UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ST-AUSTELL HALL DREAMS <9 NAME Cx Dreams o Hame AND OTHER (With a few Experiments in English Verse) JAMES D. LAW Camden, N.J., U.S. America Gi e me ae spark o nature s fire ! That s a the learnin I desire ; Then tho I drudge thro dub and mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, tho hamely in attire, May touch the heart. Burns. ALEXANDER GARDNER Publisher to Her Majesty the Queen PAISLEY; AND PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON r To THIS BOOK I DEDICATE. JAMES LAW. .". This Edition of "DREAMS o HA ME" is limited to One Thousand Copies, of which this is ALEX. GARDNER.. Proem. WHEN I consider how the world is bor d by scrib bling fellows who are much my betters, and how it dotes upon the countless horde of titled magnates in the field of letters, I wish to goodness I had been a lord ; for all my chances of success it fetters to look for money (not to mention fame) without a handle to my sorry name* I m not a writer like a skilled attorney or penny- liner for the daily press ; Pve no acquaintance ^vith the art of Gurney or Isaac Pitman, and I must con fess I like to loiter on a pleasant journey, and let my pencil or my pen digress : there s entertainment in a shady by-zvay that s never met witJi on the dusty highway. Pm not a pedant, so the spots and specks you are apt to meet tmt/i in a modern print, within my volume they shall never vex you ; the learn d allusion and the classic hint with these let scholars x. Proem. in their works perplex you, I say there s naught but ostentation irft, although an author that can use such phrases stands high, I notice, in his readers praises* Then, criticasters, that are overstocked with all the polish that the Age disperses, I give you warning, get your muskets cocked ; a candid poet now so very scarce is, it s not unlikely that you may be shocked before you finish with my rustic verses ; so, while your nerves are in a manner steady, take my advice and get your weapons ready. And, gentle public, that delights to feast on namby-pamby and insipid twaddle, tJie Pegasus I for the nonce have leased is unaccustomed to the rein or saddle, the noble steed is such a healthy beast, the very moment that I get astraddle my skill s devoted, not to frills and scal lops, but how to sit him as he soars and gallops. A simple man, I sing for simple folk, in simple lan guage and in simple strain ; my rhyming talent is my total stock, and thus equipped I venture on the main. guard me, Muses, from the storm and rock, until the harbour I shall make again, for when I m sailing on a doubtful sea a hidden snag might play the deuce ivitli me.* Proem. xi. So, as I hinted, for my volumes sake I wish I were but titled, rich, or dead -for then my venture would be no mistake, and all my writings would be widely read ; but at the present I am wide-awake, I ve wife and children to be clothed and fed : a situation that s perhaps pathetic, but unromantic as it s unpoetic* And yet it has been said, and said with truth, an audience can be found for any theme : a bard who scribbles in a style uncouth, to certain people will perfection seem : be but eccentric, and your work, forsooth, tho skim-milk only, may be classed as cream ; it takes all classes to make up a nation, and so in tastes there must be variation. Some folks think delf-ware is the finest pottery, and mediocrity the mass commends ; the poorest writers can com mand a coterie, so I may also have my troop of friends; I ll take my chances in the Printers Lottery, for, as some author of repute contends, No man s unlucky till his luck he tries, and who can tell but I may draw a prize ! * ,% There s always more than on the surface shines ! Remem ber, reader, if you "would abuse them, some collocations of prosaic lines are all-essential, or I would not use them. For those xii. Proem. not posted on my true designs, I hope this note may a! the least amuse them, knowing that those who penetrate the mask can justly value my stupendous task. O, feat exacting, that should so restrict the frolic fancy of my roving pen, and make me ail-unwillingly inflict such mysticisms on my fellow-men ; but tarry, critic, till the lock is picked (and I m contented to lie low till then), because, tho 1 scored now for my ambiguity, r II yet be worshipped for my inge nuity. I know it s vulgar to descend to slang, for slang has meaning to the vulgar only, yet thereby, reader, doth a cipher hang to vex the patience of some future Donnelly : I shall not bore you with a long harangue, but Shakespeare stands among the bards so lonely, to keep him company (such as I am !) I ve thro my Poems run a Cryptogram / This frank expression may explain, I hope, some puzzling phrases in my rhythmic chimes, and help my students when for gold they grope amongst the statements that I make at times. It is not every Poet that can cope with rhymes below the surface of his rhymes : between the lines a tale is often spun, but underneath the lines ah, there s the fun ! _ ~ CONTENTS. DREAMS o HAME PART I. GEOGRAPHICAL, ............ i PART II. HISTORICAL, ............... u PROLOGUE TO SCOTTISH CONCERT, ........ -> ... 21 THE MERRY QUAKERS, ............... 24 To A MOSQUITO, .................. 29 EPISTLE TO JAMES W. R. COLLINS, ............ 32 UP AN WAUR THEM A , WlLLIE ! ......... ... 35 OOR BAIRNIE, ..................... 38 WHAUR SUMMER DAYS ARE LANG, ......... 40 PSALM I., ..................... 45 A NICHT wi BURNS, .................. 48 EPISTLE TO JOHN SHEDDEN, ............... 62 SONG THE BONNY LASS BEYOND THE SEA, ...... 67 EPISTLE TO W. E. GLADSTONE, ............ 70 To A BURNS CONTEMPORARY OF MY ACQUAINTANCE, ... 73 SONG THE MILLER o HIRN, ...... . ..... 78 A FEW WORDS TO WALT WHITMAN, ......... 82 SONG JOHNNY YET ! .................. 87 WORLD S FAIR SCOTTISH GAMES ............. 89 xiv. Contents. PAGE NURSERY SONG THE BOWGIE o THE LUM, 94 EPISTLE TO "LA TESTE," 97 SONG THE LASS I LO E SAE DEARLY, O ! 107 SONNET BURNS, 1892, 109 SONG THE AULD BOW-BRIG, no SONNET IN MEMORIAM, JOHN SHEDDEN, 113 AT THE LAYING OF THE CORNER-STONE, NEW CALE DONIAN CLUB HALL, OF PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A., ... 114 CRADLE SONG HUSHIE BA-Loo ! ... 118 ABOOT OCR DOG, 122 SONG FOR A THAT ! 135 A PARAPHRASE, 137 BURNS S COTTAGE, 141 SONG THE BONNY LASS o BON-ACCORD ! 142 To "SURFACEMAN," 145 BURNS IN ABERDEEN, 147 IN MEMORIAM "LA TESTE," 157 SONG WHEN THE SUN S GANE O ER THE HILL, ... 161 A DOMESTIC DUET, 164 EPISTLE TO JOHN MARR, 170 SONNET HARRY GAULD, 176 To A. P. LAW, RICHMOND HILL, L.I., 177 IN MEMORIAM WILLIAM MACLENNAN, 179 EPISTLE TO W. M. CALLINGHAM, 181 To ALEX. NICOLL, 182 SONG THE WOODS o CLOVA, 184 A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE HON. WM. BURNS SMITH, CHICAGO, ILLS., 187 SONG JAMIE NICOLL, 192 PER PHONOGRAPH 195 "Go AND SIN NO MORE," 198 Contents. xv. PAGE REFLECTIONS ON THE WA -GOIN o EICHTY-TWA, ... 202 OOR AIN WEE HAME, 206 A FLYING TRIP, 216 ST. ROBERT S NICHT IN ALBANY, 223 THE THRIFTY THREE, 230 FROM EPISTLE TO JOHN M INTOSH, A BROTHER BARD, 234 FROM EPISTLE TO JAMES Sou TAR, 238 " MARY FAIR " SKETCHES, 242 EXTRACTS FROM "THE QUEEN S FIDDLER," 247 "A GREAT NICHT THAT," 251 To THE QUEEN in re THE VACANT LAUREATESHIP, ... 255 AN OLD TESTAMENT, 261 AN ADDRESS TO THE AUTHOR OF "PRESS CHIPS/ ... 267 A PRAYER, 273 To WED OR NOT TO WED ? THAT is THE QUESTION ! 275 INVOKING THE MUSE, 280 A DIG AND A DIGRESSION, 284 HOTCH-POTCH (IN ENGLISH AND SCOTCH) VERSICLES, 287 ON PERUSING FOR THE FIRST TIME THE POEMS OF ALEXANDER WILSON, 289 VIRGILS CAUTION TO THE READER, 292 THE REEL o STUMPIE, 292 ,LrA PREFACE TO "HOLY WILLIE S PRAYER," ... 293 t SCOTLAND S TRINITY BURNS, FERGUSSON, RAMSAY, 293 DON T BE FINICAL, 297 KEEP UP TO THE TIMES, 297 AN OBSERVATION, 298 NOTHING SUCCEEDS LIKE SUCCESS, 299 THE GOSPEL OF DRESS, 299 AN INTERLUDE, 299 xvi. Contents. PAGE A NOTE TO A FAMOUS POEM, 3 TWAS EVER THUS, SMALL DETAILS, 3i WHITHER? 3* SECURITY, 3 01 Au REVOIR! 32 APPENDICES, DREAMS O J HAME. A DREAM O HAME. (Part I. Geographical,) " We shall conduct you to a hill . . ., laborious indeed at the first ascent, but else so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospects, and melodious sounds on every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming." Noo Pha&uJ spear has turned adrift The darklin cloods that thrang d the lift ; The hinmost Cock has wound his Horn An flegg d awa the Mists o Morn ; The fragrant Winds aroond me blawn Hae drench d wi Dew the fiery Dawn, And diamond draps in clusters rowe Frae ilka Blade and Bush and Bough. Dreams o 1 Haute. Aboon \vi Girss and Heather hap Auld Noth uprears his Sphinx-like Tap ; The Watch-Dog o the Rock-bound North, And grandest Hill ayont the Forth ! Frae RJiynie couch d beside its paws I start to clim the tow rin wa s : Aince mair I pass the massive rock That bears the print o Giant Jock ; Walk roun the Crag o Clochmaloo, And perchin pick my pathway thro The breastworks built o birsl t stanes That dootless hap some Royal Banes, Until I reach the Cup or Cap That croons the summit o the Tap, And keps the dews at morn and e en That keep the Cone for ever green ! Lo, what a cycloramic view Is spread for miles before me noo ! A Dream o Hame. What wealth of Sea and Hill and Dale, Of Highland Moor and Lowland Vale ; Of Streams that twine like siller threids Thro Mossy Haughs and Grassy Meads ; Of Roads that in their twists and turns Look like the beds of dried up Burns ; What gowden glints of Whinny Howes, Of Wavin Corn and Broomy Knowes ; What blinks o Castles and o Kirks Embower d in Beeches and in Birks ; Of Touns that flash upon the sicht Like stars upon a cloudless nicht ; Of Clachans, Steadin s, Crafts, and Cots, Ilk wi their little Kail-yard Plots ; O, I could stand, and nae be loth, For days upon the Tap d Noth, And gaze across its saucer-rim Till sense would reel and sicht grow dim ; And ye could scour auld Scotland o er, Yea, Britain braid itsel explore, 4 Dreams d Hame. And trudge for mony a month, I ween, To match me sic a glorious scene ! Ben Rinnes lonely in the West Uprears his kingly guardian crest ; And to the East is stretch d afar A Glen without a peer or par, Strathbogie wi its fertile haughs, Its aucht-and-forty famous daughs, Immortalized in Scottish lore, The grand old Gordon Land of yore ! A bit beyond I clearly see Culsalmondy Foudland, Bennachie ; The Garioch and the Buchan lands, The Mormond Hill that mateless stands, And like a ghaist may be descried The White Horse built upon its side ! Noo glow rin o er the Kirkney Glen Whaur sleep brave Lulach s thousand men, A Dream o Hame. I pierce the reek frae coontless fires And rest on Hunttys Towers and Spires, By which the Bogie s waters glide Half-feart in Deveroris drumlier tide ! Far Eastwards on the Banff shire Coast The Land within the Sea is lost, And Northwards as my een I turn I see the Knock and Hill d Durn, The Cullen and the Cairnie Binns Wi smilin fields alang their shins, And then anither blink o blue When Moray s Firth bursts into view ! Athwart the waters o the Bay, Whaur Fishin -Smacks their sails display, I note the shadowy Hills d Ross, That to the cloods their tap-knots toss, And glimmerin far ayont them a The Paps d Caithness fade awa ! Dreams o Hame. I change my place again and gaze At Essie s Burn and Essie s Braes ; Knock Caillich wi the huddrey heid, The theme o mony a mystic screed When Witches on their broom-sticks rode And Warlocks walked the Earth abroad ! Far Sooth the lordly Grampians rise Like hay-stacks set against the skies ; And mony a noble peak I see Aroond the Straths o Upper Dee. O, what a stretch o Wood and Glen Frae Lochnagar to Clochnaben^ And what a world o Dale and Doun Frae Mount c? Keen to Morueris croon ! Noo fondly turn my eyes to Hame And a my blood is changed to flame : O er a the Hills I see the Buck His tap as snod s a weel trimmed ruck ; A Dream o Hame. Encompass d roun wi Mosses black The Cabrach snugglin at his back ; And look hoo couthie in his airms He hauds braw Clove? s Woods and Fairms ; And then to mak the scene complete Lythe Lumsden cuddlin at his feet, Wi lang Coreen outstretched beyon Betwixt the Dev ron and the Don ! Entranced, I catch upon the breeze The Bleat o sheep, the Bum o Bees ; The Whirrin o a Pairtrick s Wings ; The Gurglin o the Mountain Springs ; The steady Swish frae aff a Scythe ; A Shepherd Whistlin bauld and blythe; The Sough o Winds that sway the Woods ; The Lilts o Larks that cleave the Cloods ; A Studdie Ringin doun the Howe ; Frae nibblin Nowte an antrin Low ; And like the sharp and rhythmic Note Dreams d Hame. Frae some gigantic Cricket s throat The mesured Dirge of Death that s borne Frae Reapers stalkin thrc the Corn ! Aince mair I rove amang the scenes That aft hae cheer d me in my teens ; I start aboon the Burn o" Craig And thro its wooded Den stravaig ; I muse beside its Castle wa , And watch its foamin waters fa ; I pass the Auld Kirk ivied o er Whaur sleep the deid o Auchindoir ; Then by Glenbogie s woods I stray Whaur Nature dons her best array ; Whaur stands romantic Corbie Tongue By Painters lov d, by Poets sung ; Whaur Birks hang oot their tassels free To deck the cliffs beside Wt n see, And whaur the Freestane Quarry Howe Wi gowden bloom is fair alowe ! Syne Bogie skirts the Sculptur d Stanes A Dream o Hame. Erected on the Fairm <? Mains ; Jouks by the Knowe whaur records tell The kirk-fowk rang the Parish Bell, And whaur in ages lang awa The Druids held their Courts o Law ; Then saft and slow the burnie glides By a the various Bogie-sides, In hailin distance o the wood That hauds DruminnoSs turrets prood ; And whaur the saughs like siller gleam It joins the Essie s ripplin stream ! Thro Rhynie still it winds alang And sings its gentle, cheerfu sang ; By Lochrie snug and Smiston cauld ; By Nottts twin touns, the New and Auld ; The Cults, the Kirkney and the Ness Contendin for the first caress ; Syne doon the Strath it tak s its course, (Whaur snorts and roars the Iron Horse), io Dreams d Hame. Wi mony a lazy twirl and twine, And aft a backward swirl and sweel, Betwixt the Turnpike and the Line, As if twas wae to say Fareweel ! * * See Appendix A. II A DREAM O HAME. (Part II. Historical) " A tale of the times of old ! The deeds of days of other years ! " MAJESTIC Tap ! in mony a tome That tells the feats o haughty Rome ; In Celtic runes, if not in rhymes ; In tales of Ossianic times ; In sangs of Norse and Danish Scald Thy sons heroic deeds are tauld, When Pictish kings held Royal Court Within thy fire-cemented fort ! Well may thy breast be strewn with scars, Spectator of a thousand wars ; And proudly may you raise your head Aboon the Bogie s crystal bed, 12 Dreams d Hame. For all unconquered still you stand, The glory of our northern land ! Across thy glen in thousands deep Ye ve seen the Roman soldiers sweep ; Ye ve seen them build their roads an wa s That still defy Time s ruthless claws ; And ye ha e seen thy native hordes, Wi twig-twined shields and pointless swords, Swoop down on wings of wind and flame, And drive the Imperial Eagles hame ! Again ye ve seen and yet again The Scandinavian and the Dane Rush through thy fair and fertile strath, And leave destruction in their path. O burns of blood ye ve witness d spilt In broils betwixt the Pict and Celt ; But in the end they cam to gree, And tamed the Rovers of the Sea ! A Dream d Hame. 13 Then in the gentler times of peace, When clang and clash of arms would cease, Ye ve heard the blue-eyed maiden sing By babblin burn or bubblin spring, As in the dusk of eve or morn She turned the quern and ground the corn. And ye hae watch d amang thy knowes The Druid priests perform their vows ; Hae seen the blood-red fires of Baal Flash oot their licht across thy vale ; And seen the sacred knife uprise That reek d wi human sacrifice, Amidst the shouts of Pagans pleased, Who thus believed their gods appeased. When closed his kingly eyes in death Ye saw the army of Macbeth Dejected cross the Rhynie " meers," Pursued by Malcolm s vengefu spears. 1 4 Dreams o Ha me. Preceded by his brithers twa, Ye saw the gallant Lulach fa , And, in the licht frae Luna s horn, Ye saw his princely body borne, Amid a nation s grief and gloom, To far lona s royal tomb. Then cam the fechts betwixt the Kirks, When Christian love was taught by dirks ! And then the wars by Edward brocht, When Scots for Independence focht ! Ay, those " wha hae wi Wallace bled," On Bogie s banks hae made their bed ; And there, too, has the regal Bruce At times thought fit to introduce The gallant and devoted band That shed new lustre on our land. Sair day was that when up the howe Ye saw Kildrummy Castle s lowe ; When Scotland s Queen was held in chains I A Dream d Hame. 15 A captive in her ain domains ; When on the brave Sir Nigel s head The carrion Sass nach curs were fed, To please a craven English lord Who failed to conquer by his sword ; And sweet the day when frae your seat Ye saw the Southrons in retreat, And heard oor valiant King declare That they should vex oor land nae mair ! And then ye ve seen in later days The Forbes and the Gordon frays, And witness d a the plots and plans Of these uncompromising clans. How each, at times, in friendship s guise, Would tak their neighbours by surprise ; Invite them to the festive board And chant the praise of peace restored ; And when wi feastin and wi fun The unsuspecting guests were won, 1 6 Dreams d Hame. When feuds were drowned in friendly din, Behold ! the host would stroke his chin, And ilka man that claimed him chief, Wi glitterin blade and parley brief, Would wale his foe wi skill expert, And plunge the steel within his he rt ! And aft ye ve smiled upon the scenes Of rustic mirth on village greens, Like those of which in stanzas lang Our Royal Minstrel * sweetly sang ; Nay, were ye not Parnassus Mount, Thy spring the true Castalian fount, And " Christe s Kirk " lilt the sweet reward That blessed the youthful Sovereign Bard ? When Donald, Lord of all the Isles, Misled by fortune s fickle smiles. King James I. of Scotland. A Dream <? Hame. 17 Ambitious, daring, and alone, Laid siege upon the Scottish throne, Ye saw your loyal-hearted men In thousands leave their native glen, And help the rebels necks to thraw Upon the field o red Harlaw. On mony a blood-stained battle-plain Thy stalwart sons have held their ain, When, from the mountains of the North, The Fiery Cross has called them forth : Bear witness, ill-starred Flodden field, Where Huntly was the last to yield ; Bear witness, Tillieangus heath, Wi mony a hero stretch d beneath ; Glenlivet, where the base Argyll Got first his taste o Bogie s style ; And mony a Covenantin raid, Whaur waved the dark-green tartan plaid, 1 8 Dreams o Hame. i And whaur the " Byd and ! " slogan cry Proclaimed the dauntless Gordons nigh ! In Fifteen, when the Earl o Mar Unfurl d the flag of civil war, Ye saw your best, amidst applause, Espouse the Royal Stuart s cause ; And in defeat ye saw wi pain Kildrummy s towers ablaze again, And " Scotland s richtfu king " depairt An exile wi a broken he rt ! Still Huntly kept her love alive, And in the grander Forty-five Her rank and file with one accord For Bonnie Charlie drew the sword. But woe to Clan Macdonald dour That lost the Prince Drumossie Moor ; Soon in the heart of Bogie s glen Was heard the tramp of George s men, A Dream o Hame. 19 And grimly did they slake their steel And show their Hanoverian zeal, By bringin wrack an death on a That mourned the Highland laddie s fa ! Thus closed the age of sturt an strife, And better times sprang into life : Nae mair within Strathbogie s bounds The pibroch blast of war resounds ; Whaur ance the ruler was the sword The plough is noo acknowledged lord ; Noo cornfields wave whaur standards streamed : Noo scythe-blades flash whaur spears aince gleamed; The fairm-horse tak s the war-horse pairt ; The chariot s yielded to the cairt ; Whaur bullets whizzed, noo engines shriek ; Whaur cannons smoked, noo hooses reek ; In peacefu tilts the people strive, And at their simple labours thrive ; 2O Dreams d Hame. Work blythely in the braid day-licht, And sweetly, soundly sleep at nicht, Unvex d by ony o the ills That ever stalked amang the hills Or flourished in the bygone days Within the vale that Noth surveys ! So may it be till ne er a drap Of Bogie s ripplin burn is seen ! So may it be until the Tap Is level wi the Rhynie Green ! And till the day of which I sing, As on their course the ages rowe, May ilka year mair pleasure bring To a that live within the howe, Which, tho it s far beyond the faem ! I ll aye be prood to ca my hame ! 21 PROLOGUE TO SCOTTISH CONCERT. ( Philadelphia, Pa., U.S. America.) " A NIGHT of Scottish Song ! " At mention of the phrase What visions rise before our eyes Of home and early days ! Once more we see the heath-clad hills Tower grandly to the skies, And, massed like cloods, the Autumn woods Display their myriad dyes ! We see the burnie wind alang Its journey to the sea, And hear it sing its auld-time sang Of mingled grief and glee ! 22 Dreams o Hame. Again the merle, wi silver throat, Rings gloamin o er the lawn, And lav rocks pipe their golden note Exultant to the dawn ! Anew for us the daisies bloom, And all their charms unfold, Afresh we scent the whins and broom That deck the dells with gold ! The bosky glens and shady dens, Where nods the wild blue-bell, The quarry knowes and fairy howes What tales of love they tell ! What blinks of sweet and sonsy maids, Red cheeks and sparklin een ; Of sporran d kilts and tartan plaids, And gallants on the green ! Bless Scotia s glorious mother-tongue, Revered at home, abroad ; Prologue to Scottish Concert. 23 Its tales are told, its songs are sung, Where er man s foot hath trod ! In tropic climes, mang Arctic snaws, It sheds its fragrance roun ; Yea, ilka breath o wind that blaws Is balmy wi its soun ! What Caledonian can withstan The glamourie o its lays ? What Clansman, worthy of his clan, Who would not swell its praise ? While running waters seaward roll, Its melodies divine Shall fire the blood and stir the soul As in the auld lang syne / THE MERRY QUAKERS ! (Philadelphia Scottish Games.) HOOCH ! siccan lilts frae pipers braw On Monday we ll be hearin , E er Phoebus o er the City Ha Will hae his colts careerin ; Then Caledonian clansmen a Will jump their Highland gear in, And croose in croods be steerin For Pastime Park awa ! O, leeze me on the Pibroch s croon, It breathes o hill and heather ! The weary Scot, wi care cast doun, Loups lichtsome as a feather The Merry Quakers. 25 When some auld saul-inspirin tune Comes birlin frae the blether, And wha need try to tether The Celt that hears the soun ? Noo City Fathers, City Dames, And Young Folks a , I tent ye, Speed to the Park and leave your Hames And heaviness ahint ye ; And I ll avooch ye ll vaunt its claims While memory s charm is lent ye, And bless the bard that sent ye To see the Scottish Games ! To start, sic dandies there will be At hoochin and at dancin , The kilties knappin on the knee, The belts an buckles glancin ; 26 Dreams <? Hame. The plaids an ribbons furlin free, Rainbows o claith the stance in O, gin ye there should chance in, Be sure that sicht ye see ! Some haimmers fling, some putt the stanes, Some try to toss the caber ; There, jumpin some wad brak their banes To triumph o er a neighbor, And records ding to smithereens As cleanly as a sabre, Or aix frae far Lochaiber Would strip a pine o preens ! And siccan fun it is to view The rinnin and the racin ; Some fleet as fallow deer, I troo, Oot o er the hurdles chasin , The Merry Quakers. 27 Some tied in bags up to the mou On to the landin pressin , And some, three-leggit, pacin In hopes a prize to pu ! While here, like cushie-doos in line, Quoits for the mote are wingin ; There Dons at Ghillie Callum fine High han s an heels are flingin ; Syne at the close the band they join, In mighty chorus singin , And thro the field sen ringin Auld Scotia s Auld Langsyne \ Noo, City Fathers, City Dames, And Young Folks a , I tent ye, Speed to the Park and leave your Hames And heaviness ahint ye ; 28 Dreams o Hame. And I ll avooch ye ll vaunt its claims While memory s charm is lent ye, And bless the bard that sent ye To see the Scottish Games ! TO A MOSQUITO. ILL-TRICKIT, wickit, bizzin beastie, Nae langer on my face ye ll feast ye ! Sin noo my thoom-nail I ve got neist ye, Yer banes will rattle ; And troth it s time I should arreist ye, And gar ye sattle. I m far frae sorry, snip, to fin ye, And tho my blood may course within ye, Wi lattin -aff I ll nae begin ye, That wad be sport ill ; For while the cannibal is in ye, We would assort ill. 3O Dreams d Hame. I dootna but ye ll ca me knave, An owre my whunstane rancour rave ; And fegs, I maybe misbehave, But, crater, bless ye, I ll get my sairin o the lave, And never miss ye. Ye ken it s a your ain misdoin , That sent me aifter you pursuin ; Had ye been less intent tatooin Ye micht hae seen The ruthless claws that wrocht yer ruin, And dodged atween. But na ! ye had ta en nae forecast, An frae yer feast ye wadna fast ; Snug, safe frae ilka by-gaun blast Ye thocht yersel , Till thud ! the foe cam doon at last, An broke your spell. To a Mosquito. 31 Nae mair I ll nip aneath yer nibbles, Nae mair ye ll bore me wi yer gibbles, Nae mair ye ll draw my bluid in dribbles, Or gar t rin cauld ! Ae stammack less will stress my stibbles, Ye glutton bauld ! But Skeeter ! thou art nabb d alane, Frae lots o cronies provin plain Mosquitoes schemes, like schemes o men, Are deep laid aye ! Whaur a e rogue happens to be ta en, A score win by ! Still you re weel aff, compared wi me ; Your doom is jist at aince to dee ! An forward tho I canna see, I sadly fear That I may claw neath sic as thee, For mony a year ! EPISTLE TO JAMES W. R. COLLINS. WHAT S the maitter noo, dear Jamie ? Truly it s a sorry case ! Ne er a letter noo comes ti me, Let alane to see your face ! Are ye noo forbid to toddle Ony mair your frien s to see ? Laddie, what s come owre your noddle That you keep sae far frae me ? A last week I thocht to see ye, Or at least to get a line, Tellin hoo the warl went wi ye, Sour an dour, or fair and fine. Epistle to James W. R. Collins. 33 But as weel expect a thoosan Poun s frae aff a tree to pu , As to get a minute s newsin , Wi a busy chiel like you ! Things are aye the same in Camden, Canty are we a and crouse, Happier here by far than cramm d in Some sma Philadelphia hoose ! Winter s back is fairly broken, Birds again begin to sing, And their happy strains betoken, Promise of an early Spring ! Trees that like demented bodies, Naked, braved the wintry storms, In the wealth o Summer duddies, Soon will deck their varied forms ! 3 34 Dreams o Hame. But the subject noo to vary, Lest I tire ye o my skeel What s the news aboot Mt. Airy ? Wife an bairns I trust are weel ? I but noo my jaded Musie s Hints it s time my pen to dicht ; I ll alloo I m gettin droosy, So I guess I ll say Gude-Nicht ! March, 1892. 35 UP AN WAUR THEM A , WILLIE! (Inscribed to General William T, Sherman, and read by Mr. Andrew Carnegie at the New York Burns Celebration^ i8go.) Up an waur them a , Willie ! Up an waur them a , In mony a splore ye ve done t afore Withoot a bit to blaw, Willie ! Ye crack d the croons o thrawart loons, And laid them doon the law, Willie, By deed an word by pen an sword, Till nane daur d say ye Na, Willie ! Up an waur them a , Willie ! Up an waur them a , In fields o war a brichter star Than yours we never saw, Willie ! 36 Dreams o Hame. And noo in peace ye shine, the same As in the years awa , Willie, Wi spotless fame and deathless name, The brawest o the braw, Willie ! Up an waur them a , Willie ! Up an waur them a , The valiant warrior Scots of old, Your glorious feats reca , Willie ! Ye took command that better days For rich and poor micht daw , Willie, And South and North they sing your worth, In Cottage and in Ha , Willie ! Up an waur them a , Willie ! Up an waur them a , Wi leave to follow at your heel, Withoot a thocht ava , Willie, Up an y waur them a\ Willie! 37 We d nae be fley d to face the Deil, And gie his neck a thraw, Willie, * O, he that winna wish ye weel, Misfortune be his fa , Willie ! Up an waur them a , Willie ! Up an waur them a , Thrice worthy o Columbia s praise, And Caledon s hurrah, Willie ! May ye hae wealth o happy days, Hoots ! Years a score or twa, Willie, And gin the Fates should send ye faes Up an waur them a , Willie ! * In a note acknowledging copy of Poem, the gallant old veteran wrote I hope to outflank the Deil for some years yet. " OOR BAIRNIE. O, WE hae got a bairnie, Noo twice a towmond duld, And tho I wrote a beukfu , His worth could nae be tauld ; He s worth the hale wide warl , Oor curly-heided bairnie There ne er was sic a carle. And we hae had oor bairnie Richt nearly frae us ta en, And couldna tell the joy we felt When he cam roun again ; When he cam roun aince mair, Oor bonnie lauchin bairnie That Death saw fit to spare ! Oor Bairnie. 39 Lang life to you, dear bairnie, And ilka good that gangs To those that lichten labour, And saften poortith s stangs ! May Fate for you provide, In proper time sic bairnie To brichten your fireside ! WHAUR SUMMER DAYS ARE LANG. (Ktncluny, Durris^ by the Dee.) THEIR day s wark past they noo convene To test upon the village green, Or some bit field upon the fairm Their speed o fit and strength o airm ! Within the lythe o yon dykeside, Wi vetchy, girss an gowans pied, His collie couched his legs between The fairmer views the sportive scene. Nae Show within a Playhouse wa s Whaur Puppets strut to win applause, But Nature s bairns, weel-knit, weel-faur d, Disportin on the velvet sward ! Whaur Summer Days are Lang. 41 To beat the record unco fain Here s Sandy strugglin wi the Stane : Upon ae fit he mintin Stan s, The wish d-for point sedately scans, Syne bangin up against the butt Wi a his pith put in the putt, Forth like a flash the Stane lats fung That owre the foremost dings the dung ! There, Jamie jumpin at the bar, And fley d he canna rise sae far, Strips aff his claes to sark an breeks, A stick in ilka nivelock cleeks, An rushin forrit, fierce as win , Determination in his chin, Tak s in the heicht wi practis d e e, Syne wi a jerk that few can gie Gangs owre the ploo-rein like a bird An wi a yark fa s in the yird ! 42 Dreams o Hame. Heck yonder at the Haimmer flings, Thrice roun his head the wheel-bush swings, Syne lats it lowss wi a his micht And gars it some twa inches licht Got owre the farrest " clean-throw " mark That has been notit by the Clark ; A hint as Heck nae blate proclaims To try his luck at neist years Games, For he micht prove the chiel to win The Championship frae Davidson ! O, happy are they ane an a ! Some pitch the wechts, some bat the ba ; Some rax their legs hop-step-and-leap ; Some rin till in a sweat they dreep ; Some thro the core on stilparts stump ; Some shoeless, hoseless, close-fit jump ; Some brak the posts and pailin bars In tossin cabers to the stars ; Bob, vaunty, vaultin , pole in han , Whaur Summer Days are Lang. 43 Will talc nae tips frae ony man ; Some tak a canny game at Quoits, (The king o sports for skill s exploits !) Frae clay to clay to mak a score For oors they trachle back an fore, Debatin " points " an " ringers " won, Till darkness gars them quit the fun. For noo Mirk on the scene has crap The sun s lang sunk o er Morven s Tap ; The stars are startin frae the cloods, The owls are hootin thro the woods ; Rats frae the rucks begin to peer, And for the dam their courses steer ; Doun in the sandy, saughy heugh Dee seems to rin wi safter sough ; Frae mossy bogs the puddicks croak, Syne tykes to stint o barkin yoke ; The bauky bird flees roun their heids As frae the field the auld man leads 44 Dreams o Hame. And to the kitchy or the barn, His booit blinkin like a starn, Conveys them whaur the lasses free Are met to help gar evening flee ! There to the fiddler s rantin strain, They dance and rest and dance again ; Unvex d by warldly cark or care, Noo here a Speech, noo there a Sang, The whyle they are forgaither d there As happy as the days are lang ! 45 PSALM I. Tune French. BLESS D is the man that tak s nae stock In what the godless say ; Wha wadna trock wi sinfu folk, Nor seek to walk their way ! Wha sitsna in the big bow-chair The scornfu like to fill, But mak s his care aye mair and mair To work the Maister s will ! Wha never tynes it frae his sicht At hame or far awa , But in daylicht and in midnicht Keeps thinkin on God s law ! 46 Dreams o Hame. That man shall flourish like the tree That grows beside a burn, Whaur fruit we see aye hingin free As summer days return ! A tree whose leaves shall ne er be lost Tho ithers boughs be clean, But braw may boast thro sun and frost A glossy robe o green ! That man may gang to sell or buy And still good luck command, Yea, may rely whate er he try Shall prosper in his hand ! But nae the men that Conscience droon And steep themsel s in sin, They ll stoyter roun till they gang doon Like stooks afore the win ! Psalm I. Nor will the wicked be alloo d In Paradise to dwell, For God hath voo d nane but THE GOOD Shall sit beside HimseP ! 47 A NICHT WI BURNS. To the Tune of " Cauld Kail Het Owre Again." O, WHA can put in words the pain a book-worm has to bear When some rare gem, lang socht in vain, is met and miss d aince mair ! And whatna tongue can tell the joy that in a capture lies ? It s pleasure pure, withoot alloy, to him wha pu s the prize. On sic a catch the tither nicht, in HIGHLAND S book- rooms braw, By some expert s rare oversicht it was my luck to fa : Auld Caledon s Antiquities; by Captain Francis Grose Sae plentiful in things to please, sae scant in fau ts to gloze ! A Nicht wf Burns. 49 As in the garret by mysel I daur d its worth to pree, It tookna lang to cast the spell of aulden times on me. I soon was wafted to the days when Pencil, Pen and Sword Commingled in a glorious blaze around Glenriddel s board. I saw the host, a sodger bricht ; the famous fairmer chiel, Hob-nob wi oor fat fodgel wicht, the Knight o Caulk and Keel. Head held to head, I saw them pore on some rare pictur d page, And set the table in a roar wi comments saut and sage. Hoo lang I wander d in the Past is yet to me unknown, But Sleep her robe had o er me cast ere half the nicht had flown ; And O the glorious glints and gleams revealed to Fancy s sicht, 5O Dr earns 6 1 Hame. As through the witchin land o dreams she waved her fairy licht ! I hear the Laird his wit ootpoor on bygane deeds and times, And hear the hero o the hoor rehearse his latest rhymes ; And, tho the pipes and bottles shak at Grose s least guffaws, I trow he s neither sweir nor slack to gie the lines applause. Anon they fret and fume and fuss o er some historic lees ; But Fate (alas, twas ever thus !) a change o scene decrees : Just as the antiquarians big began a gran debate I wauken d up to hear a gig come birlin to my gate ; And hardly had the echoin street gi en place to peace aince mair When step by step twa pair o feet cam trampin up the stair ; A Nicht ivi Burns. 51 I hear a hand for entrance ca ; the knob roun half-way turns, Wide swings the door against the wa , and in strides ROBERT BURNS ! As on the bed his plaid he coost I kent the Poet weel Frae mony a portrait reproduced in stooka, stane and steel. Anither bard made up the twae, and nae unwelcome guest, Rare SANDY WILSON in his day to Burns the second best ! Upon his back he bore a gun ; birds frae his belt hung doun ; Columbia s, Caledonia s son that sleeps in Penn s auld toun ! The strangers e ed me for a while, and ne er a word we spak Till Burns stapt forrit wi a smile, and thus begoud the crack : 52 Dreams o Hame. Burns. " Fear not my friend ! for naething wrang my trip to you shall bode ; - And Wilson here, he cam alang as kennin best the road ! We aft hae watched ye at your wark, and pleased to see the same, . A score o times we ve made remark, Some nicht we ll seek his hame ; And so to send a sign before, last week we gave decree That you should licht upon the lore that was so dear to me. Here s Francie s auld familiar text ; shortsyne I left himsel Collectin data for his next, Antiquities o well, We ll tak oor seats." Wilson. Says Wilson: "Ay What Rabbie says is true ; A towmond back I ll nae deny this trip we ve had in view. A Nicht wf Burns. 53 I ve seen you scan my youthfu lays that Fate has failed Wilso to kill, And heard the hinnied words o praise ye pass d upon my skill ; And when I saw you come yestreen, by ruth and rev rence led, And drap a tear upon the stane that shields my narrow bed, In flesh and bluid aince mair array d I voo d to leave my biel And thank you for the love display d that only bards can feel." Here Burns took up the ancient tome, and restin t on Burns his knee : " Nae mair to Romans was their Rome than this auld work to me ! I mind, as thro the leaves I look, my greatest, grandest lay, 54 Dreams o Hame. Burns. Betwixt the brods o this braw beuk first saw the licht o day ! Here Tarn o Shanter cam to life beside the banks o Ayr, Alang \vi Kate the gentle wife his drinkin tried sae sair." Wilson. " An Souter Johnny, drouthy carle, here made his maiden boo, To stoyter henceforth thro the warl wi swats and whiskey fu . The cosey Ale-house ingle seat ; the landlord s laugh sae clear ; The maut-wife s favours, secret, sweet, were first encounter d here. Here Usquebae, fiends couldna fleg, first hove upon our sicht, And here Tarn s mere, immortal Meg, first took her fearsome flicht ! " A Nicht wi Burns. 55 " The painfu pairtin at the inn, the keystane o the .Burns nicht, The thunder s dread and dreary din, the lichtnin s glancin bricht ; Weird sichts the bauldest he rts micht fear, alang the turnpike lined, In haunted howes and hillocks here first flashed upon the mind. Here first did dubs and darkness strive to stay my hero s speed, And wind connive wi rain to rive the bonnet frae his heid ; Here first the valiant Tammas saw the gleam amang the trees, And here the sacred biggin s wa first burst into a bleeze ! " " Here first before the ruined pile, despisin weet and Wilson cauld, Tarn airtit Maggie thro the stile, by Barleycorn made bauld ; 56 Dreams o Hame. Wilson. Retauld in rhymes a thoosand times, here first fowk cam to learn The gruesome sichts that thro the lichts the twasome could discern." Burns. " Deep dyed in gore, grim tools o strife were ranged aroun the room Keen blades that snap the threads o life before the pirns are toom ! And dainteths there, e en deils micht please, in ilka neuk were stuck, Frae tongues o lawyers lined wi lees, to priests he rts black as muck."* Wilson. " On wrecks o tables, strewn aboot, lay limbs frae young and auld, Enough to mak the hair stan oot an gar the blood rin cauld ! * To be found only in the Grose copy of " Tam o Shanter." A Nicht wt Burns. 57 Warlocks and witches in their mids, white corpses there Wilson. by croods, In coffins black, withoot the lids, were standin in their shroods ! Alang the wa s, in ghastly bands (while fairies dreel d and danced), They waved the blue lichts in their hands and stared like folk entranced ! Here Hornie in the winnock sole first burst upon our view, And daur d to show his visage droll as piper to the crew. His pooer and pathos can we gauge, wha made the auld kirk dirl ? E en yet, whene er we turn the page, we hear his chanter skirl ! We see him wale his choicest tunes, and launch them frae the laft, Till wi the magic o his soun s the dancers a gang daft : Noo het and reekin at their pranks the Kitties cast their claes, 58 Dreams d Hame. Wilson. And Nannie wi the souple shanks her cuttie sark displays ! Aboon the loodest o them a we hear her yelp and yell But, mair than e er the fairmer saw, we see brave Tarn himsel ; We see him feast upon the splore till sicht and senses soom, And hear him roar the bauld encore that signall d forth his doom ! " Burns. fhe music stops ! the lichts gang oot ! our hero hame- ward wheels, But barely gets his beast aboot, when whoop ! they re at his heels ; Auld Cloots and a his hellish crew, wi Nanny in the lead Ah, Tam ! ah, Tarn ! your Maggie noo maun show her utmost speed ! " Wilson. " O, sic a race and sic a rate nae mortal saw before, And Time, its maister or its mate, shall witness never more ! A Nicht wi Burns. 59 Puir Tarn ! His he rt gangs duntin sair at ilka splash Wilson. and spang, As swift the carlins cleave the air wi horrid clash and clang. Skelp ! flee they on thro sleet and slime, wi mony a tack and turn, Nane gainin time nor losin time until they sicht the burn, When Nanny spurts for Tammie s pow, to flay him like a pig, And fleet as arrow frae the bow Meg bounds across the brig! Safe, by her hinmost dreadfu jump, she brocht her rider hale, But only noo can cock a stump whaur aince she shook a tail, For Nannie, sweir to sacrifice baith Tam and Nick s esteem, Claught Maggie s besom in her vice afore she cross d the stream ! 60 Dreams o Hame. Wilson. And Tarn ! He voos, as prood he dichts frae Meg the flecks o faem, His spates and sprees on market nichts henceforth he ll haud at hame ! " Then shield the book frae crack, and crease, nor seek your praise to stint, For here our Maister s maister-piece first saw the licht o print ! " Burns. " And never while oor hamely Scotch is read in verse or prose May cauld Oblivion drive his coach across the realms o Grose ! " At this, by some unchancie means, my lamp began to gloom, I raised my head to find my frien s had vanished frae the room, A Nicht wi Burns. 61 I heard a soond like muffled drums and pibrochs in the air, And lookin oot, aboon the lums that line the Delaware, I saw a fleece o gowden fire gang trailin o er the toun, And by the auld Swedes Chapel spire * a siller star drap doun ! Syne up the howe, like funeral knells, resoundin in a raw, North Camden s drowsy clocks and bells proclaimed the hour o twa ; But o er the Jersey meadows green the fiery dawn had sped Ere, musing on the midnicht scene, I creepit to my bed ! * Wilson is buried in the Old Swedes Churchyard, Philadelphia. 62 EPISTLE TO JOHN SHEDDEN. (On receiving a kindly letter anent the foregoing poem. } DEAR FRIEN , I ll male nae lang palaiver Or seek to deave ye wi a haver O sweetly clinkit clish-ma-claiver, To show my airt, But thank you for your gracious favor Wi a my he rt ! Yet, man, your style ye put sic viv in, I tak your praise wi some misgivin ; To gie a Rhymer when he s livin Sae heich a waft, An me that s hardly got my niv in, Ye maun be daft ! Epistle to John Skedden. 63 Since Time began, whate er the cause, It s fix d as ane o Nature s laws To stint the Poet o applause As weel as bread, Until he fills the maggot s maws Amang the dead ! And when he s fairly o er the burn Withoot the sma est chance to turn, There s coontless thoosan s gleg to mourn The clever cheil, And big a costly Vase or Urn Aboon his biel ! Were gifted Mac.,* your busy frien That rules Instruction s fair demesne, *Dr. James MacAlister, now President of Drexel Institute then Superintendent of Education, Philadelphia. 64 Dreams c? Hame. Wi jist ae half your kindly een To view my Lay, I d face the warl wi face serene For mony a day. I think mysel (conceit, Fse warran !) The Piece, tho maybe something daurin , An here an there thro fau ties glaurin Some oot o joint, Is nae jist a thegither barren O pith and point ! O, man, to spen a week at hame In that dear land I needna name, Whaur first I woo d wi rustic fame The Doric Muse, Three times the wealth that I can claim I d nae refuse ! I then inspired by scenes sublime Micht gie ye something worth your time, Epistle to Joint Shedden. 65 But in this foreign prosy clime I maist despair To get my Fancy workin prime Forever mair ! Dame Fortune s but a spitefu witch To dird a fallow in the ditch, And syne for fear he may get rich Ev n howkin there, Infect him wi the poet s itch To keep him bare ! Could I but wander at my swing Withoot a thocht but live and sing, Oor mither tongue ance mair would ring To lands remote ; But warldly cares they clog the wing, And cramp the note ! 5 66 Dreams d Hame. Yet never mind ! Tho poortith s stang Eenoo may cause an antrin pang, Mair fruitfu days may come or lang To creesh my ban , And I, content, will lilt my sang Until they dawn ! 6 7 SONG THE BONNY LASS BEYOND THE SEA. SHE S far awa , the lass I lo e, Across the wild Atlantic s faem ; Nae Scotia but Columbia noo The fairest o the fair can claim : O, Fortune sairly is to blame Sic cruel fate to fa to me, By poortith doom d to mourn at hame The bonny lass ayont the sea ! As dowff I daunder by the burn Whaur aft we met, but noo nae mair, Aye thinkin whan will she return Hope fa s nae fit to fecht despair ! Like ghaists they haunt me late an ear , 68 Dreams o Name. The dreary days I still maun dree, The ragin waves she yet maun dare, The bonny lass ayont the sea ! Wi achin he rt I pass d yestreen Her father s steadin , and the ha That used to blink sae blythe an bien Look d unco bare wi her awa : Baith but an ben as cauld as snaw Without the glamourie o her e e, The pride, the flow r, the queen o a , The bonny lass ayont the sea ! Yon chiel that to the yokin goes, At set o sun his labors cease ; The gloamin brings him sweet repose, But nae for me sic blest release. I waukrif toyte frae bed to deece, The Bonny Lass Beyond the Sea. 69 Till dawn has knockt the nicht ajee She s spoilt my rest and wreckt my peace The bonny lass ayont the sea ! Ye Powers that feel for lovers leal, Afore wi dool I fairly dee, Bring back to bide by Bogieside The bonny lass beyond the sea ! EPISTLE TO W. E. GLADSTONE. WHILE laith to gie her men and deeds A patriotic blaw, Daft pride o country sometimes leads A fool to get a fa ! Shortsyne, in writin to a frien On Scotia s favor d lot, I had the impudence, I ween, To claim you as a Scot ! But lately, sir, the Southron clan Wi greed are grown sae bauld, They coont you as their countryman, Whilk gars the North look cauld ! Epistle to W. E. Gladstone. 71 Ye speak o Caledonia stern Sae couthie and sae kind, I ve look d upon you as her bairn Since ever I can mind. Wha lives, I ask, can speak like you, Wi sense and style sae grand, On a that loyal Scotsmen lo e Wha camna frae the land Whaur Bruce and Wallace drained their veins To richt the tyrant s wrangs, Whaur Scott and Burns in hamely strains Pour d oot immortal sangs ? But why the sad conclusion shun ? Soon came the Cockney sneer : " In England born the records run " And I to own am sweir ! He s English born tho that be true, A Scotchman is he still, His blood is ours and breedin too, Or I hae tint my skill ! 72 Dreams d Hame. Hoo far I m richt, an wrang hoo far, There s nae ane here can tell, And hence I thocht I micht do waur Than leave it to yoursel ; So gin ye find the time somehow To put me oot o pain, Whatever wye ye redd the row Your friend shall nae complain ! * * See Appendix B. 73 TO A BURNS CONTEMPORARY OF MY ACQUAINTANCE. COME, here s my hand, auld Toddy Quech, Frae Tarn o Shanter s Inn at Ayr, There s mony a chiel would puff and pech To male yoursel his loving care, And may the Quaker City Scot, That winna toast ye, go to pot ! O, gin we here could conjure up The Souter and his crony Tarn, And set them roun this pewter cup, And watch them at their famous dram, That had an end, to say the least, That made immortal man and beast ! 74 Dreams d Hame. As in a dream we seem to see The kebbuck heel, the tappit hen, And hear the landlord in his glee Awake the echoes but and ben ; Altho withoot the tempest rair d, Within they neither kent nor cared. We see the Souter draw the bung And, hidlins, tak the tither skyte To weet his whistle, lowse his tongue, And moistify his gizzen d kyte ; And hear him, as he prees the maut, Proclaim it fau tless to a fau t ! We see Tarn as he laughs and chats, Withoot a thocht o Kate or hame, And sips the barmy reamin swats, And blaws awa the froth and faem, And hear him ring for mountain dew, For ale gets wersh when fowk get fou ! To a Burns Contemporary. 75 But noo it s half a score o howps, Whaur ane afore wad brawly sair, So jills lead on to mutchkin stoups, And mutchkin stoups to something mair ; For only when the pig rins dry They condescend to say Goodbye ! When thae rare worthies met to crack, And tauld their stories turn aboot, Auld Mug ye sat, wi humpy back, And drank in ilka word nae doot ; Guid faith, ye noo micht raise a reek Gin ye made up yer mind to speak ! Oor Poet voos he fand the Muse At times amang the barley-bree ; Come tell s Did Robbie Burns carouse In public howffs wi sic as thee ? Nay, Did he ever press his mou Against the very lips o YOU ? 76 Dreams o Hame. Did Holy Willie whyles drap in To fill his Tassie or his Horn, And end by fillin up his skin, And campin in the ditch forlorn, The whyle he sang wi pious stress "High is the rank we now possess" ? O, hoo we envy you sic nichts As when the Poet wad convene Wi Aiken, Gaun, and ither Hchts, To drink the health o Bonny Jean ; And mix the glasses clink at times Wi clink o sweetly rinnin rhymes ! Noo gane are a the daft, the douce, The rich, the poor, the guid, the ill But YOU ! weel primed wi amber juice, As spruce and sprightly are ye still As when the bard, beside your lug, Drank inspiration frae the Jug ! To a Burns Contemporary. 77 Lang may ye come to circle roun Amang the cronies centred here,* And link oor city wi the toon To Scots and Scotland ever dear, But dearest as the day returns That dates the birth of Robert Burns ! * Read at the Eighth Annual Banquet of the Tarn o Shanter Club of Philadelphia, 1891. SONG THE MILLER O HIRN! (To James Scott- Skinner \ Composer of the Tune.) THE fiddlin Muse sae sweet an braw, Tho mony try to win her, OJ On nane her favors will bestaw Except a Scot ca d Skinner, O ! Slee Jamie kent the wye to woo, And tho she whyles wad girn, O, His daring frae the lassie drew The Miller o the Him, O ! Hech hey ! the sweet strathspey, The lythesome, blythesome Him, O ! Whate er ye gie O play to me The Miller o the Him, O ! The Miller tf Him ! 79 It is an air micht move a saunt, Forbye a graceless sinner, O ! And bards o gratitude are scant That wadna praise oor Skinner, O ! May joys come to him ilka day, Till he has toom d life s pirn, O ! Lang may he live amang s to play The Miller o the Him, O ! Hich hey ! the grand strathspey, The slashin , dashin Hirn, O ! The fire d Feugh is in its sough The Miller o the Hirn, O ! When first I heard the famous spring I liked its cheerin binner, O ! And noo I wad gie onything To hear it play d by Skinner, O ! Nae better lilt s upon the roun To lichten labor s birn, O ! 8o Dreams d Hame. Care flees afore his glorious tune, The Miller o the Him, O ! Hoich hey ! the fine strathspey, The slidin , glidin Him, O ! I d trudge a day to hear him play The Miller o the Him, O ! Guid fiddlers noo are hard to get, And aye they re growin thinner, O ! But ne er will Caledonians fret As lang s we hae oor Skinner, O ! And for a strain we needna grane, We hinna far to kirn, O ! Afore we get ane o his ain, The Miller o the Him, O ! Heech hey ! the bauld strathspey ! Inspiring firin Him, O ! It fills us thro , fair fiddlin 1 fu , The Miller o the Him, O ! The Miller d Him. 81 Ye dons that deftly dirl the bow, And you but raw beginners, O ! Steek nae a styme till ye ca throw This maister-piece o Skinner s, O ! As lang s the raffy, royal Dee Roars by the rock and fern, O ! Will Scotia s foremost Schottische be The Miller o the Him, O ! Hooch hey ! the rare strathspey, The warmin , charmin Him, O ! The pick an wyle o Britain s Isle, The Miller o the Him, O ! 82 A FEW WORDS TO WALT WHITMAN. " Stranger, if you passing meet me, and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me ? " " And why should I not speak to you ? " W. W. LANGSYNE, in far aff Aiberdeen, I mind it jist as weel s yestreen, The very day I set my een Upon your book ; And aye sin syne I ve bless d the frien That made me look. It took I own nae little while Your ways and mine to reconcile, But in the end ye could beguile An evening fine ; And noo your stuff, if nae your style, I think divine ! A Few Words to Walt Whitman. 83 Hale towmonds three hae jinkit roun Sin hopes o gear wi 7 witchin soun Enticed me frae the Granite Toun On Scotia s shore, And set me wi a dirdum doun Beside your door ! And, man, it s odd, for a oor tramps, That you and I should pitch oor camps In this dull land o sand and swamps Whaur undevall d Malarial chills and colic cramps Rack young and auld ! To write you aft I ve tried in vain, And never mair I will maintain Was humble rustic Poet fain Since time began, But aye my hamely simple strain Held back my han . 84 Dreams a 1 Hame. I maist had own d my Musie cow d, Tho sairly had the jaud been jow d, When chance into my clutches row d An auld Review* And there I read a cunning strowd That cam frae you. It spak o Robin Burns frae Ayr My country s pride, beyond compare !- Wi sic appreciation rare In ilka pairt, Frae that time onwards, I declare, I gather d he rt ! And, noo that I hae gane so far, Tho neither ribbon, rose nor star * North American Review for Nov., 1886; "Robert Burns as Poet and Person," by Walt Whitman. A Few Words to Walt Whitman. 85 Frae Empress, Kaiser, King or Czar My breast bedecks, To you a brither bard I daur To pay respec s ! Let ithers wait till ye gang hence Afore they sing your Wit and Sense, I sanna swither to dispense My tribute noo, And hope ye winna tak offence At what s your due ! When first your Lay went o er the Water I trow it raised an unco clatter, And few there were inclined to flatter We must confess. While some declared you were a Satyr, And naething less ! Ev n here, at hame, it was decreed Sic strains could only weel proceed 86 Dreams d Hame. Frae some half-filled or jummelt heid, An , faith, for lang They tried their best by stint o breid To check your sang ! But Age cam in wi kindly frost, And as in peace your taes you toast, Frae Jersey to the Western Coast Nae ither name Can a Columbia s annals boast To match your fame ! Lang may you live unscaithed by care Beside the queenly Delaware, And a your days bring rowth o fare As past they flie ; Syne at the finish may ye share The Life on Hie, Amang the Stars that nevermair Can dwine or die ! SONG JOHNNY YET! I VE traivell d in my time afar, But never met wi ony That I would tak , for good for waur, Afore my mannie, Johnny ! Tho weel I lo e oor bairnies braw, And we ve had bairnies mony, I lo e himseP abune them a He s first and best, my Johnny ! As Life s lang road we ve warslt doon, Thro smooth and stiff and stony, So far he s brocht me safe an soun , And still I ll trust my Johnny ! 88 Dreams d Hame. Altho to you he s bald and bow d, To me he s blythe and bonny, And since my he rt he firstlin s jow d I ve met wi nane like Johnny ! There s gowd on merrie England s shore, And gear in Caledonie, But I would spurn it three times o er Than live withoot my Johnny ! Tho Death, I hope, may spare us lang, When doon he cuts my crony, Where er the laddie has to gang I ll share his fate, my Johnny ! 8 9 WORLD S FAIR SCOTTISH GAMES. IN 93 the fun we ll see Needs nae great Exposition, Gin half the plans in clever han s Should ever reach fruition ; For then we ll view in coontless droves The cultured and the raw go Frae oot their native glens and groves To rally in Chicago ! O, wha need try to lichtlify The Exhibition s greatness, Or seek to hint there s ocht that s in t That s typical o blateness ? 9O Dreams tf Hame. Some fain would hurt wha can but hiss, So jouk and let their jaw go, There hae been lots o Fairs ere this, But only ae Chicago ! Frae far and near upon our sphere Doun to the least iota Nae bit o grun that greets the sun Will fail to send its quota. We ll see the doctor and divine, The learned in the law go, And mony a ane o humbler kin Assemble in Chicago ! There will be Kings and sic like things Nae doot amang the ferlies, And Dukes and Lords wi stars and swords, And Marquises and Earlies : World s Fair Scottish Games. 91 But come they when they like, say I, Let Sultan or let Shah go, I question if they rate as high As mony in Chicago ! There INDUSTRY will vie with ART To show our planet s glories, And SCIENCE too will play her part And tell her wondrous stories ! But nane o a thae sichts ava, Whaur bonny and whaur braw go, Will match the squads o kilted lads Competin in Chicago ! Auld CALEDON strike up your drone And bid the Clansmen muster, And pity tak the senseless pack That tries to dim your lustre ! 92 Dreams o Hame. Unconquer d yet for brawn or brain, Frae Cottage or frae Ha go, We ll trust ye still to baud your ain At hame or in Chicago ! Wae worth the sour and sulky boor Wha wadna cross the ocean To see the GAMES Columbia claims Will ding the wildest notion ! Whaur those wha seek the Scot to fash Will in the stirkie s sta go, And ilka nerve be strained to smash The records at Chicago ! O Land o Cakes, the Toun o Lakes * Wi you will nae be sparin , Ye ll nae gae wrang whaure er ye gang But meet wi royal fairin ! * The Modern Venice. World s Fair Scottish Games. 93 The Highland boys of Illinois Will watch you till your wa go, And gi e ye joy without alloy As lang s ye re in Chicago ! Then here s good luck to Scotland s week And a that then forgaither, And may our Patron Saint bespeak Good health and pleasant weather ! For SCOTIA S sons throughout the world In 93 will a go To see the LION FLAG unfurled Wi honours in CHICAGO ! 94 NURSERY SONG THE BOWGIE O THE LUM. MY bairnies, noo, it s time for bed ; guid-nicht to din- some play ; Come roun my knee and rest yoursel s, you ve rompit a the day ; Frae morn to noon and noon to nicht, thro sunshine and thro rain, Your steer is like to fell the hoose and turn my very brain ; While sings the kettle on the crook to pussy s cheerfu thrum, I ll tell you o a little man, the Bowgie o the Lum ! Tho hardly bigger than the ba ye bounce upon the green, He has a score o cockin lugs an half a hunner een ! The Bowgie o the Lum. 95 And owre his humpy-dumpy back hangs danglin like a tail A sooty pock sae braid an lang that it could haud a whale ! Ye wadna seek twa sichts o him for ane wad mak ye dumb, Ae blink o this wee mannikie, the Bowgie o the Lum ! A day he doses in his name amang the curlin reek, I ve seen his den when lookin whyles whaur young folk maunna keek ; But when the mirk begins to fa and grass to kep the dew He sprachles doon to look aboot for little weans like you ! When bairns are sweir to gang to bed ah, then he s sure to come, The little wee bit mannikie, the Bowgie o the Lum ! He jouks aboot the ingle-side, and glowers at young and auld; And tho he s but a little mite he s like a lion bauld ! 96 Dreams o Hame. He ll hae ye whistlin thro the air afore ye weel could wink, And talc ye to a cauldrif biel wi neither meat nor drink ; The nicht he s prowlin thro the toun, short-syne I heard his hum, The jinkin , jumpin mannikie, the Bowgie o the Lum ! When pillow d heads the Bowgie sees, he to his hame will creep He maunna crook a scratty paw on bairns that want to sleep ; But greetin geets he ll rin to meet frae miles ayont the moon, And woe betide the waukrif wean that winna cuddle doon ! Eenoo, impatient for a trip, I hear him beat his drum ; Then tak your choice a cosy cot, or Bowgie and the Lum ! 97 EPISTLE TO "LA TESTE." " Stand still, true POET that you are ! I know you ; let me try and draw you. Some night you ll fail us ; when afar You rise, remember one man saw you Knew you and named a STAR ! " BROWNING. HAIL, wise and witty WILLIE LA, Lane Lav rock o the North ! Good luck was wi the tenty twa That sent your volume forth. It fairly cam withoot a flaw For a the jump gigantic Across the wild Atlantic To me sae far awa ! 7 98 Dreams <? Hame. O, rarely fand I sic a feast Betwixt a beukie s brods ; For weel ye ken sin RAB S deceast- The Scottish Homer nods Aye twa three dizzen lines at least For ane that s worth the printin , The Doric Musie stintin The Heliconian yeast ! But Laureate o the Lossie s banks, She s been nae skimp wi you ! Frae preface doon to final blanks, Your pen s been fill d sae fu O gritty quips and witty cranks, O prose she maun hae stript it, And in Castalia dipt it, For which my grateful thanks ! Come Critic wi the cankert phiz, Fish oot your fiercest fire ! Epistle to "La Teste" 99 Here bides a Bard that caresna biz For a the help ye hire, To prove those random rhymes o his Are but a lot o claivers ; He weel can hear your havers Whose work immortal is ! My fegs ! he would be hard to please, The coof who still would carp, When in your horny hand you seize Auld Scotia s rustic harp ! Sae tastily ye touch the keys, And aye sae leal and lo esome, Wi sparks frae Nature s bosom Your book is fair ableeze ! Nae thing to sing your genius spurns, Betwixt Time s head and heels, Frae A. B. C. s and Butter Churns To Deities and Deils ! ioo Dreams o 1 Hame. Name ocht : ye tak a twa three turns, And syne set to the spinnin , The rhymes as ready rinnin As e er frae Robbie Burns ! Tho nae court-laurels deck your broo, Nor court-wines mak ye keen, Nae Tennyson can match, I troo, Your lyrics to the QUEEN ! The words come slidin frae your mou Sae lovin and sae loyal, High Chanter o Chants-Royal O er a the lave are you ! For those wi he rts as hard as stane, There s pathos saft as Hood s, Inwoven in your Cripple Wean, On her Amang the Cloods. Epistle to "La Tested 101 The May -Rose in the Kirk-yard Green, The Midnicht Moonlicht Musin s, Will nae need twa perusin s, To draw tears to the een ! And wha can hit the Wit ye pit Into your droll-like Dreams, Or beat the Fancies ye gar flit Thro Schedules and sic themes ? And when your Muse on Skinner-fit, Sae spruce, sae spry gangs prancin , Wha, tho nae don at dancin , Sae sulky as to sit ? Your Fine Arts play I own is great, And grand is Craigeris Kiln I And rich the wye ye castigate, The Saints d 1 Bishopmill I IO2 Dreams d Hame. And wow ! the words that twist and plait, Thro Floater Allan flashing O er howes and hillocks dashin Like Spey when in a spate ! Let some licht-lovin Bible bore, Wha still moves in the mirk, Glance thro your Odes, and he ll deplore, Ye dinna laird a kirk ! For sinners noo may sleep an snore Frae Bell to Benediction ; But nae sic dereliction Should you lat lowss your lore ! Nae Reverend clad in coal-black coat, For a his hoasts and hems, Can mate the cunning hand that wrote Sic paraphrastic gems Epistle to "La Teste" 103 As titles o but twa to quote Christ, Jairu? Dochter Raisin\ Or Eve, Lost Lassie^ gaziri At what her bite had brought ! O, sweetly sing ye a the year Thro pleasure and thro pain ; But keenest lugs we cock to hear When Love inspires the strain ! Nae poet lives your lays can peer, When courtin coosh and canny, Some Nellie or some Nanny, The dearest o the dear ! But hoots ! mair headin s why rehearse ? Thro a your sapience shines ; In Sang as in Memoriam Verse Or vaunty Valentines ! IO4 Dreams d Hame. And tho some may your name asperse For Barley-bree Orations^ Your Templar Exhortations Are neither scant nor scarce ! Elgina ! gin ye think to thrive, Tak warnin frae Dumfries ! Help WILLIE noo, while he s alive, Or henceforth haud your peace ! For just as sure as four s nae five, Till Albion s back be broken, While Scotch is spell d or spoken, His stanzas shall survive ! Nae langer his deserts adjourn, An heap shame on your heid, By raisin Obelisk or Urn For TESTER when he s deid ! Epistle to "La Tested 105 Let Time ne er say ye loot him mourn For bannock in his bossie That sang so sweet by Lossie, Moravia s bonny burn ! But lang may Death defer his claim On you, blythe-hearted WILL ; Yea, may he knock your Gallic name Clean frae his list until I live as lang as Laing * whose fame Has e en been wafted hither ; Syne hand and hand thegither Content we ll hobble hame ! And, dootless, when we cast oor clay, And seraphs stand complete, The reputed Elgin Centenarian. 106 Dreams o Hame. Ye ll find auld scenes we may survey Frae some saft cosey seat, Near-by the glorious Scots wha hae Got their reward before us, To sing wi them in chorus Forever and for aye ! 107 SONG THE LASS I LO E SAE DEARLY, O! WHAUR Dev ron winds thro meadows sweet, When moon and stars shine clearly, O ! I wend my way wi joy to meet The Lassie I lo e dearly, O ! The wind blaws saftly in my face, And a thing aye looks cheerly O ! When I haud for the trystin place To her I lo e sae dearly, O ! Some ither maids I ve seen ca d braw That had but beauty merely, O ! She has been blest aboon them a The Lassie I lo e dearly, O ! io8 Dreams o Hame. I ken that she s a spotless flow r, And trusts me richt sincerely, O ! There s naething ill shall e er come owre The Lass I lo e sae dearly, O ! Tho Fortune s whip may lash me sair, And cut my hopes severely, O ! Gie me but her, I ll seek nae mair, The Lass I lo e sae dearly, O ! 109 BURNS 1892. WHILE o er the earth at festal boards to-night The glasses clink in memory of Burns, Beyond the Statues and the Sculptur d Urns, To dark Dumfries my fancy wings its flight ; And Time reveals in retrospective light A drudging ganger with the poor returns, The slights, the sorrows, and the heartless spurns That seared his soul and dimm d his genius bright ! His richer friends look d kindly on his rhyme, But in his face they shut Preferment s gate ; And yet for all I shall be bold to say : Sweet singing bird he lived before his time, But I believe he shared a better fate Than he would meet with if he came to-day ! January 2$th. 1 10 SONG THE AULD BOW-BRIG. O, THE warl looks braw an bonny To a laddie at the school, For the pleasant spots are mony, And the days unmix d wi dool : I was then as blythe a chappie As a bird upon the twig, And thocht life supremely happy By the Auld Bow-Brig ! It was fun beyond the matchin , Frae the gurglin burnie s side, Little troots an minnies watchin As they play d at seek an hide ; And for oors we d sit an puddle Till the binner o a gig, The Auld Bow-Brig. m Sent us aff like sheep to huddle Neath the Auld Bow-Brig ! Tho oor backs we had to double, And oor legs we had to pairt, We got paid for a oor trouble In the crossin o a cairt ; And oor feet they wadna sattle, But for joy would dance a jig, When the four-wheel d bus would rattle Owre the Auld Bow-Brig ! Growin aulder in the day-time, It was aft oor stampin grun , Tho it drew us near at nae time Like the aifter-supper fun : By the unpretentious Packet I ve had mony a rantin rig, And mony a merry racket By the Auld Bow-Brig ! 112 Dreams d Hame. But twas sweetest in the gloamin , When the days were warm an lang, Wi a lassie to gang roamin Whaur the water sung its sang ; Ev n the Laird o Clova s treasures, They were held nae worth a fig, When put up against the pleasures By the Auld Bow-Brig ! Noo the sea s betwixt us" roarin , And has been for mony a year, But in dreams I m aften soarin To the scenes I lo e sae dear ; And I ll never seek to grum le, Be my fortune sma or big, While my he rt can catch the rum le Frae the Auld Bow-Brig ! IN MEMORIAM JOHN SHEDDEN. I DID not know him in his fiery prime But in the golden gloaming of his days, And all in vain my halting muse essays To sum his virtues in my feeble rhyme. A Scotchman first and last and all the time He never wearied in his words of praise For Caledonia and her deathless lays, Tho long an exile from his native clime. His head was keen, his heart of purest ore, His hand unsullied in the storm and strife, But ever ready at Oppression s cry : Farewell, old friend ! Tho here we ll meet no more, With those who felt the influence of your life While memory lives your name can never die ! AT THE LAYING OF THE CORNER STONE, NEW CALEDONIAN CLUB HALL, OF PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A. (Read by the Rev. A. Alison, D.D.) * FOUR hundred years have, come and gone, Since brave Columbus from the shores Of our Old World, by pushing on, Flung wide a New World s doors. And while throughout our hemisphere, The people all their homage pay, We Scots have special reason here To celebrate the day. * On Oct. 19, 92, 40Oth Anniversary of the Landing of Columbus. Laying of the Corner- Stone. 115 With modern needs to keep in pace, From house to house no more to roam, At last we ve found a resting-place, A spot to call our home ! We leave the past without regret, And climbing up to greater heights, To-day our Corner-Stone we set, And trim afresh our lights. Now very soon to cheer our eyes, In grander style than we have known, A Caledonian Hall shall rise, That we ll be proud to own. Here in this cosy, snug retreat, Thro summer s sun and winter s snaw, May Scotsmen brither Scotsmen meet To whyle an oor awa . li6 Dreams o Hame. The auld may here at their command, Hae nichts to mak them young again, And youth will find that we hae plann d, For brawn as weel as brain ! Henceforth may ilka member strive To keep dissensions from our gate, That more than ever we may thrive In all that s good and great. Columbia treats her strangers weel, The /anger kent she grows mair dear, And off the heath nae Scot can feel So much at hame as here ! Pure mirth may dance while music pipes, Until they rock the biggin s wa s, But temper wi the Stars and Stripes, The Rampant Lion s paws ! Laying of the Corner- Stone. 117 To-day four hundred years ago, With booming guns and flags unfurl d, Columbus, as the records show, First landed on our world. Like him our luck we sought to force, And left old barriers far behind, Expecting on our Western course A better sphere to find. Lo, Fortune has proved kind indeed, And starting from this favor d date, A Golden Era shall succeed The structure we create ! Long may we meet, a grateful band, To bless the fates that cheer d our way, And brought us to our Promised Land Upon Columbus Day ! CRADLE SONG HUSHIE BA-LOO ! HUSHIE ba-loo, my bairnie, Lay your headie doun, Steek baith your een and look to nane O a thae things aroun . I ll hap your handles owre again, Syne kiss your hinny mou , Then lang an deep, O may ye sleep, Hushie ba, my bairnie, Hushie ba-loo ! Hushie ba-loo, my lammie, Noo ye maunna greet, Or Mam may tak her cuddles back And put ye in the street. Hushie Ba-Loo ! 119 Na, peace be here ! sic threats need fear Nae diltit dear like you Hushie ba, my bairnie, Hushie ba-loo ! Hushie ba-loo, my pettie, Lo ! he s fa n awa ! Aboon his plaid ae hand is laid As white as drifted snaw. His cheeks are twa wee roses red, And owre his shinin broo, Like rings o gowd the curls are row d- Hushie ba, my bairnie, Hushie ba-loo ! Hushie ba-loo, my troutie, See his facie beams ! His poutin mou is pairted noo, He s lauchin in his dreams ! I2O Dreams d Hame. O, vvha could miss sic honey d bliss, As this ripe kiss to pu ? Hushie ba, my bairnie, Hushie ba-loo ! Hushie ba-loo, my birdie, Cosy as a king, My little doo is nestled noo, On slumber s silky wing. The rhythm o his balmy breath, Like music thrills me thro , As calm and fair he dozes there- Hushie ba, my bairnie, Hushie ba-loo ! Hushie ba-loo, my laddie, Prince o babies a , I dinna speir that rowth o gear May to your portion fa ; Hushie Ba-Loo ! 121 But when a man aye may"ye stan Amang the good and true, Hushie ba-loo, my bairnie, Hushie ba-loo ! 122 ABOOT OOR DOG. (Not an Allegory.) SAX year or mair we d keepit hoose, A couple weel contentit, And nae a man nor wife mair douce A dwallin ever rented ; When ae nicht sittin roun the log My Nannie put the query : " What wad ye say to get a dog Like ither fowk, my dearie ? " " A Dog," says I, " gin sae ye like Set oot the morn and buy him, For me I wadna hae a tyke, Nor for a mint be nigh him ; A boot Oor Dog. 123 They re a the same frae whelp to cur, Tormentors sent to deave us, And when they re straikt against the fur Aye ettlin to mischieve us ! " " Hoots, Jamie man ! " quo Nannie syne, " Ye re grown an awfu bigot, But I ve made up for aince my min , So jist shut aff yer spigot ! A Dog s a handy thing to hae Aroun a body s ingle, A helpfu beast a cheery ray To mairriet life or single ! " " Jist think," my better half declared, " Hoo bolts and bars are bursted, But wi a tyke the hoose to gaird, The warst o thieves are worsted ! And then as kind as ony cat, That gambols wi her kittlins 124 Dreams d Hame. He ll never let a crook or scrat Befa oor bonny littlins ! " I saw twas useless mair to speak, When Nannie was inclined to t, We d hae a dog afore a week, I had made up my mind to t. And neist day to the toun she went, As I m a true believer, And half her simmer s savin s spent Upon a big retriever ! At least that s what the seller said, As Nanny catcht his jargon, And in a blink the price was paid That nane micht rue the bargain. Syne in an hoor the simple dame By Mr. Dog attendit, As prood as Punch cam mairchin hame, And a oor peace was endit ! A boot Oor Dog. 125 He was a kin ly lookin brute, But looks are sair misleading And in the hoose withoot a doobt He soon display d his breedin ! At denner-time the fun began, When " Tory " as they ca d him, Dung in the fire the fryin pan, And to the door I shaw d him ! Up Nannie flichtert like a low, " Come, Jamie, man hae patience ; Reflect afore ye raise a row Upon the beast s temptations. He maun be wild for want o meat, Sin frae his hutch they haul d him, Pm nearly faintin on my feet, And so I sanna scauld him ! " So " Tory " was brocht in again Frae whaur the loons had chased him. 126 Dreams o Hame. My lady claimed him as her ain, And in the neuk she placed him ; And while she whined " puir Christian beast See hoo his herts a-quakin ! " He proved he was naey^y at least By gobblin up the bacon ! * He shoved his nose my chair beneath Defyin me to steer him, And aye he girned and bared his teeth When ony ane cam near him : Says I, " I d like to see the day, A dog wad be my maister," And sent him yelpin frae my tae To look for stickin plaister ! He made a dash straucht for the green, Whaur Nancy s wash was bleachin , And tho his lugs had timmer been, He must hae heard her screechin ; A boot Oor Dog. 127 But never did he see the claes Until he lichtit on them, And then he slacked his fleein pace And danced a reel upon them ! He lunched upon a cloakin deuk, And when he had secured them, A brood o chuckens neist he took And ane by ane devoored them ; And naething done by halfs or thirds, But hale-wheel a thegither, When he had dined upon the birds He supper d on the mither ! We had a patch o fancy flooers Aye kept in perfec order, But aifter " Tory " made his tours Aroun the little border, Ye couldna point a single spot That wasna snuffed and snowkit, 128 Dreams o Hame. And ilka plant within the plot Up frae the root was howkit ! This nettled Nancy like mysel , She couldna stand it langer, And wi a maist unearthly yell She grabb d him in her anger, And tore him howlin to the hoose, To bring him to his senses, For he had play d the very deuce Regairdless o expenses ! Wi help frae me a task nae slim- She locked him in her chaumer, An wi the door atween s an him The air grew kin o calmer. He whimpert for a whyle, tis true, As if we d used him sairly, But that died oot and ere we knew We had forgot him fairly ! A boot Oor Dog, 129 Twa hours unkent had slippit by When frae the upper storey, We heard a maist heart-piercin cry That put s in mind o " Tory ; " An rushin up to learn the cause, In just a dizzen wordies : We found a kist upon his paws, The bed upon his hurdies ! The scarlet fringes turned to threids, The lace to streamers strippit ; The sheets and blankets torn to shreeds, The cheena crackt an chippit : O sic a mess the room was in When we had time to view it ! It lookt for a the earth as gin A cyclone had swept thro it ! My caip that held my heid as snug s It kept my pillow tidy, 130 Dreams o Hame. Was twistit roun twa sheepskin rugs And daidlt like a didy. And Nancy maist gaed into fits, When lookin roun to don it, She found the beast had chow d to bits Her braw new Sunday bonnet ! Nicht cam at last and found the dog Stretcht oot below the table, A single step to style or jog In truth he wasna able. I venture t we micht lat him be, And only saw my blun er, When lichtnin flashed frae Nannie s e e, And she roared oot like thun er : " Hoo daur ye sic a thing presume ! The fashious filthy snarler, He sanna get the dinin -room, He sanna get the parlor ! Aboot Oor Dog. 131 The kitchie s hingin fu o meat, And for his like the sole hole That I could ca a safe retreat Is doon-stairs in the coal-hole ! " " A wise solution lass," says I, " Your sense is maist amazin ; " And syne we baith began to try Wi flinchin and wi phraisin To tryst him to the cellar-door, But never moved the crater, And when I lowsed at him and swore It didna mend the maitter ! We baith got on oor thinkin caips And tried to tempt the glutton, By trailin up an doon the steps A greasy leg o mutton ; But no ! He had made up his min His kyte nae mair to injure, 132 Dreams o Hame. And tho he whiles let oot a whine He never jee d his ginger ! At last I liftit up a pail, Lip fou o soapy water, And ower the brute frae tap to tail I gart the slops play clatter ! It never brocht him to his feet, But in the splash and splutter, I missed my balance, strained my queet And plumpit in the gutter ! Enraged at siccan feckless sport, I vood he d be a croaker, If I should swing next minute for t And warmin up the poker, I creepit up ahin his Nibs That never had an equal, Bored in the steel atween his ribs And waited for the sequel ! Aboot Oor Dog. 133 A yell ! a jump ! a rattlin crash ! Glaiss chips aroond us sailin , The kitchy window minus sash, A slap made in the pailin ! A pace that wadna shamed a tod Or greyhound in his glory, A whirl o stew alang the road This was the last o Tory ! But tho the tyke kept on wi fricht Till we had fairly tint him, Like Phoebus, when it sinks frae sicht, His trail he left ahint him : The Hoose frae front to back in spots Was hobblin o er wi vermin, That took a week or mair an lots O tyauvin to extermine ! Since oor exploits wi sic a rogue, My wife s an alter d woman, 134 Dreams o Hame. She ll cross the street to dodge a dog That seems her wye a-comin ! And best o a , which I micht ca The moral o my story, There s aye been peace between us twa Sin we got rid o Tory ! 135 SONG FOR A THAT. THO on our tracks misfortune noo May drive her wheel, and a that, A Scotsman true will never boo, Nor beg nor steal, for a that ! For a that and a that, As in the past for a that, Oor grun we ll stan wi ony man And bide the blast for a that ! Tho nae sae weel s we aince hae been, We ll nae lose he rt for a that ; As lang as Scotland has a frien We ll hae oor pairt for a that ! For a that and a that, Tho cairt may coup and a that, 136 Dreams d Hame. We ll try our micht to set it richt, Nor tyne the houp for a that ! The langest lane has got an en , We ll breist the bum for a that ; Some bonny day afore we ken The tide will turn for a that ! For a that and a that, Nae tearfu e e for a that ; Times hae been waur than what they are, We ll thankfu be for a that ! The mirkest nicht maun aye tak flicht, The day aye daw for a that ; Whaur shadows bide there maun be licht, What mortal never saw that ! For a that and a that, We ll sing oor sang for a that ; Gin days be dour and fowk be sour They ll change or lang for a that ! 137 A PARAPHRASE. WHEN ye hae look d upon the lass Ye feel inclined to mak your ain, Some glarin fau ts ye may let pass, For Love beguiles the Lover s brain ; So get some auld and practised hands To tell you hoo your lady stands ! And syne when ye set oot to woo, Keep fu some phrasin frae your tongue Straucht-forrat speech will help ye thro , While lees will lose the auld or young : Just say ye lo e the lassie weel, And she ll o erlook your want o skeel ! 138 Dreams o Hame. She ll maybe for a short time froon, And cut ye wi a caulrif e e, But lang afore the nicht gang roun , She ll wish ye had the pluck to pree ; And greet her lane an hoor or twa If ye should fruitless wear awa ! What tho she mak a feint to fecht, And scowl and scaul when ye draw near ? She kens her " Na " has little wecht, And tries to gar ye true she s sweir, To grant ye what she wouldna gie, Had ye nae been mair strang than she ! When better kent, bear wi her wheems, And bidena back to lat her ken Hoo great and grand are a your schemes, Aboon the schemes o common men ; And hoo the gear is roun ye row d, For nane are proof against the gowd ! A Paraphrase. 139 Be to your aiths as true as steel, But in your deeds mak little din, And gin your dearie treat ye weel, Stick to her side thro thick and thin ; Yea should misfortune at her bite, Be last to flee tho she should flyte ! Men can dee naething mair than skim, The depth that in the women lies ; ^ * Aboot their wiles is jist as wise ; For aft a jaud when she says " Nay," Will sulk if you should tak it sae ! By this you ll maybe understand, Who read my rambling verses thro , This line I had perforce to trim ! 140 Dreams o Hame. The softer sex of every land Have bodies, parts and passions too, And like to feast upon the sweets, But weesht ! I fear I ve been owre bauld, To tell sic secrets in my sang, Some things had better nae be tauld, Tho what s the truth Can it be wrang ? Then with this hint I ll end my rhyme : Be ye not blate when comes your time ! Immodesty the verse completes ! BURNS S COTTAGE. WEE Cottage by the banks o Doon, Your roof is laigh, your rooms are narrow, But we may search the warl aroun , And look for lang to get your marrow. Mair honored are your rugged wa s, That thro the years so steively stand, Than a the Castles, College Ha s, And Kirks in Scotia s classic land ! Here was the humble peasant born, Who took Dame Nature for his teacher, And holding caste and creed in scorn, Became his country s greatest preacher : Who ruled thro Love and Wit by turns, And still is King of all his clan, Our darling bard, rare Robert Burns He taught the world A MAN S A MAN ! 142 SONG THE BONNY LASS O BON- ACCORD. I JIST had dander d owre frae Nigg, To spend a forenicht in the toun, And got the length o Union Brig As mirk begood to sattle doon : At he rt as happy as a lord, Nae care nor thocht o care I knew, Till the bonnie lass o Bon-Accord Flash d like a star upon my view ! A blonde as lissome as a saugh, Wi grace and ease in ilka turn, Her een like dew-draps, and her lauch Melodious as the ripplin burn : The Bonny Lass o Bon-Accord. 143 I d spurn the Bank o England s hoard, And mair than millionaire wad be, Gin the bonnie lass o Bon-Accord Would only say she d gang wi me ! I ken the East as weel s the West, And North and South I ve aften been, Auld Scotia s brawest and her best, In cot and castle I hae seen : But frae the Tweed to Muir o Ord, I tell ye gin ye care to ca , The bonnie lass o Bon-Accord I set her far aboon them a ! Nae ane by bribes could I induce To gie to me the lassie s name ; I neither kent the street nor hoose In which she lived and made her hame : And tho the city I explor d Frae mou o Don clear doon to Dee, 144 Dreams d Hame. The bonnie lass o Bon-Accord Twas never mair my luck to see ! Let parsons gin it please them preach On what we lost by Adam s fa ; In spite o what the kirks may teach, The Scriptur s and the creeds and a , I say that Eden was restor d To mortals on the earth below, By the bonnie lass o Bon-Accord, And ever is where she may go ! O cruel Fortune that forbade My een to licht on her again, But bless her for the blink I had, Tho it was pleasure mixed wi pain ! While Recollection can afford My heart a bygane dream to hae, The bonnie lass o Bon-Accord Will haunt me till my deein day ! 145 TO "SURFACEMAN." On a Postal Card. DEAR FRIEN while swirlin whirlin drift Cam skirlin birlin frae the lift ; While Boreas in the gloamin grey Had maist blawn oot the licht o day ; While whistlin horns an clangin clocks Loot lads an lasses lowss in flocks, A couthie note, that bore your name, This nicht cam to my hand and hame ! It mak s me mair than pleased to find Ye tak my verse sae unco kind, And think at least sae weel o me As send your thanks across the sea ! 10 146 Dreams d Hame. This lang I ve had a high regard For your creations as a bard, And since we first becam acquent O, mony a happy hour I ve spent, In readin o er and o er again The sweet productions o your pen ! Lang may your pipe be heard to soun Aboon the din o Embro toun : Fash nae your heid, nor fyle your mooth Wi Sass nach lingo o the Sooth ; In prose it s dootless trig an terse, But nae the tongue for tunefu verse, So stick to Scots, whae er may flee, And ye shall live till Burns shall dee ! January ip, 1892. 147 BURNS IN ABERDEEN. (Suggested by reading a newspaper account of the ceremonies and speeches at the unveiling of the BURNS STATUE, Aberdeen, September I5th, 1892). FIVE score o years and five years mair Hae in the drift o Time been smor d, Since rhymin Robbie Burns frae Ayr Stroll d thro the streets o Bon-Accord ! Twas Sunday Nicht he struck the toun Wi Willie Nicoll in a coach, An sic a twasome, I ll be boun Hae nae sinsyne made their approach ! * * Sam Johnson, wi the gifted gab, pass d thro wi "Boz." nae lang afore, but what were they to rustic Rab, for a their lades o classic lore ? 148 Dreams <? Hame. In fact, unless when Shakespeare play d His dramas in the Weigh-house Square, Wi muckle truth it may been said The match o Burns was never there ! On Monday morn when he had slept And donn d his duds and wash d his face, He frae his sober lodgin s crept To tak a stoyter thro the place. Togg d oot in flamin buck-skin breeks, His top-boots reachin near his knee, The bloom o health upon his cheeks, He was a decent chiel to see ! Nae coat and vest o hamespun stuff That wee! the fairmer micht hae sair d, But happ d in skyrin blue and buff He look d as bigsy as a laird ! And like himsel to hae a smack, Unlike the feck o fowk he knew Burns in Aberdeen. 149 He loot his hair hing doon his back Unpoother d in a ribbon d queue ! Fresh frae his triumphs in the Sooth, But aucht-an -twenty at the maist, The Granite City saw with truth The bard in a wye at his best. Then was the darling Prince of Rhyme, As can be gather d frae his lays, If ever, in his golden prime, And in the happiest of his days ! I fancy him wi easy stride, Stravaigin street an lane an close As they were ranged on ilka side, Aroun the muckle Market Cross. Perchance he wander d to the Links To watch the Ocean shorewards row, Or spent an hoor in puin pinks An musin in the Denburn Howe ! 150 Dreams o Hame. Sma doot there is he saunter d owre Balgownie s Brig an Brig o Dee, And spent the time to tak a glower Amang the fishers at the Quay. I ll vooch he thocht it worth his while To see the Auld Cathedral s spires, And Education s massive pile, The pride o Scotia s Northern shires This much we frae his notes may glean, Altho his trip was made wi haste, He saw some fowk in Aiberdeen He thocht was muckle to his taste. There met he, as he does confess, Wi Mr. Ross, a fallow fine , And Marshall that wi some success Had tried to woo the tuneful Nine ! Professor Gordon, too, he saw, And scannin Robbie s notes we see Burns in Aberdeen. 151 Good-natured jolly-looking twa Good traits that took the Poet s e e. There too he met, and relished weel, As frae his sketch we needna doobt, A famous and facetious chiel, The foremost printer thereaboot. On Chalmers stair by chance he spak To Bishop Skinner, son o JOHN ; Wow ! when thae twa begoud to crack, I fear the ithers a stood yon ! And last, but least I sanna say, Tho Norlan bards were far frae scarce ; He met wi Shireffs in his day, The Sandy Pope o Scottish verse. * Whaur did he see so rare a set, In a his wand rin s in the North ? * I m proud of all that then transpired, but here s what more than puzzles me : the "Minstrel" Burns so much admired Pro fessor Beattie where was he ? 152 Dreams o Hame. I trow their match he never met, Ayont the waters o the Forth ! It taksna much to conjure up These shadows, from the realm o dreams, And set them roun a social cup, To chat upon their fav rite themes. See, Burns presidin like a-lord, Blythe Nicoll at the table s fitt ; The ithers, rank d aroun the board, As near their guests as they could sit. Perhaps they sipp d Devanha dew, A noted brand o barley-bree ; For whatna sowff could thraw his mou , Wi Rob an Willie there to pree ; I wat they spent nae cauld harangues, On dry affairs o Kirk or State ; But crack d aboot the auld Scots sangs, Till it was time to tak the gate. Burns in Aberdeen. 153 I fancy Burns felt much at hame, For it was in the near-by Mearns From whence the poet s father came, And Granny Burness raised her bairns. Nae far awa his kin lived still, By Bervie s burnie s brattlin tide, And in the kirkyard near Knockhill His forbears sleepit side by side. Yea mair : to Aberdonian frien s That had migrated doun to Ayr,* He was indebted in his teens For books that brocht him muckle lear ! And Skinner s father, rev rend John, Nae prentice at the Doric lyre, The younger singer look d upon, And claimed as his poetic sire ! " Gae bring to me a pint o wine, I ll drink," said Burns, " before I go, * The family of Dr. Paterson. 154 Dreams a Hame. A service to the old divine Whose numbers so divinely flow ! " " O, Tullochgorum s my delight ! The best song Scotland ever saw ! " Thus did the raptur d Robbie write, As if his ain were nocht ava ! And there that day to Skinner s son, The Ayrshire bard by word o mou Confess d nae sma that he had done Was to the Linshart Poet due. " My Maillie some think nae sae bad, Frae Skinner s Ewie sprang," said he, Then shouted out " O, an I had The loon that did it ! " in his glee. " O, had I met him face to face, And held his worthy hand in mine ! Why did I pass so near his place, And yet nae worship at his shrine ? " But say when next ye send your news How much I rev rence and esteem Burns in Aberdeen. 155 And love his truly Scottish Muse, For in his skill he stands supreme ! " I m noo collectin in my roun s Auld samples of our minstrel lore, And would be pleased for Sangs or Tunes Frae Skinner s stock to grace my store. Tho I may hae but little claim, I fain would like if ye d insist That he should kindly put my name Upon his correspondents list." Syne, for the Bishop, Burns wrote oot His quarters in Edina toun, Whaur in a month or thereaboot Auld Skinner mailed a letter doun : And this same rhymed epistle sent Burns styled, as doubtless he believed, The best poetic compliment He ever in his life received. 156 Dreams o Name. Yea, in immortal prose enshrined We hae t laid doun frae his ain han As lang s he lived he aft repined He didna meet the Grand Old Man ! So much for "lazy" Aberdeen, When Burns was but the Bard o Ayr, And noo his worth is better seen The "lazy toun" keeps, up its share. " A lazy toun " the crazy loon Wi sic a fling to pass it by ! I m glad he just had scribbled doun : " We come to Aberdeen to LIE ! " Lo, noo, the latest o her feats She s raised his statue cast in bronze, And may the neist to grace her streets Be nane but TULLOCHGORUM JOHN S ! 157 IN MEMORIAM : " LA TESTE." A Sprig o Heath frae Jersey s soil by way of Garland for his Grave. " LA TESTE is dead ! " so comes the news Across the wild Atlantic faem ; The darling o the Doric muse Now slumbers in his hindmost hame ! And shall the Scottish Laureate gang Unnoticed to the kirkyard s gloom Withoot the tribute o a sang To deck his unpretentious tomb ? Shall puddlers in Parnassus Well Be laid with pomp beneath the sward, And nane be found a note to swell In honour o the rustic bard ? 158 Dreams d Haute. O, Willie was a clever chiel, And tho his face I never saw, I kent him, and I lo ed him weel, And mourn him noo that he s awa . He had his fauts an I hae mine And ye hae yours, whae er ye be, Ah, frien , wash oot the motes frae thine Afore ye fash your brither s e e ! Equipp d beyond his fellow men, For verse he had the happiest turn, And words cam ripplin frae his pen Spontaneous as the Lossie burn ! Unlike maist poets noo in vogue Whose drift the mass in vain divines, Nae dark conundrum-weighted fog Obscured the purport o his lines ! In Memoriam : "La Teste" 159 Gie readers blest wi lear and time A singer skilled in mystic airts, I m partial to the simple rhyme That works its way to hamely he rts ! Implanted by the ingle neuk, Or stretched beneath a shady tree, Enraptur d o er his bonny book I ve seen the oors like minutes flee. For honest fun he had a smile, And thrumm d his heart in sweet accord, But in his strong satiric style His stylus oft became a sword ! And he could weep with those who wept, Give solace to the wearied frame, And sparks o hope that long had slept His rousing words could fan to flame ! 160 Dreams o Hame. Nae care could chill his genial crack, Nae dunts frae fate his hand could stay, The world grew sunnier when he spak , And merrier when he trilled his lay ! Tho stranger to a cosy nest, Thro summer s sun and winter s sleet, The bird kept singing in his breast Until his heart had ceased to beat ! His voice shall wake the woods no more, And yet tis comfort now to feel He sleeps, with all his wand rings o er, Amang the scenes he lo ed sae weel ! And tho his lyre be noo laid by, Unstopp d shall ring the minstrel s strains, He is not dead He ll never die, While Scotland and her speech remains ! SONG WHEN THE SUN S GANE O ER THE HILL. O, THO I were e er sae weary, And the tryst sae far awa , When the bonnie flooers are closin Lest the mirk micht do them ill, I would meet you, Nancy, dearie, By the brattlin burnie s fa In the gowden summer gloamin When the sun s gane o er the hill ! When the birds hae hush d their singin In the bosky woods and glens, Whaur the water fresh an foamin Dances doun to kiss the mill, ii 1 62 Dreams o Name. A my cares ahint me flingin , Wi a joy there s few that kens, I would meet you in the gloamin When the sun s gane o er the hill ! When the herd wi fitfa canny Frae the moss drives hame his kye, E er the little starnies, blinkin , O er the land their radiance spill, I would meet you, dearest Nannie, Neath the smilin rosy sky In the lang lang simmer gloamin When the sun s gane o er the hill ! Had I a the grounds sae grassy That the Mossat wimples thro Had I a the cattle roamin Thro the bonny fields at will, When the Sun s gane o er the Hill 163 I would gie them a , my lassie, And would think then nae anew But to meet you in the gloamin When the sun s gane o er the hill ! 164 A DOMESTIC DUET. (To BE SUNG IN CHARACTER.) Tammas and Tibbie (with a few neighbours) at their ain Fireside. Tibbie. O sic a man is Tibbie s man ! Frae lowsin time to yokin , The spoon is hardly frae his han , When he sets to the smokin . I wish his twist was in the moon, His spleuchan in Malacca ; I never saw anither loon Sae browdent on Tobacca. A Domestic Duet. 165 Chorus. Female contingent. Sneezin an hoastin , hoastin an sneezin , Your dwallin chokit fu o reek, Frae door-step to the chimney cheek, I trow it s very teasin ! Tammas. O sic a wife is Tammie s wife ! Save when her kyte she s stuffin , Ilk waukin meenit o her life She s snortin an she s snuffin . Thro weather cauld and weather het She beats a competition, I never yet her marrow met For gettin redd o sneeshin . Chorus. Male contingent. Sneezin an hoastin , hoastin an sneezin , The lady that ye swore to lo e, Snuff barket roun her nose an mou , I wat it s far frae pleasin ! 1 66 Dreams o Name, Tibbie. The inside o his gab wi soot, As smudgy as a tunnel ; His thrapple wa s frae tap to root As black s an engine s funnel ; Sook, sook, he gangs thro foul an fair, The perseverin body, To blaw his siller in the air Seems a the crater s study. Chorus. Female contingent. Sneezin an hoastin , hoastin an sneezin , To hae the best in ilka room A clortit owre wi smiddy coom, I trow it s very teasin ! Tammas. To see her whyles beside the bench, Dish-washin in progression ; A dicht, an syne anither pinch, It truly is refreshin . A Domestic Duet. 167 Drap, drap, owre a in blotches big, She sheds the gowden mixter ; Twould turn the stammack o a pig, To sit an evenin next her. Chorus of Males. Sneezin an hoastin, hoastin an sneezin , On ilka side, in ilka place ; Auldmeldrum * starin in your face, I wat it s far frae pleasin ! Tibbie. Afore I heed his ilka whim, On dottle and on logic ; I swear I ll dook baith pipe an him, Heels owre the heid in Bogie. I ve seen a chiel could tak a puff, And exerceese forbearin ; Tarn keeps for ever at the stuff, An kensna what s a sairin . * A famous brand. 1 68 Dreams o Hame. Female Chorus. Sneezin an hoastin , hoastin an sneezin , The parlour stourin like a mill ; The kitchie smorin like a kiln, I trow it s very teasin ! Tammas. Noo, Tibbie, lass, it s time to stay, Oor gabbin and oor girnin ; We ll never mak a brichter day, For ither s failin s kirnin . And brawly, brawly do ye ken, For a my fiddle-faidle ; I d sooner see ye wield the pen, Than steer the toddy-ladle. Chorus, All. Freezin an fiercely, fiercely an freezin , The wintry-laden breezes blaw ; But what care we for wind and snaw, Aroun the ingle bleezin ! A Domestic Duet. 169 Tibbie. Ay, Tarn, an antrin tilt nae doot, Is guid aneuch in sizzen ; But in continwal castin oot, There s neither rhyme nor rizzen. So dinna tak my haivers ill, Tho whyles I mak a splutter ; I d raither hae ye toom an fill, The cuttie than the cutter ! Chorus, AIL Freezin an fiercely, fiercely an freezin , The wintry-laden breezes blaw ; But what care we for wind or snaw, Aroun the ingle bleezin ! * * See Appendix. EPISTLE TO JOHN MARK. Composed after reading " Tibbie ShiePs in Yarrow " and an encouraging letter on some of my verses : Poem and criticism both from the pen of Prof . John Stuart Blackie. DEAR MARR : Your letter cam yestreen, And wow ! it made me canty ; The Great Tribune to be my frien , Is honour far frae scanty. And here ye see I ve tried my han , In far aff Camden city To imitate the Grand Old Man, And his inspiring ditty ! It s worthy o the fruitful times, When Scott was in his glory ; Epistle to John Marr. 171 When Wordsworth trill d the triple rhymes Renowned in song and story. It has the happy, hearty ring, Few living bards can marrow ; Bravo, old poet, thus to sing, Of Tibbie Shiel s in Yarrow ! But faith nae ferlie tho he soar, Aboon his generation ; Sma wonder we re enraptur d o er, This sang o his creation ! Wha s sipp d like him frae sic a brew, And quaff d wi sic a quorum The undiluted mountain-dew Dispensed in Tibbie s jorum ? O, hoo my Muse would sparkle forth, In panegyrics metric If I had fish d a day wi North, Or Hogg, the bard o Ettrick ! 172 Dreams <? Hame, Or coost a line by Stoddart s side, Or trod the foot-path narrow Wi Blackie in his prime and pride, Upon the banks of Yarrow ! In guid braid Scots I would have built, My rhythmic lines together, The language o the plaid and kilt, The thistle and the heather. In Scotch the Yarrow first was sung, And nane will tarry langer Than that rare ballad in the tongue Of Hamilton o Bangour ! For sweet melodious rippling verse, Romantic or historic ; Nae Cockney singers to asperse, I ll choose the darling Doric ! While Sass nach sangs are hard and harsh, As screetchy as a barrow, Epistle to John Marr. 173 And muddy as an English marsh, The Scotch resemble Yarrow ! Alas, that I the truth should own, Thus far on life s short journey, Tho years a score in Caledon I never saw the burnie ! Confined at hame to ae puir spot Till Fortune seaward bore me, The classic lands of Burns and Scott Are unexplored before me ! This prosy land provides for me Nae sheep nor tunefu shepherd, The salmon I m aloo d to see Are either cann d or kipper d ! And what o er a the lave is mair A poet s soul to harrow, My Tweed s the drumlie Delaware, A slimy ditch my Yarrow ! 174 Dreams d Hame. Nae hill rears high its heath-clad crest, But sand heaps in abundance Shed burrs on Nature s brawny breast In unco great redundance. Instead o roun a lake to tramp Wi rifle and retriever, I hugger owre a dismal swamp And fecht the chills and fever ! Nae lark regales me in the morn Wi bursts o sang spasmodic ; The strain that on the breeze is borne At nicht comes frae the puddick ! Throughout the day I m glad to hear The chirpin o a sparrow, And dream about the birds that cheer The dowie dens o Yarrow ! And whyles when I wi leisure blest Set oot to tak a daunder, Epistle to John Marr. 175 Gang North or Sooth, or East or West, Whaurever I may wander, Nae bonny lass wi glances sweet Repays me for my roamin , The maist it is my luck to meet Are dusky as the gloamin ! In spite of a I sing my sang, And tho I m aften weary, The better day to come or lang Aye keeps my courage cheery ! I look for mony a merry rant Ere Death let s fling his arrow, And not the least will be my jaunt To see the Braes o Yarrow ! Feb. 21, 1892. SONNET HARRY GAULD. (In the lingo J the "Zum .") A KEEN aul man : I min im fairly weel ; I see im yet wi glitt rin , glancin pow, His fat roun face as reid s the fiery lowe, As back an fore he dairtit in is skweel ! Fin eence aroos d his rage wiz ill to queel, An tho his tongue wiz fit aneuch ti cowe The loodest racket or the biggest row, He swung his strap wi mair than or nar skeel ! Twa scenes come back, abeen the rest, ti me : A wintry morn I saw im at the Stroop, Richt blythe an early for is daily scrub ; An that daft day his scholars in their glee, Foot sklates an skawlies in is pot o soup, An pitcht is pet cat " Tigger " i the dub ! 177 TO A. L. LAW, RICHMOND HILL, L.I. On receiving copy of"A Visit to the Tap o Noth? ty Stephen, November 4th, 1887. DEAR LAW : Wi interest I hae read The screed o Rhymer Stephen ; And tho in fairness be it said, The lines are gey uneven. Tho somewhat caulrif is the sang, A critic maun remember, The road was rough he had to gang, The month was bleak November ! So for a first attempt it s fair, And readers rais d near Rhynie ; Will con it o er wi pleasure rare, When far across the briny. 12 178 Dreams o Hame. It mentions names o auld langsyne, Alas ! noo gettin fogy ; And brings a hunner mair to min Alang the vale o Bogie. Rough as the verses are and rude, They hae the necromancy To start in one the musing mood, And touch the springs o fancy. So thanks for sending me the strain, Composed by rhymer Stephen ; I ve answer d it in hamely vein, And aince again we re even ! March 4, 179 IN MEMORIAM: WILLIAM MACLENNAN. Champion Dancer and Bagpipe player. Died at Montreal, Oct. jo, 1892. THRO Canada s forests the chill winds were sighin , Despoilin the trees o their verdure sae braw, And a that was bonny in Nature was dyin , When Willie was also by Death ta en awa ! O, whaur is the Dancer could trip it so neatly, And whaur is the piper that ever could blaw So stirrin a blast, yet so saftly and sweetly, As Willie, rare Willie that noo is awa ! Lang, lang will it be or his laurels shall wither, And Highlands and Lowlands for lang we may ca i8o Dreams o Hame. Afore Caledonia can gie s sic anither To add to her glory like him that s awa ! Harsh Fortune ! we canna haud back frae complainin , When bosoms are burstin the tears they maun fa ! And talented, modest, blythe-hearted MacLennan We ll never forget him tho noo he s awa . TO WM. M. CALLINGHAM, On being Recommended to Write in English. DEAR CALLINGHAM : I shall give heed to your com ment concise to practise English is indeed the soundest of advice. None knows it better than the bard, this precept that you preach ; but ah ! it pains and grieves me hard to slight my native speech. To change out right my Scottish rhyme for yours I would be loth ; I cherish hopes in course of time to make my mark in both. Unconquer d as the Celts of old remains the tongue I prize, and yet, tho none more brave and bold, not slow to compromise. So, if you please, as Scotland s King annex d the English throne, I ll try to sound an English string in union with mine own. Not by com pulsion, but by choice to take or to refuse (let friends bewail or foes rejoice !) if sanctioned by the Muse. And when I tempt my doubtful fate, before you look for blots, dear boy you must reciprocate and sing a song in Scots ! 182 TO ALEXANDER NICOLL. On Returning Some Books, KIND SIR : Wi thanks baith big an mony I send ye hame your bookies bonny, And if they hae been blauded ony In my possession, Weel pleased I ll pay the fine, dear crony, For my transgression. Tho lately press d for leisure sair (And books like thae need muckle care !) I managed ilka day to spare An oor or twa, To pang my noddle wi their lear , And man it s braw ! To Alexander Nicoll. 183 O, ane an a they pleased me weel, But, sir, my choice I ll nae conceal, The poets showed sic happy skeel, Sic rowth o rhymes, I kissed their pages in my zeal A score o times ! For this my gratitude is due And do you doubt my he rt is fu ? I pray wi a my soul for you, Whae er may miss them, That ye ll get books, baith auld and new, Whene er ye wiss them ! May Time ne er land ye in a pickle ; May tears o grief ne er frae ye trickle ; Lang may it be till Death s fell sickle Shall mak ye fa , And lang I hope I ll coont on Nicoll As frien to LAW ! June 25, 1883. 1 84 SONG THE WOODS O CLOVA. THE Bonny Woods o Clova How can I e er forget ? I ve wander d far but never seen The equal o them yet. Frae sunny brae to shady glen An burnie singin doon the den O, ilka nook I used to ken Within the Woods o Clova ! The Bonny Woods o Clova Look doon aboon my hame, Wee village wi a charm for me Nae ither spot can claim. The Woods d Clova. 185 On ilka side the hills arise Whaur Nature dons her fairest guise, And half-way tow ring to the skies Are seen the Woods o Clova ! The Bonny Woods o Clova ! The langer I m awa Aye dearer still, if that could be, I lo e them ane an a . Twas there my musings were begun, There first my rustic rhymes were spun, And my dear lass was woo d an won Amang the Woods o Clova ! The Bonny Woods o Clova ! At times my he rt grows sair When thochts come in my held that I May never view them mair. 1 86 Dreams o Hame. But surely Fate will be sae kin As bear me back across the brine To meet the frien s o auld lang syne An see the Woods o Clova ! The Bonny Woods o Clova, Forever may they bide The brawest sicht to gaze upon In a the country side ! Had I the future in my han For happier days I d never plan Than end my life whaur it began Beside the Woods o Clova ! 1 8; A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE HON. WM. BURNS SMITH, CHICAGO, ILLS. DEAR SMITH, Gin it was in my micht Thro airy realms to tak a flicht, I d seek Chicago oot the nicht,* And single-handed Would never seek to lag or licht Till there I landed. But, sir, that I should hae to sing, We re nae at fleein worth a thing ; The meanest bird that flaps a wing Can beat us hollow, And when it mak s its shortest spring We daurna follow ! * Oration by Ingersoll on Burns at the Chicago Auditorium. 1 88 Dreams d Hame. Still, Thought, dear friend, is unconfined, Nae Space impedes the March o Mind, So here at hame I sit resigned, And think I see ye, But wishin Fate had been as kind As placed me wi ye ! For, faith, I dootna but the noo Rare Ingersoll has made his boo And startit in to tell ye hoo Oor darlin Robbie Ootrivall d a the rhymin crew At their ain hobby ! I d coont it like a gowden dream To list to ocht from one I deem In Eloquence and Wit supreme, For nane come near him ; And sic a man on sic a theme, O, but to hear him ! A Familiar Epistle. 189 In mony a polish d prosy phrase We ve tributes penn d in Bobby s praise ; And since the gloamin o his days To heeze his glory Oor bards hae trampit ithers taes To sing his story ! But this you re hearin as I write * (Wi purple ink on paper white !) Frae Ingersoll, the godless wight, In points that bristle, Will knock past records " out of sight " As clean s a whistle ! Of a men livin he s the man That best I think can understan The Beauty and the Wisdom gran , The pride, the passion, * The whole epistle entirely extemporaneous. 190 Dreams o Hame. That glint frae Burns on ilka ban Like di monds flashin ! Nay, was not Scotia s darling Bard An Ingersollian in regard To Kirks and Creeds he lash d sae hard In prose and metre ? Oor later BOB has never daur d To saut them sweeter ! Wi great impatience I shall bide The passin o the time and tide And trains that cross the distance wide Twixt you and Camden, Till doon my throat baith hair and hide * The Speech I ve cramm d in ! * "And horns," I might also add, expecting it to be a deil of a production of course ! A Familiar Epistle. 191 Till then that is until I see The printed page afore my e e, This letter, crony, tak frae me In frien ly token : We ll die content since Robert G. On Burns has spoken ! January 23^ 1893. 192 SONG JAMIE NICOLL. WITHIN a bonny Hielan strath Far frae the sicht or soun of ocean, Whaur trains hae never made a path Nor traction-engines raised commotion, There sits a cosy fairm we ll say That neither little is nor mickle, Whaur lives the hero o my lay, A splendid chiel ca d Jamie Nicoll. Chorus : Honest Jamie, canny Jamie, Canty, cheery Jamie Nicoll, Of a the men I chance to ken Commen me aye to Jamie Nicoll ! Jamie Nicoll. 193 He is a horseman ticht an trig An weel can guide the ploo or harrow, And while upon the lang hairst rig The pairish canna boast his marrow. In ony branch he ll stan a han Frae trailin rake to wieldin sickle, Altho I say t there s few that can, Keep up a day wi Jamie Nicoll ! Chorus. The gift o singin sangs is his, And wha can tell a story better ? His comic style and funny phiz, Would please the maist forjaskit crater. He is a chap would gar ye lauch, Till owre your nose the tears would trickle ; O, dinna brag o Mansie Wauch, Till ye hae met wi Jamie Nicoll ! Chorus. 13 194 Dreams rf Hame. Hoo he can please his fellow-man, Is aye to him his foremost study ; And ever ready is his han To help a poor and honest body. Tho doun on shams and a pretence, He ne er would leave ye in a pickle ; O, for a Scot in ilka sense, Commen me aye to Jamie Nicoll ! Honest Jamie, cannie Jamie, Canty, cheery Jamie Nicoll ; Of a the men I chance to ken, Commen me aye to Jamie Nicoll. 195 PER PHONOGRAPH. To Fritris in Auld Scotia. Recorded at Philadelphia^ December i6th, 1892. Phonogram in Aberdeen at present writing. SOME gie their news on postal-cairds, Some write a great lang letter ; And some for sendin brief regairds, Think telegrams are better. But this invention dings them a , Whaure er ye may gang seekin ; For noo without a crack or flaw, Ye hear me plainly speakin . I m nae great han , as ye can tell, At makin an oration ; But what ye get is frae mysel , My very ain dictation. Jist cock your lugs an watch my mou , It fairly cowes the gowan ; 196 Dreams d Hame. Tho ragin seas between us noo Three thoosan miles are rowin . Ev n Death, my tongue it canna stay, Nae maitter what befa me ; Ye still can hear me say my say, As weel as gin ye saw me ! Gin we could only but gang back, And catch frae lang deid sages Some samples o the wye they spak , In their respective ages. Could we but listen to a bard Like Shakespeare, at oor pleasure ; Or Burns, lang laid below the sward, O, what a priceless treasure ! The worth o books we ll ne er forget, Nor in oor praise be stintin ; But Human Speech is greater yet Than writin or than printin . Per Phonograph. 197 Time s up ! so I maun say Good-bye, Tho laith I am to leave ye ; But better stop wi grace, say I, Than simply gab to deave ye. Guid luck I wish ye frae my he rt, Whae er ye are that hearken ; May sorrow never be your pairt, Nor want your dwellin darken. As my auld Uncle used to say, Gin we will only DEE weel ; Eenoo, forever and for aye, The chances are we ll BE weel. 198 Dreams d Hame. "GO AND SIN NO MORE." AE Sunday in Jerusalem, The crafty Scribes and Pharisees, While Christ preached in the kirk to them, Brocht him (unless the Bible lees), A single woman they had fan Carousin wi a mairriet man, And that there could be nae mistak , Had captured in the very ack. " See here s," said they, " a sinfu jaud, And here s a bag that s fu o stanes ; Gin we should dee as Moses bade, We d gar them crack against her banes. Come, Jesus, noo ; ye ken the law, Should this coorse quine be loot awa ? " Go and Sin no more" 199 Nae backin doon, the question s clear, What should we do, gin we may speir ? " They thocht to trip Him wi the case, And some to jeer Him had begun ; When frae the mob He turned His face, And stoopin doonwards to the grun , His fingers usin for a pen, He wrote what nane could comprehen , Oblivious to the murmurs lood, That issued frae the tauntin crood. But roos d by their ootcries at last He lookit straucht to whaur they war, And as their een on Him they cast Says He " Since ye sae anxious are, To ken what is the thing to dee, This answer kindly tak frae Me : Whaever o ye has nae sin To hit the lassie may begin ! " 2OO Dreams o Hame. And syne again He bent Him doon To write upon the grun some mair, And a the men that thranged aroun Were self-convicted then and there : The auldest cheil first turned aboot An like a thief he sneakit oot, Yea, ane by ane, sae did they a Doon to the youngest slink awa . When Jesus lookit up again, According as the Scriptures tell, Lo, there the woman stood her lane, Or nae ane wi her but Himsel ; Syne says He to the dame, " My dear, " Whaur are the fowk that brocht ye here ? Did nae ane o them raise a han ? " " Nay, sir," she answefd, " Not a man." Then answer d Jesus, " Nor will I, Condemn ye tho ye hae done wrang, " Go and Sin no more" 201 Stop ye your greetin , tak your wye, But dee the richt as on ye gang " A kindly, short reproof that may Hae touch d her mair I m bold to say, And wrocht in her a better cure Than tho He d lectured her an hoor ! 202 REFLECTIONS ON THE WA -GOIN O EIGHTY-TWA. AULD year, I fear for you at last, The hinmost die has noo been cast ; Your son comes postin thro the blast, And Eichty-twa, You ll soon be number d wi the past, You re near awa ! Lang hae ye dwelt amang us here, Your very name to us is dear ; Ah ! weel do you deserve a tear Oor grief to shaw, But you ll be thocht on, never fear, When you re awa ! Reflections on Eighty-Twa. 203 Sin first ye socht to show your face, What change ye ve wrocht amang oor race ; Ev n kings and queens to you may trace Their rise or fa , And you ll be mourned in ilka place When you re awa ! We fouth o frien s hae tint by thee, Some stown by Death some owre the sea, And ithers lost on little plea, Or cause ava, On this or that we fail d to gree, And they re awa ! In thee we ve found some new anes too, And some hae aye stood firm and true, Nae maitter what cauld blifFarts blew, Aroun oor ha , They lent a hand to help us thro Nor gaed awa ! 2O4 Dreams d Name. Hoo aft within your fickle reign Oor wyes we hae resolved to men , And yet hoo aft and aft agen Broke voos and a We couldna tell ye aince in ten, But that s awa ! Some craters thocht ye pinched them sair, And kept their boards and bodies bare, And nocht again did ithers care, Wi pension braw, They hadna far to scrape whene er It gaed awa ! For me it s jist as gospel true My h ttle purse has twice been fu , Sin first ye burst upon my view Half smor d in snaw ; But poun s an pennies lang or noo Hae flown awa ! Reflections on Eighty-Ti*a. 205 Fareweel auld frien , it s plain to me That ye hae plumed your wings to flee, And soon oot owre baith land and sea While tempests blaw, Auld Time will ken by Auchty-three That you re awa ! 206 OOR AIN WEE HAME. " To mak a happy fireside clime To weans and wife, That s the true pathos and sublime Of human life ! " THE wind comes moanin o er the ice-bound river, The caul rif cloods are scuddin to the sea, Wee birdies roun the windows coo er and shiver Withoot the shelter o a leafy tree. The frost this mornin made its mark at zero, Soon aifter denner cam a rainy thaw, And in the evenin it wad ta en a hero To made a journey thro the slush and snaw. Oor Ain Wee Hame. 207 But supper s past, an seated in my " study," My slippers toastin at the cheerfu fire, I ve nae remembrance o the roadways muddy, Wi a aroun me to my heart s desire. Duffs in a corner wi his slate and scawlie, And Nanette s tyauvin wi her doll and broom ; They re man and mistress, and they re doin brawlie At keepin hoosie in their papa s room. Up frae the kitchen comes a flood o singin , It s mamma liltin to the waukrif wean, And as her ballads to the roof come ringin , I m fain to listen and to rest my een. But Time s so precious that I daurna dally To cheer my journey wi my helpmate s sang, For soon twould waft me to the happy valley, Whaur I micht loiter by the way owre lang. 208 Dreams o Hame. O, cruel Fate ! that leaves so poor a portion Of precious time that I may coont my ain ! O, sordid Age ! as stoop to sic extortion To stint the product o my he rt and brain ! My Guardian Spirit, gin it be your pleasure, I ll nae petition ye for gowd nor gear, But grant, I beg of you, a little leisure, And thanks I ll waft ye wi a he rt sincere ! If tis your will to keep my table scanty, My claes in tatters, and my fireside cauld, Gin left wi leisure I can still be canty, And at my lot shall neither sulk nor scauld. As things are noo I ll own I m discontented, Some days nae muckle, but the neist some mair, And truth to tell I would gang clean demented If Hope should knuckle to the fiend Despair. Oor Ain Wee Hame. 209 I gulp my brak fast, an begin my yokin The hinmost quarter past the chap o sax, An twal hoors later at my hame I m knockin , Gin thro the day I ve met wi nae mistak s. But as a recompense for a my drudgin , (There s nae plant livin but some sunshine keps !), Life s tribulations doon the road gang trudgin The very minute that I mount the steps. Then, like a torrent, comes the merry clatter Of childish voices thro the bolted door, And troubles scatter at the pitter-patter Of Duff and Nanette as they cross the floor. "Is that you, papa?" and, as "yes" I answer, My boy receives me with a happy face, And Nancy, jumpin like a merry-dancer, Obstructs my passage with a fond embrace. 14 2io Dreams o Hame. Ben to the kitchen I am then escorted, Where mamma ready has the table spread, And Baby Stella, in her chair supported, Loups up to greet me as she hears my tread. Twa chubby hands rax oot to grab my glaisses, And, as a ransom for their safe release, A score o kisses and o fond caresses Are shower d upon her or I think to cease. Then mamma, lookin aye so bricht an cheery, Brings on the supper and pours oot the tea, And frae that minute I forget I m weary, And wish a creatures were as blest as we ! Syne come the letters and the evening papers, The social chat, in which the youngest shares, The laddie s lessons and the lassie s capers, And a the tellin o the day s affairs. Oor Ain Wee Hame. 211 Hoo mamma started to the weekly washin , That had been steepin in the tubs for days, When rain in pailfu s frae the lift cam plashin , And put a damper on her hopes and claes. Hoo hens that were sae thrawn for a the sizzen, As nae to bless us wi the sicht o eggs, Had since the mornin gi en us half a dizzen, Sae big an bonny as to fairly fleg s. Hoo Duff was gettin that he liked his schooling And had done splendid in the bypast week ; Hoo Nanette teased him wi her constant foolin , Hoo little Stella had begun to speak ! Or I may treat them to a hamespun story O some adventure in the steerin toun, AVhaur some for fortune (and a few for glory !) Wear oot existence in the daily roun . 212 Dreams d Hame. And syne when mamma starts to wash the dishes, To please the baby I may play buffoon, Or like a soldier (as the darling wishes), Gang marchin wi her while I sowff a tune. So when the clock upon the shelf starts ringin , A warnin to me to gang up the stair, I only manage to escape by bringin Some trick or wile upon the bairns to bear. Then Duff comes sneakin in a trice ahin me, By Nanette follow d in sae saft a style, That in the tactics they adopt to win me To let them enter, I am forced to smile. Wi sic a twasome I could never quarrel, And while I dootless micht do mair in peace, I wadna for the poet s fairest laurel Desire the clatter that they mak to cease. Oof Ain Wee Hame. 213 I like to listen to their guileless prattle, Where youth and quaintness are so sweetly blent, So roun aboot me they can run and rattle, And chirp and chatter to their hearts content. But a thing sometime maun come till an endin , And soon I see them, by their mamma led, Like pictured angels, thro the doorway wendin , In snawy nichtgoons, to their cosy bed. I follow aifter to assist to hap them, To get their blessin and their sweet " Good-nicht ! " And fondly wish them, as I kiss and clap them, A blythe awaukenin wi the mornin s licht. Then mamma joins me wi her sewin maybe, (For ever eident maun the poor folk plod !) Or tries again to get the sleepless baby, By singin , wafted to the Land o Nod. 214 Dreams d Hame. I sit an muse, an mak a feint to scribble, But ilka sentence, whether prose or rhyme, Comes frae my pen wi sic a weary dribble, The poor results are hardly worth the time. I start to dream, and in my dreams am airted To moors and meadows hyne across the sea, And wander thro them just as lichtsome-he rted, As when a laddie twas my wont to be. Again I live amang my bygane pleasures, By fancy wafted far beyond the deep, But when I try to realise my treasures, I start to find that I hae been asleep : To find the paradise I almost tasted Like mist has vanished as I raise my head, And naething s left me but an evening wasted, And Conscience hintin that it s time for bed ! Oor Ain Wee Hame. 215 For noo, wide-wauken d, I maun seek my chaumer, And very rarely do I steek a styme Till clocks and ferry-bells wi dinsome clamor Hae waked the echoes wi the midnicht chime. Thus runs the record at the present writin ; As this day s story so my ithers are, And tho to some it may look uninvitin , There is a life that I could relish waur. Tho some ahead o us in Wealth hae sprinted, And some thro Fortune hae been set mair high, We ve Youth and Health and Happiness unstinted, A triple blessing that nae gowd can buy ! January, 1893. 216 A FLYING TRIP. An extempore rhyme delivered at the Complimentary Supper tendered to Mr. GEORGE C. WATSON, on his return from Scotland, August 6th, 1890, by the Philadelphia Camerons. THE month o June was wearin doon, the torrid days were comin , Big folk had a vacation bees within their bonnets bummin, When ane we ken, but needna name within oor tale romantic, Packed up his duds, and steer d for hame, across the wild Atlantic ! O, my ! the bonny sichts he saw, wi seas atween us towin , Within the compass o a month ! It fairly cowes the gowan ! A Flying Trip. 217 The pictures that he glow red upon ! Columbus nor De Gama Would ever dreamt or daured to dream o sic a panorama ! There first we see him on the sea, frae daylicht doun to gloaming, Paradin wi impatient stride the swift an sure " Wyoming ; " And hardly had she touched her slip when, like a meteor shootin He left the Captain and the crew wi Cockney lads disputing An tore a swath thro nicht an day, thro Englan an thro Scotlan , At sic a pace as micht gar Time forevermair gang dottlin ; Nor did he slack for aince his speed, the hero o my ditty, Until the smell o Finnan fish proclaimed the Granite City! 218 Dreams o Hame. Syne aff he jumps an shak s the han o mony a weel lo ed cronie, Than Bon-Accordians warmer he rts are nae in Caledonie ! But Steam alas ! it winna stay, an George he daurna dacker ; A train s like luck, gin aince she s tint ye ll nevermair o ertak her ! A score o miles maun yet be cross d, and he can nae be stannin , And so he gangs and books a berth that brings him to LUMPHANAN ! But e en at hame he canna rest, impelled by some mad speerit, He prances here an dances there as if gane clean deleerit ! Nae scene is passed, nae haunt is missed amang his ex plorations, Deeside aince mair becomes his ain wi a its thirty stations ! A Flying Trip. 219 The day he pokes aboot at hame an wakes the chords o pathos ! The morn gangs doun and prees the pig at Mill o Hirn in Crathes ! An neist perchance, tak s in Rob Roy, that guards the road to Culter ; An spen s the evenin crackin jokes wi Tailor and wi Souter ! Anon gangs up to Lochnagar that s famed for Crags and Whiskey, And tests a sample o the stuff that keeps it s frien s sae frisky ! And wha s to ken the Queen hersel perchance the lad may corral, An drag him doun to spend the day aroond aboot Balmoral ! Then neist in coach and four he ll join Carnegie, King o Cluny, And wake the echoes o the hills wi " Little Annie Rooney ! " 22O Dreams o 1 Hame. O, wha can tell the pranks he play d amang the dears and dawties, That paint their cheeks wi porridge pots and peel and eat pitawties ! I ll bet my head that mony a tear frae mony an e e cam startin When Geordie strapp d his trunks aince mair, an spak to them o partin ! Again we turn the glass to find oor spry and sportive rover Conversin wi McGinty s ghost within the straits o Dover ! The banks o Dee then gay Paree, that held the Ex position, And Eiffel s awful Iron Tooer that dings a crockanition ! Syne back again the wye he gaed, that naething may be undone He spens his hinmost hoors amang the sichts and soun s o London ! A Flying Trip. 221 He scours the toun frae East to West, and nae afraid to grapple E en Jack the Ripper in his den, gangs peerin thro Whitechapel ! Draps in to see the Grand Old Man ajist afore he leave land, And gies him points on Jamie Elaine s next fecht wi Grover Cleveland ! George Francis Train and Nellie Ely ! New York and you, Tacoma ! Roun whilk there hovered for a while a whiff o Fame s aroma, Gae, steek your gabs and hide your heids for ever and for ever ! Your flichts may sair the Stars an Stripes, but Cale donians NEVER ! We grant ye quick at antrin jaunts, but for a record breaker Commen me to that wale o men, A canny Scoto- Quaker ! 222 Dreams d Hame. Then here we ve come to drink his health, that stopt for aye their yaumerins, Thrice worthy o his high degree, Past Chieftain o the Cameron s ! Since last we met he s braved life s ills frae billows doun to barnacles, An may he aye as happy be as here the nicht at Hornickels ! 223 ST. ROBERT S NIGHT IN ALBANY.* (Read at 4.oth Anniversary Banquet of Albany Burns Club, January 25, 1893.) LANGSYNE an maybe nae sae lang, Burns birthday aye brocht oot a thrang O fallows that wi Speech an Sang Had happy Nichts in Albany ! At sican splores it was a treat To see rare Dickson f on his feet, Or hae a lilt frae Alfred Street } The famous bard o Albany. * By special request. t James Dickson, Esq., first President of the Club. J The poet Alfred B. Street, former member of the Club. 224 Dreams o Hame. Since then near thirty years hae sped Across oor auld Dutch City s head, And ither folks are here instead To honor Burns in Albany ! While yet the Nicht is in its prime We ll call the roll in rippling rhyme That cronies o a future time May ken wha were in Albany ! There s first an foremost famous Neil,* A clever, jolly, Paisley chiel, As president he answers weel, A credit aye to Albany ! There s Jamie Milne f frae Binghamtoun, A great lang-heidit, learn-ed loon, * Hon. Neil Gilmour, late State Superintendent of Public In struction, President of Club. t Dr. James M. Milne, now President Oneouta Normal School. St. Robert s Nicht in Albany. 225 And so the Nicht we ve set him doon To speak on " Burns " in Albany ! There s next a Yankee legal licht,* Wi pow and een aye bleezin bricht, He s gaun to sing a sang the nicht To please the folks in Albany ! Then comes a double-barrel d Scott, f Crammed to the mou wi Gospel shot, " Scotch Literature " s the text he s got To preach upon in Albany ! Our Mayor \ next, tho young, nae weak, On " Oor adopted Toun" will speak, And doobtless he could raise a reek And tell the truth on Albany ! * Frederick Hadhams, Esq., of Albany, t Rev. W. Q. Scott, of ist Presbyterian Church. J Hon. James H. Manning, Mayor of Albany. 15 226 Dreams d Hame. Then into sang again we ll slide And hear a callant * chant wi pride The pleasures o oor " Ain Fireside," As they re enjoy d in Albany ! Syne will we hae oor frien Kinnear f A bubblin ower wi ancient lear To tell us hoo we cam to heir The Monument in Albany ! And then we ll get in splendid style | A twa three minutes to beguile " There was a lad was born in Kyle" Whose Statue stands in Albany ! * Mr. Wm. D. MacFarlane, of Albany. t Peter Kinnear, Esq., President of Southend Bank, to whom Albany is indebted for the magnificent Burns monument in Wash ington Park. By Mr. Thomas Impett, of Troy. St. Robert s Nicht in Albany. 227 Noo, lo ! upon the list there comes The pick o Pedagogic chums* Hyne a the wye frae Barrie s " Thrums " To speak a bit in Albany ! Then next oor luck has till us row d A chiel that s worth his wecht in gowd, Scotch-Irish Dr. James Macleod, f The Rev rend Wit of Albany ! And would the cronies like to know The debt to Walter Scott we owe, It will be tauld by " flowery Joe," J The Ingersoll o Albany ! Judge Woods will then be given the floor To speak a word for Thomas Moore, * Wm. J. Milne, LL.D., President of State Normal College. t Rev. James M Leod, D.D., of 1st Congregational Church. J Joseph A. Lawson, Editor, Fort Orange Monthly. Hon. F. H. Woods, Surrogate of Albany Co. 228 Dreams o Hame. Yet fond o " Robbie " at the core As ony Scot in Albany ! Buchanan * next will charm us a , As fine a chiel as e er ye saw ; Expert at War as skilled in Law, And settled doon in Albany ! Then Montignani f will arise ; His name Italian blood implies, But he s for a the thick disguise As true a Scot s in Albany ! O mony mair frae far an near In Robbie s name are gather d here, And may we meet for mony a year To honor Burns in Albany ! * Major Charles J. Buchanan, of Albany. t John F. Montignani, Esq., of Albany, Secretary of the Club. St. Robert s Nicht in Albany. 229 Oor Statue Stan s o er a the rest, And time to come will yet attest O Clubs to Robert Burns the best And greatest will be Albany ! Then royal honors to his name, The poet d the hJrt and hame, Wi jealous care we ll guard his fame While lives a Scot in Albany ! January, 1893. 230 THE THRIFTY THREE. For a number of years it was the custom of THE NORTH AMERICAN UNITED CALEDONIAN ASSOCIATION to give a prize for the best essay submitted at their annual meeting. In 1888 the Secretary of the Organization made a new departure with the results as faithfully chronicled in the following effusion. " Thrift, thrift, Horatio ! " SAID Smith with neither brag nor bluff: " Of Essays and such prosy stuff Langsyne we ve surely had enough, For once we ll change our key ; Let s show our Rhymers (few reward), Their verse we hold in high regard, Here s Burns (by Gebbie) for the bard That sends the best to me ! " The Thrifty Three. 231 In Canada for Scotchmen famed The Clansmen met and soon proclaimed Three canny critics had been named To judge the sonnets slee ; But oh ! they were a petty lot, Altho a glosso-graphic Scot, And clerkte, quick to spy a blot Were in the Thrifty Three ! Straucht to the settlin were they set Before their whistles had been wet, Sma ferlie then they should forget The task they had to dee ; Sma wonder sniffs o mountain-dew And glints o gill-stoups sparklin fu Should obfuscate the mental view Of Willie s Thrifty Three ! And thus decreed they, ane and a , The lilts were nae the thing ava, 232 Dreams o Hame. T would be but siller thrown awa A gift sic stuff to gie, Nae ane o a the stanzas sent Were worth the permanence o print ! And " Deil a dollar shall be spent ! ! !" (Signed) " Scotia s Thrifty Three." O Time tak s maist unthocht o turns, Oor promised joys she aft adjourns ; And bides wi Gebbie still-a Burns He thocht for sure to see Converted into gowd anon, But then he hadna coontit on Encountrin sic a Rubicon As formed the Thrifty Three ! And wise and witty Willie Smith, For a your pooer and a your pith They ve made your " PRIZE " a muckle myth, Your offer look a lee ; The Thrifty Three. 233 But never mind ! they hained your wealth ! Let Rancour rave and fling its filth, Twill cost you less to drink their health, Immortal Thrifty Three ! * * This was published anonymously on hearing of the iN-decision, and soon afterwards the Author (a Competitor) was awarded the Prize. 234 FROM EPISTLE TO JOHN M INTOSH, A BROTHER BARD. Wi you I m in my glory, Johnnie, And wadna change my place wi ony ; The words come slidin aye sae bonny Frae oot your mou , I wadna wish a better crony Than ane like you. Oor Life is like a stiff campaign : Some sunny blinks wi lots o rain : We aften strive for little gain When a s been done; But still they dinna fecht in vain That stan their grun ! Epistle to John M Intosh. 235 While we hae got the pooer an chance We needna sit when we can dance ; We shouldna stan when to advance Would be a gain ; Nor yet for aye on Circumstance Should we complain ! Anither thing we ll nae lose he rt Cause some can ca a bonnier cairt, And wi mair flourish can assert Their schemes to man, But try to act our humble pairt The best we can. Tho lilies bloom wi charms replete, And roses wi the dew-draps weet O er a oor tended flooers are sweet, That s nae a plea Why gowans sma amang oor feet Should pine and dee. 236 Dreams o Hame. Tho lav rocks lilt in heavenly key, And throstles flood the woods wi glee ; Tho mony birds may farrer flee And sweeter sing, That s nae excuse for wrannies wee Their heads to hing ! So, sir, tho some wi brighter light, Wi firmer grasp and greater might, May better sangs and tales indite Than we can do, That needna mak us scared to write Nor shut oor mou . Some bashfu bardie, wha s to ken, In days to come may condescen To read oor chapter to the en , And frae the wark Pluck courage up to try his pen And mak his mark ! Epistle to John M Intosh. 237 Then, Johnnie, lad, expand your chest, We ll hae oor say as weel s the rest ; And this I firmly would request, Tho polyglots, Because we ken its compass best We ll stick to SCOTS ! When wieldin Reformation s rung ; When citin Saws for auld or young ; When Sangs to touch the he rt are sung, I tell ye true, Oor couthie, hamely mither-tongue Will brawlie do ! June, 1883. 2 3 8 FROM EPISTLE TO JAMES SOUTAR. WHEN Fancy wi her maidens braw Convoys me to her realm awa , I sometimes rhyme a line or twa To please mysel , Wi nae intent my stuff to shaw, Nor ane to tell. The SUMMER breezes, saft an mild ; The fields where AUTUMN sweet has smiled; The gusty storms o WINTER wild, The budding SPRING, They hae my heart so sair beguiled I hae to sing. Epistle to James Soutar. 239 The gloamin or the mornin gray ; The hill-taps gilt wi Phoebus ray ; The burnie brattlin doon the brae, And heavenwards hung, The massy cloods, sae grand, sae gay Unlowse my tongue ! A bonnie flooerie wat wi dew ; The lift wi starnies blinkin thro ; A birdie singin sweet an true On bush or tree ; The poet looks : they live anew, Nae mair to dee ! A wooded, weird, romantic place, Whaur witches run and warlocks race ; A sweet an sonsy lassie s face, Whaur virtue beams, Ah, lad, I hinna far to chase, For rowth o themes ! 240 Dreams d Hame. Some plainly say I should lat be And nae provoke the critic s e e, For gin my work they were to see They d ca me " Coof ! " But feigh ! that never troubles me, I m critic-proof ! Whate er I feel I ll try to say Still in a manly hamely way ; Syne gin Reviewers choose to bray, Why then they can ; But for them I ll nae budge my tae Nor change my plan. He wad be saft would stop his sang For a the castigatin gang ; The bulk o a their lectures lang Are worthless trash ; Gin ae time richt they ten times wrang Apply the lash! Epistle to James Soutar. 241 And maybe, man, for a their lear , When fled hae ninety years or mair, As muckle fame my book may share As their critique, And so to hurkle in despair I sanna seek ! May, 1883. 16 242 "MARY FAIR" SKETCHES. The Village. THE village noo is in a steer Frae ae en to the ither, For mony fowk frae far an near Are gaither d here thegither : Wi cairts an gigs whaur they can stan O ilka shape an color, The streets are lined on every han An never lookit fuller Than on this day. The stables a within the place Are filled to overflowin , "Mary Fair" Sketches. 243 And parks and lanes and yards nae less Their cavalry are showin . The ostlers o the inn wi haste Frae horse to stable clatter, And sairly they for time are press d To keep the beasts in water And meat that day ! While, yet the Fair is free d fechts Wfll wander o er the Green. The Market noo is at its hicht An tricks experimented, Forethocht comes soon aneuch wi nicht And bawbees are na stinted. Wi din and dirdum every where To hear ane s hardly able To. naething would it weel compare But jist a perfect Babel For soun that day ! 244 Dreams o Hame. Aroun the Stance are sweetie-Stan s To sell the toys an fairin , Beside them bairns wi itchin han s An greedy mou s are starin . Upon the brae a tinkler sits Amang his jugs an pails, Amusin fowk twixt smokes an spits, Wi sangs an funny tales. And as he gets the tither groat, For fear his pouch micht spill He stows it doon his thirsty throat In shape o half a jill O drink that day. We noo come to the Whiskey tent Whaur rags and wags are jinkin , And gie me but the money spent By young an auld on drinkin . "Mary Fair" Sketches. 245 They pu the ither shillin oot And wi their glasses clinkin , Quaff ane anither s health aboot, Uncarin and unthinkin What s wared that day. Here sits a Cabrach fairmer fu , His beard wi slavers dreepin , And tho he s in the noisy crew As soun s a tap he s sleepin . Anon he starts upon his feet, And tries his tyke wi swearin , Then gie s him kisses aft and sweet Amid the laddies cheerin Him weel that day ! There in the midst a couple stan And by their lively jargon, We ken they re tryin a they can, To bring aboot a bargain. 246 Dreams o Hame. At last they ve made it to their min , And ere they ve time to swither, Wi jill aboot the twa lads join And drink to ane anither, To seal t that day ! 247 EXTRACTS " FROM THE QUEEN S FIDDLER." (Speech after " The Battle o Bon- Accord .") Their glasses toom d then cam the cry For me mysel to mak reply ; And so concurrin hame-owre I As prood to air my platform-wits As ony would-be Knox, That bangs the Bible into bits When barkin frae his box, On Nature s plan richt aff o han Thus gabbit to the folks : " Kind friens : Aboot the fecht we had Lat s hear nae ither wird, Deid lat it lie as did the lad This nicht upon the yird. O Frien s are few and far between, Sic frien s at least as ye hae been ; 248 Dreams o Hame. When I forget ye may I be Sent in a sieve to sail the sea ; Oblivion hap me \vi its wing Gin I turn oot a pick-thank thing ! It aye has been my fervent wiss To mak the best o things, Till in the end it s come to this : Frae Phoebus reid upsprings, Till she draps bleezin yont the hill I ve aye a canty sangj There s nae a thing I buckle till That can come to me wrang ! Like Scotia s sturdy thistle Fowk may gang whine or whistle Gin they keep clear o me ! But roun me come nae fykin Or welcome to their likin They re unco apt to pree ! But yet I dinna blame poor fowk Wha hae but little lear , Extracts "From the Queen s Fiddler" 249 And rain or shine maun scrape an howk To gather nocht but care, Faae thinkin whyles that Fortune s smiles Are far frae pairtit fair ; That mony a loon that wears a croon A bonnet weel micht sair ; And mony a chiel in poortith bides That gin he had his due, Would hae his girnal burstin sides His grey-beard foamin fu ! But wha can judge ? he livesna here, We are but finite things : We see the burnie rinnin clear But kenna whaur it springs ! I m nae a man to preach an pray Nor scoff at those that micht, But I believe we ll see the day Life s wrangs will be made richt. \Vi watchfu e e on you and me The Gaffir sits aboon : 250 Dreams d Haute. The guid we dee, the dunts we gie Are in his book set doon. Then let us work while bides the day And strive e er gloamin comes, In warp an woof o life to hae The threids ootweigh the thrums ; And gin we a would do our best, Let that be great or sma , And trust to Providence the rest, Far wrang we couldna fa ! O, Time unraivels mony hanks To get but curses for her pranks, But here am I will gie her thanks As he rtfelt as can be ; Let ithers fau t her gin they will And ca her ilka thing that s ill, I ll toast her in my hinmost Jill, For she s been kind to me ! " 251 "A GREAT NICHT THAT." Sic pooer lay in the auld man s bow, He could put life in sticks an stanes ; In truth, twas tauld that Geordie aince, When comin thro the Quarry Howe, (Just as the clock in far Keith-ha Boom d out the eerie hoor o twa,) Sat doon awhile to rest his banes ; An takin " Tibbie " frae her nest, To wyle his weariness awa He gae the fiddle s breist a scrat, An ere ye could hae kissed the cat Aucht rubble rocks at his behest Stood ready for a Highland reel. Four were attired in broom and grass, An four in crimson heather drest, 252 Dreams d Hame. An ilka carlin gat his lass An took his kiss like gallant knicht, When Geordie gar t his fiddle squeal, As prelude to the unco sicht. There, in the silence o the nicht, In hearin o the Bogie s croon, The clumsy craters, roun an roun , Gaed whirlin to the " Deil s Delicht." They knapt their heels wi siccan micht, The bawkie-birdies heids cried stoun ; The ools grew fleyt upon the trees ; The cushies croodl t to their young ; For a the glen like day was bricht An flooded wi an awesome soun That, ghaist-like, wander t on the breeze Frae Quarry Hill to Corbie Tongue. Twa hoors an mair auld Geordie play d, An wow, he gart his fiddle sooch ; "A Great Nicht That" 253 Forbye the stanes, the trees, tis said, Were forced to crack their thooms and hooch. An dancin there upon the green, Till noo the fairies micht hae been, Were it no that the risin sun Loot fling his dairts an fyled the fun. Takin his aim frae cauld Coreen, Red in the face wi rage he slew The hale caboodle o the crew Except, of coorse, his fiddlin frien ; He only looked at him an leuch, An said, " Weel, George, I ve sneckt aneuch, But dinna play sic pranks again." " And what said you ? " the laddies whiles Would speir whan Geordie tauld his tale Some roarin nicht aroun the quiles, Wi just a skyte o nappy ale ; 254 Dreams o Hame. And George oblivious to their smiles Wad shout, " Wha yet has seen me quail ? At sic a thocht my auld bluid biles ; To lairds or lords I dinna crooch. " Their end s like mine the nairrow trench, Their hungry heirs are gleg to tirr, I took my snuff-mill frae my pooch An yellacht tho I didna stir Frae oot the bit a single inch : Guid mornin to yer nichtcaip, sir ; Wad ye no come an tak a pinch ? " 255 TO THE QUEEN IN RE THE VACANT LAUREATESHIP. VICTORIA ! Tho I hinna been For years at hame, tis true, My native shire is Aberdeen, I m proud to own it too ; An mair than a yer still my Queen That I revere and lo e, So maybe I may be forgi en If I dare sing to You ! Since first, adored by ilka class, Ye did the sceptre sway, By Fortune it has come to pass That you ve made Laureates tway : O er Wordsworth s narrow biel the grass Has waved for mony a day, 256 Dreams d Name. And noo sweet Tennyson, alas, Has sung his hinmost lay ! Anither time ye hae the chance, O, blessin s on your name ! Some strugglin minstrel to advance Upon the road to fame ; And I for very joy would dance If he ye should proclaim, To gie the office mair romance Cam frae your Highland Hame ! Nae doot ye ve lots o Irish loons That fain would like the place, And chiels in Welsh and English touns That weel the job could grace ; But in the little Kingdom s boun s, I tell ye to your face, For couthie, kindly sangs and tunes The SCOTCH can set the pace ! The Vacant Laureateship. 257 O, what can match auld Scotia s tongue For sweetness and for swing ? Its Pathos frae the he rt is wrung, Its Humor nane can ding ! And aye it comes frae auld or young Wi sic a halesome ring That whether written, preach d or sung It stands o er a the bing ! As ye ken weel in days gane by The Doric held its ain In lowly cot and castle high, Wi courtier and \vi swain ; But recently I ll no deny It has neglected lain, And wad it no be weel to try To raise it up again ? Within your veins there s Stuart blood, And it gave us Kings twa * * James I. and James V. 258 Dreams o Hame. That sang the Land o Hill and Flood In stirrin strains and braw. Tho baith were nippit in the bud, I wat they did nae sma , But garr d their numbers sweetly scud, And bore the bell frae a ! * To let you hae your barest dues My wonder you compel ; And when ye gie s a bit o news Your style has sic a spell Sometimes I think when I peruse The stories that you tell, That ye maun surely woo the Muse And twang the Lyre yoursel ! * A third, James VI. and I., we had, who wrote great skelps o rhyme, and while twas no sae unco bad, it wasna jist sublime ! But he s mair noted as the lad who did to Windsor climb, the English to the Scots to add, in Willie Shakespeare s time ! The Kings o Albion lang had focht, the sister crown to gain, and truth to tell twas aften thocht, had made the North their ain. But Royal Jamie never socht wi feuds to fash his brain, his Court he just to Lunnon brocht, and started in to reign ! The Vacant Laureateship. 259 This much I ken : to Caledon You hae a tender he rt, And nane feel warmer to the Throne Than those frae Scotland s airt. So may the happy bond stay on, Whatever else may pairt, Till in the ages far ayon Auld Time cowps owre its cairt ! Amang the poets that ye praise, Gin true what I hae heard, Are some big dons that hae their claes Be-ribbon d, cross d and starr d. But since ye canna, tho they fraise, The claims o a regard, What would ye say to put the bays Upon a rustic bard ? We ve had nae lack o Southrons noo Toon-bred and college-wise, 260 Dreams o Hame. Aye gleg to laud wi beck an boo Their patrons to the skies ; So for a change ye micht alloo, What Fair-play justifies, A Scottish Country-Muse to pu For aince the laurell d prize ! 26l AN OLD TESTAMENT. in life we are in death, And know not when the hour may fall When we must yield our mortal breath And leave behind us here our all ; SSElter.ea0, while now I have the skill, that I shall make my will ! it is the rule of late To break a will for little cause, That I may show my mental state Is now as good as ere it was, So none my saneness may asperse, : I ll put my will in verse ! 3Emprittti0, then, or simply First, For that s the way the deeds begin, 262 Dreams rf Hame. All ye who hunger and who thirst To learn the facts enshrined herein, Know straightway that my wits and health Now constitute my chiefest wealth ! As in the plant we never see The fruits subsist without the stem, These precious gifts must die with me, So none need wrangle over them ; Then thank the gods for what they gave, And place my carcase in the grave ! The money that I have in bank, My Life Insurance funds, of course, (I ll have to leave the totals blank !) And all my cash from every source Now loaned or hoarded in my house, I freely leave them to my spouse ! An Old Testament. 263 And if again she should not wed Before my bones to dust are turned, I leave to her my second bed, My best one to be promptly burned, Or else my ghost shall leave my tomb And haunt her nightly in her room ! Should she precede me to her rest, I wish my wealth and all my wares To pass, as justice might suggest, In equal sums and equal shares Amongst our offspring that may live When I my last farewell must give ! My books I prize them more than gold ! My letters, papers, all such things I would not wish them to be sold, Such poor returns an auction brings ; My child shall get them, I decree, That most in taste resembles me ! 264 Dreams o Hame. My works in manuscript and print, In Scotch and English, verse and prose, (If managed well might prove a mint, Tho hardly likely, I suppose !) I leave from first to final page To readers of a future age ! My fame shall live, I here announce, Till Time be dead beyond a doubt ; Of course I hate to brag and bounce, But I might just as well speak out, And pass my judgment on my lore, For no one knows its value more ! And since in life I was denied A fitting seat to rest my bones, My little fancies all decried, I want no monumental stones, And in my grave let no one rake, For Christ s I mean for Jesus sake ! An Old Testament. 265 My deepest curse upon the Who pose as patrons of the Arts, And yet permit rare To hawk around in cadgers carts ; Who rave o er poets long since dead, And let the live ones beg for bread ! With this advice impress your mind, man or woman money-rich, If chance should lead you forth to find A genius drudging in the ditch, Disburse a portion of your pelf And give him help to help himself ! A cent thus spent would far outweigh A million doled to spread the fame Of some Immortal wrapped in clay, 1 care not how you spell his name : Who can assist old Homer now Or add a laurel to his brow? 266 Dreams o Hame. But when he jogg d from door to door In Grecian Gaberlunzie style, And was repulsed like many more As if he were a vagrant vile, Then was the time to lend him aid And so, I guess, enough s been said ! These rugged lines should any read, And think my drift is hardly plain, I say they may come better speed If they peruse the piece again ; I have not time to prune and graft Like experts of the legal craft ! I name as my executrix (Here melted wax had spoiled a line)- At fifty (blot) her bonds I fix, Bear witness as my name I sign (Another blot) in order due, On August third of Ninety-two ! 267 AN ADDRESS TO THE AUTHOR OF "PRESS CHIPS."* CHIPPER chappie, take my thanks, I shall sing a song to thee For thy witty quips and cranks Indiscriminatory ! Justly worthy of applause, In a million readers eyes, Chieftain of the Chip-pewas, Catachresticallywise ! Sparkling Anonymity, Punch-inello of the Press, Rarely in thy style we see Disproportionableness ! * A daily series of unsigned versicles in various moods and measures which appeared in the Philadelphia " Press " during the summer of 1889. 268 Dreams d Name. Rains descend or Phoebus shine, Boreas blow or Zephyr sigh, Every chip is stamped with thine Individuality ! For the fellows such as I, Who admire thy comic chaff, Wont you kindly publish thy Photochromolithograph ? Merrily as marriage bells Ring thy notes from A to Z, * Sweet and strong as Philomel s, Inimitability ! Than myself thy daily log With more gusto never cons, Sesquipedal pedagogue Parallelopipedons ! * American pronunciation "Zee. An Address. 269 Than thy title, happier thought Reader never ran across, Since the days when Carey wrote " Chrononhotonthologos." Since the times of more renown, When without a fleck or flaw Musing Milton scribbled down " Areopagitica." Since the era, greater still, When our Shakespeare made a fuss With"Honorificabil Itudinitatibus ! " And thy courage ! one might seek Just as soon to knock away Popocatepetl s peak s Perpendicularity ! 270 Dreams o Hame. Nye, the Prince of Jesters called, Nigh thee placed, experts confess, Tumbles headlong into bald Insignificativeness. Jack-a-dandy of the types, View d beside thee, ev n Pan, Seems a yes, for all his pipes Valetudinarian ! Some there are (who envies such !) Deem you funny in excess, Think your jingles show too much Tintinnabulariness ! Prosy bores, with noodles null, Who can but expect from these Incommensurably dull Comprehensibilities ? An Address. 271 Check your rhyme and rhythm too ? Curb your jaunty jollity ? When the rush-light can outdo Pyroelectricity ! Would your critics find a cure For their dreary pessimism ? Let them try a shock of your Antihypochondraism ! Verse is not a penal fault, (Hear me shrews and cynics all !) Nor a pinch of Attic salt Anticonstitutional, Dolichocephalic chap, Long may you be spared to chip, Free from Talent s worst mishap Maladministratorship ! 272 Dreams o Hame. To the bards a beacon light In the stereotyped abyss, Coruscating like a bright Carbovegetabilis ! Long be spared thy verses all, Hypercatalectic woe, Unencyclopaedical Improvisatorio ! * * For this poem can be claimed at least originality of measure, and the same may be said for the poems beginning pp. 3 and 27, not a trifling feat at this late date in the development of rhyme and rhythm. 273 A PRAYER. WHEN comes the time as come it may (Tho lang the Lord prevent it !) Good folks to ae puir meal a day, Nae maitter whaur, are stintit ; Wi meat an drink as scant an scarce As Truth is in Tradition, Grand Sutler o the Universe This shall be my petition : Let Brother Bull get Roasts and Fries, Wi Ale and Porter handy ; Gie France her Soups and Puddock Pies, And bottles fu o Brandy ; Gie Sauer-kraut to the Dutch Grandees, And Rhine wine till they stagger ; 18 274 Dreams d Hame. Gie Prussians Sausages and Cheese Wi Flasks o foamin Lager ; Gie Jonathan his Buckwheat Cake, His Pumpkin an Tomatoes, His Soda drinks that never slake ; Gie Paddy his potatoes ; Gie Italy her Oils an Spice And fragrant Maccaroni ; Gie poppies, Birdies Nests and Rice To pig-tailed Jap or Johnny ; Gie Swedish Turnips to the Swedes, To Poles gie Roley-Poleys ; To ilka Nation gie its needs, Forgetting fau ts an follies, Deal oot an dinna hain ; As lang s ye leave your loyal SCOTS In porridge plates and pewter pots The Flesh and Blood o juicy OATS To stap their kytes an weet their throats They never shall complain ! 275 TO WED OR NOT TO WED ? THAT IS THE QUESTION ! I FIND, on reading of the undertaking, That Men of Genius since the world began Have found in Marriage less of joy than aching, As we can gather if their lives we scan. These illustrations, from a random raking Amongst the records of the writing clan, I simply quote as I delight to sprinkle Great names on paper and to hear them tinkle ! Old Mrs. Dante, who could likely hem a Chemise or handkerchief exceeding well, Was less a jewel than she was a Gem-ma : If we can swallow what traditions tell 276 Dreams d Hame. Her tongue was frightful, can we then condemn a Revengeful Poet if he wrote on " Hell," And formed his periods in a style more graphic Than he could muster for his theme seraphic ? The Bard of Avon was entrapped in youth By quite an elderly and portly lady, And Shakespeare s habits, to declare the truth, And put it mildly, were a bit unsteady ; His life in London was reverse of smooth, His home affections were a trifle shady, And judging from his Sonnets I should say He did not dote upon Ann Hathaway ! The pious Milton was a fraud we gather, In spite of all his hymning and his creeds ; His first wife left him in a hurry rather Than shape her conduct to his peevish needs ; With Number Two he proved a careless father And left his daughters to grow up like weeds, To Wed or not to Wed? 277 Small wonder then, to aggravate his woes, He found in Wedlock more of Thorn than Rose ! Montaigne was happy when he left his spouse, He looked on marriage as domestic pain, It is recorded, as his vow of vows, With Wisdom s self he would not wed again ; John Uryden s wife brought discord to his house, She was so cross and cranky in the grain ; And Moliere as well as writer Rousseau Deplored the day he saw a bridal trousseau ! Spectator Joe, from whom the tyro strives The heights and depths of English speech to learn, Put in the wretchedest of wedded lives, His ancient Countess gave him much concern, And proved an equal to the testy wives Of tatler Steele and sentimental Sterne, While Mrs. Coleridge tied with Churchill s mate In running races for the Vixen Plate ! 278 Dreams o 1 Hame. The great Lord Byron made a mess of marriage, His honeymoon he called a " treacle-moon ; " Twas Bulwer s pride his partner to disparage, And Dickens deem d a single life a boon ; But bliss came also in Minerva s carriage, Some clever couples have been known to spoon, All writers were not like Carlyle the crusty, Who snubb d his dearie till her love grew rusty ! Sir Walter Raleigh led a sweet existence, Admired and solaced by his youthful wife ; Sir Francis Bacon, tho he kept his distance From Lady Bacon, kept away from strife ; The Scotch Sir Walter, with a rare persistence, Remained a lover till the end of life, And Burns the poet, from his life we glean, Was ever singing of his bonnie Jean ! Wordsworth and Southey, and melodious Moore, (And Shelley, too, upon the second trial), To Wed or not to Wed? 279 In spite of all their lyrics and their lore, Were happy husbands there is no denial ; The Halls and Howitts did not deem a bore The draughts they quaff d from Matrimony s phial, And who could slander the contentment crowning The married life of Bob and Mrs. Browning ? Sweet Henry Wads worth and the Concord Sage, The honey d Hawthorne of " The Scarlet Letter," And Russell Lowell, of a later age, Were all believers in the silken fetter ; Twould take the compass of an ample page To name the authors made by wedlock better ; But then, again, what lives have there been prettier That those of Whitman and his compeer Whittier ? * * Both bachelors. 280 INVOKING THE MUSE. In my restricted, interrupted leisure, To woo the Muses is my chiefest pleasure, But then, with duties that I need not mention, My wife and babies must have some attention ! I M stuck, by thunder ! I may now confess it, My luck has brought me to a pretty pickle ! An evening gone without a verse to bless it ; Why, fickle fortune, should you prove so fickle ? I take my matter and I try to dress it, I tug and tussle till the sweat-drops trickle My steed poetic in a fit has flunk d, And for a stanza I m completely skunk d ! You see and possibly I should have noted The facts I give you ere to this I came I m not a member of the broad-cloth-coated "Association of the SONS OF FAME ; " Invoking the Muse. 281 In time amongst them I may get promoted, But for the present I can make no claim, I drudge at writing for an occupation, And rhyming s nothing but my recreation ! And now I m stuck ! but I shall tell the reason, Quite unconcerned about the consequences, It s now the springtime and the cleaning season, And I ve been working to cut down expenses ; I guess twas something like poetic treason, And what I d scouted in my sober senses, But, press d and pester d, for the time I wilted Renounced the Muses and I find I m jilted ! I lifted carpets and I shifted stoves, I netted pictures and I scrubbed and dusted, Mosquitoes routed by the dozen droves, Put screens in windows and the doors adjusted ; I sprinkled coffee and I scatter d cloves, And disinfected, till at last disgusted 282 Dreams o Hame. I vowed I should not be in any hurry To waste my time in such another flurry ! Then came the tussle in our little garden : The neighbours hinting that it should be sodded, I did my utmost in attempts to harden My flabby muscles as I nightly plodded At digging, delving, and at hauling sward in ; And thus it pays me or I may be clodded, For all the velvet that I ve cut and carted It s barer now than when before I started ! A Rhymester s something like an acrobatic Or juggling artist he must practise ever ; If in performance he becomes erratic He ll lose his balance, or he s extra clever : And so I m sticking in my little attic, Unblest with verse because I had to sever My close connection with poetic style, And leave Parnassus for a little while ! Invoking the Muse. 283 But I ll do better in the time to come, And naught shall tempt me from my love to stray ; Then why, O Muses, will ye still be glum ? Without your favours I may quit my lay ; But smile upon me and we ll make things hum, I m all impatient to resume the play : Gee up, O Pegasus, or I, perforce, Will have to hustle for another horse ! 284 A DIG AND A DIGRESSION. O FEW which is the same as " far between " Are men with pluck enough to take a stand And do a thing before they yet have seen If other folks have lent a helping hand ; They use a precedent by way_of screen, In case a critic should by chance demand The why and wherefore of a strange transaction, As if a precedent could screen an action ! It s not amiss to know what others do : I read the poets who have gone before me ; Some please my fancy, it is very true, But many others (I confess it) bore me ; The simpler singers I can struggle thro , The mystic writers with their riddles floor me ; A Dig- and a Digression. 285 A rhyme I fancy may become my model, But it would never enter in my noddle To ask my Muses if I should have leave (Presuming always that I had ability) An untried rhythm in my verse to weave, For that too much would savour of servility : To link my octaves is a thing, I grieve, I ve done it just to show with what facility I can accomplish such a feat, because It s now the fashion to bestow applause On poetasters of the present crop, Who must imagine it betokens skill Across the channels of the page to hop, The subdivision of the verse to kill, And think it s brilliant to insert a stop Right in the stanza s centre with their quill ! To me such writers by their writings teach The form they tackle is beyond their reach, And they might just as well descend to prose As hack their measures in a way so vile. 286 Dreams d Hame. The proper method, as a schoolboy knows, In contradiction to the current style, Is for the poet at the verse s close To isolate each stanza like an isle, And let the reader at the pauses snatch An opportunity his breath to catch ! No further this digression to prolong, Which we have follow d for a verse or two, As I have stated, there is nothing wrong In being posted on what others do ; A man will rarely run against a prong If past experience he keeps in view ; But were we all to be of such a sort What little progress could the world report ! Hotch-Potch (in English and Scotch). Being versicles on -various Topics, including Impromptus, Epigrams, Comments, Criticisms, Inscriptions, etc. M. AURELIUS ANTONINUS, In discussing " Early Rising," To Lie Still he must design us, Recommending Moralizing. While a fellow s cogitating He s averse to stir a stump, And instead of thus debating Tis the better way to JUMP ! O ye who Clothing simply scan, Be careful how you judge a man : Beneath most uninviting ground The richest ores are often found ! Those writers show the greatest sense That can condense. Their gifts are of the highest sort, That " cut it short." 288 Dreams o Hame. Of pithy rules for scribbling fools, In my belief, This is the chief : BE BRIEF ! While as a rule we should not show A spark of animosity, Against whatever has the glow Or gleam of generosity ; It positively is -a crime For any man to waste our time With dreary screeds of prose or rhyme, Enveloped in verbosity ! Clearness, Correctness and Condensation, Is the three-hued happy combination That would much improve the bad condition Of many a heavy Composition ! When one considers now-a-days With what great assiduity Our poets decorate their lays With gems of ambiguity, They should receive the highest praise Who have the ingenuity To run against the current craze, And write with perspicuity ! Ver sides i etc. 289 From careful observation And knowledge of tuition, I make this proclamation : (Forgive the ebullition !) The Laws and Rules of Grammar Not worth a tinker s dam are,* Compared to Imitation For learning Composition ! ON PERUSING FOR THE FIRST TIME THE POEMS OF ALEXANDER WILSON. EPISTLE TO J. D. THERE S mony a warm inspirin screed Sprung frae a whiskey potion, But, SANDY, lad, nae jill ye need To set your Muse in motion ! Some Bards could never catch your leed When rhymin tak s your notion, Tho they held bumpers to their heid As bigs the German Ocean In bulk this day ! THE PACK. WEEL spoken, WILSON, witty chiel ! Weel spoken, Pedlar s pack ! * Gentle reader : I m not swearing ! a "dam" is worth a little more than a bawbee. 19 290 Dreams d Hame. A century has turned its wheel Sin ye begood your crack ! An hunners yet thro space may reel, Yea, Time gang a to wrack, Ere cauld Oblivion set its seal On sic a canty trac For aince and aye ! EPISTLE TO A BROTHER PEDLAR. LANG, lang, O Pedlars hae ye pass d Into your hinmost hame, And cares for aye ahint ye cast On dainties to your wame ; So I ll nae wish your backs boo d doun Wi snag to mortals giv n, But rowth o a that gangs the roun As lang s ye bide in Heav n, I humbly pray ! CALLAMPHITRE S ELEGY. AYE, sleeps he soun as ony carl, O er-maister d by a drappie ; But dootna in anither waiT He s wide awauk an happy ; And never can he be forgot, Nor negligence enthral him, While here there bides a kilted Scot That dances Ghillie-Callum, By Nicht or Day ! Ver sides, etc. 291 EPISTLE TO MR. W. M. WAS Fortune kind or crookit mou d When sic a wye she used ye ? Nae doot gin there we would hae voo d She sairly had abused ye ; But noo we re less inclined to ban For had the Tup done better, And gin the gowd had graced your han We michtna had sic Letter To read this day ! EPISTLE TO A. C. SANDY, Sandy ! You re a dandy, And I gang nae far amiss, When I swear that rhymin Andie Never wrote the peer o this ! EPISTLE TO J. D. A BONNY picture o the toun, As fresh as saut sea breezes ; My fegs ye are a clever loon And never fail to please us ! Awa at hame It s a the same When ye set to your story ; In ilka line Sae fine ye shine, We canna but encore ye ! 292 Dreams o Haute. EPISTLE TO J. K. WHY, why, O WILSON, did ye dee, And live sae lang ahead o me ? Your tastes and mine so grandly giee I d nae rebel To shouther wi a chiel like thee The Pack mysel" ! VIRGIL S CAUTION TO THE READER. WHEN o er a rhyme ae blink ye tak Ye only get a taste o t, And twenty times ye maun gang back Or ye possess the best o t ! THE REEL O STUMFIE. WILLIE CREECH, aince Provost Creech, in Edinbroch, the city o t, To pass his time made up this rhyme, the muckle mair s the pity o t ; For gin the gowk had thocht to gang and gi en to BURNS a teetie o t We micht hae had a better sang to " Wap an Rowe the Feetie o t ! " Ver sides, etc, 293 A PREFACE TO " HOLY WILLIE S PRAYER." THE printer chiel s been unco fasheous, And fu o auld-wife wishy-washes To male 1 a mess o docket dashes This pious pleadin ; Sic wyes o work are far frae cautious And sair misleading So I hae stappit up the gashes To mak richt readin ! SCOTLAND S TRINITY BURNS, FERGUSSON, RAMSAY. NAE Southron loon but maun alloo The Muses hae been partial to The Land o Cakes an Thistles ; And Robert Burns to thee belangs The Chieftainship for Scottish Sangs, For Poems and Epistles ! I aince was browden t on your book, And yet I wyte I am sac ! But, lad, I canna weel o erlook The debt ye owe to Ramsay. Thy rhymes saft at times aft Frae Fergusson s are swallen, But daringly and glaringly Ye ve stown frae " gentle " Allan ! 294 Dreams d* Hame. TIME S VERDICT. BONNIER burnies may I see, Bonnier howes may greet my e e, Dearer nane can ever be Than Bogie and Strath-Bogie ! " THE TWA DOGS." A WEEL-TAULD easy-goin tale, A " jinglin " Geordie Fse be bail ! And, Robert, wise thou wert indeed To start your bookie wi this screed. It shows sic thochtfu , musin airt, It maun hae ta en the puir fowks he rt ! " Here " ye would force them to confess, " Here we hae fand in hamely dress A Poet worthy to be placed Amang the sweetest and the best That ever warbled here below ! A Makkar, three times sworn the foe O a that s wrang in man to man ; A hame-owre singer, ane that can Wile us a while frae cark and care ; Whose verse like waughts o caller air Sweeps oot the cob-webs in oor brains, And like the kindly summer rains That freshen up the dorby Ian Puts vigor in oor head an han ! " etc., etc. Versicles, etc. 295 A CONTRIBUTION TO THE BOOKS CONTROVERSY. THE best book yet is the Pocket-Book ; The Book of Books is the Pocket-Book ; The Pocket-Book when a well-filled Book Is a Book that few despise ! "AS A RULE. The best Impromptus still are those Conceived and born in cloister d close, When Sol drops under Terra s keel And swings on Space his dead-light ; Those sharpen d on the/^w-sive steel And polish d up with head-\\g\ti ! " TULLOCHGORUM." O, SKINNER, sweetly hast thou sung : Thy verse tho auld is ever young ; Twill live as lang s our Mither-Tongue, Or Scot wears Bonnet o er him ; " First of Lyrics " Burns confest First of Lyrics first of Lyrics ] First of Lyrics Burns confest Land-melody or jorum ; First of Lyrics, Burns confest, By " first " of course he meant THE BEST, And nane will better stan the test Than thy rare " Tullochgorum ! " 296 Dreams c? Name. TO THOSE WHO LIKE TO STRUT ABOUT AND SPEAK AND SPOUT. THE gift of gab s a doubtful gift With which to turn a man adrift, For he who likes to wag his jaw Is very apt to thrash old straw, And tempt his friends to criticize : Say little and you ll pass for wise ! There s " luck in leisure " some folk say, I hold the saw of small accompt, Believing tis the better Avay In all transactions to be prompt ! " Assume it if you have it not " Applies to any sort of stuff; The Real s not by Sham begot, But Credit is the Child of Bluff ! Make up your mind, if mind you ve got, And when you see your duty clear, Tho zeal get cold that once was hot, ADHERE and PERSEVERE ! Versicles, etc, 297 DON T BE FINICAL! I GRANT you that it s very nice In most of things to be precise ; I also will admit tis meet To try to have a thing complete ; But do your best and acquiesce Or daily you ll accomplish less, And idly will your time be spent If you give way to discontent ! KEEP UP TO THE TIMES. IN this mad hustling bustling age The man who would with Fortune wage The most successful war, In little and in big affairs Must waste no wind in climbing stairs Where Elevators are ! We cannot deem a spendthrift wise Howe er his acts we view ; A stingy man we all despise Tis also very true. But in the end he ll win, say I, Who keeps back in reserve, The largest and the best supply Of nickels and of nerve ! 298 Dreams o Hame. "Pis better to admit the fact We cannot all be great ; It is the forte of some to act Of others to create. And some again are very good At rinding faults and flaws, But woe betide the ones who should Yet will not give applause ! Bannocks o bear-meal, bannocks o barley, Here s to the Highlandman s bannocks o barley Plump is the lassie and stout is the carlie Fed on the bannocks o bear-meal an barley ! AN OBSERVATION. PERSISTENT dropping will outwear a stone : Let critics sneer and let the cynics snicker, It may be for the sake of peace alone, But all things tumble to the constant kicker ; The louder also that you make your moan Relief will hurry to your side the quicker ; A nurse may dally with a sleepy dunce, A squalling baby must be soothed at once ! Ver sides, etc. 299 NOTHING SUCCEEDS LIKE SUCCESS. O, WHAT fantastic idiotic pranks A man may play if he can play to win ! The more grotesque he gets the better thanks, Even doubtful tricks are varnished with a grin ; But woe betide the innovating cranks That make a failure as their tops they spin ; With that derision Mrs. Grundy views The poor unfortunates that play to lose ! THE GOSPEL OF DRESS. HE was a convert to the worldly creed That Clothes an applicant can mar or make ; That Beggars always can come better speed In almost anything they undertake, If they will deck them in a fitting weed : Dame Fortune s gifts are scatter d in the wake Of booby dandies, while a man of brain In poor apparel will appeal in vain ! AN INTERLUDE. Now westward Phoebus with his fiery car Has made his exit in a blaze of red ; Beneath the shadows of the spires afar The river flashes like a silver thread ; The moon attended by a single star Is softly shining from the blue o erhead ; But while I m partial to the picturesque, I guess I ll hie me to my writing desk ! 3OO Dreams o* Maine. A NOTE TO A FAMOUS POEM. WHETHER as Linguist or as Lyrist view d, Lord Byron s worthy of all commendation ; For "chew d," tis true, he sometimes said "eschew d," A curious error in his education ; But at the Spanish he was surely crude When he implied that the pronunciation Of " Juan " (as in " Don Juan ") should be like " Jew- one," When " Whan " or " Wan " is, for a fact, the true one ! TWAS EVER THUS. LIKE many more, he had begun to learn The world s mistrustful of a thing that s new ; Long years of waiting and repulses stern The best Inventions have to struggle thro Before a dollar they can hope to earn, And many failures by the way ensue : With books, with creeds, with everything, in fact, A new departure shows a want of tact ! Our modern samples of successes prove (Look round about you and you ll see it s so) The men who labour in a well-worn groove Seem everywhere to get a better show Than clever fellows who are prone to move In contradiction to the general flow ; Great praise is shower d upon Originality, For cash Conformity s the better quality ! Ver sides, etc. 301 SMALL DETAILS. IT may look trivial to be too precise, And needless trifling we should seek to stifle, But laconism is a greater vice, And abstract writers should receive a rifle ; It s little things that give the spark and spice, That make perfection which is not a trifle ; While brevity may be the soul of wit, Long-winded fellows make the greatest hit ! WHITHER? IN vain we cry for further licht, In vain we seek the veil withdrawn ; But as the day leads on to nicht, And nicht again gives place to dawn, So, dootless, will the end come richt, And darkness yield to mornin bricht ! SECURITY. AH ! who need fear the Tempest s shock Whose house is grounded on a rock ? What ghost dare seek to follow him Who keeps his lamp in perfect trim ? And who may bless or who may ban What harm can hurt an HONEST MAN ? One unpretentious kindly deed Is worth a life of empty creed ! 3O2 Dreams o y Hame. AU REVOIR! WHY finer spin my simple rhyme And spoil your temper and your time ? Frae what I ve done it s only fair To grant I m fit for something mair, As (luck be praised !) when said is a I m twenty-aucht, nae auchty-twa ; And what you ve seen and what you see Is but the bloom upon the tree That shows whaur fruit may yet be twined Gin Chance and Fate prove halflins kind ! APPENDICES. A. "A Dream o Haine" (Geographical), was originally dedicated to G. IV. Anderson, of the Seaforth Highlanders, on receipt of his " Lays of Strathbogie and the Story of the Strath ; " and conchided with the following lines : Such are the scenes portray d by you, Minstrel sweet and Artist true ! Altho your face I ve never seen 1 feel that I can ca ye frien . For this braw book ye ve sent to me I waft my thanks across the sea. " THE STORY o THE STRATH " shall stand While Noth o ertaps the Gordon land, And Bogie as it wanders on Shall sing the praise of ANDERSON ! The following selected extracts refer to only a few of the Poems in this volume, the greater portion of the book being printed for the first time : E. " DEAR SIR, I thank you for your communication, particularly the interesting paraphrase of Psalm I. I am happy to find the Scottish dialect has crossed the water. As to the small matter of my nationality the facts are clear. I was born in Liverpool. My father and mother and all my forbears were Scotch exclusively. Your faithful and obdt. servt., "W. E. GLADSTONE." C. " Your rich geographical ditty. If I had influence with the educators of the people in that quarter, I should certainly advise that the verses should be recited and sung in every school between the Dee and the Deveron. ... A true poet, as the lines to Sherman prove. The Domestic Duet is a good piece of broad humour, and thrown off with the fresh dramatic touch from real life, for which Scottish song is so famous. "(PROFESSOR) JOHN STUART BLACKIE." 304 Appendix. " MY DEAR FRIEND, I have read with pleasure thy Dream o Hame the dream which thousands of Scotch born Americans I doubt not are dreaming. I honour them for their undying love of their broomy knowes and heathery hills. With many thanks for thy poem, I am, thy aged friend, "JOHN G. WHITTIER." " MY DEAR SIR, I thank you sincerely for your kindness in sending me a copy of your " Dream o Hame," which I have not had the chance of reading till this evening. It has given me great pleasure, and of that refined pleasure, too, which is not unakin to pain. There is pervading it a wail of home-sickness and of intense yearning for the vanished years and vanished places which corres ponds to the minor key that is dominant in genuine Scotch music. Again thanking you for the real pleasure you have given me, I beg to remain, dear sir, yours respectfully, "HORACE HOWARD FURNESS." " Your braw hame-poem is a wholesome lilt as well as musical, and I thank you soundly for the copy you have personally marked for me. But a brief while ago I browsed the Burns-land over learning there to even love the poemer better than before and his country and his people though inordinately fond of all of them since old enough to read. Again my heartiest thanks for your ain hinnied sang, and believe me very cordially your friend, "JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY." "Your truly spirited panoramic poem. ... A Highland heart, or sentiment if you will, breathes all through your production, and that you include so many place-names gives a rare value to the piece. "DUNCAN MACGREGOR CRERAR." "I have read your Dream o Hame more than once with interest and pleasure. Your mastery of the dear old Doric is undeniable, and your enumeration of the many finely sounding burns, rivers, hills and clachans is grateful to me. ... A noble old bard, Isaiah, forty centuries before our day, understood as no modern rhymester does the peculiar value of sonorous and magnificent names. "THOMAS C. LATTO." " I have read it several times and certainly each time with more pleasure. It is very graphic all the pictures clearly defined, and not an inharmonious line in the whole poem. "ALEX. ANDERSON (Surfaceman)." Appendix. 305 " Spirited ! GENERAL JAMES GRANT- WILSON." "Graceful. LORD ABERDEEN." " Characteristic. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES." " DEAR MR. C., You have done me a rare kindness in sending me the Dream o Hame. Nearly every mountain and place named I have visited or passed so near that I felt very much at hame with the portrayal from first to last. Only a born poet could have interpreted the cycloramic view with so many gems. Is it any wonder I find the eloquent commentary as succulent as graphic? " W. P. M." " Read with interest and pleasure. JOHN S. KENNEDY." " Charming Dream o Hame ! You have cleverly put together the panorama of a beautiful Scotch landscape, where every scene is associated with romance or history. "REV. E. C. BOLLES (D.D.)." "The Scotch lines inscribed to me are far too flattering, but I shall swallow them, and try to outflank the deil for some years yet. "GENERAL SHERMAN (to CARNEGIE)." " DEAR JAMIE, It is a paraphrase to be proud of. Auld Rouse would have accepted it with as fair a joy as could be expected from one who had surpassed him in his own special line. ... I love the homely Doric Scotch which smacks so of the soil and the spirit. . . . Brood over a few of the choicest of the old Psalms, and when they sing to you in the mother tongue as this has sung, try again. Indeed yours, " ROBERT COLLYER (D.D.)." " MY DEAR FRIEND, Much obliged to you for the copy of your excellent poem on Walt Whitman. It shows that you have a spark of Nature s fire. ... I hope to see you in Phila. on the 2 ist. Thanking you again and again, I remain, as ever, your friend, "(COLONEL) R. G. INGERSOLL." "Your leading good quality is the natural, spontaneous, easy going flow of words that happily round themselves into lyrical form. Spontaneity is the perfection of all art and the hardest to attain. In this you are not excelled by any Scottish poet of our time. . . . Your Scotch is the purest of any I know in America. 306 Appendix. . The paraphrase of the First Psalm is the best thing of its kind I ever read. . . . Very few can appreciate it fully. They are prone to see humour in it. To me it seems sanctified by memories of the Covenant, and is such as Knox might have read in St. Giles. "JAMES KENNEDY, Author of " Scottish American Poems, The Deeside Lass, etc." "It is certainly quite a remarkable production. Mr. Law s command of language is extraordinary. ... I have read his poem A Nicht \vi Burns a good many times and have enjoyed it very much. ... I shall take great pleasure in making his acquaintance. "(DR.) JAS. MAC ALISTER "(President of Drexel Institute)." " A true poet. . . . Will not discredit Scotland. "ANDREW CARNEGIE." UC SOU THERN REGIONAL LIBRARVF 92440 PS 3523 L41d 1893