THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
ALLAN FULLARTON WILSON 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY AN 
 
 AUSTRALIAN SCOT. 
 
 I 
 JILLAN FULLARTON WILSON. 
 
 Melbourne : 
 M. L. HUTCHINSON. 
 
 Geelong : 
 JOHN PURDIE. 
 
INDEX 
 
 THE WAR. PAGE 
 
 " Bis Dat Qui Cito Dat " 9 
 
 We'll Keep the Old Flag Flying, Never Fear .. .. 11 
 
 When the "Anzacs " Come Home 12 
 
 Australian Patriotic Song 14 
 
 The Triumph of the King 15 
 
 The Lion to His Whelps 17 
 
 The Dying Sailor 18 
 
 What Next? 19 
 
 Farewell to Chas. McLennan 20 
 
 The Storm-swept Glens 21 
 
 Workers and Fighters 24 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 A Birthday Wish 26 
 
 Tae George King, Esq 26 
 
 In Hospital 26 
 
 SOCIAL. 
 
 Australian Scots to Scottish Immigrants 29 
 
 Haggis Supper 30 
 
 To Sir Thomas Gibson Carmichael 32 
 
 Drinking Healths 34 
 
 LOVE LYRICS. 
 
 My Dearie Oh 35 
 
 The Dying Scribbler to His Wife 35 
 
 The Lass Wi' the Bonnie Black E'en 36 
 
 To My Love 37 
 
 Diffidence to Beauty 38 
 
 Beauty's Answer 38 
 
 Dead Hopes 38 
 
 There's Whiles When It's Hard for a Lassie to Choose 40 
 
 Jean 41 
 
 What Gear Cannot Buy 41 
 
 The Lover 42 
 
 The Maiden's Appeal 43 
 
 My Love 44 
 
 When Thou Art Near . 45 
 
 1384707 
 
INDEX. 
 
 POVERTY AND WEALTH. 
 
 The Poor Relation 46 
 
 The Dying Flower Girl 48 
 
 Poverty's Appeal to Death 50 
 
 The Philosophical Vagrant 51 
 
 Need for Economy 52 
 
 To Dives (1) 54 
 
 To Dives (2) 55 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 The Dying Myall 56 
 
 To Norman Morrison, Esq 58 
 
 To the Memory of Scotland's Immortal 59 
 
 In Memoriam Rabbie Burns 60 
 
 " Your Dog " 61 
 
 The Song of the Sword 62 
 
 The Song of the Pen 63 
 
 The Song of the Rum Bottle 64 
 
 The Bard 66 
 
 Oor Ain Folk 67 
 
 The Flag iv Emerald Green 68 
 
 Tired Out 68 
 
 To Kate 69 
 
 Britain's Flag -. . . . 70 
 
 MORALISINGS. 
 
 What Might Have Been 71 
 
 A Moral 71 
 
 Delay is Dangerous 72 
 
 The Auld Carle's Desire 72 
 
 " Without Encumbrances " 74 
 
 Admonition, Exhortation, Warning 75 
 
 Memory 77 
 
 It's Vain to Blow the Bellows When the Fire's Gone Got 78 
 
 SCOTLAND. 
 
 The Exile 81 
 
 I Dinna Ken 82 
 
 The Bagpipes of Scotland 
 
 On the Decline of Scottish Sentiments and Institutions 85 
 
 Oh ! Sing to Me 86 
 
 Scot's Fare 87 
 
 A Sang for Scotsmen 89 
 
 Hamesick 90 
 
 Murdoch McWrath on the Abolition of the Kilt Among 
 
 the "Troops" 91 
 
 To Scotsmen : Castles in the Air 92 
 
INDEX. 
 
 SATIRICAL. PAGE 
 
 How to Succeed in Life 94 
 
 Will Ye No' Disgorge Again ? 95 
 
 "All Men Are Liars " 96 
 
 From the Black Sheep '. 97 
 
 Tae the Charitable 97 
 
 The Spendthrift 99 
 
 Diogenes in 1907 101 
 
 Gin He Taps the Poll 102 
 
 To Holy Wullie 103 
 
 Let Football Flourish . . 104 
 
 Activity in the Stripping Industry 105 
 
 The Usurer 106 
 
 HUMOROUS. 
 
 Hymn to Tobacco , 108 
 
 To the New Mayor 109 
 
 To a Friend on the Birth of Twins 109 
 
 The Turk Won Hands Down 110 
 
 Epitaph on Joseph King, Esq '. Ill 
 
 RELIGIOUS. 
 
 Psalms, Hymns, and Spiritual Songs .. . .' 112 
 
 Believe It Never 115 
 
 God Help Us All 116 
 
 To My Sleeping Baby 117 
 
 For New Year, 1914 118 
 
 God End the War 119 
 
 Not in My Worth 121 
 
 I've Lost My Star 122 
 
 A Mother's Cradle Song 123 
 
 PERSONAL AND DOMESTIC. 
 
 To Cyril, Aged 11 Months 125 
 
 What a Bairnie Sees and Hears 126 
 
 To H.M. Sutherland 127 
 
 The Bard to His Daughter 128 
 
 Scriblerus to His Wife 129 
 
 The Bereaved Mother 130 
 
 To a Six Months' Old Infant 131 
 
 To Allan McN 132 
 
 " My Nannie's Awa' " 134 
 
 A Mither's Thoughts Aboot Her Son 136 
 
 On Leaving Balmacarra 137 
 
 Farewell to Brae Heid 138 
 
 Dum Vivimus Vivamus 139 
 
 JOKELETS. 
 
 To F d H s 141 
 
 A Groan 141 
 
 Versicles . 142 
 
FOREWORD 
 
 Allan Fullarton Wilson was born in Glasgow in 1857. 
 His mother died a week after his birth, and when he was 
 about four years old he was brought to Australia. His 
 father was a partner in the firm of Timms, Wilson & Co., 
 of Geelong, and at a later stage became owner of the 
 estate of Gala, at Lismore. Upon the sub-division of 
 the property, he retained half of the original area, and 
 arranged that the historic name should remain attached 
 to his portion. There he died in 1888. 
 
 His son Allan was educated at Geelong College and 
 Scotch College, Melbourne, and his reports show him to 
 have been a brainy lad and able to give a good account 
 of himself in literary study. On leaving college, he took 
 up work in the office of his father's successors, but the 
 routine had no attraction for him, and his longing for a 
 more active career took him to station life in Queens- 
 land and New South Wales. He finally settled in Geelong, 
 where he died in August, 1917, leaving a wife and seven 
 children. 
 
 For many years he had diligently cultivated the muse, 
 and some of his poems were published in Geelong, Mel- 
 bourne and Sydney journals. After his death, it was 
 found that he had left some thirteen volumes of care- 
 fully written manuscript, and his friends and admirers 
 resolved to perpetuate his memory by publishing a 
 selection. These have been duly classified, and are now 
 submitted to the public. 
 
FOREWORD. 7 
 
 It will be seen that the author of them had some re- 
 markable affinity with Burns, due, perhaps, to nation- 
 ality and sympathy, and in a greater degree to a striking 
 similarity in temperament and the buffeting experiences 
 of life. A chronological analysis of them would show 
 great development between the earlier outlook and later 
 convictions. The poetry gives proof of fine powers of 
 versification joined to humour and imagination. There 
 is here, too, something of the Burns touch in the protest 
 against the social order, and no less in his spirit of sturdy 
 independence. 
 
 One who knew him well has kindly furnished the fol- 
 lowing appreciation : 
 
 " It is pleasing to me to accede to the request to 
 write a few lines by way of introduction to this 
 volume of poems, composed by one with whom the 
 writer had been acquainted for many years. The 
 acquaintance occasioned the conviction that 
 there was much deep religious feeling un- 
 derlying a reserved manner. Many wise 
 thoughts and valuable suggestions came forth 
 in the course of conversation. Knowledge 
 of Bible facts and ability to comprehend and 
 expand on the precious truths of Holy Scripture 
 indicated the influence of early up-bringing in a 
 pious home, whilst the memory of parental example 
 was ever fresh. The natural gift of poetry was 
 frequently exercised. Varied subjects invited the 
 genius of, and were versified by the author. But this 
 book contains a selection of his poems deemed by a 
 competent judge to be best suited for public perusal, 
 and most fitted to represent the poetic gifts of one 
 whose sentiments and style in some cases remind 
 one of those of the great Scottish poet, Robert 
 Burns, in his terse and touching passages." 
 
Poems by em Australian Scot 
 
 THE WAR 
 
 " BIS DAT QUI CITO DAT." 
 
 I. 
 
 Hark to the wind's soft whisper, Give! of your plenty, 
 
 give, 
 For the widows and orphans of those who died in order 
 
 that ye may live. 
 
 II. 
 
 Give for the helpless bereaved ones, who have not the 
 
 strength to strive ; 
 Give with both hands, and be thankful your loved ones 
 
 are left alive. 
 
 III. 
 
 Think of the weary and war-worn men who are fighting 
 
 for weans and wives ; 
 'Tis yours to dwell in security; 'tis theirs to risk their 
 
 lives. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Remember that they are thinking of what shall become 
 
 of those 
 They have left with ye who reap the spoils, while they 
 
 get but the blows. 
 
 V. 
 
 Ye have wives and weans of your own, no doubt, and 
 
 are loth from them to roam, 
 So, too, have they who to war go out while ye stay safe 
 
 at home. 
 
10 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 VI. 
 
 If your wives and children are dear to you, so theirs to 
 
 them are dear; 
 Will ye dwell in safety and help not those who dwell in 
 
 the shadow of fear? 
 
 VII. 
 
 There are husbands, fathers, and brothers there who 
 
 have little stored in the banks, 
 So give of your fulness who do not care to join in the 
 
 fighting ranks. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Will ye let these husbands and fathers dear be 
 
 slaughtered by shot and shell, 
 While ye in selfish security, unthinking, uncaring, dwell ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ye who for the scene of war and death are unable or 
 
 loth to start, 
 At least may open your purses' mouths, and give with a 
 
 cheerful heart. 
 
 X. 
 
 When your own time comes to depart from earth, what 
 
 then will ye say or do, 
 If your judge should ask ye, " What have ye done for 
 
 the brothers who fought for you?" 
 
 XI. 
 
 Should your hand withhold what your purse may spare, 
 
 'twere a lasting and foul disgrace, 
 A slur on the loyalty ye loudly boast, and a shame to 
 
 the British race. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Then hark to the wind's soft whisper, from over the 
 
 seas afar: 
 Give freely, as Britons should give, for the victims of 
 
 bloody war. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 11 
 
 WE'LL KEEP THE OLD FLAG FLYING, 
 NEVER FEAR." 
 
 Since first Britannia o'er the seas gained undisputed 
 
 sway, 
 
 She's been upheld by bulldog British pluck, 
 And never may we Britons live to see the fatal day 
 
 When to a foe her emblem shall be struck. 
 A fig for all the prophecies of doleful pessimists, 
 
 We have no use for gentry such as these ; 
 The Empire won't go under while the bulldog breed 
 
 exists, 
 The breed that made her mistress of the seas. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 So long as soldier Tommy doesn't know when he is beat, 
 While Britain's honour is to Britons dear ; 
 
 So long as sailor Jack can feel a plank beneath his feet, 
 We'll keep the old Flag flying, never fear. 
 
 Till Britain shall be left bereaved, without a single son 
 
 For the beloved motherland to die ; 
 No enemy shall dare to say the Briton's day is done : 
 
 We'll speedily convince them that they lie. 
 If God forbid! the trident from Britannia's grasp be 
 torn 
 
 By other forces mightier than her own, 
 The Flag we venerate shall ne'er become a mark for 
 scorn, 
 
 Or underneath a foreign flag be flown. 
 
 We Britons, in that hour, will nail our colours to the 
 
 mast, 
 
 We'll make no terms, no quarter will we crave ; 
 But like true British sea dogs, after fighting to the last, 
 
 In ocean's depths we'll find a glorious grave. 
 " Here's to the Flag, God bless it !" rings the cry from 
 
 shore to shore, 
 
 The grand old Flag that Britons all revere ; 
 While Britain's sons are what they are, till time shall be 
 
 no more, 
 We'll keep the old Flag flying, never fear. 
 
12 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 WHEN THE "ANZACS" COME HOME. 
 
 What shall the "Anzacs' " guerdon be 
 
 When they to their home-land in triumph come, 
 Back to their kindred across the sea 
 
 With skirl of bagpipe and beat of drum; 
 Flushed with the pride of victory, 
 
 How shall we greet them when they come home, 
 Who in the forefront of battle stood, 
 And shed for the Empire their best hearts' blood? 
 
 For these have won for themselves a name, 
 
 A high renown that shall neve'r die ; 
 Who for their prowess may justly claim 
 
 The homage of all men low or high. 
 They laughed at fear, and they thought it shame 
 From the heaviest odds to flinch or fly 
 These braves who sounded tyranny's knell, 
 And snatched earth out of the jaws of hell. 
 
 Who laughed light-hearted and unafraid, 
 As into the valley of death they went ; 
 Who never a sign of fear betrayed, 
 
 Though faced by an arch fiend's armament ; 
 Who gave the Empire their willing aid, 
 
 And to die for its welfare were well content ; 
 Who scorned to mention the word " defeat," 
 Whose lexicon held not the word " retreat." 
 
 They fought, these tyros in war unskilled, 
 
 Like old-time paladins of romance; 
 Forward, while bullets around them shrilled, 
 
 They pressed, with never a backward glance ; 
 Their hearts with one purpose only filled 
 To strafe the Boche when they got their chance ; 
 And how they used that chance when it came 
 Is written in gold on the scroll of fame. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 13 
 
 Till the light of the sun grows wan and dim, 
 
 Till the moon no more in the heavens shall ride, 
 "Anzacs " shall stand as a synonym 
 For valour tested as steel is tried. 
 Their fame shall reach to earth's out'most rim, 
 The winds shall carry it far and wide, 
 And men shall hold them long ages hence 
 In highest honour and reverence. 
 
 In the years to come, as the student reads 
 
 Recorded hist'ry of long ago, 
 When he comes to the tale of the "Anzacs' " deeds 
 
 -Shall his eye not sparkle, his cheek not glow, 
 And still as the splendid tale proceeds 
 The blood through his veins more warmly flow? 
 Ah! his will be sluggish blood indeed 
 Who such a story unmoved shall read. 
 
 But that's in the future, don't forget! 
 It's all very well to shout and cheer ; 
 But we owe the "Anzacs " a heavy debt, 
 
 So what shall we do for them when they're here ? 
 Cheers never filled a man's stomach yet, 
 Or furnished his table with beef and beer, 
 And the future is shadowy anyhow, 
 So what are we going to do with them now? 
 
 Will we let them homeless and friendless roam, 
 
 The sky for their only canopy? 
 Will we treat them as worthless wastrel scum, 
 
 Fit only to die at the foot of a tree? 
 Shall they be forgotten when they come home 
 Who won us our lives and our liberty? 
 
 Let us look to it well that when they come back 
 A fitting guerdon they shall not lack. 
 
14 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 AUSTRALIAN PATRIOTIC SONG. 
 
 Rouse, comrades, for on every side 
 
 See peril dire approach, 
 From every quarter far and wide 
 
 Our enemies encroach. 
 
 Chorus. 
 "Advance, Australia !" be the cry, 
 
 Let never a man forget 
 That we are the seed of the stubborn breed 
 That never was beaten yet. 
 
 And shall we then remain supine, 
 
 Afraid to strike a blow ! 
 Shall we hold back from the fighting line ? 
 
 By the Southern Cross, not so! 
 
 Our sires in the days of their country's need 
 
 Were ever the first in fray; 
 Shall we who are of the same old breed 
 
 Be slower than were they? 
 
 Breathes there a man on Austral soil, 
 Possessed of health and vigour, 
 
 Will suffer a foe this land to spoil 
 While he can press a trigger? 
 
 There is not one but will set his face 
 
 Towards the battlefield, 
 For are we not of the grand old race 
 
 That knows not how to yield? 
 
 So come the foe by day or night, 
 
 His onset we defy; 
 He'll find us ready all to fight, 
 
 And, if needs must be, to die. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 15 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THE KING. 
 
 The beasts were gathered in solemn conclave, 
 There was truce betwixt old-time foes, 
 
 For the present occasion was very grave 
 They sought some means their king to depose ; 
 
 For they envied the Lion's high renown, 
 
 And all were eager to pull him down. 
 
 " See now," they muttered, " the King grows old, 
 The weight' of years his vision bedims ; 
 
 The blood in his veins runs thin and cold, 
 Age has enfeebled his mighty limbs ; 
 
 His yoke from our shoulders let us fling, 
 We will have the Lion no more for king. 
 
 'Tis time the condition of things was changed, 
 And an end was made of his irksome reign, 
 
 A change of rulers must be arranged, 
 So let the matter be put in train ; 
 
 Surely our wits some plan can hatch 
 
 Whereby the Lion we may dispatch !" 
 
 Thus they plotted, and schemed, and planned, 
 
 A prey the while to a wholesome fear; 
 With furtive glances the Lion they scanned, 
 Hating, yet frightened to come too near; 
 Each his distance took care to keep, 
 For they feared the Lion even in sleep. 
 
 Each of the snarling crew held back 
 For the fame of the Lion was very great 
 
 None dared venture the first attack, 
 For all were fearful of tempting fate. 
 
 Each at his neighbour looked askance, 
 
 But none attempted the first advance. 
 
 At length from the midst of the coward crew 
 The thin, harsh voice of the Eagle screamed : 
 " Oh, valiant beasts, will none of ye do 
 
 The deed of whose doing we long have dreamed? 
 Then it falls on me, though it seems absurd 
 That beasts should shelter behind a bird." 
 
16 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 With that he whetted his iron beak, 
 And rose on his pinions high in the air, 
 
 The better a vital spot to seek, 
 
 That he might deliver the death-stroke there ; 
 
 Then swift through space like a stone he sank, 
 
 And scored a gash in the Lion's flank. 
 
 The Lion meanwhile so still had lain, 
 That almost bereft of life he seemed, 
 
 Yet under his heavy brows 'twas plain 
 
 His watchful eye with a red light gleamed, 
 
 And even the keenest sight might fail 
 
 To note the twitch of his tufted tail. 
 
 Down fell the bird like a bolt from the blue, 
 And sheathed his beak in the Lion's side, 
 
 His aim was sure, and his stroke was true, 
 The wound he inflicted was deep and wide ; 
 
 Then out flashed one of the mighty paws, 
 
 And the eagle was rent by the Lion's claws. 
 
 Now firmly planted, the Lion stood, 
 And roared his defiance loud and deep, 
 
 Some broken feathers besmirched with blood 
 Lay under his paws in a mangled heap ; 
 
 And the beasts, when they saw their champion dead, 
 
 In frantic disorder broke and fled. 
 
 Majestic the Lion stood boldly forth, 
 But never a sign of his foes remained, 
 
 Save one little patch of trampled earth 
 
 By the blood of the luckless Eagle stained; 
 
 He cast a glance o'er the empty plain, 
 
 Then calmly settled to rest again. 
 
 The beasts fled back to the forest's shade, 
 
 By many a devious secret path ; 
 They hid themselves, and were sore afraid, 
 
 Lest the King should visit on them his wrath ; 
 No more until time shall cease to be 
 Will they challenge the Lion's supremacy. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 17 
 
 For the British Lion his might retains, 
 
 In spite of all that his foes may say, 
 And the hour that sees him arrayed in chains 
 
 But that won't happen for many a day ; 
 And all I can say by way of close 
 Is : God help this world on the day it does ! 
 
 THE LION TO HIS WHELPS. 
 
 From sea to sea the summons goes, 
 
 Ho, sons ! the hour arrives, 
 When in fierce conflict with his foes 
 
 Your sire the Lion strives ; 
 No longer, therefore, be at feud, 
 
 Or with each other brawl, 
 But join in bonds of brotherhood 
 
 In answer to his call. 
 
 For of your help he now has need, 
 
 Nor must it be delayed; 
 Arise, then ! arm yourselves with speed, 
 
 And hasten to his aid; 
 Though little ye may have to do, 
 
 Yet every little helps; 
 Haste ! for the Lion calls on you, 
 His sturdy lion whelps. 
 
 From North and South, from East and West, 
 
 Sons of the Empire haste, 
 Nor tarry for a moment, lest 
 
 Much precious time ye waste; 
 Up, lion whelps ! unsheathe your claws, 
 
 And show, by swift response, 
 That when to call your sire finds cause, 
 
 He has to call but. once. 
 
18 
 
 When ye have proved yourselves in fray, 
 
 All men shall learn thereby 
 That Leo on his children may 
 
 In times of stress rely; 
 Sink minor quarrels out of sight, 
 
 That all the world may know 
 The Lion and his whelps unite 
 
 Against the common foe. 
 
 Now is the time to show your breed 
 
 Within the fighting ring ; 
 Prove ye are lion whelps indeed, 
 
 And couch yourselves to spring; 
 From every quarter thick and fast 
 
 Come bounding lion-like, 
 The time for threatening now is past, 
 
 The hour has come to strike. 
 
 THE DYING SAILOR. 
 
 I've fired my last shot, I have fought my last fight, 
 Your forms, trusty messmates, grow dim to my sight ; 
 Nay, leave me, 'tis useless, no more I may rise, 
 Yet say, ere you go, that the ensign still flies. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Oh, tell me, just once, ere death closes my eyes, 
 Oh, tell me, my messmates, the ensign still flies. 
 
 I've aye done my duty as well as I knew, 
 I've fought for my King as a sailor should do ; 
 Life is but a race, and I've had a fair run, 
 Yet it's hard to go out ere the victory's won. 
 
 I do not complain, mates, we all understand * 
 The sailor must carry his life in his hand ; 
 Hark ! cannon to cannon no longer replies, 
 Oh, tell me, my messmates, the ensign still flies. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 19 
 
 My senses are failing, yet faintly I hear 
 
 Away in the distance the sound of a cheer, 
 
 A cheer that betokens the end of the fight, 
 
 Oh, tell me, messmates, that the foe are in flight. 
 
 I'm going out fast, tell me not we have fought 
 And given the best of our life-blood for naught ; 
 Say not that the ensign inglorious lies, 
 Oh, tell me, messmates, that still proudly it flies. 
 
 I've done a man's share in the battle this day, 
 Death's coming occasions me little dismay; 
 I'm done with the world, yet more easy I'd die, 
 If I knew that our ensign still flaunted the sky. 
 
 WHAT NEXT? 
 
 When this disastrous interlude 
 
 Shall reach its final close, 
 What then shall be our attitude 
 
 Towards our recent foes? 
 
 Not as bold warriors did they fight, 
 
 No malice harbouring, 
 But like the beasts that prowl by night, 
 
 And out of ambush spring. 
 
 Women and babes were foully slain, 
 
 Their cruelty to appease ; 
 How can we British e'er again 
 
 Be friends to such as these? 
 
 From now henceforth we surely must 
 
 See that all commerce ends 
 With those unworthy of our trust, 
 
 Base foes and faithless friends. 
 
30 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 In spite of all that can be said 
 
 In his extenuation, 
 A German's German till he's dead, 
 
 Where'er his habitation. 
 
 In every corner of the land 
 
 Let this be our decree : 
 Who takes a German by the hand 
 
 Shakes hands with infamy. 
 
 FAREWELL TO CHAS. McLENNAN. 
 
 Farewell, dear lad, God be your guard, 
 Amidst the storm of shot and shell; 
 
 To part with you is bitter hard, 
 Yet go! and do your duty well. 
 
 Heaven bring you scathless through the strife, 
 And peril you must needs endure; 
 
 If loving prayers can guard your life, 
 Your coming back to us is sure. 
 
 In going forth to fight the foes 
 To all that's best in human kind, 
 
 You take with you the prayers of those 
 Whose part it is to stay behind. 
 
 And when your country's foes you face, 
 Whom God confound and bring to nought, 
 
 Uphold the honour of our race, 
 As from your youth you have been taught. 
 
 We all will follow your career 
 
 With loving pride and interest, 
 Sending to Heaven our prayers sincere, 
 
 That nobly you may stand the test. 
 
 And when your arduous task is done, 
 And this unhallowed conflict ends, 
 
 May you, with honour fairly won, 
 Return to your rejoicing friends. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 21 
 
 You who are come of fighting stock 
 We know will not disgrace your clan, 
 
 Amid the din of battle's shock 
 
 You'll mind you are a Highlandman. 
 
 If by God's grace you come safe back, 
 And with you well-won laurels bring, 
 
 A welcome royal you shall not lack, 
 
 Who struck for Country, Home and King. 
 
 So fare you well ! God be with you, 
 
 And guard you as He only can ; 
 Be bold, be brave, be loyal, be true, 
 
 Be in a word a Highlandman. 
 
 THE STORM-SWEPT GLENS. 
 
 Woe worth the day! O'er each sequestered glen 
 Sorrow her sable garb of woe has spread; 
 
 Widows bewail their hero-husbands slain, 
 
 Mothers and sweethearts mourn their valiant dead, 
 
 Torn from their homes by the cruel fiend of war, 
 
 To die across the seas in alien lands afar. 
 
 Once in these quiet glens dwelt happiness, 
 Peaceful tranquility, and calm content : 
 
 Where now abide sore anguish, dire distress, 
 The very air is heavy with lament ; 
 
 For the grey sisters Anguish, Grief and Woe 
 
 Over the stricken glens their sombre shadows throw. 
 
 Near and afar the summons was sent forth, 
 
 That bade the fighting men make speed to arm, 
 
 And, at the call, the stalwarts of the North 
 
 Swarmed fiercely forth as hives molested swarm, 
 
 Keen as of old to dash into the fray, 
 
 And leap, as lions leap, on their ill-fated prey. 
 
22 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Nor ever in those dauntless hearts arose 
 A thought of what the days to come might hold; 
 
 Fears and forebodings were alone for those 
 
 Who stayed behind, and felt their hearts grow cold 
 
 With apprehension, for too well they knew 
 
 That of the many called, there would return but few. 
 
 Sadly they watched their fighting men depart, 
 
 Scornful of danger, certain of success, 
 Leaving behind them many an aching heart 
 
 Torn by forebodings it could not repress, 
 As to the skirl of pipes, with kilts a-swing, 
 They left their glens to die for country and for King. 
 
 Of what avail their anguish to solace 
 
 Great battles won, or glorious victories gained ! 
 
 Will the"se their slaughtered warriors replace, 
 Or compensate the loss they have sustained? 
 
 Alas ! to these poor mourners grief-distraught, 
 
 Glory at such a price is all too dearly bought ! 
 
 To these poor souls the direful news arrives, 
 Killing the flame that hope till now has fanned ; 
 
 Their men for Empire have laid down their lives, 
 And bravely perished in a far-off land ; 
 
 To them it seems no comfort now remains, 
 
 And o'er the stricken glens a brooding stillness reigns 
 
 A stillness broken only by the sighs 
 
 Of mourners from whose eyes sad torrents pour, 
 While to the heavens their lamentations rise 
 
 For their loved dead who shall return no more ; 
 For fathers, husbands, sons, gone from their place, 
 Whom they no more on earth shall meet with face to 
 face. 
 
 The wondering bairns with vaguely troubled eyes, 
 Uncomprehending view their elders' woe, 
 
 While with affrighted looks and whimpering cries 
 The reason of it they desire to know ; 
 
 Their childish efforts calmness to restore 
 
 Unwittingly increase their elders' grief the more. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 23 
 
 Alas, poor weans ! they cannot comprehend 
 That of their fathers they are now bereft, 
 
 Who died their King and country to defend, 
 And that their mothers and themselves are left 
 
 Unguarded now, poor victims that they are 
 
 Of that accursed scourge, insatiable war. 
 
 War, the outcome of all that's devilish, 
 Of mundane ills the deadliest and worst, 
 
 Whereby the devil gains his dearest wish, 
 To over-run the world with strife accurst : 
 
 War, that has drowned this peaceful countryside 
 
 In floods of tears that can on earth no more be dried. 
 
 Night o'er the glens has flung her dusky veil, 
 Cold gleams the moon 'mid her attendant stars ; 
 
 Rises to Heaven the women's mournful wail 
 For fathers, sons and husbands at the wars ; 
 
 How shall their bitter anguish be relieved 
 
 Who are of all they loved thus bitterly bereaved? 
 
 See, young and old their bitter loss deplore, 
 And, ah ! how sad the sorrow of old age ! 
 
 Laughter and smiles come back to youth once more, 
 But nothing can the grief of old assuage ; 
 
 Youth's present ills the future compensates, 
 
 But no such consolation for the aged waits. 
 
 Woe, all is woe, despair and heartbreak dire, 
 The deeply sealed grief that burns and sears ; 
 
 The wakeful mourners see the moon retire, 
 And presently the first faint dawn appears; 
 
 But what a dawn ! To them it nothing brings 
 
 Save misery's serpent tooth and sorrow's rankling 
 stings. 
 
 Ye who in peaceful homes in safety bide, 
 A moment turn your thoughts to these sad scenes. 
 
 Where maids and matrons, pale and heavy-eyed, 
 Mingle their sighs with those of orphaned weans, 
 
 Consider what these people have come through, 
 
 And rouse yourselves to see what you for them may do. 
 
24 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Their need is sore; how then shall you refuse, 
 Who thus far have with kinder fortune met, 
 
 Your willing aid? There is no room to choose, 
 And they who fail may rue it sorely yet ; 
 
 The best you have is not too much to give 
 
 To those who gave their all that you and yours might 
 live. 
 
 WORKERS AND FIGHTERS. 
 
 Your fighting men have spread abroad your name, 
 Who with your foes have valiantly striven, 
 
 They have achieved for you a meed of fame 
 
 Such as to few young nations has been given ; 
 
 But now your workers labour to undo 
 
 All that your fighting men have done for you. 
 
 Australia of her warriors is proud, 
 
 Who through the world have made her name re- 
 nowned ; 
 Her workers prove themselves a recreant crowd, 
 
 Who to her foes would yield her tied and bound; 
 Her fighting men have won her a high place, 
 Her working men have dowered her with disgrace. 
 
 Look upon this fair picture, then on that, 
 
 And, looking on them, draw your inference ; 
 
 Wherever cannon belched and rifles spat, 
 Australia's fighters sprang to her defence; 
 
 Her working people take a different way, 
 
 And do their best their country to betray. 
 
 'Tis sad to think Australia should have reached 
 
 At such_a time this melancholy pass; 
 Her workers stand deservedly impeached 
 
 Of treason to their country, who, alas ! 
 Would yield that country up to foreign hordes : 
 History no parallel to this affords. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 25 
 
 Now, when the foe is knocking at our gate, 
 
 Our working men declare it is no sin, 
 Regardless of their hapless country's fate, 
 
 To open wide and let him enter in ; 
 These traitor hounds a foreign aid invoke 
 
 To bow our necks beneath a foreign yoke. 
 
 We cannot think that even such as they 
 Could sell their country for a paltry mess 
 
 Of pottage, in the form of higher pay, 
 
 And that, too, in the hour of her distress, 
 
 When dire disaster hovers imminent 
 
 Over her head, and threatens swift descent. 
 
 Awake, Australian working men, awake ! 
 
 Reflect while there is time ; if the Hun wins, 
 Too late ye will discover your mistake, 
 
 When his cruel whip shall score your tender skins, 
 And your fair land is ruthlessly despoiled, 
 Because the fighters' efforts you have foiled. 
 
26 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 FRIENDSHIP 
 
 A BIRTHDAY WISH. 
 
 May each succeeding birthday be 
 Replete with joys from sorrow free; 
 May friends be many, foes be few, 
 May he you love be ever true ; 
 Long may you live your home to bless, 
 And may your shadow ne'er grow less ; 
 That debts or duns may never trouble you, 
 Is the worst wish of A.F.W. ! 
 
 TAE GEORGE KING, ESQ. 
 
 Geordie, ma fren', this may be oor last meetin', 
 An' weary fa' me, I am wae tae pairt, 
 
 But, losh ! there isna muckle gude o' greetin', 
 It maun be sae, though sair it grieves ma heart. 
 
 Yet this ae nicht frae dool a while released, 
 We'll mock yon dour auld carline, fretfu' care, 
 
 And crack till daylight glimmers in the East, 
 Though we belike may never dae it mair. 
 
 Lord bless ye, Geordie, may He never send 
 Sic damned misfortune untae you or yours 
 
 As He has done tae him wha ca's ye fren'; 
 God bless ye, Geordie, lang as life endures ! 
 
 IN HOSPITAL. 
 
 All day I lie in my narrow cot, 
 From morning till evening fall, 
 
 With tired eyes fixed on a little spot 
 Of light on the opposite wall. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 27 
 
 Weary and lonely, haggard and wan, 
 
 As a spectre pale and thin, 
 I wonder whither my friends are gone, 
 
 And where are my kith and kin. 
 
 I long for the sight of a friendly face, 
 To know that a friend is near: 
 Is there never a soul in this woeful place 
 To give me a word of cheer? 
 
 I watch the people as here I lie. 
 
 With a sort of forlorn despair; 
 God knows it's a bitter thing to die 
 
 With never a soul to care. 
 
 Everyone else seems to own a friend, 
 
 'Tis only myself have none ; 
 I don't believe I would fear to wend 
 
 If I knew I had only one. 
 
 Aye, they have gotten their kith and kin 
 
 To see them before they die; 
 Oh, grievous indeed must be my sin, 
 
 That never a friend have I ! 
 
 Long, long are the nights in this eerie place, 
 
 And, oh ! but the days are slow ; 
 Ah, God, for the sight of a friendly face, 
 
 And the sound of a voice I know ! 
 
 I count each wearily dragging hour, 
 
 As here I forsaken lie, 
 With wistful glances I watch the door, 
 
 But none to my cot come nigh. 
 
 Naught but my own sad thoughts have I, 
 
 My weariness to beguile ; 
 I'm as much alone, as here I lie, 
 
 As though on a desert isle. 
 
28 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 I watch the folk as they come and go, 
 But none of them understand; 
 
 Ah, God, for the sight of a face I know, 
 And the clasp of a friendly hand ! 
 
 There's none but myself in this dreary ward 
 But have kindred of their own ; 
 
 Ah, God in Heaven, but 'tis bitter hard 
 For a man to die alone ! 
 
 Ah, God, for the sight of a friendly face, 
 For the sound of a voice I know ! 
 
 Heaven grant I may live but a little space 
 In this dreary abode of woe ! 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 29 
 
 SOCIAL 
 
 AUSTRALIAN SCOTS TO SCOTTISH 
 IMMIGRANTS. 
 
 Faur hae ye come amang us here tae bide, 
 Oor pilgrim kinsmen frae the Mitherland; 
 
 And tae this fair dominion braid and wide 
 
 We bid ye welcome baith wi' heart and hand. 
 
 And gin oor een wi' sudden moisture fill, 
 As in fraternal clasp your hands we grip, 
 
 Tis but the token o' sincere gudewill, 
 O' honest luve and cordial fellowship. 
 
 Breathes there the Scotsman wha will think it shame 
 That tae oor een the tears unbidden start? 
 
 For, oh, ye bring wi' ye a breith o' hame 
 Frae yon old land sae dear tae ilka heart. 
 
 Your hearts belike as yet are filled wi' sadness 
 At leaving that auld land ye lo'e sae weel ; 
 
 Be oors the task tae turn your grief tae gladness, 
 Wha ken fu' weel the sorrow ye maun feel. 
 
 There isna ane o' those ye've come amang 
 Wha at your sacred grief will cast a sneer; 
 
 For whaur is he wha wadna feel a pang 
 
 At breaking a' the ties he hauds maist dear? 
 
 Kinsmen are ye wham we are blithe tae greet, 
 Mourn not the parent land ye leave behind ; 
 
 Fear not upon oor shores tae set your feet, 
 For here a Scottish welcome shall ye find. 
 
 What matters it the soil oor feet may press, 
 What matter whether grey or blue the lift? 
 
 A Scot is aye a Scot, though ye should dress 
 His ootward man in petticoat and shift. 
 
30 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Brithers are ye in mair than only name, 
 And britherly the luve tae ye extended ; 
 
 For though tae Scottish birth we lay no claim, 
 Yet are we frae the same forebears descended. 
 
 Here in this muckle island-continent 
 Fortune lies hid aneath the fertile soil; 
 
 Here shall ye find peace, plenty and content, 
 Wi' bounteous harvests tae repay your toil. 
 
 Here may your race remain securely planted, 
 By cauldrife poortith never mair oppressed; 
 
 Stout hearts and sturdy airms are a' that's wanted, 
 And baith o' these the Scots hae aye possessed. 
 
 Come ben, come ben, for here is room and space 
 Eneuch for a' ye needna fear a crush, 
 
 And aiblins here we yet may rear a race 
 
 For which the hame-land winna need tae blush. 
 
 Sae come ye ben, and bide whaure'er ye choose, 
 There's gear in plenty here for a' tae to win; 
 
 And foul befa' the churl wha shall refuse 
 His luve and welcome tae his ain bluid kin. 
 
 HAGGIS SUPPER. 
 
 Gang noo, ma muse, and quick bring ben, 
 Wi' tender care, the tappit hen, 
 Ere I proceed tae dip ma pen, 
 
 And take a flicht ; 
 It wis oor jubilee, ye ken, 
 
 The ither nicht. 
 
 As frae the barrel ye distil it, 
 Ye maun be carefu' hoo ye fill it, 
 For ony sake, lass, dinna spill it : 
 
 That wid be fearfu'; 
 Although I ken ye widna will it, 
 
 Yet aye be carefu'. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 31 
 
 Man, 'twis a heartsome sicht tae see 
 
 The gaithering at yon jubilee; 
 
 Wi' joyous hearts they came tae pree 
 
 With richt gude will 
 O' haggis and o' barley bree 
 
 Tae tak' their fill. 
 
 In spite o' the unchancy weather, 
 The chiels were a' in highest feather; 
 'Twis graun' tae see them thus foregaither 
 
 Tae take their meat ; 
 Man, ye could amaist feel the heather 
 
 Aneath your feet. 
 
 Eh, man, ah'm sayin' it wis braw, 
 The finest sicht that e'er I saw, 
 As roon the table, twa and twa, 
 
 In plaid and kilt, 
 The pipers, marching, filled the ha' 
 
 Wi' blithesome lilt. 
 
 Belyve the lordly haggis cam 
 Tae honour it we took a dram; 
 Ma faith, ye should hae smelt it, Tam, 
 
 Sae appetisin' ; 
 It's savoury reek aboot us swam, 
 
 Like incense risin'. 
 
 For this ae nicht frae care set free, 
 The joyous chiels indulged their glee, 
 An' aye the cry wis, " Bide a wee ; 
 
 Ye maunna gang; 
 We'll no hae sic anither spree 
 
 For twal months lang!" 
 
 Wi' mony a laugh and merry jest 
 
 They cracked awa' like chiels possessed, 
 
 Wi' bizzin like a hornet's nest 
 
 The rafters rang; 
 An' whiles a chief puffed oot his chest 
 
 An' roared a sang. 
 
32 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 They hummed like ony byke o' bees, 
 The sough o' them wis like the breeze 
 That rustles through the forest trees 
 
 'Twas graun' tae hear; 
 Would that a hunner nichts like these 
 
 Cam' thrice a year ! 
 
 Some dauredna rise, lest they should fa' ; 
 Some leaned against the f reen'ly wa' ; 
 Some neither sat nor stood ava 
 
 They werena able, 
 Yet there were nane sa far's I saw 
 
 Aneath the table. 
 
 Losh, Tammas, sic a nicht as yon 
 Juist warms ane's heart tae think upon ; 
 Tae think that noo it's a' bygone, 
 
 He needs must grieve ; 
 Ae strain still haunts me aff and on 
 
 Since I took leave. 
 
 Sen' roon the bottle, and the glasses fill, 
 
 The nicht is cauld and we are faur frae hame ; 
 
 Afore we gang we'll hae anither gill 
 
 Tae warm the heart and fortify the wame. 
 
 TO SIR THOMAS GIBSON CARMICHAEL. 
 
 On the occasion of the Annual Haggis Supper, Geelong, 
 September, 1909. 
 
 Noo ance again as friend meets friend 
 
 The haun' o' fellowship 
 To ye we cordially extend, 
 
 Wi' warm and hearty grip ; 
 An' this we say wi' hearts sincere : 
 
 " Sae aften as ye shall come, 
 Ye needna hae the slichtest fear 
 
 That ye'll wear oot your welcome." 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 33 
 
 Here like to friends that meet a friend, 
 
 Sae aften as ye shall come, 
 A cordial haun' we'll aye extend 
 
 In warm an' hearty welcome. 
 
 Whenever ye hae time to spare 
 
 We'll be richt glad to meet ye ; 
 Ye'll no be meetin' onywhere 
 
 Wi' folk mair pleased to greet ye ; 
 There's nane doon here that's no' your friend, 
 
 The best we hae we'll gie ye, 
 An' gin your stay maun hae an end, 
 
 The best o' luck gang wi' ye. 
 
 Whenever ye hae time to spare, 
 The best we ha'e we'll gie ye, 
 
 An' gie ye maun gang ither where, 
 The best o' luck gang wi' ye. 
 
 Come ben as aft's ye like, my man, 
 
 There's nae fause pride aboot us, 
 We'll fix ye up as weel's we can, 
 
 Aye will we never doot us ; 
 Comena as leap year comes, ye ken 
 
 Ance only, in a cycle 
 Gin ye a thoosan' times came ben, 
 
 Ye're welcome, Tarn Carmichael. 
 
 Come aftentimes, my bonnie man; 
 
 An' no' ance in a cycle, 
 An' aye we'll do the best we can 
 
 To welcome Tarn Carmichael. 
 
 Od Tarn, we houp ye arena blate, 
 
 An' that ye winna swither, 
 To geyan aften come oor gate 
 
 An' crack wi' us thegither; 
 To high an' low alike endeared, 
 
 Scots' welcome we'll accord ye ; 
 There's no' a heart that isna steered 
 
 Wi' honest luve toward ye. 
 
34 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Od Tarn, ye mauna be owre blate, 
 Warm welcome we'll accord ye, 
 
 For ilka time ye come oor gate 
 Oor hearts aye waim toward ye. 
 
 DRINKING HEALTHS. 
 
 [The Rev. R. Fergus, at the Annual Haggis Supper of 
 Commun Na Fienne at the Town Hall, September 
 8th, 1910, proposed the toast of Scotland in some 
 original verses, and suggested it should be drunk 
 in cold water or home-made lemonade.] 
 
 Awa' ye fause teetotal crew, 
 
 Gae 'wa an' cease your chatter, 
 There's naught mair gars a Scotman grue 
 
 Than drinking toasts in watter. 
 
 Oh, shade o' Rabbie ! ye wad think 
 That something was the matter, 
 
 Gin ever ye were asked to drink 
 Auld Scotland's health in watter. 
 
 Awa' wi' ye, cauld watter cranks, 
 Leave aff your daft-like havers, 
 
 Wha'd turn us into watter tanks 
 Sic ploys nae Scotsman favours. 
 
 Auld Caledonia, stern and wild, 
 
 Would never mair forgive it, 
 Gin she should ever hae a child 
 
 Was sweert to drink Glenlivet. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 35 
 
 LOVE LYRICS 
 
 MY DEARIE OH! 
 
 The sun shines bright, the birds sing blythe, 
 The ploughman whistles cheery oh ! 
 
 And I alone am dull and sad 
 At parting from my dearie oh! 
 
 My Love's a sweet and bonnie lass, 
 
 As fair as any peri oh ! 
 No maid in Scotland can surpass 
 
 In beauty my own dearie oh! 
 
 And now the wide sea rolls between, 
 
 And aye for her I weary oh ! 
 What joy my faithful heart would feel 
 
 To see again my deary oh ! 
 
 But when my fortune here I've made, 
 
 I'll quit this land so dreary oh ! 
 And in a swiftly sailing bark 
 
 Haste homewards to my deary oh! 
 
 THE DYING SCRIBBLER TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 To me this weary world of toil and strife 
 
 Had been a desert drear, 
 Were it not for the fond and faithful wife 
 
 That thou hast been, my dear. 
 
 My beautiful, my love, now we have come 
 
 To where our ways divide ; 
 Kiss me, sweet mistress of my heart and home, 
 
 My dearest friend and guide. 
 
 Lay thy dear face to mine, my heart's own queen, 
 
 Let me just this once more 
 Feel those dear arms around me which have been 
 
 My haven oft before. 
 
36 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Core of my heart, my time has come to go 
 
 Into the shadow land, 
 Yet ne'er a trace of terror do I know, 
 
 Clasping my dear one's hand. 
 
 I now must leave thee, O beloved wife, 
 
 Soon I shall be at rest, 
 Yet let me bless thee, dear one, for a life 
 
 That thou has made so blest. 
 
 Hold me, dear love, hold me until the end, 
 
 To thy dear heart close pressed ; 
 With thy dear lips on mine, love, let me wend, 
 
 Thus let me sink to rest. 
 
 'Tis dark, dear love, and still the darkness grows 
 
 Black as a moonless night ; 
 But ere mine eyes for evermore I close, 
 
 My blessing on thee light. 
 
 THE LASS WF THE BONNIE BLACK E'EN. 
 
 There's some lo'e the e'en o' a heavenly blue ; 
 The grey an' the broon are preferred by a few ; 
 But o' a' the young lassies I ever ha'e seen, 
 Oh, gi'e me the lass wi' the bonnie black e'en. 
 
 In a' that she does she's the picture o' grace ; 
 Her min' is as pure as her sweet winsome face ; 
 She carries herself wi' the pride o' a queen 
 Oh, here's to the lass wi' the bonnie black e'en. 
 
 A'e while like the lightning's swift splendour they flash, 
 Abashing the forward, an' scorching the rash ; 
 Anon like twin lakelets they're calm an' serene 
 Oh, here's to the lass wi' the bonnie black e'en. 
 
 Awa' ! a' ye naiads, ye nymphs an' goddesses, 
 
 Ye dryads an' mermaids wi' straw-coloured tresses, 
 
 For never, I trow, has there ane o' ye been 
 
 To compare to the lass wi' the bonnie black e'en. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 37 
 
 TO MY LOVE. 
 
 Sure never was a fairer maid 
 
 Than she of whom I fondly dream ; 
 
 Alas ! she's many a mile away, 
 
 While I'm alone by Barwon's stream. 
 
 \ 
 
 Oft in a dreamy reverie 
 
 I think I hear my darling speak, 
 
 And oft, in fancy, do I steal 
 
 A rose from off her damask cheek. 
 
 Ah, would I could but see my love, 
 To mark her look of glad surprise; 
 
 All I possess I'd give to win 
 Another glance from those dear eyes. 
 
 To see her form, to hear her voice, 
 To touch her hand, ah, how I pine ! 
 
 Ah, me, she is too bright for earth, 
 To me she always seems divine. 
 
 I love to dream of her all day, 
 
 Her tresses with their golden sheen 
 
 Have bound me fast, and made of me 
 A slave for life, to her my queen. 
 
 What though a captive I am led? 
 
 A willing slavery is mine ; 
 To me she is an earthly saint, 
 
 Who humbly worship at her shrine.- 
 
 Of all the women in the world, 
 
 There is but one I care to see ; 
 There is but one I ever loved, 
 
 And, " Little Sweetness," thou art she ! 
 
38 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 DIFFIDENCE TO BEAUTY. 
 
 Would that these hands of mine were filled with gold, 
 Then might I dare my story to unfold; 
 But you are rich, while I have nothing; so 
 I therefore needs must hold my peace and go. 
 
 While through my veins life's crimson tide shall flow, 
 I'll hug the secret you will never know ; 
 You only shall I love till life shall cease, 
 But honour bids me go and hold my peace. 
 
 Were you but poor as I, by Heaven above 
 I'd ask no richer guerdon than your love ; 
 
 But as it is, dear love, I leave you free, 
 Sighing to own that you are not for me. 
 
 BEAUTY'S ANSWER. 
 
 There is no need for you to go away, 
 
 Yet it is not for me to bid you stay ; 
 
 You know full well, at least methinks you ought, 
 
 I cannot grant you that you have not sought. 
 
 Are you by fear so heavily oppressed 
 You dare not put your fortune to the test ? 
 If I were you, I think that I would try 
 To learn my fortune ere I said good-bye. 
 
 Alas ! my strength you've wholly over-tasked ; 
 Must I then ask, instead of being asked? 
 Well, be it so ; I pray you, love, remain, 
 Lest I be forced to call you back again. 
 
 DEAD HOPES. 
 
 It was in a quiet valley 
 By the ever-sounding sea, 
 
 The sun was slowly setting 
 When my lover spoke to me. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 39 
 
 The sea was molten crimson, 
 
 And the sky resplendent gold, 
 As I listened to the story 
 
 That my sailor lover told. 
 
 In the glowing light of sunset 
 We exchanged our mutual troth, 
 
 With a kiss we sealed the compact, 
 And the sea breeze kissed us both. 
 
 All the world was well forgotten, 
 
 And for us had ceased to be, 
 For in all the wide creation 
 
 There was only I and he. 
 
 There was no one there to see us, 
 
 -Save the sea-gulls in the air; 
 Nor would we have cared a farthing 
 
 If a thousand had been the^e. 
 
 And we heeded not the sea-gulls 
 
 As they circled, dipped, and whirled, 
 
 For we twain in love's sweet converse 
 Had forgotten all the world. 
 
 But into that quiet valley 
 
 Came the grey twins, Grief and Woe, 
 For my lover was a sailor, 
 
 And his duty bade him go. 
 
 And as I watched the ship depart 
 
 That took my love from me, 
 I somehow knew that never more 
 
 My lover I would see. 
 
 Ah, my hopes that bloomed so fairly 
 
 Now have mouldered to decay; 
 The sea is dark and sullen, 
 
 And the sky is chill and grey. 
 
 And the stormy ocean billows, 
 
 As they toss their foamy crest, 
 Rear and plunge above the sea-bed, 
 
 Where my sailor-lover rests. 
 
40 POEMS BY AX AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 THERE'S WHILES WHEN IT'S HARD FOR A 
 LASSIE TO CHOOSE. 
 
 There's whiles when puir lassies are grievously tried 
 'Twixt siller an' love it's aye hard tae decide; 
 On the ae han' there's love, wi' a cot an' hard fare, 
 On the ither "'there's riches an' braw claes tae wear. 
 
 Some wise man o' auld time has written, ye ken, 
 That love aye flies oot when cauld poortith comes ben ; 
 But better is poortith whaur happiness bides 
 Than riches past coontin' wi' hatred besides. 
 
 A bottomless pooch is o' no muckle use 
 When there isna a blink o' true love in the hoose ; 
 And grandeur an' greatness but little are worth 
 When strife or indifference sit down by the hearth. 
 
 Oh, I hae seen mony a mansion an' ha' 
 Whaur strife frae the hearthstane wis never awa', 
 An' mony a humble wee cot hae I kenned 
 Whaur a' wis contentment, for happiness reigned. 
 
 The braw gowd an' siller are usefu', no doot, 
 But baith, I am thinking, wi' time will wear oot ; 
 The lad 'at I lo'e, he's the,best o' them a', 
 Is the ane wha possesses nae siller ava. 
 
 It's love I am thinking, when a's said an' done, 
 Is aye the safe rock tae build happiness on ; 
 It heightens oor joys an' it lightens oor waes, 
 An' it canna be purchased wi' siller an' claes. 
 
 Tae the deil wi' the siller, the gowd an' the gear, 
 E'en lat them a' gang, they are not worth a tear; 
 The lad 'at I lo'e is the ane I will tak, 
 An' that's the best choice 'at a lassie can mak'. 
 
 There's some canna thole the braw siller tae lose ; 
 There's some 'at for love a' the warl' will refuse ; 
 
 When the choice is pit till her, 
 
 'Twixt true love an' siller, 
 Tis hard tae foretell which some lassies will choose. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 41 
 
 JEAN. 
 
 Where Barwon rolls its sluggish tide 
 
 Twixt verdant slopes of tender green, 
 Oft have I wandered at the side 
 Of my own Jean. 
 
 Through air the birds gay carols rang, 
 
 While whispering leaves soft breezes stirred, 
 But lilt more blithe our fond hearts sang 
 Than song of bird. 
 
 The meanest creatures that exist 
 
 Well knew the love she had for them, 
 The very tufts of couch grass kissed 
 Her garments' hem. 
 
 As lingering in delicious sloth 
 
 We trod the shining silver sand, 
 The world forgot, we wandered both 
 In fairy land. 
 
 Ah, me ! the scene is still as fair, 
 
 And everything remains the same; 
 But Jean conies not to meet me there 
 As once she came. 
 
 Though the same ways I still frequent, 
 
 Along the river's sandy shore, 
 Adown the path where once we went 
 She comes no more. 
 
 Ah, woe is me ! In death she lies 
 Beneath the chilly marble stone, 
 And till the silent dead shall rise 
 I walk alone. 
 
 WHAT GEAR CANNOT BUY. 
 
 Oh, gear's a bonnie thing tae hae, 
 Gin happiness gangs wi' it ; 
 
 But when for love the hairt is wae, 
 Mere riches winna gie it. 
 
42 POEMS BY AX AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Red gowd may purchase titles high, 
 Magnificence an' splendour; 
 
 But there's ae thing it canna buy 
 The love that's true an' tender. 
 
 That love's worth little that will blaw 
 Whichever way the wind is ; 
 
 Better a faithfu' hairt than a' 
 The riches o' the Indies. 
 
 THE LOVER. 
 
 Thou warbling lintie high owre heid 
 
 Sae joyously wha sings, 
 How would I to my dearie speed 
 
 Gin I but had thy wings ! 
 
 Fain wad I be the scarf that clings 
 
 Aboot her snawy neck, 
 Or ane o' thae wee twinkling rings 
 
 Her milk-white haun' that deck. 
 
 There's rowth o' things my ire provoke- 
 The belt that clasps her waist, 
 
 Her watch, her muff, the muckle cloak 
 By which her form's embraced. 
 
 Yon belt's completely oot o' place 
 
 At least, it seems to me 
 That aye it occupies the space 
 
 Whaur my ain airm should be. ' 
 
 I loathe to see auld baudrons purr 
 
 Aneath her strakin' loof ; 
 I hate yon ill faured, yelpin' cur, 
 
 That shares wi' her her roof. 
 
 I'd check the wanton winds that play 
 
 Amang her silken tresses ; 
 An' ilka living thing I'd slay 
 
 That her fair hand caresses. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 43 
 
 She wears a rosebud in her breast, 
 
 I see it ilka morn ; 
 Gude sen' it never be displaced, 
 
 To leave behind a thorn. 
 
 Hoo envy I yon favoured rose, 
 
 Fresh frae its sisters riven, 
 In her soft bosom to repose 
 
 Ah, that indeed were heevin! 
 
 Blest flooer ! what wid I gie to lie 
 
 In that fair howe ye lie in, 
 E'en though 'twere but to droop and die 
 
 Ah, what a place to die in ! 
 
 THE MAIDEN'S APPEAL. 
 
 Heed not, dear love, the harsh decree, 
 That circumstance on us imposes ; 
 
 What shall I do bereft of thee! 
 
 How live without thee, oh, my Moses ! 
 
 Alas ! this hour of bitter woe 
 The secret of my heart discloses ; 
 
 Thou canst not have the heart to go 
 
 When I would have thee stay, my Moses. 
 
 With grief my anguished heart is torn ; 
 
 Ah, me ! life is no bed of roses ; 
 Have pity on a maid forlorn, 
 
 Ah, go not from me, my own Moses ! 
 
 My aching heart, what balm can cheer? 
 
 The salt tear trickling down my nose is ; 
 Abandon not thy true love, dear, 
 
 Oh, stay with me, my lovely Moses ! 
 
 Alas ! he's deal to my appeal ; 
 
 I'll take a bait (in harmless doses) ; 
 Desert me not, dear love ! I feel 
 
 I cannot live without thee, Moses ! 
 
44 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 MY LOVE. 
 
 She only is my heart's desire, 
 
 I'll love but her alane, 
 Till a' the seas are roarin' fire, 
 
 The forests lifeless stane ; 
 Till grim Gibraltar's frowning mass 
 
 Into the sea shall fa' ; 
 Oh, I will love my ain dear lass 
 
 Till earth shall melt awa'. 
 
 Though we by distance sundered were, 
 
 As far as are the poles, 
 Bare fit I'd tak' the road to her, 
 
 Were't paved wi' glowing coals ; 
 My steadfast love shall know no change, 
 
 Nor e'er in me be slain, 
 Till Otway's rugged mountain range 
 
 Shall be a level plain. 
 
 Dear lass, my heart lies in your hand, 
 
 Like acorn in its cup, 
 An' a' the seas shall be dry land 
 
 Afore I'll yield ye up; 
 Whatever fate may bring to pass, 
 
 On this ye may rely, 
 That I will love ye only, lass, 
 
 Till the sun fa' frae the sky. 
 
 As wide as is the firmament, 
 
 As deep as is the sea, 
 They canna equal in extent 
 
 The love I bear to ye ; 
 Within my heart a queen ye reign, 
 
 Supreme amang the fave, 
 And I will love ye, dear, alane, 
 
 Till I am laid in grave. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 45 
 
 Till earth nae mair gaes whirlin' roon, 
 
 Till the knell o' time shall soond, 
 Till in the sea the sun and moon 
 
 An' a' the stars are drooned ; 
 Ay! till the sun shall rise at night, 
 
 And the moon by day shall shine, 
 Till the Ethiop's skin be washed snaw white, 
 
 I'm yours and ye are mine. 
 
 My love is like a lily tall, 
 
 An' maist divinely fair ; 
 There's no' anither walk's the earth 
 
 Wha can wi' her compare ; 
 And whaursoever I may gang, 
 
 For ever this shall be 
 The changeless burden of my sang 
 
 My love, I love but thee ! 
 
 WHEN THOU ART NEAR. 
 
 Ah, Mary, how this bosom swells 
 And thrills with rapture when I hear 
 
 The gay, lighthearted laugh which tells 
 That thou are near ! 
 
 Ah, what a happiness to live ! 
 
 How lovely doth this world appear! 
 No more to me can fortune give 
 
 When thou are near. 
 
 Not to all mortals here is given 
 A perfect joy upon this sphere, 
 
 But I enjoy a task of Heaven 
 When thou are near. 
 
46 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 POVERTY AND WEALTH 
 
 THE POOR RELATION. 
 
 Who, when he's asked to sit at meat, 
 Goes thither with reluctant feet, 
 An hungered, yet ashamed to eat ? 
 The poor relation. 
 
 Who, when he humbly takes his chair, 
 Abhors himself for being there, 
 And scarce from swearing can forbear? 
 The poor relation. 
 
 Who sits at table silent, grim. 
 Feeling he " isn't in the swim," 
 Since no one cares to talk to him? 
 The poor relation. 
 
 Who silently Heaven's wrath invokes 
 On all those supercilious folks, 
 And o'er each mouthful well-nigh chokes ? 
 The poor relation. 
 
 .Who feels a mad desire to call 
 On Heaven to cause its bolt to fall 
 Upon the guests and blast them all ? - 
 The poor relation. 
 
 Who sits unnoticed, and apart, 
 Stung by humiliation's smart, 
 And smiles, with curses in his heart ? 
 The poor relation. 
 
 Who, with a smouldering rage on fire, 
 Is conscious of but one desire 
 To rise and from the scene retire? 
 The poor relation. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 47 
 
 Who prays kind Heaven for pity's sake 
 To send along a good earthquake, 
 So that his exit he may make ? 
 The poor relation. 
 
 Who, if he only had his way, 
 The chattering throng would love to slay, 
 And drop the curtain on the play ? 
 The poor relation. 
 
 Who is in nobody's good books ? 
 Who meets with cold, averted looks ? 
 Whose chair is stuffed with tenter hooks ? 
 The poor relation's. 
 
 Who always must dissimulate 
 When his whole soul is filled with hate, 
 And, hating, still conciliate? 
 The poor relation. 
 
 When into company he goes, 
 His cheek like surgeon's lantern glows, 
 For everybody present knows 
 He's the poor relation. 
 
 Alternating 'twixt cold and hot, 
 Who rues the day he'was begot? 
 Who is it, say you ? Is it not 
 The poor relation ? 
 
 Though he may be possessed of wit, 
 He must not dare give rein to it, 
 But humble and abashed must sit, 
 The poor relation. 
 
 When filled with food and warmed with wine, 
 His patron baits him, of design, 
 Who must endure, and make no sign ? 
 The poor relation. 
 
48 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Sad sorrow's chalice he must drain, 
 However much against the grain, 
 Nor dare to answer back again 
 The poor relation. 
 
 If he of this or that complains, 
 He's promptly sat on for his pains ; 
 The very servants' hall disdains 
 The poor relation. 
 
 Of all the creeping things that crawl 
 The face of this terrestrial ball, 
 The meanest thing amongst them all 
 Is the poor relation. 
 
 THE DYING FLOWER GIRL. 
 
 All day I've tramped with a heart like lead, 
 
 In the bitter piercing cold, 
 With never the price of a meal or bed, 
 
 For my bouquets are still unsold. 
 
 I've sought in vain, as I hawked my wares, 
 
 For a kindly or pitying glance, 
 But the men give nothing but insolent stares, 
 
 While the women-folk look askance. 
 
 I'm chilled to the bone, the landscape swims, 
 
 My feet I can scarcely keep, 
 So weary and stiff are my aching limbs. 
 
 And I long to be sound asleep. 
 
 My head is heavy, my heart is sore, 
 
 With its burden of weary woe ; 
 I have sunk down here at the rich man's door, 
 
 For no further can I go. 
 
 And resting here, in a half-dazed way, 
 
 There reaches my ear the din 
 Of the mirthful laughter and merry play 
 
 Of the happy young folk within. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 49 
 
 And my heart leaps up in a protest wild 
 
 Why cannot I be as they? 
 Why wasn't I born a rich man's child, 
 
 With nothing to do but play? 
 
 They've all they wish for no jot they care 
 
 For a derelict such as I ; 
 God help me ! there's nobody anywhere 
 
 Cares whether I live or die. 
 
 Were I only a cat or a pampered pug, 
 
 I could curl in front of the fire, 
 To snore my fill on the warmth of the rug, 
 
 In the sleep of fulfilled desire. 
 
 Good God ! that a dog or a cat may feast 
 
 On the best that earth supplies ! 
 That man will throw to the dumb brute-beast 
 
 What he to his kind denies ! 
 
 Is there never a one will buy my flowers ? 
 
 They are cheap, and so very few ; 
 They won't last more than a few short hours, 
 
 And I shall be dead then, too. 
 
 Young men and maids who go hurrying by, 
 Have ye hearts in your breasts to feel, 
 
 That ye let a poor creature in misery die 
 For want of the price of a meal? 
 
 Well shod, well nourished, great-coated and furred, 
 
 Ye pass and re-pass in the press ; 
 And not one soul with compassion is stirred 
 
 At sight of my dire distress. 
 
 Life isn't easy to understand, 
 
 And the angels must surely weep 
 To think that a girl in a Christian land 
 
 Is of smaller account than a sheep ! 
 
 Well, I shan't last long; I can feel the cold 
 
 Round my heart begin to creep, 
 And I care no more for my flowers unsold, 
 
 For soon I shall be asleep. 
 
50 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 And Heaven is kind now the snow feels warm, 
 
 My brain no longer reels ; 
 No longer I heed the pitiless storm, 
 
 For drowsiness over me steals. 
 
 And the noise of the busy city comes 
 
 To my ears, with its ceaseless roar, 
 Like the far-off beating of muffled drums 
 
 Or the sea on a distant shore. 
 
 My shivering, wasted, and ill-clad form, 
 
 With the cold has ceased to shake, 
 And maybe the sun will have come out warm 
 
 In the next world when I wake 
 
 Good-bye, poor flowers ! with myself you're doomed 
 
 To the same unkindly fate; 
 They will find us soon in the snow entombed, 
 
 And they'll care for us then too late ! 
 
 POVERTY'S APPEAL TO DEATH. 
 
 Oh, thou grim shape, who art by many called 
 The king of terrors, hast thou come for me ? 
 
 Thou before whom the boldest cowers appalled, 
 A ready welcome I accord to thee. 
 
 Oft have I called thee ; thou hast come at last : 
 
 Enfold me in thine arms, and hold me fast 
 
 Think not that thou canst daunt me with thy spear, 
 Which with such threatening gestures thou dost shake ; 
 
 Give me thy hand ; thou see'st I feel no fear : 
 None can rob him who nothing has to take. 
 
 Life is to me but misery and woe : 
 
 Why, then, should I regard thee as a foe ? 
 
 Pass me not by, I pray thee ; nor ignore 
 
 With cold indifference this my sole request ; 
 
 Lift up thy spear and strike me, I implore, 
 For I am tired, and fain would be at rest ; 
 
 Tis but the rich who tremble at thy tread : 
 
 Such as I am thy coming do not dread. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 51 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHICAL VAGRANT. 
 
 Pooh ! What care I for power and rank, 
 
 Or heaping up of riches ? 
 I lodge beneath a grassy bank 
 
 In hedges or in ditches. 
 
 On old earth's breast I make my bed, 
 
 My roof the starry sky; 
 The tree-tops whispering overhead 
 
 Make me soft lullaby. 
 
 And there are scores of rich men who 
 
 On beds of down recline 
 Would give their lands and fortunes, too, 
 
 For sleep as sound as mine. 
 
 Those who have never known the lack 
 
 Of luxuries, perhaps 
 Would pull wry faces at a snack 
 
 Of odds and ends and scraps. 
 
 Yet though my fare be coarse and rude, 
 
 They'd know a new delight, 
 Could they but eat their dainty food 
 
 With my keen appetite. 
 
 Though all the world may pass me by, 
 
 To me that little matters ; 
 Royalty might seem the same as I 
 If clad in rags and tatters. 
 
 Strip his royal robes from off the King, 
 
 And wrap my clouts about him, 
 I'll wager almost anything 
 
 That all the world will flout him. 
 
 Divest me of my ancient togs, 
 
 And into his robes put me, 
 I'll warrant you the scurvy dogs 
 
 With reverence will salute me. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 For he soon finds out who reflects 
 
 On life and its affairs, 
 It's not the man the world respects, 
 
 But more the coat he wears. 
 
 Set naked king and naked hind 
 
 Upon a desert isle, 
 And both will of a surety find 
 
 Their level for a while. 
 
 So orators may wag their chins, 
 And puff and snort like bellows, 
 
 But, clad in nothing but their skins, 
 All men alike are fellows. 
 
 When everything is done and said, 
 And with this life we're through, 
 
 There's little difference, once we're dead, 
 Betwixt myself and you. 
 
 NEED FOR ECONOMY. 
 
 We ken fu' weel what war will mean, 
 To tell us yon there's little need; 
 
 Ance mair our purses lank and lean, 
 
 Like open wounds maun gape and bleed ; 
 
 We'll hae to gie frae oor sma' hoard 
 
 That which we can but ill afford. 
 
 Again, as oft it's chanced before, 
 Maun poverty be called upon 
 
 To furnish frae its scanty store 
 Reluctant contribution ; 
 
 We wha can barely mak' ends meet 
 
 Our meagre funds maun still deplete. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 53 
 
 " Condem it a' !" the puir man sighs, 
 When straits the people maun endure, 
 
 Why don't the rich economise 
 
 Instead of grinding down the poor? 
 
 While we our corn maun aye resign, 
 
 They winna gang athoot their wine. 
 
 Gin there maun be economy, 
 For He.aven's sake some way devise 
 
 Whereby the well-to-do may be 
 Made to do mair than sympathise ; 
 
 Forbear the hapless puir to goad 
 
 By adding further to their load. 
 
 Gude kens that we already bear 
 
 Burdens enow upon our backs ; 
 The rich maun do their richtfu' share 
 
 Gin there's to be anither tax ; 
 It's no' owre often we complain, 
 But noo we've reached the breaking strain. 
 
 How may poor devils hope to thrive 
 Wha never-ceasing toll maun pay? 
 
 We barely keep oursel's alive 
 
 On dripping crusts three times a day; 
 
 For Gude's sake leave our sair won pence : 
 
 Tax those wha roll in affluence. 
 
 The peers are advocating thrift, 
 
 And they do wisely to advise it ; 
 But will thae noble lords mak' shift 
 
 Arnang themsel's to exercise it? 
 We'd like to see the rich and great 
 Pursue the course they advocate. 
 
 Inflated talk's o' little use, 
 
 We naething care for flowers o' speech ; 
 Let these their luxuries reduce, 
 
 And fairly practise what they preach ; 
 Nor langer gar the puir folk bend 
 Aneath the timmer's heavy end. 
 
54 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 TO DIVES. 
 
 Oh, Dives, fat and purse-proud ! as you hold 
 Your head among your fellow men so high, 
 
 Do you remember what One said of old, 
 About the camel and the needle's eye? 
 
 When comes the hour that you can hold no more 
 That wealth that all your life you strove to win, 
 
 You must pass through the needle's eye' before 
 The keeper of the gate will let you in. 
 
 Your face is puffed and of the hue of beet, 
 Your chest methinks has sagged down to your knees ; 
 
 'Twill be for you, I fear, no easy feat 
 Through such a narrow orifice to squeeze. 
 
 Are there no needy folk about your door 
 To whom you might spare somewhat of your hoard ? 
 
 He lendeth to the Lord who feeds the poor, 
 Yet are you shy of lending to the Lord. 
 
 For gold is after all but sordid dross : 
 To what end, therefore, do you hoard it so, 
 
 Since at the end you must endure its loss ? 
 You cannot take it with you when you go. 
 
 When Death's chill hand upon you shall descend, 
 And the dread hour has come when you must die, 
 
 Methinks 'tis little chance you'll stand, my friend, 
 Of squeezing through that narrow needle's eye. 
 
 I do but speak to you for your own sake ; 
 
 'Tis no light task with which you have to cope; 
 And if I do not make a great mistake, 
 
 Dives, you've only got a camel's hope. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 55 
 
 TO DIVES. 
 
 Oh, Dives ! did you one short hour endure 
 
 The sad existence of the very poor; 
 
 If Providence would one short year condemn 
 
 You to the lot which It inflicts on them, 
 
 Ah ! then, perchance, your callous heart would know 
 
 Some pity for the fate they undergo! 
 
 One such brief year would open your blind eyes, 
 
 And teach you how to truly sympathise ; 
 
 Down in your inmost heart full well you know 
 
 You are responsible for half their woe; 
 
 Full well you know the suffering you might save 
 
 If of your plenty you more freely gave. 
 
56 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 THE DYING *MYALL. 
 
 I rode one morning past a myall camp, 
 Wherein an old and dying warrior lay; 
 
 Upon his brow the dews of death were damp, 
 His spirit plainly longed to flee away. 
 
 Yet at my step, despite his desperate state, 
 He turned his head, and vainly strove to rise, 
 
 And never have I seen such bitter hate 
 
 As flashed upon me from his dimming eyes. 
 
 The captive hawk, imprisoned, yet untamed, 
 Darts such a pent-up passion from his eye 
 
 As shot from that old brave's, as he exclaimed, 
 " What ! hast thou come to see a warrior die ? 
 
 " Helpless I lie who once was tall and straight, 
 
 And shortly now of life to be bereft; 
 Yet shall the embers of my deathless hate 
 Glow fiercely while a spark of life is left. 
 
 " Oh, that I once again possessed the power 
 
 That to the vigorous arm of youth belongs, 
 My soul might pay the price of one short hour 
 Wherein in some sort to avenge my wrongs ! 
 
 " Oh, had I but a thousand warriors here, 
 
 Eager their white despoilers to requite, 
 This arm perchance might once more launch a spear 
 Ere these dim eyelids closed in endless night. 
 
 " Yet 'twere in vain against the deadly guns 
 
 That vomit forth upon us smoke and fire, 
 The tmoongyne from the Jmoorawautee runs ; 
 The waters must before the drought retire. 
 
POEMS BY AX AUSTRALIAN SCOT 57 
 
 ''Alas ! vv hat could we do, for what availed 
 
 Against your guns our feeble spears and shields ? 
 What wonder that our bravest warriors quailed 
 Before the dreadful power the white man wields? 
 
 " Of all the wide domains that once were ours 
 
 Sequestered valleys, far-extending plains, 
 Hills, rivers, mountains, shady forest bowers 
 No smallest portion now to us remains. 
 
 " You robbed us of those glorious domains, 
 
 And in exchange the fiery potion gave, 
 Which turned the blood to fire within our veins, 
 And made the warrior become a slave. 
 
 "As when the furious flames destroy the trees 
 
 Which on the soil for many moons have grown, 
 So we by you have been destroyed like these 
 For dwelling on the land which was our own. 
 
 " Detested white man ! May thy hated race 
 
 Which stole our birthright be for ever cursed ; 
 
 Where we, lighthearted, once pursued the chase, 
 
 Ourselves are hunted, scattered, and dispersed. 
 
 " My curse upon you white man, do you hear? 
 
 Would that this feeble body but possessed 
 A moment's strength, that I might grasp my spear 
 And drive it through and through your hateful 
 breast." 
 
 With that he ceased, and wildly gazed around, 
 For death about his heart began to creep ; 
 
 Then with a sigh, long, trembling and profound, 
 He closed his eyes in everlasting sleep. 
 
 * Myall, w.ld black 
 
 t Moongyne, the Kangaroo 
 
 t Moorawautee, the wild dog 
 
58 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 TO NORMAN MORRISON, ESQ. 
 
 There's mony a chiel o' rank an' station 
 Wha owes his present elevation 
 Tae his auld College education, 
 
 But for the which 
 
 He micht hae noo been cairtin' gravel, 
 An' leevin' in a gruesome hovel, 
 Or, toilin' wi' a pick and shovel, 
 
 Had ne'er grown rich. 
 
 Twas there lang syne I wrought in vain 
 Wi' knowledge fair tae stuff my brain, 
 An' climbed, wi' muckle dool an' pain, 
 
 Up learnin's mount ; 
 A climb frae which I used tae shrink, 
 E'en noo it gars me grue tae think 
 How few the draughts I used tae drink 
 
 At Wisdom's fount. 
 
 But still ye ken for many a reason 
 Tae auld Collegians whiles it's pleasin' 
 Tae think upon yon bygane season, 
 
 When .they at college 
 Spent ilka ane sair grudged days 
 In hirplin owre stern Wisdom's ways, 
 While they, as faur-famed " Bobbie " says, 
 
 Were " panged wi' knowledge." 
 
 Though mony hae attained success 
 (For which the College they may bless), 
 There may be some wha maun confess 
 
 They've failed tae reach it; 
 But whit o' that, sirs? Why despair? 
 The road tae knowledge may be sair, 
 But the auld College aye is there, 
 
 Right glad to teach it. 
 
 Chorus. 
 Sae here's the school, the guid auld school, 
 
 Whaur we imbibed oor knowledge; 
 Let's shout to-day, wi' hip, hooray! 
 
 Luck tae the guid auld College! 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 59 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF SCOTLAND'S IMMORTAL. 
 
 Here's to his memory, whom all Scotsmen hold 
 
 In never-dying love and veneration ; 
 Never shall his illustrious fame grow cold, 
 
 Who is the proud boast of the proudest nation. 
 
 Earth for a poet long had looked in vain, 
 
 Till he, the heaven-born child of genius, came, 
 And, since entranced, she listened to his strain, 
 No other bard has ever touched his fame. 
 
 What though his form has long been cold and still, 
 
 And waving heather blooms above his head ! 
 Still to his strains do Scottish bosoms thrill, 
 
 Whatever soil the Scotman's footstep tread. 
 Who knows, perchance, though veiled from mortal 
 sight, 
 
 A moment freed from those dark shades that fold 
 
 him, 
 He may be present here with us to-night, 
 
 A witness of the love in which we hold him. 
 
 Oh, mighty bard, who held the world in thrall 
 By the sweet, wondrous magic of thy strains ; 
 
 Though thou art gone from us beyond recall, 
 Still does thy music thrill our Scottish veins. 
 
 Mighty magician ! Scotland's boast and pride, 
 Who swayed the hearts of all mankind at will ; 
 
 Search as we may throughout the world so wide, 
 Whom shall we choose thy place on earth to fill? 
 
 Who now will sound thy lyre, O bard beloved, 
 Since thou art to the land of shadows gone? 
 
 For who like thee could move as Orpheus moved, 
 With heavenly strains, the cold and lifeless stone ? 
 
 Ill for us was it that thou didst attain 
 That bourne from which no traveller returns ; 
 
 For while the earth and sea and sky remain, 
 There shall not be another Robert Burns. 
 
 There needs no toast to keep thy memory green, 
 Though in earth's chilly bosom lang syne laid, 
 
 Till the last Scot shall quit life's troubled scene 
 Our bardie's memory shall never fade. 
 
60 POEMS BY AX AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 IN MEMORIAM RABBIE BURNS. 
 
 Sweet singer, when in evil hour 
 
 Death hushed for evermore thy lay, 
 
 From peasant cot to lady's bower 
 All Scotland mourned the fatal day. 
 
 The breezes stayed their onward rush, 
 The birds went silent one by one ; 
 
 Throughout the land a brooding hush 
 Told how sad Scotland mourned her son. 
 
 The flowers no more exhaled their scent, 
 The woods their leaves and blossoms shed, 
 
 The rivers murmured sad lament 
 All Nature mourned the mighty dead. 
 
 All lands, all hearts, with sorrow thrilled 
 When death removed him from his place ; 
 
 For him the clouds their tears distilled, 
 While Heaven behind them hid its face. 
 
 Lament, sweet Afton, mourn the loss, 
 Ye braes of Doon, so fresh and fair, 
 
 Of him whose feet no more shall cross 
 The milk-white pebbled banks of Ayr. 
 
 O'er all broad Scotia's stricken land 
 Black sorrow spread her sable pall 
 
 When fell, by Death's relentless hand, 
 The sweetest singer of them all. 
 
 Men have for gifts and favours striven 
 Since into being first they sprang, 
 
 But to no man has it been given 
 To sing as " oor ain Rabbie " sang. 
 
 Still shall his strains inspired, sublime, 
 Sway all men's hearts on sea and shore, 
 
 In every land, in every clime, 
 
 Till Death and Time shall be no more. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 61 
 
 "YOUR DOG." 
 
 He nothing knows of fortune's good or ill, 
 
 He only knows you are his master, he 
 
 Your true and faithful friend ; and what a friend ! 
 
 All that he asks is to remain your friend 
 
 Till one or both of you be dead and gone. 
 
 Whether your fortune may be good or bad 
 
 He cares no single jot ; 'tis not your means, 
 
 Your gold and silver, or your acres broad, 
 
 The things you have it in your power to give : 
 
 It is not these he loves, but you yourself 
 
 You, only you, and for yourself alone ; 
 
 He gives you love that Death alone can kill. 
 
 In rags or silks you are alike to him, 
 
 And he will live for you, and die for you, 
 
 Through thick and thin, through good and evil days, 
 
 And never ask for any more reward 
 
 Than to be with you always, until he. 
 
 Grown frail in years, but still robust in love, 
 
 Can neither serve you nor divert you more. 
 
 There is no service you can ask of him 
 
 Which, if within his power, he will not render, 
 
 Even to yielding up of life itself, 
 
 And he will do it gladly, cheerfully, 
 
 Pure love still shining in his wistful eyes. 
 
 A dog! Ah, yes, he only is a dog, 
 
 And nothing more, yet if our human love 
 
 Were only such as his but we are men, 
 
 And to our shame our human hearts can give 
 
 Nor faith nor love such as a dog can give. 
 
 Your fellow man forgets you in an hour, 
 
 No matter how you have befriended him ; 
 
 Your dog forgets you never while he lives : 
 
 To his dog's heart it makes no difference 
 
 If good or ill betide you, he has formed 
 
 A friendship which will last through life, till death 
 
 Dissolves it evermore ; and though mayhap 
 
 His friend, the object of his whole heart's love, 
 
 Should kick, and beat, and starve him, he'll forgive 
 
 The thankless deed, and love him all the more. 
 
62 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SWORD. 
 
 I leap from my sheath like a flash of light, 
 
 And mankind looks on afraid; 
 They shrink in affright from the deadly bite 
 
 Of my cruel and pitiless blade ; 
 With edge as sharp as a serpent's tooth, 
 
 I whirl in the midst of the fray, 
 Regardless alike of age or youth 
 
 I smite and I smite to slay. 
 
 I find my joy in the heart of the fight, 
 
 Where the shrewdest strokes abound, 
 From my scabbard I spring with a rasping ring, 
 
 As keen as an unleashed hound; 
 I jest at the power of sceptres royal. 
 
 And the safety that they afford, 
 For the sceptre is but a puny foil 
 
 To the might of the sharp-edged sword. 
 
 Wherever the sullen war clouds frown, 
 
 And the blare of the bugles rings, 
 I build up empires or hew them down : 
 
 I make or unmake kings ; 
 I follow the drum's menacing roll, 
 
 I leap to the bugle call, 
 On the sons of men I levy my toll. 
 
 For I am the lord of all. 
 
 My meat is the flesh of warriors bold, 
 
 My drink is the blood of men, 
 More power have I than the ruddy gold, 
 
 And more than the subtle pen ; 
 \Yhat gold desired it buys or hires, 
 
 The pen may acquire by sleight, 
 But one law alone to the sword is known, 
 
 And that is the law of might. 
 
 I never weary the livelong day, 
 
 Nor pity nor ruth I feel; 
 A stranger to fear, I love to hear 
 
 The clashing of steel on steel ; 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 63 
 
 Like a glittering flail I rise and fall, 
 
 Till darkness the conflict ends, 
 And my swift strokes thresh through bone and flesh 
 
 Wherever my blade descends. 
 
 I am the sword, and wherever I go 
 
 Men tremble, and hold their breath ; 
 Tis little wonder, for well they know 
 
 I herald the reign of death ; 
 Heaven help all those my path who oppose, 
 
 Who endeavour to bar my way; 
 As well might the hare stand forth and dare 
 
 The ravenous beast of prey. 
 
 Yea ! I am the sword, before whose name 
 
 The stoutest of mankind quail, 
 The whole world knows my terrible fame 
 I waste the earth like a scorching flame, 
 
 And leave in my wake a trail 
 
 Of death and pillage, of blood and fire ; 
 There is nothing on earth can resist my might, 
 For the power has been given to me to smite, 
 To take what is pleasing in my sight, 
 
 And to ravish what I desire. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE PEN. 
 
 Like my friend the sword, I'm fond of a drink, 
 
 And am intimate with the bottle, 
 But the tipple is never red blood, but ink, 
 
 Wherewith I moisten my throttle; 
 That the sword is a mighty power I know, 
 
 Yet methinks I'm more than its match, 
 For that which the sword can do at a blow 
 
 I do with a quiet scratch. 
 
64 POEMS BY AX AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 That the sword has travelled the wide world round 
 
 I am quite prepared to own, 
 But let me ask : Has it ever found 
 
 A spot where the pen's unknown? 
 My faith ! though the sword in times past schooled 
 
 The various breeds of men, 
 To-day the affairs of the world are ruled 
 
 As much by the peaceful pen. 
 
 Majestic indeed is the ship of steel 
 
 As it ploughs the billowy sea, 
 But the sailor in charge of the steering wheel 
 
 Can demolish it should he please ; 
 Of the engine's power we are often told, 
 
 With its ponderous driving gear, 
 But its giant forces are all controlled 
 
 By the hand of the engineer. 
 
 I do not flash in the sun's bright ray, 
 
 'Midst the shouting of armed men, 
 Yet none the less must the sword give way 
 
 To the mightier power of the pen ; 
 Yet which of we two has the greater might, 
 
 Let men for themselves decide ; 
 'Tis the role of the sword to drive and smite, 
 
 Tis that of the pen to guide. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE RUM BOTTLE. 
 
 Oh, I am the bottle of rum-ti-tum, 
 
 And the sword is my old-time pal, 
 When we're out together we make things hum, 
 
 For we go the whole ani-mal ; 
 Yes, I am the bottle of rum-ti-tum, 
 
 And the sword is a pal of mine, 
 You bet there are few can tackle we two 
 
 When our energies we combine. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 65 
 
 At converting the heathen we're hard to beat 
 
 At any rate, so I think 
 For the sword converts 'em to butcher meat, 
 
 And I convert 'em to drink; 
 The sword may mangle, and hew, and slash, 
 
 And scatter the fur and skin, 
 But the neck's my tip for a deadly grip 
 
 Yea! that's where the rum gets in. 
 
 We've had some fun, have the sword and I, 
 
 With the tenderfoot coloured man: 
 'Twas capital sport in the days gone by 
 
 To see how he roared and ran ; 
 And though many a one his death cry yelled, 
 
 When the sword on his backbone smote, 
 Twas at frontal attack that I excelled, 
 
 For I went straight for the throat. 
 
 It's all very well for the sword to blow 
 
 Of the foes it has overcome, 
 But where would it be, I'd like to know, 
 
 Were it not for the bottle of rum? 
 When the sword had played its innings well, 
 
 And batted its level best, 
 It just sat down for a quiet spell, 
 
 And the rum bottle did the rest. 
 
 It is well for the sword to brag, I ween, 
 
 Of the conquest it has made, 
 But those self-same conquests had never been 
 
 Except for my friendly aid; 
 Of course, I know that the sword has done 
 
 A deal for the good of men, 
 But wherever my friend has laid out one, 
 
 Why, I can account for ten. 
 
 The sword and the pen much fame have won, 
 
 Yet I've done most of the three, 
 For whatever the other two have begun 
 
 Has always been finished by me ; 
 So here's to the bottle, the sword, the. pen, 
 
 Earth's greatest and grandest three, 
 For whatever these two have tried to do, 
 
 They could never get on without me. 
 
66 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 THE BARD. 
 
 In his attic bare sat the maker of song 
 By the light of a guttering candle, 
 
 And he ate with a fork with a single prong 
 And a knife without ever a handle. 
 
 He wrote about raiment rich and rare, 
 While his duds had never a button ; 
 
 He rhapsodised about sumptuous fare, 
 And dined off a neck of mutton. 
 
 He hummed to himself as he sat up there 
 In his comfortless, cheerless garret, 
 
 Of the glowing splendours of golden hair, 
 While his own was a furious carrot. 
 
 He sang of fair ladies, stately, tall, 
 Whom all men loved and adored, too, 
 
 While the only lady he knew at all 
 Was the one that he owed for his board to. 
 
 In many a flowing, sonorous line, 
 
 He warbled of halls baronial, 
 And chanted of mellow, sparkling wine, 
 
 While his tipple was flat " Colonial." 
 
 He raved of velvets and ruffles of lace, 
 And never got tired of singin' 'em, 
 
 But his own foot-cases were kept in place 
 By a couple of pieces of string in 'em. 
 
 He wrote of the battles in which he'd been, 
 Though instead, to be thoroughly frank, it 
 
 Is solemn truth, all the fighting he'd seen 
 Was a battle with fleas in his blanket. 
 
 He ranted and wrote till his fire went out 
 
 For want of a trifle of coal in it, 
 And he'd nothing wherewith to buy more, poor lout, 
 Save a battered old " brown " with a hole in it. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 67 
 
 He sang about diamonds of price untold 
 
 Till his dip burned out in the socket, 
 And he sang about mountains of yellow gold 
 
 With never a bean in his pocket. 
 
 Next day when his landlady climbed the stair, 
 
 All lifeless and cold she found him, 
 With a twisted smile, and straws in his hair, 
 
 And his manuscripts scattered round him. 
 
 OOR AIN FOLK. 
 
 Though Scots be scattered owre the earth, 
 Nae spot o' it their luve may claim; 
 
 'Tis aye the country o' his birth 
 The kin'ly Scot still ca's his hame. 
 
 Oor ain folk, oor ain kin' folk, 
 
 Though warm the hairts we bide amang, 
 Yet folk there's nane can match oor ain, 
 
 It disna maitter whaur we gang. 
 
 Though ither folk they may be kind, 
 An' ither lan's they may be braw, 
 
 Oor hairts are aye wi' oor ain folk, 
 Though we oorsels be faur awa'. 
 
 Though foreign skies be aiblins bricht, 
 
 An' foreign scenes be unco' fair, 
 There's no Ian' in a Scotsman's sicht 
 
 Can wi' his ain folks Ian' compare. 
 
 An' though thae foreign tongues may be 
 
 Mair polished, musical, an' clear, 
 Yet aye his ain folks' hamely speech 
 
 Fa's sweeter on a Scotsman's ear. 
 
68 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 THE FLAG IV EMERALD GREEN. 
 
 Wheriver foightin's bein' done, 
 
 An' blows are fallin' thick, 
 Ould Oireland's banner is the wan 
 
 To get amongst thim quick ; 
 What though 'tis ould an' battle worn? 
 
 That tatthered bit iv rag, 
 By shot an' shell so cruelly torn, 
 
 Is still our dear ould flag; 
 Shure manny is the fierce attack 
 
 That same ould flag has led, 
 An' left behoind to mark its thrack 
 
 A piled-up heap iv dead. 
 
 So here's a health acrass the say 
 To Oireland's harp and crown, 
 
 That's manny toimes been shot away, 
 But niver yit hauled down.. 
 
 'Tis far an' woide 'neath foreign skies 
 
 That little flag has been, 
 For where the clouds iv battle rise 
 
 There waves the shtrip iv green ; 
 And where the Harp of Erin goes, 
 
 There go ould Erin's sons, 
 For Pat 'tis known to friends and foes 
 
 The conflict niver shuns ; 
 Iv all the flags that iver raced 
 
 To battle's bloody scene, 
 There's niver wan has yit outpaced 
 
 Our own shmall shquare iv green. 
 
 Thin here's a health, &c. 
 
 TIRED OUT. 
 
 Unwillingly held captive here below, 
 
 Life's burden I must still perforce endure ; 
 
 My one and only comfort is to know 
 That death, though he be slow of step, is sure. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 69 
 
 As leaden-footed pass the weary years 
 
 The dreadful cheerless years so dull and grey 
 
 To me, who long to greet him, it appears 
 
 Ofttimes as though he ne'er would come my way. 
 
 To me, who wistfully his coming wait, 
 
 Time seems as endless as eternity ; 
 God ! what a hideous and ghastly fate 
 
 An everlasting life on earth would be. 
 
 His way with thorns is plentifully strewn 
 Who is of love, of faith, of hope bereft ; 
 
 The certainty that death will claim him soon 
 Is the one solitary comfort left. 
 
 There may be many round about me here 
 
 Who are unwilling or afraid to die, 
 But no such thought have I : my only fear 
 
 Is that he may forget or pass me by. 
 
 And when at last he conies to set me free 
 
 From life's cruel bondage, with my last faint breath 
 
 My fervent sigh of gratitude shall be, 
 He comes ! he comes at last ! Thank God for death ! 
 
 TO KATE. 
 
 When Nature fashioned you, and then surveyed 
 
 The perfect loveliness that she had made, 
 
 Exultant pride through all her being thrilled 
 
 For that in you she saw her dreams fulfilled ; 
 
 And as she marked your matchless beauties grow, 
 
 Confessed her cunning could no further go ; 
 
 That when your form and feature she beheld, 
 
 She deemed all former efforts far excelled ; 
 
 Nor ever hesitated to declare 
 
 You were her masterpiece beyond compare. 
 
70 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Enraptured with her handiwork, behold; 
 She inadvertently let fall the mould, 
 Which instantly was broken into pieces 
 A loss for which her sorrow never ceases. 
 Well might she be dismayed at what was done 
 The mould thus broken was her only one: 
 Without it, she is powerless to create 
 What she desires a duplicate of Kate. 
 
 BRITAIN'S FLAG. 
 
 With swelling hearts we gaze upon 
 
 That flag which all men know 
 As Liberty's sworn champion, 
 
 Oppression's deadly foe ; 
 Wherever human creatures dwell, 
 
 In all earth's many lands, 
 All know and recognise right well 
 
 The things for which it stands. 
 
 Wherever cruel oppression thrives, 
 
 That flag is viewed with fear; 
 The despot knows when it arrives 
 
 His end is drawing near. 
 The darkest corners of the earth 
 
 Its sheltering power have known : 
 Fair play and justice have their birth 
 
 Wherever it is flown. 
 
 Ah ! that will be a woeful day, 
 
 A day of dire renown. 
 When in the forefront of the fray 
 
 The British flag goes down ; 
 But that no Briton e'er shall see 
 
 While valour may avail, 
 For with its closing there will be 
 
 None left to tell the tale. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 MORALISINGS 
 
 WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 
 
 Of all the sorrows that befall 
 
 Throughout life's changing scene, 
 
 The greatest is the vain regret 
 For that which might have been. 
 
 What might have been. Four little words, 
 But, ah ! how much they mean ! 
 
 Full many a stricken sinner sighs 
 For that which might have been. 
 
 Aye ! thus it is. These waves of thought 
 
 Make up life's troubled sea ; 
 Could we but live our lives again, 
 
 How different they would be ! 
 
 A MORAfc.. 
 
 'Tis not always the sable coat 
 That's buttoned round the deepest 
 
 Not always do black bands denote 
 The deepest depths of grief you know. 
 
 'Tis not the brightest plumaged bird 
 That trills the most melodious lay, 
 
 The most melodious music heard 
 Comes from musicians far less gay. 
 
 The parrot, and the peacock, too, 
 For gorgeousness beat everything, 
 
 Yet 'tis but little they can do 
 
 Should they perchance be asked to sing. 
 
 Herein a moral he will find 
 
 Whoso to take the trouble cares ; 
 
 'Tis this pray, keep it well in mind : 
 " Don't judge a man by what he wears." 
 
72 POEMS BY AX AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 DELAY IS DANGEROUS. 
 
 Do that thou hast to do without delay, 
 Complete thy task while it is yet to-day, 
 
 For if thou wait until to-morrow dawn, 
 Unfinished must thy work for ever stay. 
 
 Whate'er the task thine hand hath once begun, 
 Cease not to work thereat till it be done ; 
 
 Remember, whether we be old or young, 
 To-day's our own, to-morrow comes to none. 
 
 Wherefore, whatever thou may'st have to do, 
 Bestir thyself, and see thou put it through ; 
 For if the old day find thee but half done, 
 It may be thou shalt ne'er behold the new. 
 
 THE AULD CARLE'S DESIRE. 
 
 Oh, the happy days o' youth ! they are lang syne past, 
 An' age is creepin' on wi' its cauld wintry blast ; 
 An' weel I ken I'm no' sae young as ance I used to be, 
 For time has laid his w*echty han' fu' heavily on me. 
 
 Oh, thae blithesome days o' youth ! they are lang bygane, 
 An' noo I'm auld an' feeble I maun gang my gait my lane ; 
 For gane are a' my youthfu' frien's and a' my youthfu' 
 
 fire 
 Gin I were but at rest wi' them, 'tis a' that I desire. 
 
 Ere lang the call will come for me, an' blithely will I 
 
 gang ; 
 A fushionless auld carle like me has lived on earth owre 
 
 lang; 
 
 Gin but my summons cam' the noo contented wad I be, 
 For few indeed the pleasures are this warl' noo hauds 
 
 for me. 
 
 Oh, the gowden days o' youth ! they were aye sae gay 
 
 an' blithe, 
 But time has been at wark wi' his cruel muckle scythe, 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 73 
 
 An' o' a' the lads an' lassies wha were ance sae gay an' 
 
 free, 
 The han' o' deith has only spared a daft auld carle like 
 
 me. 
 
 Ay, gin my oor to wend were come fain wad I be tae gae, 
 For a' my kindred i' the mools hae lang been lying laigh ; 
 Oh, wad that kin'ly deith were come these tired auld een 
 
 to close, 
 An' lead me wi' a frien'ly han' to my last lang repose. 
 
 Fu' mony a lang an' weary year my wife an' bairns are 
 
 deid, 
 Fu' mony a year the snaws o' time hae sprinkled my 
 
 auld heid ; 
 The tears o' age rin doon my cheek, an' my auld he'rt is 
 
 sair 
 Wi' thinkin' owre the memory o' thae days that were sae 
 
 fair. 
 
 Lang, lang has been my tale o' years, but noo 'tis nigh 
 
 complete, 
 The joyfu' oor draws near when I my wife an' bairns 
 
 shall meet 
 Ayont the stars whaur troubles cease, an' tears nae mair 
 
 shall fa'; 
 
 Oh, weary seems the time tae me wha langs to be awa'. 
 
 / 
 Whiles in my dreams I hear a voice that bids me nae mair 
 
 greet ; 
 
 I hear the rush o' michty wings, the tread o' mony feet ; 
 I see the shinin' yetts o' gowd, Gude grant I may win 
 
 through, 
 An' there wi' a' I lo'ed on earth my days o' youth renew. 
 
 Ay, yonder in the shinin' Ian' my coming they await, 
 Sae weel I seem to ken the place I needna speir the gate ; 
 Richt fain am I to be awa' to climb the gowden stair, 
 An' clasp my dear yins in my airms, to part again nae 
 mair. 
 
74 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 "WITHOUT ENCUMBRANCES." 
 
 [WANTED. Married couple without "encumbrances.' 
 No others need apply. Advt. in daily paper.] 
 Tis vain for parents to apply ; 
 
 On this we lay emphatic stress ; 
 Applicants 'twill disqualify 
 
 If they should happen to possess 
 Encumbrances. 
 
 Herein methinks is food for thought : 
 A future bright that country has 
 
 Where parents every day are taught 
 To look upon their children as 
 Encumbrances. 
 
 Christ loved the little children well ; 
 
 From Him no evil names they heard ; 
 From His kind lips there never fell 
 
 Such epithets as that cruel word 
 Encumbrances. 
 
 But though the children never seemed 
 Superfluous in the Master's sight, 
 
 To-day apparently they're deemed 
 Useless, old-fashioned, recondite 
 Encumbrances. 
 
 An all-wise Providence designed 
 
 The human race to multiply, 
 By propagation of its kind ; 
 
 Then God confound all those who cry 
 Encumbrances. 
 
 Blessed are they who would deny 
 Their fellow-men the right to mate, 
 
 Who Heaven's own laws would stultify, 
 And human offspring designate 
 Encumbrances. 
 
 Does there still live in us some trace, 
 Some lingering taint of heathendom? 
 
 It almost seems to be the case 
 When little children have become 
 Encumbrances. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 75 
 
 The Heavenly Kingdom is composed 
 Largely of children, we're aware; 
 
 To them its gates are never closed, 
 For they are not considered there 
 Encumbrances. 
 
 Thrice happy shall that country be, 
 
 And blest above all other lands, 
 Which in cold blood thus callously 
 
 Its rising generation brands 
 Encumbrances. 
 
 Oh, money-grubs of every sort, 
 
 A fitting recompense you'll meet, 
 When in the high celestial court 
 
 You are condemned as obsolete 
 Encumbrances. 
 
 ADMONITION, EXHORTATION, WARNING. 
 
 Oh, the happy days o' boyhood, wi' their joyous, careless 
 
 ways ! 
 Hoo aft to age comes hame the truth o' what the wise 
 
 man says, 
 That o' a' oor time on earth they're the best an' happiest 
 
 days, 
 For it's then that we're a' in life's mornin'. 
 
 Owre swiftly fled thae gowden days that we shall ken 
 
 nae mair, 
 When we never thocht o' sorrow an' we never kenned 
 
 despair ; 
 When we jested at misfortune, an' licht-hearted laughed 
 
 at care, 
 In the pride o' oor life's sunny mornin'. 
 
 There's whiles I trow we a' hae heaved a hauf regretfu' 
 
 sigh 
 For the days when we were callants noo, alas! lang 
 
 syne gane by 
 An' the swift, unbidden moisture frae oor een we quickly 
 
 dry, 
 Since for us it's nae langer life's mornin'. 
 
76 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 It is only in oor boyhood's day we've a' an equal chance, 
 For conditions aye maun alter as the swift-winged years 
 
 advance ; 
 An' gin thae days we squander oor regrets 'twill aye 
 
 enhance 
 To think hoo we wasted life's mornin'. 
 
 Oh, thae blithesome days o' boyhood wi' their mingled 
 
 smiles an' tears ! 
 What memories ane's mind ca's up across the vanished 
 
 years ! 
 Some few may aiblins sadden, but there's mony a ane 
 
 that cheers 
 In the efternoon o' life's sunny mornin'. 
 
 I can see the stalwart Doctor gazing sternly on me noo, 
 In his neive a muckle rattan an' Jove's thunder on his 
 
 broo', 
 As he bade me " Come up closer," in a tone that garred 
 
 me grue, 
 For I kenned I'd get my paiks that same mornin'. 
 
 Hoo I used to dread the Doctor wi' his ever-ready cane ! 
 E'en noo in fancy I can feel the creeps in ilka vein ; 
 Yet gin I could fin' oot a way to turn time's gless again, 
 I'd blithely tak' my paiks in the mornin'. 
 
 Wae's me thae years are lang awa' ; the Doctor's lang 
 
 syne deid ; 
 An' 'mang my former schoolmates there is mony a 
 
 grizzled heid ; 
 
 An' I mysel' am growing auld an' rinning fast to seed, 
 For I'm lang past the noon o' life's mornin'. 
 
 Oh, laddies tak this rede frae ane wha hasna muckle lair : 
 The harder that ye buckle to the better will ye fare ; 
 Ye'll be the better able a' life's after ills to bear, 
 Gin ye dinna waste your life's sunny mornin'. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 77 
 
 He's but a glaikit sumph wha thinks that ignorance is 
 
 bliss, 
 
 An' to sic a feckless coof I hae nae word to say but this : 
 Ane's chance comes seldom till him twice, an' gin that 
 
 chance he miss, 
 A' the lave o' his days he'll be mournin'. 
 
 Reflect, afore ye learn it in Experience' bitter schule, 
 That he wha wastes his youthfu' days is naething but a 
 
 fule; 
 Remember, " Knowledge aye is power," an' he is born 
 
 to rule 
 Who uses weel his life's sunny mornin'. 
 
 An' dinna by the luve o' sport owre muckle be enthralled ; 
 For geyan fast gang by the days that canna be recalled ; 
 An' gin ye mak' ill use o' them ye'll rue it when ye're auld, 
 And then it's owre late to be mournin'. 
 
 Be tentie aye o' Wisdom's voice, an' aye haud to the 
 
 richt, 
 
 Nor ever say or do a thing that winna bear the licht ; 
 Sae shall ye never frae your een remorseful moisture 
 
 dicht. ' 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 Oh, sore is the prick of the vengeful spear, 
 And venomed the sharp blade's bite, 
 
 And the shock of the flying ball's severe 
 To the body that stops its flight. 
 
 But cruel though the wounds and bruises are 
 
 That in battle a man receives, 
 There are hurts that are sorer still by far 
 
 They're the wounds that memory leaves. 
 
78 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Ay, the prick of spear and the bite of blade, 
 And the bullet wound soon are mended, 
 
 But the rankling wounds by memory made 
 Remain until life is ended. 
 
 IT'S VAIN TO BLOW THE BELLOWS WHEN 
 THE FIRE'S GONE OOT. 
 
 Success she is a denty queen by hosts o' swains pursued ; 
 She winna thole a trifler, she maun erdently be wooed ; 
 A' slackers are rejected wi' a " na !" that's absolute, 
 An' it's vain to blaw the bellows when ye've lat the lowe 
 dee oot. 
 
 Min' whit Ah'm sayin', callants, gin success ye houp to 
 
 win, 
 
 Mak' use o' Opportunity, that's hoo ye maun begin; 
 Gin Opportunity gangs by, Success will folly suit, 
 An' its vain to blaw the bellows when ye've lat the lowe 
 
 dee oot. 
 
 Noo, Opportunity's a j ad on wham ye aye maun keep 
 A constant watch, for fear she suld gang by ye while ye 
 
 sleep ; 
 
 Gin at yer post ye slumber, ye'll " get left," athoot a doot, 
 An' it's vain to blaw the bellows when ye've lat the lowe 
 
 dee oot. 
 
 Ye canna ride a journey on a horse that's tired an' lame, 
 An' gin yer gun's no' loaded, ye will never grass yer 
 
 game; 
 
 Ilk time ye fail to seize ye lose the prize to boot, 
 An' it's vain to blaw the bellows when ye've lat the lowe 
 
 dee oot. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 79 
 
 Wha sits him doon wi' faulded ban's will never win 
 
 success ; 
 Ilk time he calls she's " oot o' toon, an' left nae fixed 
 
 address " ; 
 He gaed to sleep aneath the tree while ithers pu'ed the 
 
 fruit, 
 An' it's vain to blaw the bellows when ye've lat the lowe 
 
 dee oot. 
 
 The chiel wha's laid in firewood, when the snaws o' 
 
 winter come, 
 
 Can toast his taes afore the fire that's roarin' up the lum ; 
 But he wha wis owre indolent, will fin' the cauld acute, 
 An' it's vain to blaw the bellows when ye've lat the lowe 
 
 dee oot. 
 
 Naething on earth wis ever yet accomplished by a wish : 
 The fisherman wha spreads nae net will no' catch mony 
 
 fish; 
 
 The plant will dee gin ance ye lat the worm intil its root, 
 An' it's vain to blaw the bellows when ye've lat the lowe 
 
 dee oot. 
 
 Sae bide a wee, my bonnie bairns, an' listen to my rede ; 
 The word in season's weel enow, but better f aur the deed ; 
 Words brake nae banes, but actions will, an' nae man can 
 
 dispute, 
 An' it's vain to blaw the bellows when ye've lat the lowe 
 
 dee oot. 
 
 Sae watch, an' when ye see yer chance, then grip it in yer 
 
 neive ; 
 
 The chiel wha aye is ready is the chiel who will achieve ; 
 A well-taen chance may mak' a captain oot o' a recruit, 
 But it's vain to blaw the bellows when the fire's gane oot. 
 
 Some say life's a' a gemm o' chance, aweel ! that may be 
 
 true; 
 
 I winna argue wi' thae folk wha like to tak' yon view ; 
 That's their concern this is the point which I set oot to 
 
 moot : 
 It's vain to blaw the bellows when the fire's gane oot. 
 
80 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Sae callants strive to cultivate guid, solid, hard horse- 
 sense, 
 
 An' dinna act as though devoid o' a' intelligence ; 
 
 Mair folk hae learned the sober truth than I can weel 
 compute, 
 
 That it's vain to blaw the bellows when the fire's gane 
 oot. 
 
 When neixt ye seek to raise a lowe, yer wood ye first 
 
 maun lay, 
 
 Gude save us a' ! it's easy gin ye dae't the proper way, 
 Ye canna play a tune ava upon a stringless lute, 
 An' it's vain to blaw the bellows when the fire's gane oot. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 81 
 
 SCOTLAND 
 
 THE EXILE. 
 
 Though far from Scotland's bonnie hills 
 An exile here I roam forlorn, 
 
 Affection still this bosom thrills 
 
 For that dear land where I was born. 
 
 And, oh ! if I may be so blessed, 
 Grant me, kind Heaven, I here implore, 
 
 Or ever I am laid to rest, 
 
 To see again my native shore. 
 
 Oh, Scotland ! Country of my heart, 
 The dearest land on earth to me, 
 
 May dool and sorrow be my part 
 If eer 'I cease to think on thee. 
 
 'Twas there I drew my opening breath, 
 And howsoe'er my lot be cast, 
 
 Ere I am summoned hence by death, 
 Tis there I hope to breathe my last. 
 
 Beloved country of my birth, 
 
 Since frae thy shores lang syne I came, 
 Thou only in the whole wide earth 
 
 Art still the land I call my hame. 
 
 Still may'st thou flourish in the days 
 When other nations are forgot; 
 
 Aye may he prosper who can raise 
 His head, and call himself a Scot. 
 
 My country ! Dearest to me yet, 
 Till sun on me shall no more shine, 
 
 If e'er thy memory I forget, 
 May Heaven forget both me and mine. 
 
82 
 
 I DINNA KEN. 
 
 They say the Scotch have duller wits 
 
 Than any other men, 
 But whether this be true or false 
 
 I dinna ken. 
 
 The Irishers can drink a drop 
 Or two, ere crying " when," 
 
 But where a canny Scot will stop 
 I dinna ken. 
 
 The Englishers can fight their foes, 
 And lick 'em now and then, 
 
 But who can lick the kindly Scots ? 
 I dinna ken. 
 
 The heathen nigger chief may beard 
 
 The lion in his den, 
 But who will face an angry Scot? 
 
 I dinna ken. 
 
 Whaur ither fouk hae licked ae foe, 
 The Scots hae loundered ten : 
 
 Maybe their wits are somewhat loose- 
 I dinna ken. 
 
 THE BAGPIPES OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 How shall a doggerel bard portray 
 The secret o' the bagpipes' sway, 
 That mak' the Scotsman hot tae slay, 
 
 An' maim an' wound, 
 While his opponents curse the day 
 
 They heard its soond? 
 
 The pipes, since their first origin, 
 
 Hae led the Scots through thick an' thin, 
 
 The foremost place 'mang men tae win 
 
 At their approach ; 
 Ilk ane wha hears their rousin' din 
 
 Thanks God he's Scotch. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 83 
 
 In fac' nane save the foremost place 
 Exac'ly suits oor Scottish race ; 
 Tae win it aft they've had tae face 
 
 The jaws o' hell ; 
 Gie them the pipes, man, they wid chase 
 
 The deil himsel'. 
 
 Nae ither soond, say what ye will 
 Wi' sic hot lust men's hairts can thrill, 
 Their fellow-creatures' bluid tae spill, 
 
 An' flesh their dirks, 
 Roarin' wi' fierce desire tae kill, 
 
 Like maddened stirks. 
 
 Oh, Scotland ! o' a' lan's the queen, 
 That yet may be or yet hae seen, 
 Thy pipes in mony a stirring scene 
 
 And "bluidy fray, 
 Hae turned the tide o' battle clean, 
 
 An' won the day. 
 
 Wha hears thae soul-inspiring strains, 
 An' disna feel them warm his veins, 
 Nae spark o' manhood he retains, 
 
 He's o' a' stock ; 
 Devoid alike o' spunk an' brains 
 
 As ony brock. 
 
 But ilka leal an' true-bred Scot, 
 Wha hears yon spirit stirring note, 
 Puffs oot his chest, an' clears his throat, 
 
 Hauds up his heid, 
 Syne thanks kin' Heavin 'at it's his lot 
 
 Tae be Scots' breed. 
 
 Whaure'er oor foes kick up a splore, 
 The bagpipes aye are tae the fore, 
 Shrilling atoon the battle's roar, 
 
 Their skirl ascends, 
 Filling foe's hearts wi' terror sore, 
 
 An' cheering friend's. 
 
84 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 God bless the Ian' o' cakes an' scones ! 
 Lang may her pipes' inspiring tones 
 Thrill hairts an' lugs o' Scotland's sons, 
 
 Her foes appal, 
 As Dauvid lang syne wi' his drones 
 
 Affrighted Saul. 
 
 Some at the pipes aye poke their fun, 
 Think ye thae folk wid stan' their grun', 
 Gin they were foes ? I trow they'd run 
 
 An' hide themsel's ; 
 There's nane need speir whit pipes hae done- 
 
 A' history tells. 
 
 Ah ! Scotland's heid maun lie fu' laigh 
 
 Upon yon black an' bitter day ; 
 
 A' true-born Scotsmen aye will pray 
 
 It ne'er may come, 
 When Scottish pipes at feast or fray 
 
 Nae mair shall hum. 
 
 Thae bugles, drums, an' fifes an' a' 
 Tae Southron lugs may soond as braw ; 
 
 But, oh ! the bagpipes' thrilling ca' 
 Can a' eclipse ; 
 
 We will hae nane o' them ava : 
 Gie us oor pipes. 
 
 Nae ither music sae appeals 
 
 Tae hairts an' lugs o' honest chiels ; 
 
 The bearserk rage that owre them steals 
 
 Sen's them distrackit ; 
 Were Hell afore him, ilk ane feels 
 
 He'd storm an' tak' it. 
 
 An', oh! when rises in the air 
 Their note o' sorrow, deep an' sair, 
 What grief unspeakable is there 
 
 In that refrain ! 
 Thae wailing accents o' despair 
 
 Wid melt a stane. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 85 
 
 Gin e'er yon waefu' day comes round, 
 When skirlin' pipes nae mair shall sound, 
 Auld Scotland maun wi' chains be bound, 
 
 An' change her faith, 
 An' a' true Scots in grief profound 
 
 Will pray for deith. 
 
 Auld Scotland, never may thy sod 
 Again be dyed wi' Scottish bluid; 
 But may ye stan' as aye ye've stood 
 
 Till the worl's en', 
 Esteemed o' man, beloved by God, 
 
 Aye an' amen ! 
 
 ON THE DECLINE OF SCOTTISH SENTIMENT 
 AND INSTITUTIONS. 
 
 Whaur are auld Scotland's ancient folk? 
 
 Weel may the muse lament 
 That scions o' the auld Scot's stock 
 
 Suld e'er forget their high descent. 
 
 Gae minstrel! lay aside your lyre, 
 
 E'en hang it on the wa' ; 
 It canna rouse responsive fire 
 
 In thae degenerate Scots ava. 
 
 Enthusiasm in them expires, 
 
 The heritage is naught, 
 That in lang bygane days their sires 
 
 Wi' their hearts' bluid sae dearly bought. 
 
 Hae done, hae done, for what avails 
 
 Your unconsidered themes? 
 Auld Scotland's deeds are auld wives' tales, 
 
 Her glories are but faded dreams. 
 
 The ancient stock has disappeared 
 
 Wha Scotland's glory prized; 
 Anither race o' Scots we've reared, 
 
 By whom the auld land is despised. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Whaur is the spirit o' oor race? 
 
 Ah ! sayna it is deid ; 
 We canna surely be sae base 
 
 As tae forget oor ancient breed! 
 
 Ochone ! nae mair the minstrel sings 
 Auld Scotland's fame o' yore; 
 
 Nae mair his fingers sweep the strings 
 His day is done, his wark is o'er. 
 
 OH! SING TO ME. 
 
 Oh, sing to me the auld Scots' sangs, - 
 
 That I sae love to hear, 
 For they o' a' the sangs o' earth 
 
 Fa' sweetest on mine ear. 
 
 Oh, sing to me the auld Scots' sangs, 
 The sangs I kenned langsyne ; 
 
 What mind me o' the bonnie days, 
 When youth and love were mine. 
 
 Oh, sing to me the auld Scots' sangs, 
 For nane sae sweet can be 
 
 As those I learned in childhood's days 
 Upon my mither's knee. 
 
 For ilka ane o' them recalls 
 To me some bygane scene ; 
 
 An' lang forgotten memories bring 
 The moisture to my een. 
 
 Oh, sing to me the auld Scots' sangs, 
 That are sae sadly sweet, 
 
 The sangs that stir the listener's heart, 
 An' well-nigh gar him greet. 
 
 Lang silent voices speak to me 
 In ilka weel kenned strain, 
 
 O' frien's and kindred lo'ed an' lost, 
 In days lang, lang bygane. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 87 
 
 I dootna there are ither sangs 
 
 O' moving melody; 
 But leeze me on the auld Scots' sangs : 
 They're sweeter faur to me. 
 
 Oh, sing to me the auld Scots' sangs 
 
 I love sae weel to hear; 
 For they, beyond a' ither sangs, 
 
 Fa' sweetly on mine ear. 
 
 SCOT'S FARE. 
 
 Though some their preference declare 
 For viand rich and vintage rare, 
 But deil a bawbee Scotsmen care 
 
 For these ava; 
 Gie them auld Scotland's halesome fare 
 
 Afore them a'. 
 
 On parritch we hae reared a race 
 That yields to nane the foremaist place, 
 That naething fears except disgrace, 
 
 Wi' shame behind it ; 
 That lo'es what's guid, and hates what's base 
 
 Whaure'er they find it. 
 
 Losh, man ! we've mair nor ane can name 
 O' things to fill a hungry wame; 
 In ilka brawling burn and stream 
 
 Lurk lordly saumon, 
 Grouse, paitrick, deer and ither game 
 Are geyan common. 
 
 Forbye we've bannocks, scons, ait cake, 
 Sic as Scots' wives alane can bake ; 
 Nae ither folk can undertake 
 
 Its manufacture; 
 For gin it's wrangly made, Gudesake, 
 
 Ane's jaw 'twould fracture. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 A hungry man is oft irate, 
 An' whiles'll no' be keepit quate, 
 But gin ye wish to dissipate 
 
 An' turn his wrath, 
 Just set him doon afore a plate 
 
 O' guid Scots' broth. 
 
 Then whaur I'm speirin will ye find 
 A meat mair to a Scotman's mind 
 Than haggis chieftain o' its kind, 
 
 As "Bobbie" sings ? 
 A meat that surely wis designed 
 
 To nourish kings. 
 
 
 
 There's some ye ken wha wid incline 
 To gar us drink the juice o' vine; 
 But, hoots ! gin that be their design 
 
 They'll no achieve it ; 
 Whit's yon puir stuff that they ca' wine 
 
 To Scots' Glenlivat? 
 
 Auld Scotland, ye can still compete 
 Wi' ony ye may chance to meet 
 In war, in peace, or things to eat ; 
 
 Richt weel I ween 
 Ye're still the same auld " hard-to-beat " 
 
 Ye aye hae been. 
 
 There's some that ettle to despise 
 
 Auld Scotland ; weel, they're no owre wise ; 
 
 Throughout the bygane centuries 
 
 We've held oor ain, 
 An', gin occasion should arise, 
 
 Can do't again. 
 
 Scotland, that a' the lave surpasses 
 For stalwart lads and bonnie lassies, 
 For rowth and toothsome delicacies, 
 
 An' cheery clink 
 O' rattlin' spoons in steamin' glasses, 
 
 To thee we drink. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 89 
 
 Lang may the land where Scots are born, 
 That never yet brooked scaith nor scorn, 
 The place that she has won, adorn, 
 
 Respect commandin' ; 
 To her we fill a brimming horn, 
 
 An' drink it standin'. 
 
 A SANG FOR SCOTSMEN. 
 
 Lan' o' the mountain, the loch an' the glen ! 
 While thy daughters are famed as the mithers o' men, 
 While thy sons hae the strenght to wield dirk and clay- 
 more, 
 
 Oor last drap o' hert's bluid for thee we'll ootpour; 
 As oor foreword aye has been, sae aye it shall be : 
 " Ready, aye ready, for Scotland to dee." 
 
 Thick as the spikes o' oor ain sturdy thistle, 
 Gin the day come when a foe shall invade, 
 
 Mountain and glen wi' their claymores shall bristle 
 As thy sons rush in fury to render thee aid; 
 
 Scotland, oor ain Ian', fu' blithe will we be 
 
 To pour oot oor last drap o' hert's bluid for thee. 
 
 Siller and gowd we hae little or nane ; 
 
 Oor sires' trusty claymores are a' that's oor ain ; 
 
 But ilk trusty claymore will aye strike a blow 
 
 For the weal o' Auld Scotland, till deith lays us low ; 
 
 Scotland, oor Scotland, thou Ian' o' the free, 
 
 The best in oor veins we will pour oot for thee. 
 
 Naething we bring save the steel in oor han', 
 Stoot herts blithe to fecht for oor well-beloved Ian' ; 
 The weel hardened muscles and flesh on oor banes, 
 But that is a' thine while a shred o't remains ; 
 Thou naught save the bluid in oor bodies hae we : 
 The last drap for Scotland we blightly will gie. 
 
 Foul fa' the traitors wha blade winna draw 
 
 For the honour o' Scotland to fecht or to fa,; 
 
 Perish the craven shall ken the word " fear " 
 
 When the day that brings peril to Scotland draws near; 
 
 In that oor o' danger, accursed be he 
 
 Wha winna dee fechtin' auld Scotland, for thee ! 
 
90 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 HAMESICK. 
 
 Though here aneath the Southern Cross 
 
 My body maun abide, 
 My heart is aye in my auld hame, 
 
 By the bonnie banks o' Clyde; 
 Austrklian skies are unco blue, 
 
 Her fields vvi' wild flooers gay, 
 But wae's me for the heather braes, 
 
 The lift o' hodden grey. 
 
 Sweet is the magpie's note and clear 
 
 That rises on the air ; 
 But wi' the laverock's melody 
 
 It never may compare; 
 Oh, fare ye weel, my ain aukl hame, 
 
 By the bonnie banks o' Clyde ; 
 Fu' mony weary leagues o' sea 
 
 We twa for aye divide. 
 
 Sair, sair's my heart, yet 'tis in vain 
 
 Mysel' I thus distrett, 
 My ain dear native soil again 
 
 My fit may never press ; 
 Though I hae hoped and prayed lang years, 
 
 Since first I hither came, 
 That fortune micht enable me 
 
 To turn my face tow'rd hame. 
 
 Wae's me ! sic bliss may ne'er be mine, 
 
 For noo 'tis a' owre late ; 
 My last fond hope I maun resign, 
 
 An' gang anither gate ; 
 Sae fare ye weel, my ain auld hame, 
 
 That's lost for aye to me, 
 An exile an' a stranger in 
 
 A strange Ian' I maun dee. 
 
 Refrain. 
 Sae fare ye weel, auld hame o' mine, 
 
 That I nae mair shall see, 
 The hame that cradled a' my line 
 
 Nae mair may shelter me. 
 
91 
 
 MURDOCH McWRATH ON THE ABOLITION OF 
 THE KILT AMONG THE "TROOPS." 
 
 An' shall ta kilt pe panished then 
 
 Ta sporran worn no more ? 
 A hunner thoosan hielanmen 
 
 Will want to know what for. 
 
 Look you ! pefore thiss land wass known 
 
 Our sires ta tartans wore ; 
 Pefore there wass a British Throne 
 
 Ta kilts wass to ta fore. 
 
 Tiss ages since they haf pecame 
 
 Symbol off victory; 
 Ta fery mention off their name 
 
 Still makes our foes to flee. 
 
 Iss it then strange our hearts iss sore, 
 
 An' tat our faces fall, 
 To think tat Scots may wear no more 
 
 Ta garb off Ancient Gaul? 
 
 Our hielan' spirit must we tame 
 
 To pear such prohibition, 
 An' doff ta kilts whose glorious fame 
 
 Iss matter off tradition? 
 
 Put off ta kilts ! Ta fery tho't 
 
 Inspires our souls with loathing: 
 Without her kilt ta hielan' Scot 
 
 Iss simply coot for nothing. 
 
 What ! Shall a pack off Sassenach knaves 
 
 Bid us our tartans doff? 
 Then let them come ta hireling slaves 
 
 An' try to take them off? 
 
 Our long dead sires would leaf their graves 
 
 Our kinship to disclaim, 
 And brand us ass degenerate slaves, 
 
 Did we endure such shame. 
 
92 POEMS BY AX AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 No ! Py ta shade off Wallace wight, 
 
 An' py ta heart off Bruce, 
 We will resist with all our might, 
 
 An' curst pe who calls truce. 
 
 Her nainsel's Hielan' tat will speak : 
 Ta Clans they must temolish, 
 
 Who thus presumptuously seek 
 Ta tartans to apolish. 
 
 When Scotland shall no more abide 
 
 In her accustomed place, 
 When Tweed no longer shall divide 
 
 Ta Scots an' Inklish race. 
 
 When oatmeal porridge shall pecome 
 
 As Scottish granite hard, 
 When ta last pagpipe shall be tumb 
 
 Ta kilts we will tiscard. 
 
 They who would sweep us from their path 
 Their ways had petter heed ; 
 
 They fare put ill who rouse to wrath 
 Ta men fra north off Tweed. 
 
 You will pe minding what she's said, 
 
 Or plood may yet be spilt, 
 Till ta last hielanman is tead 
 
 She'll wear ta tartan kilt. 
 
 TO SCOTSMEN: CASTLES IN THE AIR. 
 
 There is a kingdom by the sea, 
 
 It's no' unknown to fame ; 
 It's reared a wheen illustrious sons, 
 
 An' Scotland is its name ; 
 It is abune ilk ither Ian' 
 
 That's washed by ocean wave 
 The cradle o' the patriot, 
 
 The nurserv of the brave. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 93 
 
 An' wheresoe'er its children rove, 
 
 Be it by Ian' or sea, 
 The hamelan' aye they dearly lo'e, 
 
 Nae matter whaur they be ; 
 An' up to Heaven frae ilka airt, 
 
 An' earth's remotest ends, 
 The prayer o' mony a Scottish hairt 
 
 For Scotland's weal ascends. 
 
 For Scotland's sake in times bygane 
 
 Her noblest sons hae de'ed, 
 That the dear Ian' they ca'd their ain 
 
 Frae tyrants micht be freed; 
 An' we their sons wha profit 
 
 By the glorious deeds they did, 
 Glide keep us aye frae doing aught 
 
 To shame oor Scottish bluid. 
 
 Gude's benison on Scotland, 
 
 For wham oor forbears fought, 
 An' wi' their precious life bluid 
 
 Their country's freedom bought ; 
 Gude rest their valiant souls wha were 
 
 For luve o' Scotland slain, 
 An' Gude forbid wese e'er do aught 
 
 To smirch their name wi' stain. 
 
 Children o' Scotland, hark till ane 
 
 Wha fain wi' feeble tongue 
 Wad bid ye never to forget 
 
 The stock frae which ye've sprung; 
 Whether at hame or faur awa', 
 
 In earth's obscurest spots, 
 Dinna forget yer ancestry, 
 
 Remember aye ye're Scots. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 SATIRICAL 
 
 HOW TO SUCCEED IN LIFE. 
 
 The lilies rare behold 
 
 (And faith they're not to blame), 
 They toil not, yet we're told 
 
 They get there just the same. 
 
 Regard the toiling ant, 
 Th' example set to man ; 
 
 Whene'er he springs a plant, 
 He steals whate'er he can. 
 
 Observe the busy bee : 
 
 When he has made his honey, 
 
 Man comes and fells the tree, 
 And turns the stuff to money. 
 
 See Tommy Atkins fight 
 To save his queen and nation, 
 
 And then get left, poor wight, 
 To perish of starvation. 
 
 Remark his officers 
 
 (But that's an ancient story) ; 
 They strut in sword and spurs, 
 
 And collar all the glory. 
 
 Then note your masher king, 
 
 He never has a penny; 
 He'll borrow anything, 
 
 But never lends to any. 
 
 And when the money's gone, 
 His friends he will attack again, 
 
 And should he get a loan, 
 Will never pay it back again. 
 
 So long as you can shirk, 
 Steer clear of Labour's stains; 
 
 Let other fellows work, 
 Then fleece 'em for their pains. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 95 
 
 Let other folks pursue 
 
 The bright elusive dollar, 
 And when they've got it, you 
 
 Step in and " do a collar." 
 
 If you'd in life succeed, 
 
 These tactics I suggest; 
 To tell the truth, indeed, 
 
 You'll find 'em far the best. 
 
 Pretty Ivey's noo awa', 
 
 In the sunny land o' Spain, 
 
 But the bloodhounds o' the law 
 Soon will hae him back again. 
 
 Will ye no' disgorge again? 
 Will ye no' disgorge again? 
 Whaur's the siller ye hae ta'en? 
 Will ye no' disgorge again? 
 
 Mony his return await, 
 
 Some wi' pleasure, some wi' fash, 
 But I'm feared they're a' owre late 
 
 Tae retrieve their vanished cash. 
 
 Clients' trust ye hae betrayed, 
 Nae less it seems wad suite ye oh ; 
 
 My faith! ye'll richtly be repaid 
 Gin intae gaol they put ye oh. 
 
 They trusted ye wi' gear an' lands, 
 Sae little did they know ye oh, 
 
 Noo they'll put bracelets on your hands, 
 An' in a cell bestow ye oh. 
 
 And when ye bide in durance vile, 
 Safe barred an' bolted frae them a', 
 
 Ye'll hae some space tae think awhile 
 Hoo best ye may repay them a'. 
 
96 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Mony a home ye hae laid waste, 
 Many a heart hae filled wi' grief, 
 
 Mony mourn their trust misplaced 
 In ane deemed worthy o' belief. 
 
 On the night wind doon the vale 
 Floats the curlew's mournfu' strain, 
 
 But aye tae me she seems tae wail, 
 Will ye no' disgorge again? 
 
 "ALL MEN ARE LIARS." 
 
 "All men are liars," David used to say, 
 
 When suffering from a fit of spleen or vapours, 
 
 But then it must be born in mind that they 
 In those dark ages had no daily papers ; 
 
 And Dave himself was noted in his day 
 
 For rambling talks and strange, unholy capers ; 
 
 Moreover, it was David's favourite game 
 
 To sin, and lay on other folks the blame. 
 
 Still, liars are by no means out of date, 
 Although we all pretend that we abhor 'em; 
 
 But nowadays they form a syndicate, 
 And let the papers do the lying for 'em. 
 
 Our leading journals are quite adequate 
 When lying is toward to form a quorum ; 
 
 Some few, indeed, might, under wise admonishing, 
 
 Render their lie-abilities less astonishing. 
 
 " Coelum non Animum," the proverb states, 
 
 Those ancient heathen saws are very wise ; 
 For, look ! wherever mankind congregates 
 
 The game goes on beneath a thousand skies ; 
 Even now, as then, we have our reprobates, 
 
 To whom Truth is as sight to blind-born eyes ; 
 Even now, as then, let whoso will deny, 
 
 Tis not our minds we alter, but our sky. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 97 
 
 FROM THE BLACK SHEEP. 
 
 Tis little I know, and less I care, 
 
 Of either Hell or Heaven, 
 Of the first I've already had my share, 
 
 And the other I scarce could live in. 
 
 If they'd let me be, all had been well, 
 
 In Heaven I'd been forgiven ; 
 I would never have seen the gates of Hell 
 
 Had I not thereto been driven. 
 
 Heaven, so they say, is where the pure, 
 
 The beautiful, good, and true are ; 
 But of this one thing I am very sure : 
 
 Heaven cannot be where you are. 
 
 TAE THE CHARITABLE. 
 
 Oh, ye wha gaither in confab, 
 Produce your siller, sfow your gab, 
 Sit doon immediately an' stab 
 
 Wi' pen your paper; 
 
 Nor writhe, nor twist, nor curl your snoot, 
 But sit ye doon and syne write oot 
 A gen'rous cheque, for that's past doot 
 
 The proper caper. 
 
 Gin ilka saunt, and ilka sinner, 
 Wad e'en for ance forego his dinner, 
 It wadna mak him muckle thinner, 
 
 Gin he but did it; 
 He'd no hae muckle cause tae fret, 
 An' in the warl tae come as yet 
 He may be unco sure he'll get 
 
 Therefor fu' credit. 
 
 Oh, whit avail is it tae ca' 
 Thae meetins at yon auld toon ha'? 
 Whit is the use o' that ava? 
 I ask ye fairly : 
 
98 POEMS BY AX AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Life just the noo's a dismal joke 
 For thae drouth stricken kintra folk 
 Wha bowed beneath misfortune's stroke, 
 Need help fu' sairly. 
 
 Permit a doggerel poetaster 
 
 Tae plead for those tae whom disaster 
 
 Has proved sae hard and cruel a master, 
 
 Relax your grab; 
 
 Dive doon your han's intae your breeches, 
 Nor mind although ye break the stitches, 
 Tak juist for ance a fule's rede, which is: 
 
 Mair gift, less gab. 
 
 Gin 'twere a race, or fit ba' meetin', 
 Ye wadna muckle need entreatin', 
 Ye'd aiblins a' be then competin' 
 
 Wha'd gie the maist. 
 Sae toom your pooches waitna langer, 
 Ye'll surely never dae it younger, 
 For faith, the fouk may. dee o' hunger, 
 
 Unless ye haste. 
 
 When neist in meetin' ye foregaither, 
 Wastena your time in fruitless blether, 
 Bring oot your pooches athegither, 
 
 Amen sae be it; 
 An' gin ye hae a bit tae spare, 
 An' mean tae gie your richtfu' share, 
 Why, damn ye, hesitate nae mair, 
 
 Oot wi't, an' gie it. 
 
 Whit garred ye mak' sic dour resistance 
 
 Tae Melba's offer o' assistance, 
 
 An' cry her doon wi' sic persistence? 
 
 I fain wad speir. 
 
 Gin ye had no' been sae inhuman 
 As tae debar yon gifted woman, 
 The siller hadna been forthcoming, 
 
 It had been here! 
 
99 
 
 The Deil confound your silly havers, 
 
 An' idiotic clishmaclavers ; 
 
 Glide send ye a' improved behaviours, 
 
 Ye suld think shame; 
 Ye a' hae got owre weel lined bellies, 
 Tae waste a thocht on thae puir fellies, 
 Forbye ye've robbed the queen o' Nellies 
 
 O' added fame. 
 
 An' as ye've couped the hail convention 
 Whit noo may be your wise intention? 
 The maitter's past a' comprehension : 
 
 Long may ye rue ; 
 The odium stickin' tae your names 
 Whae sae denied your brither's claims, 
 Faith gin auld Clootie pinced your wames, 
 
 Twas gar ye grue. 
 
 At tennis, gouf, wi' ba' an' wicket, 
 The deil a ane o' ye'll be stickit, 
 Ilk ane as merry as a cricket 
 
 Will gambol gladly; 
 But noo ye carefu' haud your whist, 
 The cramps hae gotten ilka fist, 
 Your former sprightliness, whaur is't? 
 
 Ye hirple badly. 
 
 My faith I trow ye'd likena muckle 
 Tae feed yersels wi' wheat an' treacle, 
 An' fill yer bellies wi' a pickle 
 
 O' aits an' barley; 
 Ye wadna muckle lo'e the bree, 
 
 'Twad aye be unco thin for ye, 
 But thae puir fouk are forced, ye see, 
 
 Tae fare thus hardly. 
 
 THE SPENDTHRIFT. 
 
 I smile an inward smile to see 
 How young and old adore me, 
 
 I know what makes 'em bow the knee 
 In reverence before me. 
 
100 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 I scatter gold where'er I go, 
 
 On all men I bestow it, 
 With yellow boys I overflow, 
 
 And all the people know it. 
 
 My fellow creatures gaze on me 
 
 With awe and veneration, 
 With one accord they all agree 
 
 In fulsome adulation. 
 
 Where'er I go, with loud acclaim, 
 Both men and women greet me ; 
 
 In fawning tones they speak my name, 
 With deference they treat me. 
 
 I travel here, I travel there, 
 No matter whence or whither, 
 
 I set my tent up anywhere, 
 And all men travel thither. 
 
 As down the stream of life I steer, 
 
 Regardless of the ending; 
 Few of my fellow men will sneer 
 
 So long as I keep spending. 
 
 Not they, by Jove, they save their sneers 
 Till my last cent's expended ; 
 
 They'll only voice their pent-up jeers 
 When my career is ended. 
 
 But when my pockets all are bare, 
 And bankrupt, too, my credit, 
 
 They'll wag their heads with sapient air, 
 And say, " I always said it." 
 
 I scatter, scatter as I go, 
 Adown life's smiling river, 
 
 And men will love me, well I know, 
 So long as I've a stiver. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 101 
 
 And they'll continue so to do 
 
 While I have gold in sacks ah, 
 But once my substance I've got through, 
 
 They'll promptly turn their backs ah. 
 
 When I have squandered all I've got, 
 
 And am with nothing left ah, 
 I'll find myself, full well I wot, 
 
 Of all these friends bereft ah. 
 
 Still on my gay career I go, 
 
 Adown life's rapid river, 
 And still I scatter, though I know 
 
 It can't go on for ever. 
 
 Some day I'll be 'without a dime, 
 
 Some day I must succumb ah, 
 But ere that melancholy time 
 
 I shall have made things hum ah. 
 
 Wherefore amen, and be it so, 
 
 I'm neither wise nor clever, 
 Yet I have wit enough to know 
 
 I can't go on for ever. 
 
 In years to come, when I am old, 
 With pinched and wrinkled features, 
 
 I'll muse on how I bought and sold 
 My cringing fellow creatures. 
 
 DIOGENES IN 1907. 
 
 [July 12th, 1907, 8.45 p.m. Four young men came to 
 the door and asked for Mr. " Honest 'un." My wife said 
 I was out, and he didn't live here, anyway, and she knew 
 of no " honest 'un " hereabouts.] 
 
 Diogenes in days of yore 
 
 To find an honest man desired; 
 It would appear no less than four 
 
 Are for that purpose now required. 
 
102 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 I'm doubtful whether history says 
 
 If old Diogenes succeeded, 
 But it is sad that in these days 
 
 So many searchers should be needed. 
 
 I fear me that in these degenerate days 
 You'd scarcely find an honest man by torchlight ; 
 
 It seems to me you would require X-rays, 
 
 Or at the least a fifty horse-power searchlight ! 
 
 GIN HE TAPS THE POLL. 
 
 Mony a member meets disaster 
 
 Comin' tae the poll ; 
 Fin's anither man's his master 
 
 When they ca' the roll. 
 
 Chorus. 
 Ilka ane tae save his seat 
 
 Would lose his precious soul ; 
 Tae him it means his drink and meat 
 
 Gin he can tap the poll. 
 
 Parliament was ance for statesmen : 
 
 That has passed away; 
 Now the needy politicians 
 
 Fecht for place an' pay. 
 
 Patriotism! Love o' country! 
 
 Deil hae they a bit ; 
 They only love their country for 
 
 What they get oot o' it. 
 
 When a man's o' no position, 
 
 And withoot a cent, 
 Straucht he gangs and seeks admission 
 
 Intae Parliament. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 103 
 
 Wha sae fit tae rule a nation, 
 
 An' tae mak its law, 
 As he whase only object is 
 
 His salary tae draw? 
 
 Ilka member has a prospect : 
 
 I hae nane I'm tauld ; 
 The Lord alane kens whit I'll dae 
 
 Gin I'm left in the cauld. 
 
 Gin a member meet the member 
 
 Wha has taen his seat, 
 Gin that member cut this member, 
 
 Need this member greet? 
 
 Ilka politician has his 
 
 Triumph or despair; 
 Noo in, noo oot, faith turn aboot 
 
 Is naething mair nor fair. 
 
 TO HOLY WULLIE, 
 
 who, when I asked him for a subscription to the Q.T.C., 
 answered, " Qie them a leetle Screepture." 
 
 Ay! there, the Lord's ain faithfu' servant speaks, 
 Yet ye'd be nane the waur a man I trow ; 
 
 Gin bawbees louped as freely frae your breeks, 
 As does the Holy Screepture frae your mou'. 
 
 The hoodie craws that flee across the moors 
 
 Will feed upon the entrails o' a beast; 
 But faith I'm thinkin' gin it tackled yours 
 
 Even a craw micht pech owre sic a feast. 
 
 Entrails! Said I? ye've nane, ye auld deil's bairn, 
 
 A generous impulse ye hae never felt; 
 Your bowels are made o' rusty auld scrap airn, 
 
 That naething less than hell's ain fire will melt. 
 
104 POEMS BY AX AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 LET FOOTBALL FLOURISH. 
 
 We're often asked, " Why don't you drop the game, 
 And help your country in her hour of need?" 
 
 To each and all our answer is the same 
 " That is a thing it's not our place to heed." 
 
 Such matters do not weigh with us at all ; 
 
 Football must flourish, though the Empire fall. 
 
 We really cannot find the time to spare 
 For sniping Germans from a muddy trench ; 
 
 To leave the football field to go out there, 
 For us would be too violent a wrench; 
 
 What is the Empire to a game of ball? 
 
 Let football flourish, though the heavens fall. 
 
 What do we care by whom the land's possessed? 
 
 We're football men, and football we will play; 
 So long as our pet game they don't molest, 
 
 Why, let the Germans come, and come to stay! 
 Our interest in the matter is but small; 
 Football must flourish, though the Empire fall. 
 
 Rather would we submit to German sway, 
 
 Our future liberties imperilling, 
 Than that football should fall into decay 
 
 For that would mean the end of everything ; 
 We take no part in this disastrous brawl, 
 Football must flourish, though the Empire fall! 
 
 We love our country with a love intense, 
 And grieve to see her situated thus ; 
 
 But there are lots to fight in her defence, 
 So there is little need of help from us ; 
 
 To us there comes the more important call 
 
 Let football flourish, though the Empire fall. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 105 
 
 ACTIVITY IN THE STRIPPiNQ INDUSTRY. 
 
 As leisurely I paced the streets 
 On the look-out for quaint conceits, 
 Before me there appeared a form 
 At whose approach my cheeks grew warm. 
 Yes ! in the golden noonday hush 
 I felt myself distinctly blush ; 
 My trembling frame the breath forsook 
 I did not know which way to look, 
 But started back in shocked surprise, 
 Holding my hands before my eyes, 
 And strove to hide, as best I might, 
 The apparition from my sight. 
 I felt the crimson flood advance, 
 And overspread my countenance ; 
 With eyes that started from my head, 
 In wonder to myself I said : 
 Is this the Twentieth Century? 
 Or by some magic can it be 
 That I am privileged to rove 
 As Adam used, in Eden's grove? 
 For surely she whom I perceive 
 Can be none other than fair Eve ! 
 For doubt there can be little room 
 It certainly is Eve's costume 
 That my pained gaze now rests upon : 
 Who else would roam "mit nodings on "? 
 In some strange fashion it appears 
 That I've gone back .a million years 
 To that dim period, I suppose, 
 When people had small need of clothes; 
 Yet when my person I survey, 
 'Tis covered in the usual way, 
 While she, except for hat-and feather, 
 Verges upon " the altogether." 
 It can't be, no ! it can't be Eve 
 That's too prepost'rous to conceive 
 The thing plain common sense defies ; 
 And yet, how can I doubt my eyes ? 
 Why, bless my soul, in times less recent 
 Such garb would have been termed indecent. 
 
106 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 And, far from patiently enduring, 
 Men would have found a means of curing 
 Their women of a rage for stripping 
 By giving them a wholesome whipping. 
 Strip off the covering from a tree, 
 And it will die of shame, you'll see, 
 But the young women of to-day 
 More and more garments fling away 
 Until it seems did they but dare 
 They'd love to go entirely bare. 
 Now this is growing quite alarming : 
 Talk about pig and poultry farming! 
 Let those who lack for occupations 
 Go fill the land with fig plantations, 
 So that of leaves there may be plenty 
 When we arrive at 1920. 
 
 THE USURER. 
 
 A sordid wretch with neither heart nor bowels, 
 
 At Charity he scoffs, at Pity scowls ; 
 
 Earth is the poorer every day he lives, 
 
 All things he takes, and nothing ever gives ; 
 
 But, like the loathsome octopus or leech, 
 
 Sucks the life out of all within his reach ; 
 
 Or, like the spider, weaves his cunning snares 
 
 Wherein to catch his victims unawares, 
 
 Fattening on the blood, and bone, and flesh, 
 
 Of all that in his web he can enmesh ; 
 
 Year after year his evil life is spent 
 
 In planning how he best can circumvent 
 
 His fellow men. A prince is he of cheats, 
 
 Who sucked chicanery from his mother's teats, 
 
 So that on earth he swells his ill-got gains ; 
 
 He nothing recks of hell and all its pains ; 
 
 Of heaven he takes no heed. To him 'tis more 
 
 To add another sovereign to his store ; 
 
 His bulging money bags' increasing weight 
 
 Thrills him with joy the most inordinate; 
 
 Never with life will he of them let go, 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT . 107 
 
 For their dear sake he braves eternal woe ; 
 
 Not even for Heaven will he relax his hold, 
 
 With all its robes of white and harps of gold; 
 
 His will is iron and his heart is stone, 
 
 He heeds not widow's sigh nor orphan's moan; 
 
 At love he sneers, to beauty he is cold, 
 
 His sweetest music is the chink of gold; 
 
 Gold is his panacea for all woes, 
 
 And mammon is the only god he knows ; 
 
 If only he his money bags can swell, 
 
 Heaven has no joys for him, no terrors hell; 
 
 Detested, shunned, cut off from himan ties, 
 
 Unloved he lives, and unlamented dies. 
 
108 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 HUMOROUS 
 
 HYMN TO TOBACCO. 
 
 What plant is that divinely lent, 
 Which far outdoes the rose in scent, 
 And fills men's minds with sweet content? 
 Tobacco. 
 
 What helps us to endure our fate, 
 Cements our friendship, cools our hate, 
 And brings us to a tranquil state? 
 Tobacco. 
 
 When sore oppressed with cares and woes, 
 Our haggard eyes we cannot close, 
 What comforts us? The smoker knows 
 Tobacco. 
 
 What soothes all trouble, cures all grief? 
 What makes our miseries more brief, 
 And never fails to bring relief? 
 Tobacco. 
 
 When wealth and honours fly away, 
 When friends grow colder every day, 
 One friend we have who'll always stay 
 Tobacco. 
 
 When she we loved has proved unkind, 
 When our pet manuscript's declined: 
 What then shall we our solace find? 
 Tobacco. 
 
 Let others praise the god of wine : 
 Such folly never shall be mine ; 
 I'll worship only at thy shrine 
 Tobacco. 
 
 Queen of all plants beneath the sky, 
 No praise for thee can be too high, 
 Thy well won fame shall never die 
 Tobacco. 
 
109 
 
 TO THE NEW MAYOR. 
 
 Wishing he may find a comfortable Mayor's nest. 
 
 The Mayor o' Geelong he's prood and he's great, 
 Albeit in rather a deeffident state ; 
 He thocht the poseetion he scarcely could fill, 
 But if Councillors backed him, he'd tackle it still. 
 
 His robes they were short, for I vow and declare 
 He was braider somewhat than the ootganging Mayor ; 
 Braw, braw were his furs and his chain an' a' that, 
 But his heid was owre lairge for the wee cockit hat. 
 
 He mounted his chair and he sat cannily 
 Surveying his colleagues o' every degree; 
 And aften he thocht as he sat on his throne, 
 Wae's me ! but I wish I had lat it alone. 
 
 But noo that his robes hae been altered, ye ken, 
 His Worship's as happy as ony twa men ; 
 When he puts on his furs, and his chain, and his hat, 
 Wha'll daur tae deride the Mayor wi' a' that? 
 
 Sae cock up your bonnet, and dinna be blate, 
 But since ye're eleckit submit tae your fate; 
 Aye, say tae yersel' when ye're scunnert a wee, 
 They'd been daft tae elec' ony ither but me. 
 
 TO A FRIEND ON THE BIRTH OF TWINS. 
 
 Oh, why does the Chieftain thus mutter and swear, 
 
 And why does he angrily ruffle his hair? 
 
 Poor Neil is excited, and not without cause, 
 
 For the Campbells are coming, and coming in twas. 
 
 The Campbells are coming he jumps at the sound, 
 His eyeballs are glaring, his head going round; 
 When in walks the nurse, as demure as you please, 
 And exclaims, " Mr. C, you're the father of these." 
 
110 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 In fancy I see his incredulous stare 
 
 As he gazes upon the vociferous pair ; 
 
 What his sentiments may be, of course I can't tell, 
 
 Yet I fancy, him breathing a muttered, " Oh, well !" 
 
 He now wears an aspect of quiet despair, 
 But his head looks as though he'd been tearing his hair; 
 His clothes, once well fitting, have now grown too big: 
 Instead of a wigging, he'll soon want a wig. 
 
 But strike up the tune that the clansman's heart thrills, 
 And makes his opponents go white in the gills ; 
 The Campbells are coming, blow pipers anew, 
 And may they continue for long so to do. 
 
 The Campbells are coming, and now for his sins 
 Unfortunate Neil is afflicted with twins ; 
 Hush, hush ! ye wild pipes, for a moment be dumb, 
 The hour has arrived, and the Campbells are come. 
 
 Now, fill your old bags out, and screw up your drones, 
 Let the welkin resound with the soul-stirring tones ; 
 Let the wild winds of Heaven convey the glad news : 
 The Campbells are coming, and coming in twos. 
 
 Then skirl ye wild bagpipes your wildest refrain : 
 There's one of Clan Campbell has lived not in vain ; 
 'Tis a feather indeed in the cap of Geelong : 
 The Campbells are coming, and coming out strong. 
 
 THE TURK WON HANDS DOWN. 
 
 Which has the most offensive smell, a Turk or billy goat? 
 Opinions differed, so they put the matter to the vote. 
 
 The gallant Colonel then they chose to act as referee, 
 Pledging their honour that they would abide by his 
 decree. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 111 
 
 The goat, though stoutly it rebelled, was then brought 
 
 into play ; 
 The officers their noses held; the Colonel swooned away. 
 
 Next came the Turk, but he the air so violently tainted 
 That, on my honour I declare, the goat it was that 
 fainted! 
 
 Yet for a fine, full-flavoured scent, I would incline to back 
 Against these two stout champions our own Australian 
 black. 
 
 Its fierce intensity would make a polecat hang its head : 
 In point of fact, t'would well nigh wake to life the silent 
 dead. 
 
 EPITAPH ON JOSEPH KING, ESQ. 
 
 O Death, why did thy stern and cruel behest 
 Rob him of life to whom life was a jest? 
 Endowed with all that fortune can bestow, 
 Why did thy ruthless arrow lay him low? 
 Thou envious king of terrors, pale and grim, 
 How couldst thou work so cruel a deed on him, 
 Who never in his life hurt anything, 
 But took life as a joke, and died JOE KING. 
 
112 POEMS BY AN T AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 RELIGIOUS 
 
 PSALMS, HYMNS, AND SPIRITUAL SONGS. 
 
 My God, to Thee I now present my prayer: 
 Forsake me not, oh, Lord, in my despair ; 
 Hear Thou the pleading of an anguished soul ; 
 Cleanse me, oh, gracious God, and make me whole. 
 
 In all humility I cry to thee ; 
 Father of Heaven, have mercy upon me; 
 To Thee I come, not trusting in my worth, 
 For I, alas ! am evil from my birth. 
 
 Oh, mighty Ruler over sea and land, 
 Extend to me Thy gracious helping hand ; 
 Turn not away from me, O Lord, Thy face, 
 Grant me a portion of Thy love and grace. 
 
 Hear Thou in Heaven, O Lord, for Jesus' sake, 
 The prayer which I, a contrite sinner, make ; 
 Perchance for me may mercy yet be found, 
 For Thou art He with whom grace doth abound. 
 
 Thee will I magnify and bless, 
 
 O Lord, while I do live, 
 For when I was in sore distress 
 
 To me Thou help didst give. 
 
 Though with a heart of thankfulness 
 Before Thy throne I kneel, 
 
 How can my feeble tongue express 
 The gratitude I feel? 
 
 To Thee I lift my voice in song, 
 Who givest all things good ; 
 
 Forgive me that I have so long 
 Thy holy will withstood. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 113 
 
 When I was sick, and starved, and cold, 
 
 By all men- 1 was loathed ; 
 Once I was naked, and, behold, 
 
 I now am amply clothed. 
 
 Lord, Thou art He who dost great things, 
 
 Eternal is Thy power ; 
 Compared to Thee, all other kings 
 
 Are creatures of an hour. 
 
 Did not the vast and beauteous earth 
 
 Take shape beneath Thy hand? 
 And man himself spring into birth 
 
 At Thy august command? 
 
 In Thee, O Lord, in Thee alone, 
 
 Henceforth I put my trust, 
 For wondrous is Thy mercy shown 
 
 To me, who am but dust. 
 
 Gentle Jesus, hear Thy people, 
 Listen to their humble cry; 
 
 Oh, extend Thine arm, and save them, 
 For without Thy help they die. 
 
 Oh, come quickly, gracious Saviour, 
 For they need Thy help full sore; 
 
 Help them, oh, Thou great Redeemer, 
 Through Thy grace, to sin no more. 
 
 Gently like a shepherd lead them ; 
 
 They like sheep have gone astray; 
 Never leave them nor forsake them, 
 
 Till once more they find their way. 
 
 Ever keep them, and protect them, 
 Through life's stormy wind and cold ; 
 
 Saviour, be Thou ever near them, 
 Till at length they reach Thy fold. 
 
114 POEMS BY AX AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Boo doon to me, O Lord, Thine ear, 
 An' to my prayer gie heed, 
 
 Gin Thou refuse my cry to hear, 
 Then am I lost indeed. 
 
 Thou frae my birth hast loaded me 
 
 Wi' mercies undeserved ; 
 Though constantly frae virtue's way 
 
 I wilfully hae swerved. 
 
 Nae day gangs by but I receive 
 Fresh favours frae Thy hand ; 
 
 Thy bounties mair in number are 
 Than grains o' ocean sand. 
 
 Yet notwithstanding, aftenwhiles, 
 
 I do for thae things sigh 
 Whilk Thou hast in Thy wisdom thocht 
 
 It fitting to deny. 
 
 Lord, hoo may sic an ane as I 
 Daur hope to be forgiven, 
 
 Wha aye hae lived as though there were 
 Nae God o' earth an' heaven? 
 
 Oh, blessed be Thy name ! Thy ways 
 
 Are no' as those o' man ; 
 Thou dost wi' a forgiving e'e 
 
 The erring sinner scan. 
 
 To Thee I come wi' but a'e prayer, 
 
 The fittest ane I ken, 
 '* To me a sinner, oh, my God, 
 
 Thy mercy still exten'." 
 
 Oh, teach me hoo I may avoid 
 
 The flooery paths o' sin, 
 Show me the way o' righteousness, 
 
 That I may walk therein. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 115 
 
 Deliver Thou Thy servant frae 
 
 The sin o' discontent, 
 Fill Thou my he'rt wi' praise, an' me 
 
 Frae murmuring prevent. 
 
 Gie me the faith Thou gied to Job, 
 
 That I wi' him may say 
 " Thou art my God, Thee will I trust, 
 
 Ev'n though Thou shouldst me slay." 
 
 Oh, blessed is the man whase trust 
 
 Upon the Lord is stayed; 
 He shall through fiery furnace gang 
 
 Unhurt an' undismayed. 
 
 BELIEVE IT NEVER. 
 
 Believe not those who tell you friend, 
 " It never is to late to mend " ; 
 They lie, or are themselves deceived 
 The past can never be retrieved. 
 A well might one essay to bind, 
 With hempen cords, the vagrant wind; 
 A thought once thought, a deed once done, 
 Who the stern fact can alter? None. 
 And when a careless word is once said, 
 Not Heaven itself can make it unsaid; 
 None can restore the goblet broken, 
 None can recall the word that's spoken, 
 Ah ! never let it be believed ; 
 The past can ever be retrieved; 
 That which has been by anyone done, 
 Not God Himself can make it undone. 
 
116 POEiMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 GOD HELP US ALL. 
 
 It is not given to mortals to forsee 
 
 What happenings in the future may befall, 
 Wherefore our constant fervent prayer should be : 
 God help us all. 
 
 Tis well, indeed, that all of us should pray, 
 
 Ere yet the chance is gone beyond recall, 
 For once our final chance has passed away, 
 God help us all. 
 
 This is the one safe prayer for rich and poor, 
 
 For those who climb as well as those who fall,' 
 The high and proud, the humble and obscure 
 God help us all. 
 
 For what are we but blindly wriggling worms, 
 
 Permitted for a space on earth to crawl, 
 
 Till Death shall finish our respective terms ! 
 
 God help us all. 
 
 Fools are we all, blind jugglers with fate, 
 
 Regardless of the writing on the wall, 
 Until the dread decree goes forth, " Too late !" 
 God help us all. 
 
 When through the silent night we sleepless lie, 
 
 While guilty fears our trembling hearts appall ; 
 Well may we utter the despairing cry, 
 God help us all. 
 
 Thou knowest, who, in the hollow of Thy hand 
 
 Dost hold the destinies of great and small, 
 Our vows, our prayers, are as words traced in sand 
 God help us all. 
 
 Guilt-laden creatures, cumberers of earth, 
 
 By sin from early childhood held in thrall ; 
 We have deserved damnation from our birth: 
 God help us all. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 117 
 
 TO MY SLEEPING BABY. 
 
 God keep thee, baby, may thy life be full 
 Of golden harvest as a field new sown ; 
 
 Calm as the tranquil surface of a pool, 
 Wherein no pebble has as yet been thrown. 
 
 God keep thee, baby, and on thee bestow 
 Every good gift and every choicest boon ; 
 
 But as some griefs we all must undergo, 
 May yours be slight, and over very soon. 
 
 Sorrow and suffering is the lot of all; 
 
 Each one of us must bow beneath the yoke; 
 Yet ere upon your head the sword shall fall, 
 
 Heaven send some hand to intercept the stroke. 
 
 As imperceptibly the fleeting years 
 
 Above your head in swift succession glide, 
 
 May joy's glad laughter keep your eyes from tears, 
 And happiness thrust sorrow's blows aside. 
 
 And, oh, remember, baby, I beseech, 
 
 When you shall be a woman, this one thing: 
 
 Heed well the precept that I fain would teach: 
 " Fear God, and give due honour to the King." 
 
 So shall your character in beauty grow, 
 It matters not what troubles may befall you : 
 
 So shall you ever be prepared to go 
 Whenever God shall think it fit to call you. 
 
 And if, in years to come I being gone 
 Your thoughts on me awhile may chance to dwell, 
 
 Remember not what I have left undone, 
 Remember only that I love you well. 
 
118 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 FOR NEW YEAR, 1914. 
 
 Away with all the narrow creeds 
 Which like foul plagues disseminate 
 
 Amongst mankind the deadly seeds 
 Of rancourous bigotry and hate : 
 
 That in miscalled religion's name 
 
 Have wrought the world enduring woe, 
 
 And brought about that deed of shame 
 Nigh twenty centuries ago: 
 
 That all the bygone ages through 
 Have led the minds of men astray, 
 
 Raised up the false, cast down the true, 
 And blocked the strait and narrow way. 
 
 They must endure who love the Lord ; 
 
 He will not be content with less ; 
 By Him lip service is abhorred: 
 
 We must perform, and not profess. 
 
 Yet in our own vain strength we trust, 
 Nor yet our folly can discern, 
 
 Forgetting that we are but dust, 
 And shall to dust again return. 
 
 Our narrow, man-made creeds have wrought 
 Little save endless discontent; 
 
 The creed the lowly Saviour taught 
 Is broad as is the firmament. 
 
 Centuries back the Son of Man 
 Portrayed the life that we should live ; 
 In pregnant words, 'twas thus they ran : 
 " Love, pity, tolerate, forgive." 
 
 The lowly hind who toils and delves 
 Is kin to him who fills a throne; 
 
 No matter what we call ourselves, 
 The one God names us all His own. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 119 
 
 Let Him be our exemplar then, 
 Who came to earth to seek and save, 
 
 Remembering that for all men 
 
 All pathways lead towards the grave. 
 
 This seems to me plain common sense, 
 
 Wherefore I dare to say it here : 
 Since God Almighty hates pretence, 
 
 Be what you will, but be sincere. 
 
 So let the Old Year terminate 
 
 All discord, enmity and strife ; 
 Let the New Year inaugurate 
 
 A new and better plan of life. 
 
 GOD END THE WAR. 
 
 Lord God we Thee entreat, 
 Our enemies defeat, 
 
 God end the war. 
 Let fear their hearts appal, 
 Let Thy wrath on them fall, 
 Scatter them one and all, 
 
 God end the war. 
 
 Disperse Thou them, Most High, 
 Oh, smite them hip and thigh, 
 
 God end the war. 
 Their councils all confound, 
 Bring them all to the ground, 
 Victors let us be crowned, 
 
 God end the war. 
 
 Let us not ask in vain, 
 Who a just cause maintain, 
 
 God end the war. 
 Peril upon us waits, 
 Death stands without our gates, 
 Thou seest our grievous straits, 
 
 God end the war. 
 
120 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Lord, we are sore bested, 
 Let no more blood be shed, 
 
 God end the war. 
 Lift up Thy hand, O Lord, 
 Disaster from us ward, 
 That we may sheathe the sword, 
 
 God end the war. 
 
 Sorrow and heaviness 
 
 The hearts of men oppress, 
 
 God end the war. 
 On Thee do we rely, 
 Give us the victory, 
 Hear us, O Lord, who cry, 
 
 God end the war. 
 
 By Thy resistless might 
 Establish Thou the right, 
 
 God end the war. 
 Frustrate the schemes of those 
 Who a just cause oppose, 
 Crush and disperse our foes, 
 
 God end the war. 
 
 To us who trust in Thee, 
 Give Thou the victory, 
 
 God end the war. 
 Thou art our shield and guide, 
 On whom we have relied, 
 In Thee do we confide, 
 
 God end the war. 
 
 With Thee our arms to aid, 
 We shall not be afraid, 
 
 God end the war. 
 Fiercely though they assail, 
 Make their endeavours fail, 
 Oh, let our arms prevail, 
 
 God end the war. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 121 
 
 NOT IN MY WORTH. 
 
 Not in my worth, I trust, for I have none, 
 But in Thy mercy, Lord, in that alone; 
 Oh, blessed thought, that, sinner though I be, 
 Thou still art stretching out Thy hand to me. 
 
 Not unto Thee for justice do I cry; 
 Justice were little gain to such as I, 
 Who a transgressor all my life have been ; 
 'Tis on Thy mercy only that I lean. 
 
 For didst Thou judge me, Lord, by what is past, 
 Then were I from Thy love indeed outcast ; 
 But Thou art merciful as well as just, 
 And still rememberest I am but dust. 
 
 Therein my one and only hope I find, 
 That I may one day see, who now am blind, 
 The splendour of the Heavenly array, 
 The light whereof is brighter than the day. 
 
 Lord, though I often have forgotten Thee, 
 Do Thou be gracious and forget not me ; 
 Neither my humble supplication spurn, 
 That I may ev'n belated pardon earn. 
 
 Only too well I know it to be true, 
 That Thy just anger is my lawful due, 
 And on my knees before Thee do confess, 
 With grief and shame, that I deserve no less. 
 
 Yet, humbly trusting in Thy love divine, 
 I dare to hope forgiveness may be mine ; 
 As prayed the dying thief upon the tree, 
 So I too pray Thee : " Lord, remember me !" 
 
122 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 I'VE LOST MY STAR. 
 
 Storm tossed and battered on life's troubled sea, 
 
 A hopeless, helmless derelict am I ; 
 Long, long ago, Faith bade farewell to me, 
 
 And Hope, fair Hope, has also passed me by. 
 
 The world has ever been to me from birth 
 
 A weary vale of tears, and sighs, and groans ; 
 
 I covet but some unknown spot of earth 
 Where I, unwept, forgot, may lay my bones. 
 
 Loid, from Thy dwelling place, which seems so far, 
 Regard my woe, and hear my sighs profound ; 
 
 Release me from life's bitter, ceaseless war ; 
 Let me find rest and peace beneath the ground. 
 
 Lay me within my grave. There troubles cease ; 
 
 Soundly they sleep who sleep in Earth's cold breast ; 
 In her embrace is everlasting peace : 
 
 The wicked trouble not, the weary rest. 
 
 Fain would I slumber on a mountain side, 
 Uptowering from a far-extending plain ; 
 
 Shut from the world by gorges deep and wide, 
 Where the wild curlews wail their weird refrain. 
 
 For me no lying stone, for me no tears, 
 
 Save those that fall from Heaven in gentle rain ; 
 
 There safe I'd lie, since neither hopes nor fears 
 Could -ever wake me from my sleep again. 
 
 Oh, Star of Hope ! thy bright illusive ray 
 Like Will o' the wisp has led me on and on, 
 
 But when I thought my steps were in the way, 
 Thy fickle light was in a moment gone. 
 
 Thou wert the star in bygone days, O Hope, 
 In vainly following which I've wandered far, 
 
 And at the end in thickest darkness grope, 
 Since I for evermore have " lost my star." 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 123 
 
 A MOTHER'S CRADLE SONG. 
 
 Cupid himself, sweet son, thou mightest be, 
 
 So like the little rosy god thou art ; 
 Yet I rejoice to know thou art not he, 
 But only his delightful counterpart. 
 
 Sleep, my son, sleep, thy life is all before thee ; 
 
 Long is the journey, often dark the way; 
 But through all trials and changes, I who bore thee, 
 
 While I have life, for thee will ever pray. 
 
 Thy rosy mouth is all thy Cupid's bow, 
 
 His darts and arrows thou dost wholly lack ; 
 
 No gauzy wings upon thy shoulders grow, 
 Nor dost thou bear a quiver at thy back. 
 
 Thy clustering curls are in my eyes a crown, 
 
 More precious than imperial diadem ; 
 Thy flashing eyes of lovely velvet brown 
 
 To me are lovelier than the richest gem. 
 
 How softly smooth thy satin cheek, dear heart, 
 
 How beautiful its rose and lily tint ; 
 I would not with thy little finger part 
 
 For all the gold that ever saw the mint. 
 
 Blessed was I and proud when thou, new born, 
 
 A helpless atom nestled to my side ; 
 Though all the world should turn from thee in scorn, 
 
 Thy mother's love for ever shall abide. 
 
 Forget not, little son, in future years, 
 When thou at length a full-grown man shalt be, 
 
 That all thy mother's hopes, her prayers, her tears, 
 Her loving blessing ever were for thee. 
 
 I cannot tell what may be thy career, 
 Since none may pierce the future's mystic veil, 
 
 But whatsoever be thy portion here, 
 Thou hast my love, nor shalt thou find it fail. 
 
124 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 All blessings light on thee, my little son ; 
 
 Heaven from all evil ever thee defend; 
 For thee life's journey has but just begun; 
 
 God guard and guide thee safely to the end. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 125 
 
 PERSONAL AND DOMESTIC 
 
 TO CYRIL, AGED 11 MONTHS. 
 
 What fresh nefarious plot dost thou devise, 
 
 Thou winsome schemer, in thy busy mind? 
 I know not what may be thy enterprise, 
 But I can see the mischief in thine eyes ; 
 Dost deem thy father doting, sir, or blind? 
 
 What seekest thou, thou small despotic Turk? 
 
 Wouldst thou thy father's manuscript destroy? 
 A thousand rogueries in thy dimples lurk, 
 Thou villain ; since thou wilt not let me work, 
 
 Come, then, and let us play, my lovely boy. 
 
 Most surely all the world must envy me 
 
 For being father of a son so fine; 
 I know whenever I go out with thee 
 I pity all the other dads I see ; 
 
 Not one of 'em has got a boy like mine. 
 
 No music to my ears as sweet could be 
 
 As thy ecstatic shrieks of joyous mirth, 
 Thou lusty rogue, far more art thou to me 
 Than all the treasures hidden in the sea 
 Or gold deep buried in the bowels of earth. 
 
 Handsome as Cupid, as Adonis gay, 
 
 Thy life thus far hath been all mirth and fun ; 
 Gather the roses, sonny, whilst thou may, 
 Night comes apace and puts an end to play ; 
 
 Time turns his glass, and life's brief day is done. 
 
126 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 WHAT A BAIRNIE SEES AND HEARS. 
 
 As I gently rock the cradle where my bairnie lies asleep, 
 Dae the angels whisper till her as their watch o'er her 
 
 they keep? 
 
 Dis she hear celestial melodies denied tae my dull ears ? 
 Ah! there's nane except the angels ken the soon's a 
 
 bairnie hears. 
 
 As I seat me by the cradle side tae croon till her a while, 
 I wonder what the dream may be that gars the wee 
 
 thing smile; 
 Dis she dream o' gowden palaces, or winding siller 
 
 streams? 
 Ah! there's nane except the angels ken the dreams a 
 
 bairnie dreams. 
 
 In her waking oors fu' aften I wad swear the wean can 
 
 see 
 Strange and wondrous scenes and faces quite invisible 
 
 tae me ; 
 There's a hantle hid frae aulder e'en that bairnies see wi' 
 
 ease; 
 Ah ! there's nane except the angels ken the sichts a 
 
 bairnies sees. 
 
 There are pleasant oors when we're oor lane, I haud her 
 
 on my knee, 
 And the wee thing loups within my airms and laughs 
 
 and craws wi' glee ; 
 And there's mony an oor that else were sad her baby 
 
 mirth beguiles, 
 But there's nane except the angels ken at what a bairnie 
 
 smiles. 
 
 And syne when she is tired o' play and fain wad gang 
 
 tae rest, 
 I fauld my dearie in my airms and clasp her tae my 
 
 breast ; 
 Her wee bricht een are fixed on mine as frae the fount 
 
 she drinks, 
 But there's nane except the angels ken the thochts the 
 
 bairnie thinks. 
 
POEMS BY AX AUSTRALIAN SCOT 127 
 
 If I canna juist express mysel', the Lord kens what I 
 
 mean, 
 But I think that Heaven rejoices at the laughter o' a 
 
 wean ; 
 
 And it's aiblins foolish havers, or a mither's fond conceit, 
 That the angels a' feel sadlike when they hear a bairnie 
 
 greet. 
 
 Oh, bairn o' mine, may auld Time's haun rest lichtly on 
 
 your broo; 
 
 May ye never fin' life harder nor ye've f aud it up till noo ; 
 And when your sands are sinking and your time has 
 
 come tae wend, 
 May thae sichts and soon's o' babyhood gang wi' ye tae 
 
 the end. 
 
 TO H.M. SUTHERLAND. 
 
 Kind and propitious be the gale 
 That wafts you back to Scotland fair ; 
 
 Though I must sigh without avail, 
 " Would that I, too, were speeding there !" 
 
 I trow ye ken I wish ye weel, 
 
 May no ill humours fash your wame ; 
 
 Smooth gliding on an even keel, 
 I houp in safety ye'll win hame. 
 
 There's whiles auld Neptune levies toll 
 On those wha brave the brawling seas, 
 
 But frae the bottom o' my soul 
 I houp ye'll no' be ane o' these. 
 
 Aye ! when Australia's shores ye leave 
 For bonnie Scotland tae set oot, 
 
 Hooever much the ocean heave, 
 
 I trust your wame won't follow suit. 
 
 Ma certie ye're a lucky chiel 
 Tae see again auld Scotland's shore, 
 
 But Sutherland I'm wae, for weel 
 I ken I'll see it never more. 
 
128 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 THE BARD TO HIS DAUGHTER. 
 Born 1st April, 1907. 
 
 thou diminutive, preposterous creature, 
 
 Whose lung power is as yet thy strongest feature, 
 Undoubtedly thou art a vicious screecher 
 Stop! I beseech yer. 
 
 Prithee forbear a while thy lusty clamour, 
 Whose lack of stops defies the laws of grammar, 
 And smites mine ear drums like a Naismith hammer, 
 Faith 'tis no crammer. 
 
 Cease, I entreat, thy long-drawn ululation : 
 Canst thou not find some better occupation 
 Than thus disturbing people's conversation 
 And 'gratulation ? 
 
 Although thou wert not unanticipated, 
 
 Yet for another day thou might have waited; 
 
 1 would thou hadst been post or ante dated ; 
 
 Thy star's ill fated. 
 
 But Fate's decrees we may not overrule, 
 For life thou must remain an April fool ; 
 The mark for other youngsters' ridicule 
 Tis somewhat cruel. 
 
 An immigrant art thou from shores unknown, 
 O'er which no nation's flag has ever flown, 
 Without a stitch that thou canst call thine own, 
 Thou'rt hither blown. 
 
 Well, here thou art, and here thou must remain; 
 Certes I cannot send thee back again; 
 Wherefore I needs must bear the added strain, 
 And not complain. 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 12$ 
 
 SCRIBLERUS TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 Ah ! life is heavy tae endure 
 
 When I'm awa' frae thee, 
 An' ilka leaden fitted oor 
 
 A lifetime seems tae me ; 
 An' drear the nichts sin' here I came, 
 
 For I my lane maun lie, 
 Say, is't a week sin' I left hame, 
 
 Or an eternity? 
 
 I'm no owre wise, I maun confess, 
 
 But I am shair o' this, 
 I never kenned rale happiness 
 
 Till I kenned wedded bliss ; 
 Bear ye a message in your flicht, 
 
 Ye swiftly flying wind, 
 An' tell my wife though oot o' sicht 
 
 She's never oot o' mind. 
 
 Gin I can only thole wi' pain 
 
 A week withoot ye wife, 
 Whit wid I dae gin ye were ta'en 
 
 An' I were left in life? 
 Ah ! ne're may Heevin oor lives divide, 
 
 Nor tak' the tae frae tither, 
 But let us journey side by side, 
 
 An' syne gang oot thegither. 
 
 We twa hae tholed misfortune's straiks, 
 
 As hard as she could gie us, 
 But aye we blithely took oor paiks 
 
 For luve wis ever wi' us ; 
 There's whiles nae doot that we hae been 
 
 Near ganging tae the wa', 
 But aye kind fortune slipped between, 
 
 An' brocht us safe through a'. 
 
130 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 The fleeting years as they gang by 
 
 Tae us bring nae regret ; 
 Why should we care hoo fast they fly, 
 
 Who baith are sweethearts yet? 
 Though time has streaked oor hair wi' grey, 
 
 Yet thinkna I am reuin' ; 
 Lass, ye're as fair tae me the day 
 
 As when I first cam' wooin'. 
 
 Why fash oorsel's for warldly gear? 
 
 Leave that to those wha crave it ; 
 Whit use tae gaither siller here 
 
 When shortly we maun leave it? 
 E'en let the warl gang by gudewife, 
 
 Sae lang's we've ane anither ; 
 % I ask for naething mair in life 
 
 Than juist tae be thegither. 
 
 THE BEREAVED MOTHER. 
 
 Oh, thou, my little son, who liest so still, 
 Whose earthly race is thus untimely run, 
 
 Would God it had but been His holy will 
 That I had died for thee, my son ! my son ! 
 
 Ah, could not pallid Death have passed thee by, 
 
 Whose little life had only just begun? 
 Who wast the very apple of my eye? 
 
 Oh, me, my heart will break, my son ! my son ! 
 
 Were there none else of whom he might make choice, 
 No other breasts wherein to plant his dart, 
 
 That he should hush for evermore thy voice, 
 And in so doing break thy mover's heart? 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 131 
 
 Were there in all this world so broad and wide 
 No other fitting victims ? Were there none 
 
 Wherewith cruel Death might have been satisfied, 
 That he should fix on thee ? my son ! my son ! 
 
 Why could he not have felled the withered tree, 
 Whose day of usefulness is long since done? 
 
 Ah, me ! 'tis bitter cruel such things should be ; 
 Would God that I had died for thee, my son! 
 
 Why wert thou not allowed to wax and grow ? 
 
 Since some there be whom even Death will shun, 
 How is it that these things are ordered so? 
 
 Why could I not have died for thee, my son? 
 
 Ah, what a proud delight I had in thee ! 
 
 Alas ! alas ! what evil hast thou done, 
 That thou shouldst be thus cruelly torn from me? 
 
 Ah, woe is me for thee, my son ! my son ! 
 
 Oh, me ! my heart is rent with grievous woe ; 
 
 I am indeed a sorely stricken one; 
 What comfort can this world on me bestow, 
 
 Since I am left and thou are ta'en, my son? 
 
 Oh, thou, my little son, who liest so still, 
 Whose earthly race is thus untimely run, 
 
 Would that it had but been God's holy will 
 That I had died for thee, my son ! my son ! 
 
 TO A SIX MONTHS' OLD INFANT. 
 
 Ah, stainless innocent ! What brings thee here, 
 Into this weary world of sin and woe, 
 
 Around whom there still clings some atmosphere 
 Of that blest land thou left not long ago? 
 
132 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 For my sake was it thou wert thence expelled, 
 The haven of my arms thy unknown goal? 
 
 Who hast no hint of evil yet beheld; 
 
 Heaven still shines through the windows of thy soul. 
 
 To thee the world is as a volume sealed, 
 
 Nor can I guess how it to thee appears ; 
 Life's mysteries to thee are unrevealed, 
 
 Till Wisdom comes to thee with riper years. 
 
 And, oh, the heart within my breast is sore, 
 To think that as thou growest worldly wise, 
 
 The light of perfect innocence no more 
 Shall be reflected from those glorious eyes. 
 
 TO ALLAN McN . 
 
 My wordy frien', it's noo langsyne 
 That I addressed a letter tae ye ; 
 
 Sin' syne the deil a word or line 
 Or scart ava I've gotten frae ye. 
 
 The reason I wad like to ken, 
 
 Gin ye're no' sweert man to divulge it; 
 My wish for something frae your pen 
 
 Is sae sincere ye maun indulge it. 
 
 Something ye spak o' nifferin' rhyme, 
 Sae faur as I could understan', 
 
 But though I've waited quite a time, 
 Nae rhyme frae ye has come to han'. 
 
 Whit's come o' ye that thus ye're mute? 
 
 Is't that your muse is stricken dumb? 
 Hae ye wi' yon fause jad cast oot? 
 
 Or is't ye'll no' just fash your thumb? 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 133 
 
 Hae ye mislaid or tint your lyre, 
 That ye nae langer sweep the strings? 
 
 Your muse will surely no' retire 
 In lazy sloth to fauld her wings. 
 
 It canna be the fire is quenched 
 That ance sae bricht was wont to burn ; 
 
 Waes me ! hoo were my heartstrings wrenched 
 Gin fate should serve ye sic a turn. 
 
 My muse I houp has naething writ 
 
 To gie yours reason o' offence; 
 If sae, ye maun just pardon it, 
 
 And pit it doon to lack o' sense. 
 
 For sense is what she never had : 
 Indeed, I think that whiles she's fey; 
 
 But ye min' the haverel jad, 
 
 Her natural instinct maun obey. 
 
 But losh ! I'm haverin' noo mysel', 
 
 My wits begin to gang astray ; 
 I maun leave off and tak' a spell, 
 
 Till I hae something wise to say. 
 
 Yet still ye'll min', my worthy frien', 
 My claim ye hae been lang neglectin' ; 
 
 A wee bit something frae your pen 
 I am maist anxiously expectin'. 
 
 Lang be your day afore ye feel 
 Your muse's power and vigour waning; 
 
 Sae " au revoir !" I wish ye weel, 
 In spite o' a' my daft complainin'. 
 
 Ah ! wherefore dumb is Orpheus' lute ? 
 
 Why no more heard those dulcet strains, 
 That erstwhile soothed the savage brute, 
 
 And woke to life the very stanes? 
 
134 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 "MY NANNIE'S AWAY' 
 
 Sic a wife as Nannie wis, 
 
 Aye nig-naggin, 
 Day and night her flyin' tongue 
 
 Never ceased its waggin' ; 
 Gin I was a prood man 
 
 On the day I marrit her, 
 Faith I wis a thankfu' man 
 
 On the day I berrit her. 
 
 Ilk morn when frae oor bed we rose, 
 
 Her flytin' she'd begin, 
 An' punctuate her discourse 
 
 Wi' a muckle rolling-pin ; 
 When my heid gaed dizzy-like, 
 
 Quo' she, " Hoots, man ! it's toom 
 An' ilka body brawly kens 
 
 That hollow things'll soon." 
 
 Ae day Deith lichted at oor door ; 
 
 Quo' he, " Guid day, my mannie ; 
 Hoo's a' wi' ye the day? I've come 
 
 To take awa' your Nannie." 
 "Aweel," quo' I, " then min' your e'e, 
 
 Ye may hae come to tak' her, 
 But gin she's sweert to gang wi' ye, 
 
 I doot ye winna mak' her. 
 
 Gin yon's your errand ye had best 
 
 Get somebody to help ye ; 
 For Nannie's a camsteerie jad, 
 
 An' like eneuch she'll skelp ye ; 
 But gang in ben ma bonnie man, 
 
 An'. see hersel'," quo' I; 
 "Ye'll hae ma leave to take her 
 
 Gin ye're man eneuch to try." 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 135 
 
 " E'en gang your gate ma frien', I trow, 
 
 Ye ken your business better, 
 Nor I can teach it, but ye'll hae 
 
 A fecht afore ye get her." 
 Sae in he slippit, an' belyve 
 
 Arose the din o' battle, 
 Pegs Nannie just stood up till him 
 
 An' garred his dry banes rattle. 
 
 She gaed at him wi' tooth an' nail, 
 
 Richt weel she clapper clawed him, 
 An' Death he swore that ne'er afore 
 
 Had ony sae misca'ed him ; 
 But Nannie wis owre short o' breith, 
 
 Her strength wis sune expended, 
 Syne Death got in the " coup de grace," 
 
 And sae the fecht wis ended. 
 
 " My faith," quo' he, " yon was a jad, 
 
 I dinna min' just bettin' 
 That had my banes wi' flesh been clad 
 
 Or noo I had been sweatin' ; 
 Gin I'd been loundered wi' a staff 
 
 My banes could feel nae sairer." 
 Wi' that he threw her owre his airm, 
 
 An' aff wi' him he bare her. 
 
 I dinna positively say 
 
 That I am glad she's gane, 
 But still ye ken there's whiles when ane 
 
 Prefers to be his lane ; 
 An' thinkin' owre the maitter, I 
 
 Am fain to say I'd swither 
 To act sae ill by Nannie 
 
 As replace her wi' anither. 
 
136 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Sic a wife as Nannie wis, 
 
 Aye nig-naggin', 
 
 Nicht an' day her flytin' tongue 
 
 Never ceased its waggin' ; 
 But noo she's deid an' laid in grave, 
 
 An' I nae mair shall see her, 
 Like a guid Christian I'll behave, 
 
 An' a' her fau'ts forgie her. 
 
 A MITHER'S THOUGHTS ABOOT HER SON. 
 
 In a' the realm o' bairn-land he hasna got his peer, 
 His blithesome baby prattle is sweet music to my ear ; 
 His gay infectious laughter fair gars me laugh mysel', 
 When I hear it ringing clearly like a chiming siller bell. 
 
 My bonnie son ! mair dear to me than a' the warl' beside, 
 Nae king in a' his treasures ever felt a greater pride ; 
 My een grow aften misty, an' my heart just sings for joy, 
 To think that Heaven appointed me the mither o' my boy. 
 
 Mair dear than gowd to Avarice or power to Royalty, 
 Ay, dearer faur than life itsel' is my rnan-bairn to me ; 
 When in the circlet o' my arms I haud my bonnie son, 
 A' ither earthly boons may gang sae I retain this one. 
 
 I trow I'd no' change places wi' a queen upon her throne, 
 My kingdom's in my laddie's heart an' his is in my own ; 
 I'm thinking there is mony a queen wha blithely wad 
 
 resign 
 Her sceptre an' her croon to taste sic happiness as mine. 
 
 Hoots ! what are croons an' royal robes an' sic like 
 
 things to me, 
 When my braw bairn comes staucherin' to climb upon 
 
 my knee? 
 
 The jewel-encrusted diadem o' kings alive or deid 
 Are no' as muckle worth to me as ae hair aff his heid. 
 
POEMS BY AX AUSTRALIAN SCOT 137 
 
 As fights the tigress for her young, sae I for him wad 
 
 fight, 
 
 To see him fu' o' joie de vivre is aye my chief delight; 
 Wi' my guidwill nae cloud o' care his sunny sky shall dim, 
 Sma' hardship wad I reckon it to gie my life for him. 
 
 Was it no' I wha gied him life? an' oh! the joy I knew 
 To think it was frae me alane his sustenance he drew; 
 Forgotten was my anguish, a' the torment o' my pain, 
 At feeling his wee body nestled close aside my ain. 
 
 Ah, braw lad bairn ! as time rolls on ye'll fin' come wae 
 
 come weal, 
 There is nae truer love on earth than that which mithers 
 
 feel ; 
 
 Bane o' my bane, flesh o' my flesh, o' me ye are a part, 
 An' in the oor I gied ye life, I gied ye a' my heart. 
 
 ON LEAVING BALMACARRA. 
 
 Ye powers aboon, gin ye regard 
 The havers o' a daft-like bard, 
 Your favours I wad fain invoke 
 Upon the Balmacarra folk. 
 
 Sae pleasantly hae passed my days 
 'Mang Balmacarra's bonnie braes, 
 'Tis little wonder gin I'm wae 
 That I maun gang my gate the day. 
 
 Sic kindness as I've met wi' here 
 I haena' kent this mony a year; 
 Wi' gratefu' heart I maun record 
 That I've been treated like a lord. 
 
 Their kindly hospitality 
 Has been an unco joy to me ; 
 Kinder they never could hae been 
 To ane o' their ain kith and kin. 
 
138 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 I hadnt thocht to bide sae lang, 
 Yet by my fay I'm sweert to gang; 
 Natheless for yon I thinkna shame 
 For here I've felt mysel' at hame. 
 
 " Kind hearts are more than coronets," 
 And since I've dwelt within these yetts, 
 Nae truer words I've learned to ken 
 E'er trickled frae the poet's pen. 
 
 Lord, let my humble prayer be heard, 
 That on this house may be conferred, 
 And a' wha 'neath its roof-tree live, 
 The choicest gifts Thou hast to give. 
 
 I ask it humbly on behoof 
 O' ilka ane aneath this roof ; 
 E'en gar them ane an' a' increase 
 In years, in plenty, and in peace. 
 
 FAREWELL TO BRAE HEID. 
 
 Fain would I sit me down and pour 
 
 Forth a' that is within my heart, 
 Yet though I've thought the matter o'er, 
 
 I kenna hoo to mak' a start ; 
 Words are ower feeble to express 
 
 The feelings in my breist that swell, 
 Sae I maun leave ye, lass, touguess 
 
 The thochts I lack the power to tell. 
 
 Did I possess yon power divine 
 
 Whereof oor Rabbie had the gift, 
 Ah ! gin yon power were only mine, 
 
 My voice in sang I micht uplift ; 
 Faiir though I roam, nae matter where, 
 
 Frae noo till death at last shall find me, 
 Brae Heid shall o' my love hae share, 
 
 For there I leave mv heart behind me. 
 
POEMS BY AX AUSTRALIAN SCOT 139 
 
 The bonnie flooers are blooming now, 
 
 Fair Spring is frae her slumber waking, 
 The bird is singing on the bough, 
 
 But I from thee my leave am taking; 
 Oh ! pit-mirk seems the bricht spring day, 
 
 I canna keep mysel' frae grieving, 
 For oh ! the heart o' me is wae, 
 
 To think Brae Heid I maun be leaving. 
 
 I only am disconsolate, 
 
 And bowed aneath a wecht o' sorrow, 
 For mony a mile maun separate 
 
 We twa ere dawns anither morrow ; 
 Gude kens that I am unco laith 
 
 Oor friendship's couthie tie to sever, 
 Gin I'd nae wife and weans my faith ! 
 
 Ye'd no' be rid of me for ever ! 
 
 Upon this hoose ye powers aboon, 
 
 Your choicest blessings I invoke, 
 When benefits ye're showerin' doon, 
 Oh, pass na by the Brae Heid folk ; 
 Here hae I truly met wi' a' 
 
 That hospitality can give, 
 I'll mind it aye when faur awa' 
 
 The langest day I hae to live. 
 
 DUM VIVIMUS VIVAMUS. 
 
 Why bow beneath misfortune's rod, 
 Or stoop to let her tame us? 
 
 Since we must lie beneath the sod, 
 " Dum vivimus vivamus." 
 
 Our life on earth at best is brief. 
 And death must surely claim us, 
 
 So hang all care, begone all grief, 
 " Dum vivimus vivamus." 
 
140 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 Why not enjoy the fleeting years, 
 Though saintly prudes may blame us ? 
 
 Laughter is pleasanter than tears, 
 " Dum vivimus vivamus." 
 
 Though folks may make remarks severe, 
 
 And foolish spendthrifts name us ; 
 Why should we heed the passing sneer? 
 
 " Dum vivimus vivamus." 
 
 Why not enjoy our little day? 
 
 All can't be great and famous ; 
 Since, after all, we are but clay, 
 
 " Dum vivimus vivamus." 
 
 Though we nor wealth nor lineage boast, 
 There's none for that can shame us, 
 
 So, comrades all, I give the toast, 
 " Dum vivimus vivamus." 
 
POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 141 
 
 JOKELETS 
 
 TO F D H S. 
 
 I've read about " the curly-headed boy," 
 
 Who, it was stated, " never told a lie " ; 
 
 You are not he : you are the straight-haired youth 
 
 Who save by chance has never told the truth. 
 
 To give some advice 
 
 Here the poet presumes : 
 
 If you'd not take rheumatics, 
 Don't take attic rooms. 
 
 A GROAN. 
 
 I took my wife " for better or for worse "; 
 
 H'm, yes ! I can't deny that that's a fact ; 
 And now, with painful frequency I curse 
 
 The hour that I committed that rash act ; 
 For since then she has proved herself to be 
 
 Worse than I ever took her for d'ye see? 
 
142 POEMS BY AN AUSTRALIAN SCOT 
 
 VERSICLES. 
 
 My wit is cheap ; to that I quite agree : 
 
 It's just about as cheap as wit can be 
 
 So cheap (I unreservedly confess it) 
 
 That anyone who chooses may possess it ; 
 
 Yet why should you in such strong terms decry it? 
 
 If it were dear, you know you wouldn't buy it. 
 
 Of all the wanderers that to and fro 
 Upon the surface of this earth do go, 
 Poor Truth alone, wherever she may roam, 
 Still finds no place which she can call her home ; 
 And oftentimes the heart within her fails, 
 Till Hope's fond prompting once again prevails ; 
 And, tired, yet cheered, she goes upon her way 
 To seek once more some place wherein to stay. 
 
 Quoth Jones, who'd been overnight quite full, 
 " My pain and remorse, dear, are frightful ! 
 But I'm really, I vow, quite another man now " ; 
 And his wife gently sighed, "How delightful!" 
 
 Were lovely woman back to Eden sent, 
 
 What means would she adopt do you suppose, 
 
 In such a curious predicament, 
 
 In order to provide herself with clothes? 
 
 Without a rag or tatter to her back, 
 
 How would she manage to supply the lack? 
 
 Do you imagine she would die of grief? 
 
 Not she; she'd just "turn over a new leaf!" 
 
 " I always keep my word." Thus boasted Jones ; 
 " All my life long I've scrupulously kept it." 
 " Ay ! growled McCaustic, in sarcastic tones, 
 " Ye couldna fin' a buddy to accept it. 
 
naf-si 
 
N 
 
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