet's grievances recurred to her mind, an' it was a' she could dae to keep frae sayin' alood, "Weel, sir, I dinna WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 201 ken, but an' the seven thoosan' were a' like you an' yer hungry elder, the baskets wadna hae been very ill to carry." SPLITTIN' THE DIFFERENCE. LAIRD Lammont o' that ilk, an' his son Jock, were, in some respects, the very opposite o' ane anither. The laird was naething o' a farmer, but a great devourer o' books, an' mair especially novels and Church history. Even in the thrang o' harvest he cudna sit doon tae his dinner withoot his book ; and instead o' rushing oot tae the wark as sune's the grace was said, like ony ither douce, weel-daein farmer, he jist sat still an' read an' read till his wife was forced tae rive the hatefu' book oot o' his haun. Jock, his son, on the ither haun, kent naething aboot books, an' cared as little; his hale thochts being taen up wi' the farm an' its operations, so that what he wanted in wit, he made up for in wark. Some o' the ill-speakin' neebors alloo'd that Jock had a slate aff his riggin', but I dinna think there was muckle wrang wi' him in that direction. Nae doot, there were problems conneckit wi' the affairs o' the farm tlrat puzzled him sair at times, but wi' the help o' his faither, the laird, he aye managed to solve them somehoo. But the king o' a' problems presented itsel' at last in the shape o' a rakin' jaud o' a coo that wadna settle to the pasture like ony ither beast, but gaed raikin' and haikin' here-awa' there-awa', an' that maistly in N 202 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. the direction o' the growin' corn, tatties, or turnips. She wud eat onything but grass, a bit o' an auld leather shae or dirty cloot, when naething better was to be had. This jaud o' a beast was a real trouble to Jock, for the lave o' the kye a' followed her whaurever she had the mind to lead. An' sae Jock, at last, had to seek the advice o 7 his faither. He found him in the kitchen, as usual, and deep in the " Heart o' Mid- lothian," the which tale had just made its appearance, and was rousin' quite a furor' in the reading public. "Od, faither," quo' Jock, " what's to be dune wi' that limmer o' a coo Fleckie ? I declare they'll sune no hae ae stalk o' corn left, she's sic a beast for raikin' an' a' ither mischief; an', what's waur, the lave o' the kye will sune be as bad's hersel', for whaur she gangs they are sure to follow." " Weel, Jock," quo' the laird, " to gang to the ruit o' the maitter, Fleckie, puir thing, is troubled wi' a greedy e'e." " Twa o' them," quo' Jock. "Weel, twa o' them, as ye say; noo, the fac' is, as lang as she has the unleemitit use o' twa greedy een, jist sae lang will she continue to raik an' rin' an' dae a' kinds o' mischief, sae we'll either hae to pit oot her een, or in some way contrive to deprive her o' the use o' them." " Weel, faither," quo' Jock, " I wadna be jist sae cruel, but hoo wad it dae to bandage them? " " The very thing ! " exclaimed the laird, eager to get back to his book, " awa' ye gang an' try the ex periment, at onyrate." So Jock, wi' the help o' the WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. 203 servant lass, got Fleckie's head sewed up in a bit o' an auld seek, wi' the exception o' her mouth an' nose sae as to enable her to eat an 7 get breath. But the result o' the experiment was anything but satisfactory, for, though it kept Fleckie frae rinnin' to the corn, it didna hinner her frae tumblin' owre tree-rungs an' boulders, as weel as fa'in' into water holes an' sheuchs, to the no sma' danger o' life an' limb, so that Jock had to apply ance mair to his faither for advice. " Dae ye ken, faither, I'm fairly at my wit's en' wi' that jaud o' a coo ; she'll break her legs, as sure's death, if I dinna tak' the bandage aff her een; an' gin I dae tak' it aff I ken brawly it'll jist be the auld thing owre again, sae what's to be dune ava 1 " The laird, wha happened to be at a very interestin' part o' the book he was readin', said " Hoots awa, man, an' never fash your heid ! or stay, I'll tell ye what ye'll dae, Jock, jist split the difference." " Split the difference ! " quo' Jock, " the best thing to split wad be her thrawin' heid, the auld limmer." " Weel, ony way ye like," quo' the laird, "but steep yer brains, man, for ance, an' let's see what ye'll mak' o't." " Split the difference," muttered Jock to himsel', as he turned awa' ; " aye, but hoo to dae't, that's the question." A' that day till bed-time, an' after he lay doon, he thocht it owre; then he fell asleep, an* even then it wadna gie him rest, but haunted him in his dreams till far on in the mornin', when he started frae his slumbers, joyously exclaiming, " I see't, I see't ! " Then he made for the kitchen, where the laird was busy suppin' a cogfu' o' sweet milk brose. 204 WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND. " Hurran ! faither," cried he, " I've found it oot ! " lt Found oot what ? ye gowk ! " " Hoo to split the difference, faither." " Oh, that's aboot the coo, ye mean ; aweel, my son, let's hear hoo ye've hit it." " Weel, faither," quo' Jock, " I hae made the dis- covery na, dae ye ken, it cam' into my heid jist like a flash o' lichtnin' this mornin' that instead o ; takin' the cloot aff the coo's een, a' that's needed is to snick oot a wee bit hole richt farnent ilka e'e, an' sae prevent the puir brute frae breakin' her legs owre sticks an' stanes. " Od, Jock," quo* the laird, wi' a droll look on his face, "thoo's a genius, after a', ye see what steepin' anes brains does ; od, I think we'll hae to sen' ye aff to the college to get lear, an' when ye come back yer heid '11 be sae swall'd wi' knowledge that ye'll be obleeged to put on yer bonnet wi' a shaehorn." Jock, in high favour wi' himseF, ran oot to the park, an' wi' a pair o' shears sune restored to Fleckie the use o' her een, who, to mark her gratefu' sense o' the obligation, made straight for the nearest corn field, closely followed by all the other inmates o' the byre, while Jock in despair ran in to his faither, wha was stanin' at the kitchen window watchin' the result o' Jock's experiment, an' lauchin' like to split his sides. It'll no dae, faither," quo' Jock, ruefully, "splittin' the difference '11 no dae ! " " No, Jock," quo' the laird, " there's nae cure but ane for the cratur, an' that's to fatten her up, an' lea' the splittin' business to Jock Gibson, the flesher." RECENTLY PUBLISHED, m By JAMES and ELLEN NICHOLSON, Handsome Cloth Boards, Ss. ; Gilt Edges, 3s. 6d. LONDON: HAMILTON, ADAMS & CO., PATERNOSTER Row. GLASGOW: JAMES M'GEACHY, UNION STREET. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. FEW among our minor Scottish singers "warble their native wood- otes wild " more musically than James Nicholson of Glasgow. Of he Poems embraced in the collection to which Mr. Nicholson and his Laughter have jointly contributed, a number have already taken the lace which they thoroughly deserve to occupy in the affections of the ublic, and the lyrics that see the light for the first time will not be tie less welcome because they are accompanied by these old favourites, 'he warm love of nature, the delicacy and often the elevation of feeling, and the manly spirit that breathes in these verses, would entitle them to notice even were they clothed in a rough homely garb. But in most of them we find, also, a grace, a refinement, and an aptness of expres- sion, which the author's humble origin and scanty opportunities of study would scarcely lead us to expect. "The Herd Laddie," the longest poem in the collection "Auld Barnock," "The Burnie," "Mosses in Winter," and "Little February," are examples of his close and sympathetic study of nature, and his success in interpreting its moods; while of "fireside lyrics," blending tenderness and humour, few better specimens could be given than the "Auld Farrant Wean, ! the "Dautit Wee Wean," the " Cosy Bit Hame," "Oor Wee Kate," jand perhaps best of all, "Jenny wi' the Lang Pock." Broader in their ! effects are such pieces as the "Cauld East Wind," "Im-hm," and the | capital sketches entitled, "The Gaiters," and the " First Soiree ;" but, ! at its broadest, Mr. Nicholson's humour never degenerates into vulgarity. Miss Nicholson, the original, apparently, of the "Auld Farrant Wean," has inherited no small portion of her father's lyrical talent, and " Wee Feetikins," for example, is not excelled in pathos by anything in the book. Scotsman. Poets have handed on their powers to their daughters. ' ' Barry Corn- wall " had the delight of reading the verses of Adelaide Proctor with all a father's pride ; but the poet and the poetess never united in sending forth to the world a volume of their joint composition, as Mr. and Miss Nicholson have lately done. The father, we believe, has already attained some poetic reputation, and has, at any rate, succeeded in winning praise and congratulation from his fellow-countryman, Thomas Carlyle. Indeed, many of his poems dealing with Scotch life and char- acter are admirable, and full of quiet but effective fun. There is one capital poem on the well-known Scotch "Im-hm," which has per- plexed, amused, and irritated many a "Saxon"; and "Wee Kate" and the "Gaiters "are nearly as good. Mr. Nicholson seems to be a botanist, too ; and elsewhere, in some graceful and pretty verses, he gives us a most pleasant description of favourite wild flowers. But the father will readily forgive us if, somewhat neglecting his poems, we at once pass to those of his daughter ; to whom, in some pathetic lines, he resigns his gift of song. She has, in some of her simpler pieces, such as "Baby Marion," been most successful ; but as yet she seems hardly to have discovered her true themes. One faculty, too often denied to women, is hers a true sense of humour, which makes itself felt more than once in her verses, and especially in the last stanza of ' ' The Artist's Pet Picture." Literary World. Miss Nicholson, while showing herself less intimate with the nature of the hillside, the burnbank, and the dell, seems more familiar with sea-coast scenery, and possessed of a stronger bent for metaphysical dissection. Her verse is more evenly balanced, and is far freer of inci- dental defects, while the genius bequeathed seems, when at its highest, not below the best mark of her father. Shields Daily Standard. The characteristics of James Nicholson's poetry are a certain homely shrewdness, expressed often in the happiest Scotch, a disposition to look on the bright or the humorous side of things, descriptive power of no mean order. These qualities, coupled with that nameless charm which every now and then lights up a line or turns a period and makes the reader feel that here are singers who have something to say, and who can say it, combine to make this little book a treasure. There is nothing finer in all the literature of childhood than "Jenny wi' the Lang Pock," and it is not an exceptional specimen of James Nicholson's power. Shields Daily Gazette. WORKS BY JAMBS NICHOLSON. Cloth Boards, Is. 6d. KILWUDDIE AND OTHER POEMS. Glasgow : JAMES M'GEACHY, 89 Union Street. Cloth Boards, 3s. Illustrated. NIGHTLY WANDERINGS IN THE GARDENS OF THE SKY. Glasgow : JAMES M'GEACHY, 89 Union Street. Cloth Boards, 2s. FATHER FERNIE, THE BOTANIST: A TALE AND A STUDY. Including his Life, Wayside Lessons, and Poems, Glasgow : JAMES M'GEACHY, 89 Union Street. Cloth Boards, 3s. IDYLLS O' HAME, & OTHEE POEMS. London : HOULSTON & SONS, Paternoster How. Edinburgh : JOHN MENZIES & Co., Hanover Street. Glasgow : JAMES M'GEACHY, 89 Union Street. In Paper Covers, Is.; in Cloth Boards, Is. 6d. 'WEE TIBBIE'S GARLAND." Glasgow : JAMES M'GEACHY, 89 Union Street. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. "MB. CARLYLE read your book ('Tibbie's Garland') with real pleasure, and feels great respect for the tenderness, grace, and often iven pathos in it. MAE.Y CARLYLE AITKEN." Along with a vivid fancy and warm imagination, Nicholson possesses t rare fund of humour, sometimes bordering on the comic. The story >f the tailor who cut down his own black coat into a pair of gaiters. ( 4 ) believing it to be one made by a rival tradesman to the farmer for who he was "whipping the cat," the conversation of the " Clock ai the Bellows," and <: Oor Wee Kate," are evidences. N. B. Daily Mai, We hesitate not to say that, since the days of Burns and Macneii, n one has so well caught, and so forcibly expressed, the subtle homel pathos of lowly domestic life, as has the author of ''Kilwuddie, an< other Poems. " Montrose Standard. "Im-hm " is worthy of Burns. Had Nicholson penned nothing bii this, it would have entitled him to a place amongst our humorous poe It is such a poem as Goldsmith would have loved to read, and whic had Douglas Jerrold been alive, would have obtained a larger shar public notice for the writer. . . . James Nicholson is one of th to whom is given a glorious mission, and the spirit of his verses pr that it will not be sacrificed by him on the altar of popular prejud Pure and simple in his style, truthful and eloquent in his language, earnest in his thoughts he is a true poet of the people, one wh utterances must sooner or later sink into their hearts and teach them bless his memory. National Magazine. James Nicholson is one of those few poets from whose lips the Do flows with much of the sweetness, and a great deal of the force, wh characterised the language in the days of Burns. Elgin and Moray sh Courier. Pawkie humour, that quality so largely developed in the Scott character, and particularly so in the genuine Scottish minstrel, is p sessed in no stinted measure by Nicholson. Ayrshire Express. In the lowliness of his birth, in the struggles and disadvantages of youth, in the persevering and independent spirit with which he ov came all adverse circumstances, and in the excellent use he has mac of his opportunities and talents, James Nicholson is entitled to be hen forth honourably named with the Nichols, the Bethunes, and ot humble sons of genius of whom Scotland has such just reason to proud. Scotsman. The touch of genius is upon every page of this little book ["Fat Fernie "]. It is difficult to say whether the charm of the story, poems, or the botanical conversations, is the greatest. James Nichol is one of the peasant poets of Scotland, entitled to sing with the best her minor minstrels. An exquisite fancy, a rich imagination, a qua humour, and a tenderness as manly as it is touching, give a magic Ms pen. It is not often that elementary science is clothed in such attractive garb. British Quarterly. The above may be had from JAMES M'GEACHY, 89 Uni Street, Glasgow,