..^vW^ I * * PUNCH OF J4EATHER D POEMS. AND A BUNCH OF HEATHER OTHER POEMS. BY BELLA PARKER. D. H. EDWARDS, ADVERTISER OFFICE. EDINBURGH : JOHN HBNZIES & CO. DUNDKB : GBOROB PBTRIE. 1889, P3 62 IJtbication. TO MY FATHER. CONTENTS. A Bunch of Heather, . . . . . . 9 Our Darling, 13 A Scottish Sabbath, 15 In the Hospital Ward, 18 Homeward Bound, . . . . .21 Building on the Sand, 23 Rest in the Lord, 26 The Widower 28 A Woman, and a Queen, 30 Called, 32 Thy Will be Done, 33 Jack's Letter to the Old Folks at Home, . . 35 Wilt Thou' be Mine? 37 Marguerite, 39 Wee Jim, the Newsboy, 43 Only 47 Papa's Little Sweetheart, 48 " Blood on my Hands," 60 vi. CONTENTS. PAGE. Childhood's Days, 56 To my Old Man, 59 The Cradle of Logie, 61 The Young Missionary, 64 Home, Sweet Home, 67 Jamie's Bible, 70 A Floweret, 73 My Laddies, 75 The Prodigal's Return, 77 Benighted, 80 Hand in Hand 83 The Dying Soldier 86 Donald 88 " At Evening Time there shall be Light," . 90 A Tale of War, 93 Is Life Worth Living ? 96 "Lead, Kindly Light, amid the Encircling Gloom," 99 Maggie, 102 Memories of the Past, 105 Annie, 109 The Dying Student, Ill In the Workhouse, . . . . . . 116 In the Twilight 119 Two Pictures of Home, 121 A Call to Service, 124 Our Parson, 128 The Child of Hale, 131 Flora, 133 The Drunkard's Wife, 137 Longing, 140 Our Bill, 143 CONTENTS. Vll. PAGE. My Little Ben 145 Millie .- . 151 " Love's Young Dream," 154 Mistaken 156 An Ivy Spray, 160 My Queen, 163 Found Dead , . . . 165 A Street Incident, 169 'Tis but a Little Faded Flower, ... 171 He Cometh Not 173 Collier Jim, 176 Misunderstood, 180- Stranger than Fiction 182 A Prodigal, 185 God's Acre, 189 The Way of Salvation, 191 Christmas Memories, 195 The Old Manse, 198 Gerard and I, 201 In the Mission Hall, 203 In Dreamland, . .... 207 Bidin' His Time, ... 210 A BUNCH OF HEATHER AND OTHER POEMS. Jt Jtanch of feather. 'WAS but this bunch of heather sent to me That made me long once more my home to see This heather, gathered in my native glen Beneath the shadow of the rugged Ben. Friend ! think you that the home-folks under stand The joy this gives us in a foreign land ? 'Tis but. in sleep, or in day-dreams I see My Highland home that place so dear to mo ; The mountain rising in its noble pride, The white-washed houses on its Southern side, The noisy streamlet tumbling down the hill, 10 A BUNCH OP HEATHER. And entering the loch below the mill. As thoughts turn to the loch my eyes grow wet ; Its wond'rous beauty I can ne'er forget ; Its summer face I see, of changing hue One moment black as night, then radiant blue ; Again I see it as on winter night, Its waves as mountains high, all foaming white, Or with the moonlight, like a silver band, Upon its placid face and pebbly strand. In Boatman Peter's little skiff once more I idly rock, or with him pull an oar, Whilst he, between his lessons in the art Of rowing, strange old legends would impart. There stands the kirk upon the green hillside, Near by, the manse among the trees doth hide ; Close to the kirk, the inn (where one might buy Aught from a lamb to postage stamps) doth lie. A stone's cast off, the schoolhouse rears its head, Rivalling in learning Oxford, it is said. The man of " isms" and " ologies" I see, The children's friend as well as teacher he, A friend to all the feeble, poor, or old, To right their wrongs, a champion kind and bold; A welcome guest was he where'er he went, His words new charms to every gathering lent, A BUNCH OF HEATHER. 11 And care and sorrow were forgot awhile When basking in the sunshine of his smile, Or listening to his jokes and harmless wit, His humorous tales, as round the fire we'd sit. I see the houses on the hillside,' where The shepherd's evening meal I oft would share; The milk, the barley scones, the home-made cheese The finest dainties cannot rival these ; Nor is the greeting by rich friends addressed Aught like the Highland welcome to a guest. In fancy by the glowing, bright peat-fire Again I sit beside some grey-haired sire, His sun-browned hands clasped on his cromag stout ; His faithful dogs upon the floor, tired out ; Whilst round his shieling moaned the wintry blast, He'd talk to me of days and times long past. The politician of the place once more 1 combat with, as in the days of yore, And argue on the themes of Church and State, The news of warfare, and the country's fate ; Whilst by the hearth his gentle sister meek Would sit and smile, but never dare to speak, 12 A BtitfCH OF itEATflER. To contradict would foolish be she knew, For there was none so clever as " our Hugh." But as the days of old I thus recall, My bosom heaves, and burning tear-drops fall ; An exile on a foreign shore I roam, Far from my dearest friends, my Highland home. Forgive niy tears, dear friend, call me not weak; Such tears have wet the Saviour's holy cheek ; And He can sympathise and understand My longing for a sight of my own land. 13 ur Darling. ^HERE'S an empty cot in the nursery lone, By the window an empty chair, Upon it a frock and two little shoes, Which our darling never will wear. Her doggie looks up with a mournful whine, And waits for his mistress in vain ; But the days pass by, and she never comes, And never will come back again. The birdies come to the window each day, And wait, as of old, to be fed ; But they look in vain for their little friend, They know not our darling is dead. There's a little mound in the quiet churchyard- A mound where the violets grow, And the daisies white and the cowslips bright, The flowers our darling loved so. 14 OTJR DARLING. There's one lamb less on this sorrowful earth, One less to bear sorrow and pain ; There's one angel more now in Heaven above- Our darling we'll meet there again. 15 31 gc0tti0h ^iabbath. ?HE radiant summer Sabbath morning breaks, Rolls softly back the curtain of the night; The rugged mountains and the .fertile vales Are bathed in rosy light. No ring of hammer on the anvil's heard, The mill is silent and the wheel stands still ; No ploughboy's whistle, sounding loud and clear, Is heard upon the hill. The rustic villagers, in Sabbath dress, Are streaming forth and winding through the glen; Women and children, young and old, are there, Greyhaired and youthful men. The solemn tolling of the dear old bell, (Though, doubtless, just a wee thing cracked it be) Sounds sweeter far than grand cathedral chimes Or music fine to me. 16 A BUNOH OF HEATHER. Long have I been an exile from my home I've lived in sunny South and distant West ; But in these foreign lands I ever longed For Scotland's day of rest. I've worshipped God 'neath India's burning sun, And in St. Peter's gorgeous church at Rome, In many a minster old but none of these Was like the church at home. The dear old kirk, with ivy on its walls, And bonnie streamlet singing past its door, And quiet churchyard, where friends meet with friends To talk the sermon o'er. I hear again our dear old pastor's voice Sounding so sweetly through the house of prayer, A heavenly radiance on his aged face, The sunlight on his hair. I hear again my father lead the Psalms, The dear familiar tunes come back to me, Sweet plaintive Martyrs and the Hundred Old, Elgin and wild Dundee. A SCOTTISH SABBATH. 17 I see the old oak pew where mother sat, Her hand in mine, and Sissie on her knee ; Now father, mother, Sissie, pastor, all Have crossed the jasper sea. This life is full of partings, tears, and grief, There's nothing in this changeful world can last ; An everlasting Sabbath we'll enjoy When change and time are past. 18 In the Hospital SBari. ?HEY told me she was dying, but I could not think it true She smiled a loving welcome as she always used to do ; I thought she could not look so glad if death to her were nigh, For I thought it must be sad to the young and fair to die. She was the fairest cottage-girl in all the country side, I felt as proud as any king when she became my bride ; And she was good as well as fair a thrifty, loving wife ; We knew no care or sorrow like a happy dream seemed life. IN THE HOSPITAL WARD. 19 We thought our happiness complete when dar- ling baby came, And how we talked and pondered what should be our dear one's name ; We called her "May" because she came upon a fair May morn ; She was the wisest, dearest child that surely e'er was born. When she was six months old, one night, as I came from the mill, My young wife met me at the door and whispered> " Baby's ill ! " I found her in a fever, tossing wild upon her bed; We watched beside her all that night ; by morn our May was dead. We missed our baby, oh ! so much our bonnie little May ; My wife grew quieter, sadder, and then weaker every day j The doctor said " She must have proper food, and care and rest, Let her go to the hospital for her it will be best." 20 A BUNCH OP HEATHER. And when I went to see her, I said " Ah, she's mending fast ; " The nurses shook their heads and said " She can't much longer last ; " But I could not think it true till my darling said to me " Yes, Willie, dear, I'm going soon with Christ and May to be. " At first I almost thought it hard to leave you lonely here, I wished then God would spare me till the spring- time of the year ; I longed for flowers upon my grave, and not the cold, white snow ; But all those childish thoughts are gone, for Jesus wills it so. " You've been so good and kind to me, my faith- ful Willie, dear. Farewell ! my love ! cling close to Christ ! He will your lone life cheer." I kissed her cheek, she smiled on me, and then was far away ; I was alone, my wife had gone to join our dar- ling May. 21 gjjometoarfc Jtonttb. 'VE missed her in the morning bright, and through the livelong day, My thoughts so often turned to her when I was far away ; Sweet mem'ries of those happy days have oft come back to me Those happy days I spent with her before I crossed the sea. I kiss the flower she gave me of flowerets fair, the best ; We stood beside the mill-stream as the sun sank in the west ; She plucked this little floweret, and she whispered " Dearest Jack, Tis all I have to give you ; keep it safe till you come back." 22 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. I took the blue " forget-me-not," and clasped her to my heart ; I whispered words of comfort ah ! it was so hard to part ; But I was a poor fisher lad, with neither lands nor wealth ; I vowed I'd work and win her, for I had strength and health. I went out to the diggings, where I stayed ten years or more, And now I'm sailing home again to dear old England's shore ; I see my native town once more, I see her on the quay; I clasp my darling in my arms, for she's been true to me. 23 $5ttilbing on the E golden summer sunlight shone on fair St. Andrews Bay ; It smiled down on a boy and girl upon the sands at play. A gentle, blue-eyed child was she, with curling golden hair ; A dark-haired, black-eyed boy was he they were a happy pair. She was the doctor's one ewe lamb ; the rector's child was he ; Their mothers both were laid to rest close by the murm'ring sea, Their fathers had been bosom friends for many, many years, Together they had tasted joy wept many bitter tears. 24 A BtTNCa OP HEATHER. The summer sunlight brightly shone upon their bairns at play ; The waves came rippling, tumbling in across the peaceful bay ; The children built fair palaces, and castles large and grand, They gathered shells, and laughed and played among the yellow sand. "We'll have a house like this, dear Nell a lovely home 'twill be ; We'll build it near our dear old town, beside the bright blue sea ; We'll live together happy there when you and I are wed ; I wish we both were grown up now " the dark- eyed Douglas said The golden summer sunlight shines on fair St. Andrews Bay ; Alas ! it does not now smile down upon the bairns at play ; The dark-eyed Douglas kneels alone upon the hard, cold ground, With streaming eyes he lays sweet flowers upon a grassy mound. BUILDING ON THE SAND. 25 Beside the old Cathedral walls his little playmate lies His darling Nell, with golden hair and wondrous bright blue eyes. She's sleeping in God's Acre fair, beside the murmuring sea ; " I shall go to her," Douglas says, " though she can't come to me." " Nell's Saviour I shall learn to love, and then we'll meet once more, We'll meet to part not once again upon a heavenly shore ; Our building here could not endure, 'twas raised upon the sand, But in God's house we'll live for aye, in that far- off better land." 26 in the in the Lord !" rang through the old room dim, A sweet voice pealing forth the grand old hymn, Unconscious that outside the window there A listener sad stood in the chill night air. " Rest in the Lord ! " fell like a soothing balm On that tired heart ; hushed its unrest to calm, While from the weary eyes did slowly steal Long pent-up tears with wondrous power to heal. " Rest in the Lord ! " brought back that happy time When all unknown to him were sin and crime ; The village church where in the choir he sang That very hymn which through the room now rang. REST IN THE LORD. 27 His happy home within the sheltered glen ; His mother's gentle face he saw again ; She who had ever loved her erring child ; Oh ! had he killed her by his ways so wild ? Or if she lived, would she forgive' him still ? A longing great for home his heart did fill, And him with hope the singer did inspire, "The Lord will give to thee thy heart's desire." He turned away, resolved the paths of sin To leave at once, and a new life begin ; To rest in God and take Him for his guide, To be his mother's comfort, joy, and pride. Th' unconscious singer, in the old room dim, Might never know the power of that grand hymn; But angels heard, and there was joy in heaven O'er one by God and mother fond forgiven. <2flyu 28 @jj) AM alone the funeral train has passed SJji Across the threshold of my lonely cot, And in the winter sunlight fading fast My love we've laid to rest, for she is not. What means that word " alone ?' why aches my heart ? Why com'st thou not, my darling, when I call? Where art thou gone, what was it made us part ? Jeanie, come back to me, my love, my all ! 'Tis fifty years to-day since we were wed ; I proudly brought thee here, my Jeanie fair ; And now thou'rt numbered with the silent dead, Oh, how I long to be beside thee there. THE WIDOWER. 29 Am I alone t Is there not One on high ? Hath He not promised never to forsake ? Will He not comfort those who to Him cry ! Can He not from me this wild sorrow take 1 " Yea I am with thee," whispers low the voice Of this dear Friend, so tender, gentle, kind ; Soon will He make my lonely heart rejoice, Soon in His home my lost love I shall find. 30 i, anb a (J^ueen. (James II. killed at the siege of Roxburgh Castle, 1460, A.D.) ^^^HE king was dead ! the soldiers stood in &jjy$j horror and dismay Aroand their noble leader, who upon the green- sward lay, Killed by a cannon bursting their young king so warlike, brave, Without a moment's warning hurried to an early grave. Into the camp with stately step, and proud majestic mien, There came among those stricken men the newly widowed queen, And leading by the hand she brought her gentle little son ; Those men she sought to comfort as few women could have done, A WOMAN, AND A QUEEN. 31 " My soldiers, mourn not so," she said, " for it is all in vain, Our tears, our wildest sorrow cannot bring him back again. Rise up and take the castle, for he wished you so to do; My little son is now your king to him, brave men, be true ! " Fired by her words so noble, they renewed the siege that hour, And soon were in possession of the famous Rox- burgh Tower ; And down through all the ages shall the story aye be told, Of the widowed queen so young and fair, but yet so brave and bold. 32 Sxllefe. Lines on the death of a young officer, killed at Abu Klea. nifgALLED by the church bells sounding far j$S3$ and wide ; Called to the Church to make fair May his bride, Called by her sweet lips, "My own husband, dear " Words full of music to his listening ear. Called to the front, his honeymoon scarce o'er ; Called from his home and his dear native shore ; Called from his weeping, sorrow-stricken wife ; Called to take part in fierce and mortal strife. Called from the battle-field home to the sky ; Called by his Captain to come up on high ; Called from fierce turmoil to unceasing rest One heart is breaking, but God knoweth best. 33 be one. ^ w ^ ke done," I sa id tna * summer evening I parted from Jim in the peaceful bay ; " Thy will be done," I said, and, wildly sobbing, I watched him sail away. "Thy will be done," I said as years rolled onward, And my true love had not come back to me ; " Thy will be done," I murmured as I wandered Beside the moaning sea. " Thy will be done," I said after the tempest Had strewn with dead and wreckage our wild coast ; " Thy will be done," when kneeliug in the moon- light By him I loved the most. 34 A BUNCH OP HEATHER. " Thy will be done, Thou knoweth best, my Father," I said, and kissed my love, but could not weep ; I knew 'twas best for him, he looked so happy, And smiled as if in sleep. "Thy will be done," I say when in the evenings I think of Jim whilst wand'ring on the shore > And hope to join him soon in yon blest haven, Where the sea shall be no more. " Thy will be done," echoes across the ages, The cry of weary hearts bereaved, opprest ; Ah ! which of us can say with heartfelt meaning, "My Father knoweth best?" 35 Jack'0 Better to the Ib Jfolke at J?$IS Sabbath night, our ship is moored in ^il/Ss lovely Naples Bay ; The whole day long my thoughts have been with loved ones far away ; I pause a moment as I write ; I close my eyes, and then This foreign shore doth fade away I see my home again. I fancy how you all have spent this peaceful Sabbath day, At worship, father, you would pray for "Jack, who's far away," And you and mother then would go to church adown the glen, And there I know you'd think of me and pray for me again, 36 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. I think I see you in our pew in the old church so fair, The sunlight, mother, on your face, on father's silvery hair ; And sister Annie in the choir, and someone else I see, With merry eyes and auburn hair, who's very dear to me. The service o'er, you wander home beside the streamlet clear; The birds sing loud, the trees are green, glad summer time is near ; And Dennis Gray sees Annie home, and one with soft eyes black Comes shyly up and sweetly asks " When did you hear from Jack ?" Oh, mother dear, I often long to see you all again, To wander with my Kathleen fair adown our bonnie glen. I count the days until again I reach dear Scot- land's shore The anchor's weighed, so goodbye all ; God bless, you o'er and o'er, 37 milt ^Lhon be Jfttne? jgpj CANNOT clothe thee in rich silks from $$}, distant foreign lands, I cannot deck with jewels rare those pretty little hands, I have a heart to offer thee, and little else beside, But wilt thou come, my bonnie lass, to be my own dear bride ? " To care for thee, in storm or calm, my aim in life will be ; These horny hands know how to work, and they will work for thee ; Hard labour will be sweet and light, if thou arj by my side ; So wilt thou come, my bonnie lass, to be my own dear bride ? 38 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. " Thy home will be a white-washed cot among the birch trees fair, With honeysuckle on its walls and roses rich and rare, And, singing to thee all day long, near by a stream will glide ; So wilt thou come, my bonnie lass, to be my own dear bride ? " I'll gather rowan berries red to deck thy coal- black hair, And heather white from mountains high I'll bring thee, love, to wear ; And thou wilt have, my sweetheart fair, a man's true love beside ; So wilt thou come, my bonnie lass, to be my own dear bride ? " " I care not for the silken robes which come from foreign lands, What would a humble lassie do with jewels on her hands ? With you to love and work for me, what can I want beside ? Yes, I will come, ray bonnie lad, to be your own dear bride." 39 "Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. STAND within God's Acre fair, close by themurmuring sea, Beside a new made grave which holds all dear on earth to me ; My heart, my hopes lie buried there ; the joys, the sweets of life Have passed away since that sad day I laid to rest my wife. We lived together twenty years, our happiness complete ; She was beloved by everyone, my darling Mar- guerite ; She was so gentle, true, and good, as well as passing fair, She joyed with me when I was glad, and laughed away my care. 40 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. But God my darling wife did take two weeks ago to-day, I watched her, bent on charity, go o'er the moor- land way ; She turned and kissed her hand to me as o'er the moor she sped ; I did not see my love again until I found her dead. The day was cold, the sky looked wild, the wind began to blow, I said, " My darling, don't go out, I'm sure it soon will snow." She smiled, " I must go, Alastair, for poor old widow Gray Will want both food and fire, my dear, if I don't go to-day." The snow came on, the wind shrieked loud across the moaning sea, I watched the clock with anxious eyes where could my loved one be ? 'Tvvas four o'clock, and she had said that she'd be home by two, I must go forth to meet her now, for dark the wild sky grew. MARGUERITE. 41 Lost on the moor, I wandered long 'midst snow, untrodden, white, Until the winter moon shone forth with pale and ghastly light ; I found the widow's hut at last, nigh buried in the snow, And heard my wife had left for home more than four hours ago. A stilled groan was all I gave, and then, in awful fright, I staggered blindly forth again into the wintry night, And all night long I sought for her, but sought } alas, in vain. I prayed, " God, give me back my wife," in ac- cents wild with pain. I found her when the weary night at length had passed away ; A smile was 011 her upturned face as 'midst the snow she lay. I kissed her lips, I called aloud, " My bonnie Marguerite, Speak to mo, dearest, once again, just once, my wife, so sweet." D 42 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. I stand beside her grave to-day, my heart bowed down with care ; " Oh ! help me, Lord, to bear this blow," is my half-uttered prayer ; And through my blinding tears I say as evening shadows fall, " 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never loved at all.' 43 Hee Jim, the JJetosbog. PE was only a ragged laddie, *j> So dirty, untutored, and wild, And yet he was " somebody's darling," A blind woman's only child. His father had died of a fever When Jim was but seven years old, And ever since then, "to help mother," The evening papers he sold. And night after night, in all weathers, Might be heard his shrill childish cry, In the busy streets of the city, " 'Evenin' Telegraft,' please will ye buy?" One night when the ne\y fallen snowflakes Were lying so thick on the ground, A carriage came down the street quickly, And its wheels gave no warning sound. 44 A BUNOH OF HBATHBR. Wee Jim, with his papers, was crossing Right over the fleet horses' track, When, noiseless and swift, they were on him Before he had time to start back. A horrified cry from those near him, A moment of suffering sore ; A strange giddy feeling of sickness, And then the poor child knew no more. When wee Jim awoke he was lying In a soft bed so clean and so white, In a room gay with flowers and pictures A room, oh ! so cheerful and bright. A gentle-faced lady bent o'er him, Smiling sweetly down on the boy ; He said, " Is this Heaven, please leddy ? " And his eyes filled with tears of joy. She told him how he had been injured, Then told him how he had been brought That night to the ward for the children, And laid down in that soft, cosy cot. WEE JIM, THE NEWSBOY. 45 Ah ! then he remembered, " Whaur's mither ? She'll be wond'rin' sair aboot me ; An' I ken she'll be awfu' anxious, For I said I'd be hame to my tea. " An' whaur are the ha'pennies I'd earned ? The papers I yet had to sell ? Oh ! I maun gang hame noo, my leddy, For I feel again nearly quite well." " My child, you are not nearly well yet, I'll send for your mother, my dear ; " And the nurse, so patient and gentle, Brushed quickly away a bright tear. Came into the ward his blind mother, Slow, guiding herself by the wall ; " Oh, Jamie, what ails ye my laddie ? " Sore weeping she sadly did call. " Oh ! dinna greet for me, dear mither, For I'm no hurt sae very sair ; But I feel oh, sae tired an' sleepy," He said as she smoothed his dark hair. 46 A BUNCH OP HEATHER " Oh ! mither, this room is sae bonnie, Its wa's wi' fine pictur's are bright ; An' the flooers are sae sweet an' sae lovely, An' the beds are sae saft an' white. " Dear mither, whan first here I waukened, Efter I was hurt on the street, Oh ! I thocht I was up in heaven, An' for very joy I did greet. Guid nicht, I am noo awfu' sleepy, I canna come hame or the morn ; " They told her that Wee Jim was dying ; Her bosom with anguish was torn. All through the long night she knelt by him ; While Jim in delirium did cry In his shrill voice now, alas ! weakened " ' Evenin' Telegraft,' please will ye buy ? " The fair morning sunlight was breaking Clear over the hill's snowy brow ; A lone mother was sobbing wildly Her Wee Jim was in heaven now. nig. !j||fNLY a golden curl, 5^5 Cut from a dear little head ; Only a baby's rattle and ring, Tied with a ribbon red. Only a nursery lone, Where a mother sits and weeps ; Only a tiny flower-decked grave, Where a darling baby sleeps. Only an aching heart, Which the world can never fill ; Only white lips which strive hard to say " Father, it is Thy will." Only a little child, Snatched from this world's pain and care Only an angel in Heaven above, Waiting a mother there. 48 ^toeetheart. JERRY and bright and gay is she, g Papa's little sweetheart, aged three ; What a world of mischief lies In dimpled mouth and hazel eyes, And naughty tricks are planned with care In that baby head with its golden hair. Very solemn and grave Is she, Papa's little sweetheart, no longer three ; See the demure little girl of eight Off to school with her books and slate ; Counting the hours till Saturday, When again she can laugh and play. Gentle, kind, and thoughtful is she, Papa's little sweetheart now six times three ; Finished with school, his companion now, Helping papa as she only knows how ; A fav'rite with all, but dearest to him, Whose step is now feeble and eyes growing dim. PAPA'S LITTLE SWEETHEART. 49 Timid, shy, and loving is she, Papa's little sweetheart, just twenty-three ; What a world of happiness lies In dimpled mouth and hazel eyes ; Now some other body's sweetheart is she, But papa's got a son, so happy is he. 50 0n mg A RAILWAYMAN'S STORY. (HERE'S blood on my hands," he cries, and he wrings them the whole day long ; " There's blood on my hands, Oh ! God, forgive me that terrible wrong ; " And the madman paces his room whilst moaning in accents wild ; " There is blood on my hands, Oh ! God, the blood of my wife and child." Once he was joyful and gay, as happy as you Sir, or I, His life like a peaceful lake, 'neath a cloudless, blue summer sky, With a loving wife and a child so fair, sir, you cannot think How happy they were till Jim fell a prey to the curse of drink, " BLOOD ON MY HANDS." 51 He was down at the pointsman's box, you see it just over here, 'Twas his duty the " Parly " to shunt, to leave the main line clear For the mail which went rattling past with a thunder which shook the ground, Whilst the rocks and forests and hills all seemed to echo the sound. Jim's wife, once so happy and bright, began to look heartless and sad, And their cottage, once clean and neat, a dirty, shabby look had ; No wonder she'd lost heart, poor lass, for night after night, from " The Rink," Her Jim went staggering home, after spending his earnings on drink. We were mates, so I often went and tried to reason with Jim, I spoke of his sorrowing wife, his example to little Tim. I feared .there would be a smash, for I'd seen him dazed at his work, I vowed I'd have to report, though 'twas a duty I tried to shirk. 52 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. Jim begged for another chance, and promised at once to repent, I thought of his poor wife and child; I, for their sakes, sir, did relent. I saw he strove to do right, his wife looked happy again, And, sir, we were all right glad, for Jim was well liked 'mong the men. His wife was asked to the South to visit her friend Mrs Trent ; Things were going so well at home, she took little Tim and went ; And Jim looked so smart and bright, as he went to see her away, Oh ! why could some warning voice not have whispered to her to stay ? When Jim got back to the house he found there a very old friend, Who had come from a distant town the evening with them to spend ; He said : " Jim, your house is so dull without wee Tim and your lass ; Come, let us go down to the Rink I know you're fond of a glass." "BLOOD ON MY HANDS." 53 The demon was roused once again, though after a glass or two, Jim left and came down to his box, for he had his night's work to do ; I knew that the man was lost as I watched him, not without fear, Draw the levers the "Parly" to shunt, then signal the main line " clear." We did not meet for a week, for after that night I was ill ; When I got back to work again I found Jim was drinking still ; He looked so haggard and wild, such a sad and pitiful sight I said, "Jim, does your wife soon return ?" He gruffly muttered, "To-night." I saw him go down to his work, not drunk, though he'd had quite enough Oh ! sir, had I only known he'd more of the poisonous stuff Down in -the pointsman's box ; vain regret is no use, but I might Have prevented, I sometimes think, the work of that terrible night. 54 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. I'd scarcely been home two hours when I heard the " Parly " go past ; I looked at ray watch she was late, the mail would be following fast ; I felt so uneasy that night, and yet I hardly knew why There seemed a wail in the wind, an ominous look in the sky. I heard the mail thunder past; in a moment there was such a crash To my dying day in my ears will ring the sound of that smash ; The ghastly sight that I saw when I ran with a light to the spot, Though years have passed, sir, since then, was too awful to be forgot. I heard the pitiful cries of the dying, wounded, and crushed ; I knelt by some little child whose [sweet voice was for ever hushed ; I gazed at the dying and dead, until my eyes, sir, grew dim 'Twas a terrible thought to know that this was the work of Jim. "BLOOD ON MY HANDS." 55 I heard a strange fiendish laugh ; I turned, and, lo ! there was Jim ; He knelt 'midst the ghastly mass beside his dead wife and wee Tim. I saw that his reason had fled as he turned with his eyes, strangely wild " There's blood on my hands, mate," he cried ; " The blood of my wife and child." 56 (Ehilbhoob'0 |9ag0. REMEMBER, I remember, Our cottage by the mill, The noisy streamlet tumbling down The rocky, heathery hill ; And the blue-bells by the wayside, And the foxgloves in the glen Oh ! the happy, happy days of youth, Will they ne'er come back again ? I remember, I remember, The moor where we did play, The merry stream where Nell and I Would paidle all the day ; And the horses and the oxen, And my father's collie, Ben Oh ! the happy, happy days of youth, Will they ne'er come back again ? CHILDHOOD'S DATS. 57 I remember, I remember, The old church on the hill, The churchyard, with its grassy graves, So peaceful and so still ; The pulpit where the parson talked So much of " My brethren " Oh ! the happy, happy days of youth, Will they ne'er come back again ? I remember, I remember, The pew where Nell and I Would sit and through the window watch The clouds float o'er the sky ; And long to be once more at play Down in the shady glen Oh ! the happy, happy days of youth, Will they ne'er come back again ? I remember, I remember, One lovely summer day, When mother, crying, came and said Nell could not come to play ; But I said, ' She'll come to-morrow, And to-day I'll play with Ben "- Oh ! the happy, happy days of youth, Will they ne'er come back again ? 58 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. I remember, I remember, How mother came that night, And led me to the bed where Nell Was lying still and white. She would not speak to me at all, And would not look at Ben ; Then I knew the happy days of youth Never could come back again. I remember, I remember, How in time my grief was stayed, And how again about the house And on the moor I played. Ah ! I've had my share of sorrow, And of pleasure, too, since then, But the happy, happy days of youth Have never come again. Scatter sunbeams round the children, Try to make their young lives bright ; Only for a short, short season Things are bathed in rosy light. Griefs and trials come all too quickly, All too soon they will be men Then the happy, happy days of youth Never can come back again. 59 mg sweet April day, Beside a rough-hewn, moss-grown stone, 'neath which a giant lay " Here lies one who was 9 ft. 3," I read, " the child of Hale ;" Then to my friend I said, " Can you tell me this giant's tale !" She said " The story goes that once upon a summer day, A boy down by the Mersey's side upon the beach did stray ; There, in a fit of frolic wild, upon the sand he made A mark o'er nine feet long that he might grow that length he prayed. 132 A BUNCH OP HEATHER. " Then carelessly he cast himself down on the mark he drew, And while he slept there on the beach he slowly longer grew, Till ere the sun that summer night had sunk into the sea, The boy awoke to find that he had grown to nine feet three. "What trade was his, or how he lived, has, 'midst the mists of time, Been lost ; we only know he lived some years beyond his prime, Only this stone of ponderous length is left to tell the tale Of the giant who, in irony, was called the ' Child of Hale.' " 133 Jlora. A BALLAD. ['OU ask me for my daughter's hand," The haughty chieftain cried ; " You say you love each other well 1 You want her for your bride ? You say this union would blot out The feud that's lasted long Between our clans ! know, foolish youth, Forbes ne'er forgives a wrong. No, by my faith ! you never shall My lovely Flora wed ; I'd rather give her to a serf I'd rather see her dead. Take then your answer and begone, And, foolish youth, beware ! If near my home you're found again, You'll die, a prisoner, there." 134 A BUNCH OK HEATHER. Proudly young Campbell turned away And ne'er a word did speak, Although a frown was on his brow, And hotly burned his cheek ; " Revenge is sweet," he thought, " and I Will have it, haughty chief, So guard your treasure carefully, For cunning is the thief." The sound of merry jest and song Went ringing through the hall, For this was Flora's birthday night, And she was queen of all ; Yet sad she sat, nor cared to join In song or dance or jest, Because her father proud had spurned The one she loved the best. Into the hall, with falfring step, An aged minstrel came, And no one knew from whence he was, And no one knew his name ; He sang of love and loyal hearts, His voice was wondrous sweet j The jesters ceased their jests, to hear, - The dancers stayed their feet. FLORA. 135 "Come, sit you here," the chieftain cried, "And sup, oh ! reverend sire, For surely workman such as you Is worthy of his hire ; And you shall have a bag of gold, For never did I hear A lovelier song than you have sung, A voice more sweet and clear." " I thank you for your words so kind," The aged minstrel said, " And for the gold you've promised me, The feast for me you've spread ; But for these things I do not care, And 1 would rather crave Your lovely daughter for one dance, Oh ! chieftain, true and brave." Then, midst the mazes of the dance, He whispered in her ear " Meet me beside the wicket gate, I've news for you, my dear." 136 A BUNCH OP HEATHER. They've met beside the wicket gate The minstrel old and grey She sees no more ; before her stands Her lover young and gay. A kiss a hasty word and ere From her proud father's hall She has been missed, she's o'er the hills With him loved best of all. 137 ilcuukarb's SMife. ' Willie, stay with me to-night, The last night of the year ; Twelve months to-night since we were wed- Stay with me, Willie dear. " Our baby's ill, and 1 am lone When you are at the Rink ; Oh, Willie, do not go to-night Give up the cursed drink. " Our cottage wee was clean and neat, The brightest in the row ; But things have one by one been sold For drink they've had to go. " Our garden once was bright and gay, Well stocked with flowers fair ; But now they're withered all away, For them you've ceased to care. 138 A BttNCH OF HEATHES. " Oh ! Willie, do not go to-night, It is so lonely here ; Together let us happy be, As happy as last year." " I must go, or the lads will think I'm ill, if here I stay ; I'll only take a glass of beer, And then I'll come away." He closed the door the mother sat And hushed the wailing child ; She listened for her husband's step, And prayed in accents wild. The hours passed on, the fire was out, The cottage dark and chill ; An angel bright passed through the room, And whispered, " Peace, be still." His cheerless home the drunkard reached When midnight was at hand, Entered, with reeling step, this slave To the curse of Britain's land. THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE. 139 The morning dawned, the drunkard woke From his sound, drunken sleep ; As glad bells chimed the new-born year, He woke, alas ! to weep. So still, sat by the empty grate The wife he'd sore oppressed ; Her arms still clasped her dear, dead babe Close to her frozen breast. He called her name, she answered not She could not hear his cries ; Her grief was o'er, the babe and she Were safe in Paradise. uo LONG to feel the breezes from my native mountains blow, I long to stand beside the stream where Tummel's waters flow, I long to see my dear old house in Gernaig's peaceful glen ; Oh ! could I but be there to-day, I'd soon be strong again. I care not for my palace home, nor for my boundless wealth, For I have lost what's worth far more that priceless treasure, health ; I languish in this country fairj beneath the blight blue skies ; Oh ! give me back my native laud, where rugged mountains rise. LONGING. 141 I care not for the balmy air, which comes so soft and mild ; Oh ! let me feel the mountain breeze, which blows so fresh and wild ; The odour of the orange groves is not so sweet to me , As that of homely purple heath, which blooms so fair and free. Oh ! give me back my dear old home, e'en humble though it be, Its memories now are very sweet, 'tis " all the world " to me ; 'Tvvas there I played, a happy child, and then a careless boy 'Twas there I lived, a father's pride, a mother's hope and joy. 'Twas there one night, now long ago, I bade these two good-bye ; Ah ! how I longed the world to see, to make a fortune try And now I'm very rich, but of what use is wealth to me? In comfort would we three have lived now home I'll never see. 142 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. I'll send my parents dear my gold, 'twill useful be I know, Although they'd rather have their boy, it must be better so ; And Paradise, that better land, will fairer seem to me Than that dear rugged mountain land where now I long to be. 143 ur JttU. |0, don't go that way ;, let us go round, Under the bridge then over the mound." " Why, man alive, are you going that way ? This is the nearer by far, I should say." " Yes, mate, but you could not there cross the line, Did it bring to your mind what it does to mine. " You're a stranger here, so you do not know What happened our little Bill years ago. " He was the dearest child ever I knew, And in my long life I've known not a few. " A regular pickle, not one moment still, Yet always so winning was little Bill. "Well, I sometimes think that the wife and me Loved him too much, and were punished, you see ; 144 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. " c Keep your eye on Bill,' did I often say, ' And don't let him go near the line to play. " Then I'd lift him up and try to explain The danger that lay in a passing train. " But he'd laugh at me and shake his small head ' Dad wont let his engine hurt Bill,' he aye said. " One summer night the express was late ; I wondered if Bill at the curve would wait " For the signal I gave him aye as we passed. We dashed round the curve, and I stood aghast " Fifty yards in front, his head on the line, There, sound asleep, lay this darling of mine ! " My tongue was frozen, I could not scream ; I stood like one wakened out of a dream. " 'Twas too late to stop her ; my heart stood still A jolt ' Dad's engine ' had killed little Bill ! " So that is the reason I cannot bear To cross the line near the curve just there." 14. r , Pttle fen. him ? You don't know how well, for somehow I never can speak Of Ben, for a lump in my throat, and the tears running down my cheek. I'll tell you about him, Miss, though I never could speak to the men Of my child ; they'd laugh at my tears you see they didn't know Ben. Oh ! shall I ever forget that cold, stormy, dark, winter morn, When at breakfast time I came home to find a son had been born, And my life-long sweetheart, my wife for one year only, was dead, Whilst I was left all alone with a helpless infant instead. 146 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. Well, Miss, my little Ben thrived, though how I scarcely can tell, For his mother he must have missed, though, for the sake of my Nell, I did what I could for the child, and he grew fairer each day So like, oh ! so very like, my loved darling far, far away. At nights, when together at home, how Ben would prattle to me (He was so interesting now, a fair-haired laddie of three) Of wheels and engines and trains, for about those things he seemed mad ; Though my days were spent 'mong such things, to hear him talk thus made me sad. Why I felt sad I don't know, though sometimes a warning of ill Would come and o'ershadow my life, my heart with anxious thoughts fill ; But I smiled at rny childish fears, for Ben was so safe with me At least / thought so, but the Lord thought otherwise, Miss, you see. MY LITTLE BEN. 147 I was pointsman down at the junction, fifteen miles south from here, Half-a-mile from my lonely cottage I'd been there many a year ; I'd no one to leave with Ben when I went to work each day, So I always took him with nie, and all day long he would play On the floor of my pointsman's box, were the day stormy or wet, Or if it were fine he'd climb on the banks fair flowers to get ; He'd laugh and frolic and sing along by the side of the line, Whilst I, with a loving care, would watch o'er this darling of mine. The winter my laddie was five, I took a pain in my head, I could get no sleep at nights, 'twas " rheumatics," the doctor said ; Ah ! then how I longed for my wife, for 'tis when a man's unwell That he misses a woman's kind care, and sadly I missed my Nell. 148 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. I sat by the fire in my box one cold, frosty, winter day, With Ben on the floor at my feet, so happy engaged in play ; The child's voice seemed to grow faint, I could scarcely hear what he said, The newspaper dropped from my hand several times as I read. I must have fallen asleep I started up with a cry, 1 was alone -where was Ben ? Oh ! God, had the south train passed by ? Ah ! no, I would just be in time to clear the line for the mail, And draw the lever to shunt the south train to the other rail. I ran with the speed of the wind, for I saw the mail from the north, Not half-a-mile ahead, with a scream from the tunnel come forth ; At the same moment I heard the train from the south coming down, Bowling along at the rate of a mile a minute to town. MY LITTLE BKtt. 149 Where was Ben ? My heart stood still as I gazed down the iron way There, with his head on the rail, fast asleep, my little child lay. To draw the lever and shunt the south train meant death to my boy - Not to draw it would save my child, but how many lives destroy ? " Oue life or one hundred, oh ! God, must I give back now to thee ? The one, my darling, my all ; the hundred so little to me So little to me, yet each the dearest to some other one, Children as dear to their fathers as e'er was my darling son." These thoughts, which take so long to tell, passed through my mind like a flash ; In a moment the trains would have met I seemed to hear the dread crash ; But the path of duty was plain ; the lever I drew bent my head ; When I raised it the trains had rushed past ; I stood alone with my dead. 150 A BUNCH OP HEATHER. Yes, Miss, here this summer night a murderer before you I stand, With the blood of my only child, my darling, red on my hand ; But I feel the Lord has forgiven, and I'll be happy again When I get up yonder, and meet my wife and dear little Ben. 151 JttiUie. HE little face was stained with tears, The naked shoulders pinched and blue ; She crouched upon a cold door step, And her thin shawl tight round her drew. I saw her as I hurried past " Oh ! Millie, child, why sit you here 1 Poor little one, you'll die of cold ; Come home with me now, Millie, dear." She raised her tear-dimmed eyes to mine, And shook her pretty, curly head " No, thanks ; dad put me out when drunk, But I'll go home when he's in bed." I watched her father day by day Grow more repulsive, sin-defiled ; God thought him not too vile to save His instrument, a little child. 152 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. " Millie !" the drunkard said one day, As she his breakfast did prepare ; " Millie, I've been so cruel to you, What makes you for your father care V " It's mother, dad ; she comes from Heaven, And by my bed each night she stands, And smiles so sweetly down on me, And smooths my hair, and clasps my hands. " And then, in whispers soft and low, She bids me aye for you to care ; She knows you sometimes take too much, But tells me never to despair. " ' Please, Jesus, make dad good again,' She comes and whispers in my ear ; She bids me say that every night, For even a child will Jesus hear." Hot tears coursed down the drunkard's cheeks ; He wept then like a little child '' Oh ! God, be merciful to me, So vile a sinner stained, defiled." MILLIE. 153 In a neat cottage Millie dwells, So happy all the livelong day ; The birds sing in the garden fair, The house is decked with roses gay. And happy as the birds and flowers Is Millie, by the window there, As, when her daily work is done, She kneels beside her father's chair. His hand rests on her curly head, He looks at her with eyes of love, Then kisses that small hand which led Him from sin's paths to look above. 154 " fJCobe'0 HE Fairies' Knoll, the Fairies' Knoll, There oft, in days gone by, We sat together hand in hand, So happy, Will and I. The merry stream, the merry stream, Rushed noisily along, While to our youthful ears there seemed No music like its song. The setting sun, the setting sun, Shone redly through the trees, The blackbird's evening hymn of praise Was borne upon the breeze. The Fairies' Knoll, the Fairies' Knoll, Have ages long gone by Since on the mossy knoll we sat, So happy, Will and 1 1 " LOVB'8 YOUNG DREAM." 155 'Tis but five months, 'tis but five months, Since the last summer night We sat together on the knoll, Our lives so joyous bright. The leafy trees, the leafy trees, Are leafless now and bare ; The icy breath of Winter's King Has fallen everywhere. The old churchyard, the old churchyard, Lies peaceful on the hill ; And in it lies my broken heart, Beside my own true Will. 156 Jftistaken. rae a little higher ; there is something I would say, A word of warning I must speak before I pass away; Come close beside me, dear young friend, my voice begins to fail, "But yet I feel I dare not die until I've told my tale. " Thrice ten long years have backward rolled ; with joy I go once more (My student days just left behind the best of life before) To tell of Christ and work for Him amid the city's hum, To bear the light of Gospel truth to many a darksome slum. MISTAKEN. 157 " Why did my zeal so soon grow cold, what filled me with unrest ? Was it the bitter strifes of sects that thus my soul oppressed ? Surely in some lone country charge from these I would be free The town I left, but still there was no peace of mind for me. " I thought there was a want of life where I had come to toil, The people's hearts I found as dull as their own hard clay soil, In vain I tried them to arouse, to talk to them of God ; Quite sick at heart, I said at length that I must go abroad. " Had I done right ? Why was that thought for ever in my mind ? Was I, even here in Canada, no perfect peace to find? I'd broken a fond mother's heart, was that like a good son ? 'Twas hard to leave her all alone, yet Duty must be done. 158 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. " Why was my sleep disturbed by dreams so horrible and wild, In which I'd see the piteous face of many an err- ing child 1 The dwellers in that city's slums would seem to me to say ' Oh ! surely there was work at home ; why did you go away ?' " Had I done right ? Through all these years, on to life's very close, That question ever in my mind, I could find no repose. Had I done right ? On my death-bed the same thought tortures so, For fallen ones I might have raised and drunkards answer " No !'' " Mayhap my work in Canada has not been all in vain, Yet had I but those thirty years to spend for Christ again, I would not flee to foreign lands because of party strife ; If not ' Mis-spent,' ' Mistaken,' friend, might well be called my life. MISTAKEN. 159 " My dear young friend, a warning take from what to-night I've said ; That path in which I've stumbled so, you are about to tread ; Fear not, take for your motto, ' Trust in God and do the right/ And whatso'er you find to do, oh ! do it with your might. " To work for Christ you need not go away to foreign shore, The harvest fields are lying white around your very door ; Discouragements, annoyances, you'll find ichereer you go What lieth next, oh ! do the best, and peace of mind you'll know." 160 JLn IVY I CLING TO THKE. close by the church ; you know the place Where the ivy climbs to the tower high, Where the turf is always so soft and green, And the stream goes merrily singing by t Twas there one evening to me was told That wonderful tale, ever new yet so old. He plucked a spray of the ivy green, As we stood together 'neath sunset skies, And, bending low, he gave it to me, With a merry light in his dark brown eyes " Do you know its meaning, my friend," he said ; I answered nothing, but shook my head. AN IVY SPRAY. 161 His eyes were reading my very soul, Mine fell before their keen, earnest gaze ; My heart beat so loud that he must have heard> And my cheeks would most provokingly blaze. He smiled, as if something pleasant he read, And something very like " darling " he said. Then, somehow, I found his arm round my waist, And his dark, handsome head bent down close to mine ; While his soft brown eyes, which I'd always admired, Seemed now with a beautiful light to shine ; And Love was no more an empty sound, And Life for me a new charm had found. Soon we were parted ; I'd long to wait What did that matter when he was true ! Whenever impatient I'd wander away Up to the church where the ivy grew ; There his soft words would come back to me " Sweetheart, remember ' I cling to thee !' " 162 A BUNCH OP HEATHER. True to his promise, he came at last, Bringing a sweet orange blossom spray ; Fondly he kissed me, and whispered low " Dear little Faithful, now name the day." He's minister now where the ivy does grow, And I'm his right hand at least, he says so. 163 OWN the path, through the flowery glade Oh ! she was fair, so fair to see Tripping along, came a gentle maid Oh ! she was dear, so dear to me ; Ptyes as blue as the summer sky, Hair of a wondrous golden sheen ; Modest was she, retiring and shy, But so bewitching, my queen, my queen. Under the leafy boughs we strayed, Hand in hand, through the summer days, While the squirrels around us played, While the birds sang their hymns of praise ; Bluer the blue sky than ever before, Brighter the days than they ever had been, Everything round us a smiling face wore Because of her presence, my queen, my queen, 164 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. Ah ! our bliss was too great to last, Clouds came over our azure sky Nipped was she by the wintry blast ; Broken-hearted, I watched her die. Through the glade we shall walk no more, But, away in that land unseen, Tears and partings for ever o'er, She is waiting, my queen, my queen. SHE trade got much worse every week, sir, Firm after firm went down ; And we were on short time ourselves soon Ours, the largest business in town. Our master paid off his men next, It grieved him, but what could he do ? There wasn't work for the 'prentice lads, So, of course, I was paid off, too. That night, as I sat in our cottage, With my bairns and dear little wife, With tears I said" Wife, I am idle ;" Ah ! that night how dark seemed my life. She cheered me, although her lips quivered, As she looked at baby and Vi ; Then gently said " Perhaps you'll get work soon ; I know my dear husband will try. 166 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. Try ! Day after day, sir, I wandered Through the town in sunshine or rain, Asking, pleading for something to do, But asking and pleading in vain. We'd pawned everything we could want, sir ; Our dear little home looked so bare Without the clock and the cradle, The pictures, my wife's rocking chair. Times grew worse, and life was so dark, sir ; God cares for His creatures, I've read, But, oh, it was hard to believe it, With our children crying for bread. Our baby, our golden-haired darling, Was dying for want, sir, of food ; And my wife and Vi were so wasted, I couldn't say, " God's ways are good." One night I had wandered away, sir, Out under the cold winter sky I couldn't stay in any longer, Watching our little one die. POUND DEAD. 167 I saw at a grocer's door hanging A very small sack of oatmeal ; I eagerly longed to possess it, But conscience said, " Thou shalt not steal." But conscience and right were forgotten, In a moment the meal I did take ; I never would have stolen for self, sir, 'Twas for my dear baby's sake. " Stop, thief," came the cry in a moment, At once I was marched off to jail ; There those shelpit faces did haunt me, And I heard my little one's wail. Released in a week, I rushed homewards, To find our home empty and bare, And my wife and bairns, said the neighbours, Gone away they didn't know where. Found' dead ! did I hear some one saying ? Found dead on the cold, stony street, A woman and two little children " Found dead !" did I wildly repeat. 168 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. Sir, 'tis years since my awful bereavement, But, when the poor ask me for bread, , I give them both food and shelter, For the sake of the dear ones found dead. 169 Jt cStoet Incident. NARROW, dismal street, t One of our city's slums, Where the air is never fresh and sweet, And the sunlight never comes There the pale-faced children play In the gutter all the day. A rush of horses' feet, A cry from women who stand Gossiping here and there on the street, An idle, tawdry hand " Losh me ! the wee lassie Broun By the horse has been knockit doirn." Bruised is the little form, There's blood on the golden hair, And the sweet baby f;ice is ghastly white- For Death is written there. One moment happy and gay ; The next, a morsel of clay. 1?0 .A BtfNCH OF HEATHER. Where's her mother who knows ? Break gently the awful news ; What need ? She is seldom sober, with blows The child she did ever abuse ; Her death the mother won't heed, 'Twill be one less to clothe and feed. Where is her father, then ? Leading a convict's life, Sent away from his fellow men For trying to murder his wife. Jesus His lamb has set free From a life of misery. 171 f< $M but a little Jafceb Jlotoet. but a little faded flower; sweet thoughts it brings to me Of one glad hour spent long ago beside the summer sea, When in the golden evening light we wandered hand-in-hand, Out from the busy, noisy town, across the yellow sand. Your soft dark eyes were bent on me, and in their depths I read That wond'rous tale, not new, not old, whilst smilingly you said, (As out among the rough sea grass yon plucked this little flower,) " Take this, and keep it, Flora, dour, in memory of this hour." 172 A BUNCH OB* HEATHER. I took the hardy, wild sea pink, I have it safely still, Though it has faded long ago, I keep it ever will ; But, ah ! I do not need the flower to bring again to me Sweet memories of that happy hour beside the summer sea. Tho' in a Lowland town you now are from me far away, Yet to my Highland home I know you will come back some day ; And in the evening light we'll walk, while you'll repeat to me That wond'rous tale you told that night beside the summer sea. 173 (Eonuth was standing by the window, A maiden sweet and fair, With bright eyes of dazzling azure, And soft curling golden hair ; But her rosy lips were pouting As she watched the garden gate, And her pretty face was clouded As she thought, "He is so late." They had parted plighted lovers Last night by the ballroom door ; She, now standing by the window, The scene again lived o'er. His glance, his clinging hand-clasp, His whisper in her ear " Good-bye till to-morrow, Elsie, Then I'll see your father, dear." 174 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. She was watching for his coming O'er the moor so dazzling white, Trying hard to pierce the darkness Of the quickly gathering night ; Till a voice broke through the stillness, " Elsie, child, why stand you there ? Light the lamp and draw the curtains ; Come and sit by daddy's chair." All night the snow whirled madly, Wrapping earth in a white shroud ; And across the waste of moorland The wild North wind shrieked loud ; And the angry waves dashed hoarsely On the distant rocky coast ; And a trusting maid watched vainly For the one she loved the most. Many noble ships had foundered Ere that awful night had sped, And many a heart was desolate, And many a tear was shed ; And a bright, young life was darkened, Which had been so glad before ; And a hopeless maid watched vainly For the one who'd come no more. HE COMETH NOT. 175 On the lonely moor they found him Asleep at dawn of day The icicles were in his hair, The snow upon him lay ; In his hand were clasped the roses Which his fair-haired darling wore The roses she had given him At the ball the night before. 176 OtoUie Jim. Yes, mate, it is dull to lie alone here all the day ; But all my pain has gone a sign that death is near they say ; And death would welcome be to me, if I were only sure That I would die just like a dog, with nought more to endure. Let women and the young believe in God and future state Such notions comfort persons weak, I've oft said to you, mate ; But I would gladly give these years I've spent in sin so wild If I had now to comfort me the faith of a young child. COLLIER JIM. 177 The parson's lady came and sat beside me here to-day ; She looked so good and kind I could not bid her go away ; She read some Bible words to me, though them I don't believe Yet, mate, I did not tell her so, for her I could not grieve. And since she went away I've thought that, somehow, after all, There must be something in the thing that folks " religion " call, Else how would she that lady fair to such as I have read, Talked sweetly, and her cool hand laid upon my aching head ? That cool hand, somehow, made -my eyes with burning tears grow dim You well may smile ; just fancy, tears in eyes of Collier Jim ! It made me think I was a child beside my mother's knee, Her hand upon my curls as from the Book she read to me. 178 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. I had a godly mother, mate ; to me the greater shame That I've blasphemed and cursed what she revered God's holy name ; Had I remembered what she read, how different far for me When I go forth to meet her God, if such an one there be. Tis strange that what the lady said has haunted me all day ; She told me Jesus Christ's own blood would wash my sins away, And that He'd died that I might live in Heaven above you know That mother often said the same so many years ago. Can it be true ? Oh ! tell me mate ! Go, fetch the Book and read, You cannot comfort me 1 Ah ! no, I taught you my dark creed ; It cannot light death's unknown path forget it ; and, oh ! mate, Go, bring the parson's wife to me, before it be too late. COLLIER JIM. 179 She entered, and, with hushed footsteps, ap- proached the collier's bed, Then turned to his mate, with tear-dimmed eyes for, lo ! the man was dead ; Without the one true guiding light, into the dark Unknown Had gone that rudderless, frail bark all un- prepared, alone. 180 CANNOT leave him all alone, for that night mother died She said " Good-bye " to father dear, then called me to her side, And made me promise I would be his comfort all his life I cannot leave my father, then, e'en to be Harold's wife. I know my father could not live amidst the city's din, Though Harold would be proud and glad bread for us both to win ; To dwell in some dark, stifling street I know would father kill He could not live without the breeze from his dear native hill. MISUNDERSTOOD. 181 'Twas but last night that Harold came and talked of love awhile ; I told him it could never be, then tried on him to smile But, oh ! 'twas hard when, angrily, he said I did not care, And that, if I refused him now, 'twould drive him to despair. He'd ne'er have said I did not care (how dark life is to-day), Had he but known, and what it cost to send him thus away ; I dare not at the future look, nor think what life will be Without this friend who long has been all the wide world to me. I'll be my father's comfort still, for duty's path is plain ; I'll smile upon him as of old he'll never know my pain. Though Harold thinks me false, and that for him I did not care, There's One above who understands, and He my grief will share. 182 than fiction. was only a poor man's child That was why, When the message was sent, He never went ; For the doctor thought " 'Twill be one less to feed, And they won't much heed Though the child should die." He was dining from home next day, That was why, When again they sent, He never went ; For the doctor enjoyed His meal, and thought, as he smiled- " For a poor man's child Must my pleasure be destroyed ?" STRANGER TflAN FICTION. 183 'Twas at length, with a clouded brain, To obey Their wild entreaties he went When they oft had sent ; But just what was wrong He could not then say, But would call next day And left, humming a song. Day dawned, but he did not come ; And why not ? Then it slowly passed, Night came at last ; And the watchers did pray For the Lord to come And take the child home Ere another day. He came sauntering in next night With a smile, Which died as the father said " The child is dead ! She might have been saved Had you come when we sent." Low the doctor's head bent, As he purdou craved. 184 " Let this be a lesson for life," The father said ; " God grant you ne'er may know Such depth of woe As is ours to-night ; She was dear to the wife and me, And, though poor folks we be, We have hearts, and know what is right. 185 AFT hae grieved ye sairly, say not ye've naething to forgie What made yer rosy cheeks grow pale, an' dimmed yer bricht blue e'e ? For, wife, ye were the bonniest lass in a' the country side, Whan, ten year past, I brocht ye here, my win- some, new-made bride. " Yer cheeks micht hae been rosy still, an' bricht yer blue e'en too, Had I wi' kindness treated ye, as a husband aucht to do ; But ye'll forgie me, Mary, e'er I gang to my lang hame, An' ye'll think upon me kindly whan oor bairnie speaks my name. M 186 A BUNCH 01? HEATHER. " Ye'll keep the vile drink frae him, for its it that's ruined me ; I vowed whan we were married I a sober man wad be For ye kent that was my failin', an', agin' yer parent's will, Ye trusted me, my bonnie lass, an', eh ! I saired ye ill. " I tried to keep my promise, but I didna keep it lang I hadna asked the Lord for strength, an' sae I sune gaed wrang ; An', when aince again I'd tasted, the very Deil himsel' Seemed to catch me in his clutches, an' drag me down to hell. " I'll ne'er forget that e'eniu' that I brak the pledge I'd taen ; To oor maister's waddin' supper I had wi' the ithers gane, I had got a bit o' schoolin', so was asked some words to say To toast the bride an' bridegroom, but I quietly answered, "Nay." A PRODIGAL. 187 " What ! not toast oor weel-loved maister !" an' a hundred pair o' eyes Were turned upon me as I sat in wonder an' surprise ; Feared for their taunts, I rose wi' haste, sayin', ' Toast him, mates, I will ;' Then seized the drink, wi' tremblin' hand, an' quick my gless did fill. " Frae then I was a lost man ; ye ken weel sin' that nicht I hae aye been strayin' t'ar'er frae the narrow path o' richt ; I wonder if the raaister, whan he turned me frae the mill, Ever thocht it was his hand to me the first push gae doon hill ? "Ye'll keep the drink frae Davie, an' ye'll tell him, wife, some day Hoo it brings into the blithest names the direst dule an' wae ; An' ye'll gar him jine teetotal, but ye'll never lat him ken That his faither was a drunkard, despised by his fellow-men. 188 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. " Oh ! I wish thae years I've wasted were gien again to me, Hoo different I wad spend them noo I wad be kind to ye ; Ye say that ye've forgien' me, an' ye tell me o' Ane wha, If I'll but lippen to Him, will tak' a' my sins awa'. " Only lippen that seems easy ; still, d'ye think He wad forgie If He only kent my vileness, an' hoo bad I've been to ye ? Kens it a', an' yet He loes me? Oh ! dear wife, can that be true ? Read His lovin' words aince mair, lass, an' I'll lippen to Him noo. " Guid-nicht, noo, for I am weary, an' the day is nearly dune, I shall fa' asleep at e'enin' wi' yon glorious settin' sun ; Kiss me, wife ; forget, forgie, lass," then he looked at her and smiled ; And the Father met with gladness his repentant, long-lost child. 189 '0 JUre. j[AR from the busy town, With its ceaseless bustle and din, And hurrying crowds, with restless look, Eager their bread to win It lies so peaceful and still On the slope of a grassy hill. Far from the cold, hard world, With its ceaseless race for gold, Its strife and sorrow, and suff ring and sin, Its hunger and biting cold God's acre peacefully lies Under the sunset skies. The great red harvest moon Has risen o'er yon green hill, Flooding the loch with a golden light, And the streamlet by the mill ; 'Tis looking so calmly down On that churchyard far from town, 190 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. It shines on a pure white stone Where I kneel and gently weep, For under it those that were my all, My darlings, lie asleep My husband and bairnies three ; Oh ! the world is dark to me. I miss my husband good, For he ever was kind to me ; My heart is aching and bleeding to-day For my dear wee bairnies three ; But they're safe from grief and pain, And I know we shall meet again. After a few short years, With the battle fought and won, And tears and partings for ever o'er, And the perfect life begun For evermore I shall be With my husband and darlings three. 191 < 'ur's care, A mother of tuy o\\n. In vain I'd ask her to como back, For that could never I>L>, But still the picture on the wall Would somehow comfort me. 200 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. For her dear face was very kind, And beautiful to see, And her soft, tender, hazel eyes Seemed smiling down on me ; And then, nurse said, if I were good We'd meet again once more, For mother, dearest, was not dead, But only gone before. But other faces in the manse, Were I there now, I'd see, And others play upon the lawn, Beneath the old oak tree ; And father's name is on the cross, And mother dear and he Are one again soon with them, too, In Heaven I long to be. 201 (ieratb anb I. E stood by the stream in the sunlight clear, Gerard and I, Soft cooed the doves in the firwood near, Blue was the sky ; Something like this Gerard said to me, Bending, my blushing face better to see " Darling, be mine, I'm only thine ; Thou art dearer than all else on earth to me." He stood and waited to hear my reply ; What could I say ? I gave him my hand, and said " Good-bye ; Please go away." But he held it fast, and he did not go, And from the firwood came, soft and low " He's good and true ; Accept him do !" 'Twas only the doves, but they seemed to know. N 202 A. BUNCH OF HEATHER. " Answer me, dear one !" I turned away, And would not speak ; I thought all right is that word " obey " For maidens meek ; To obey any man would never suit me I'm free just now, and mean so to be. " Love makes all sweet !" The stream at my feet Seemed to sing, as it rushed to join the sea. I turned to Gerard, intending to say " It cannot be !" The look in his eyes made the words die away, And thus, you see, I had to say " Yes," for I could not say " No " It seemed too cruel to vex him so. " You've done a wise thing," The stream did sing ; And so cooed the doves, for they seemed to know. 203 In the Jftifisston gS^EE how in crowds they come i*i| From many a darksome slum, Many a den ; Women grown hard and bold In sin's paths, tried and old ; Wild, vtcious men. Why do they crowd to-night Into this room so bright, In from the street ? There is no whisky here, No gin their hearts to cheer, No one to " treat." What do they come to hear? Why, without jest or sneer, Without a row, Do they sit silent here ? Soon all to me is clear " 'Ere's parson now !" 204 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. Says a rough man to me " That's 'im o'er there, ye see ; "E's good an' wise ; 'Is heart is kind an' true, An', whate'er wrong we do, 'E don't despise ; " But looks at us so sad That makes a man feel bad, And thus, ye see, We like to see 'im bright, So try to do the right, Though 'ard it be. " Hush ! now you'll hear him speak !" On my companion's cheek I see a tear. What is the charm, I think, Which can from streets and drink Draw these folks here ? Earnest the words he speaks, As sin-sick souls he seeks For Christ to gain " Why will ye thus delay ? Jesus has washed away Every sin stain. IX THE MISSION HALL. 205 " Come to the Saviour, mates, To welcome all He waits, Come, friends, to-night ; Give up your evil ways, Spend all your future days As in His sight. " He wants no offering, Nothing He'd have you bring, Come as you are ; No good will He withhold, Though from His blessed fold You've wandered far." And, as he still speaks on, All former doubts are gone, And now I know What brings those rough folks here What makes the softening tear From tired eyes flow. His is no west-end charge Only a parish large, 'Mong sinful, vile ; All day he earnest works, Never a duty shirks Works with a smile. 206 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. Sowing the precious seed, Uprooting every weed, He works so hard Striving sad ones to cheer, Bringing salvation near ; What his reward ? Enough if from paths of sin He can the fold within Erring ones take ; Happy if he each day Something can do or say For Jesus' sake. 207 En do I see him w,hom I loved too well 1 Who called me oft his "darling, bonnie Nell," Who cast me down from Heaven to lowest Hell ? In dreamland. His kisses on my cheek when do I feel 1 His arm round me again when does it steal ? When do I find him noble, faithful, leal? In dreamland. When do I see the home I left for him 1 That bonnie spot beneath the mountain grim, My father, mother, shepherd lover, Jim ? In dreamland. When do Jim's loving words reproach me sore ? My punishment is great, must I bear more? I see Jim drowned, brought to my father's door, In dreamland. 208 When do I feel once more that maddening joy That did my better self and thoughts destroy,' Until he cast me off, as child its toy 1 In dreamland. When do I hunger, pain, and grief forget 1 When with repentant tears my pillow wet ? When am I once again my father's pet? In dreamland. When do I clasp my darling mother's hand 1 Or iii the arbour with my father stand, The happiest, brightest lass in all the land ? In dreamland. So vile am I, my soul so stained with sin, I can't return again to kith and kin, I'll only stand my bonnie home within, In dreamland. Where did I read, in happy days of yore, Of sinful woman brought the Lord before ? Where did I hear those words " Go, sin no more," Iii dreamland 1 IN DREAMLAND. 209 No ! men may shun with horror those who fall, But there is One will hear the sinner's call, And He will save me, for He died for all Contrite ones. So vile am I, and yet I hear Him say " Come unto Me, oh ! \vhy will you delay 1 My blood has washed your every stain away ; Come, sinner." " Yea, Lord, I come, a wand'ring, wayward sheep 1 The path of virtue may be hard and steep ; Strengthened by Thee, that path I now shall keep For ever." 210 $3il)itt' ^tS'M weary, sae weary o' earth, just bidin' the (ijvji) Maister's ca' ; I ken it canna be lang, for yestreen I was eichty- twa ; I lang to be wi' Him at rest, freed frae grim hunger an' cauld, Safe in yon bricht gowden land, safe in the Guid Shepherd's fauld. My freends are a' safe in you laud ; lang. lang I've lived here my lane : I'd been a wife but sax years whan my guidman frae me was taen ; 1 watched him ae winter morn gang oot in his boatie to sea ; God alane kens whaur he was lost ; he never cam' back to me. BIDIN' HIS TIME. 211 As I grat for my dear guidmau oor bairnie crept to my knee ; " Oh, dinua greet sae ! mither dear, whan I'm big I'll work for thee ; Oor Faither in Heaven will be kind to you an' me, mither dear ; He feeds the birds an' the beasts, sae we twa hae naething to fear." Years passed, ;m' my laddie grew big ; I asked him what he wad be ; My he'rt grew wae as my Tarn chose, like his puir faither, the sea ; I see him yet as he stood on the deck that fair summer night, Kissing his hand to me, wi' the tears in his een shinin' bricht. Sic letters my laddie wrote aboot the places he saw, He tell't me he'd grown sae tall, I wadna ken him ava; He said he'd be wi' me again afore the end o' the year ; " We'll gang to the kirk thegither on Christmas Day, mither dear." 212 A BUNCH OF HEATHER. But Christmas Day when it cam' brocht naething but sorrow to me, My laddie was then i' his grave, aneath the cruel blue sea ; I sabbed as I heard the sweet bells ring oot on the frosty air ; " I canna bide here a' my lane, oh ! tak' me, Lord, ower there !" He answered my sorrowfu' cry, but in his ain time an' way He didna tak' me frae earth, but wark for Him gae me to dae ; Noo, in the e'en o' life I'm gaun to thae twa lost lang syne Ower there, in the Maister's Hame, my jewels I'll ne'er again tyne. DATE DUE A 000 701 495 4 ' - I ~ 1 I , - : '-". ' m ' '. ' . . i .-' '