ANNIE WEIR 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS
 
 Lately published, by the same Author, 
 
 POEMS AND SONGS. 
 
 Second Edition, price 5s. 
 
 " It contains genuine poetic ore, poems which win for their author a place 
 among Scotland's true sons of song, and such as any man in any country 
 might rejoice to have written." London Review. 
 
 " We are delighted to welcome into the brotherhood of real poets a 
 countryman of Burns, and whose verse will go far to render the rougher 
 Border Scottish a classic dialect in our literature." John Bull. 
 
 " There is, also, no little humour in the poem entitled ' My Little Wife,' 
 coupled with the expression of a manly, protecting fondness, which shows 
 the making of a true gentleman in this honest, hard-working miner, en- 
 dowed with one of the noblest gifts of heaven. He is capable, however, of 
 better things than he has yet done, and we shall be much surprised if we 
 are deceived in the expectations we have formed of his future career. " 
 Spectator. 
 
 " Had it far less vigour and far less refinement, this book would he wel- 
 come in its thorough genuineness. Contrary to what might have been ex- 
 pected, the refinement predominates, as far as language is concerned ; and 
 the sentiment, even in describing the homeliest scenes, is pure and elevated, 
 fresh with genial humour, and a fancy that now and then stands on the very 
 threshold of imagination." Scotsman. 
 
 " Some of these poems and songs are so remarkable for natural beauty 
 and tenderness, while others are so wonderful for their delicacy and grace, 
 that the world will be astounded to be told that they are the production of 
 a son of toil, whose soul has been depressed by the fear of want, and who 
 thus sings of himself." Caledonian Mercury. 
 
 "We have no hesitation in saying that, since the days of Burns and 
 Tannahill, there has not arisen a singer who could mould our ' guid braid 
 Scotch ' language, and set our Scottish scenery and our Scottish manners 
 and feelings to music, as Da,vid Wingate has done." John o 'Groat Journal. 
 
 "There is a delicacy and grace about these poems truly wonderful ; in- 
 deed, their general excellence is astonishing. With great felicity of ex- 
 pression the words seem to grow out of the thought as gowans spring from 
 the earth. All is natural, nothing is forced; spasm there is none." 
 Hamilton Advertiser. 
 
 "We might go on transferring the greater portion of the book to our 
 columns, but with one more extract we prefer sending our readers to the 
 volume itself, in which they will find an elevation of sentiment and a 
 purity of expression such as would do honour to writers moving in circles 
 far removed from scenes like those amid which this Lanarkshire collier has 
 climbed to literary distinction." Sunderland Herald. 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, Edinburgh and London.
 
 ANNIE W E I E 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 DAVID WINGATE 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 
 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
 MDCCCLXVI
 
 p*
 
 SCENE. 
 
 AUTHOR and FRIEND present : between them a table 
 strewn with MS. 
 
 Friend. These, then, I suppose, are your new Poenis. 
 
 Autlwr (with a sigh}. Yes. 
 
 Friend. Where is your Preface ? 
 
 Author. I have written none. I expect you will do that 
 for me. 
 
 Friend. Me, sir ! I don't know what you ought to write 
 about. 
 
 AutJwr. That's precisely my own position. 
 
 (After a pause^ 
 It would never do to copy the old one, I suppose I 
 
 Friend. Hardly, I am afraid. They would be sure to 
 accuse you of poverty in invention, and that would be 
 
 Auilwr. Too near the truth to be pleasant. But I have 
 nothing else to say. 
 
 Friend. Thank the gentlemen of the Waverley Burns 
 Club for the interest they have taken in your new Volume. 
 In particular, thank their Secretary
 
 VI SCENE. 
 
 Author (impatiently). I tell you they don't want thanks, 
 and I question if their Secretary would open the Volume 
 if he suspected it said a word on the subject. 
 
 Friend. "Well, there are other gentlemen not of the 
 W. B. C. to thank for kind exertions. 
 
 Author. Sir, they are all friends who have wrought for 
 love, and they don't want thanks. They know I am 
 grateful. 
 
 Friend. What about the Public ? 
 
 AutJtor. I'm sure I can't tell. 
 
 (A long pause.) 
 
 Friend (suddenly, with animation). I have it. 
 
 AutJior. Well? 
 
 Friend. Don't write any Preface. 
 
 Author (in great glee). The very thing. Nobody can 
 object to the style in that case. I don't know how much 
 I am obliged to you. 
 
 Friend. Nonsense ! I am glad to be of use. 
 
 Author. Then we say, No Preface ! 
 
 Friend. No PREFACE !
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ANNIE WEIR. A TALE, . . . - . . . 1 
 
 A DAY AMANG THE HAWS, 17 
 
 SONG LONELY STREAM, 24 
 
 A DEATHLESS LOVE, .'...... 26 
 
 THE FIRST GUID DAY, 31 
 
 GRATITUDE, . . .' 35 
 
 THE STREAMLET, . , : 38 
 
 GIBBIE'S LAMENT, . 45 
 
 VERSES TO A (SUPPOSED) FOSSIL FISH, . . .49 
 
 THE MARIGOLD, 55 
 
 JOHN FROST, 57 
 
 AULD ARCHIE BELL, .61 
 
 A CANDLEMAS RHYME, .66 
 
 A MOTHER'S WAIL, 81 
 
 TO A LARK, OX HEARING ONE SING EARLY IN FEBRUARY, 85 
 
 THE CROWS' CHORUS, .89 
 
 SONG LET US DREAM TOGETHER, 92 
 
 ROBIN 0' RAPLOCH. A BALLAD, 94 
 
 INNOVATION. A DREAM, . . . . . .106 
 
 ASPIRATION, 126 
 
 A STRUGGLE, . . . . . . . .135
 
 Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 ELEGY ON TAM, A NOTORIOUS POACHER, . . . . 139 
 JEAN TAMSON'S DREAM, . . . . , .147 
 TO MRS H. WILSON, . . . . . . .154 
 
 ABRAHAM, . .'.. . . . . . .159 
 
 THE BIRDIE, . . . . . . . .166 
 
 THE SIN O' SANG, . ' . .171 
 
 TO COUNCILLOR WILSON, GLASGOW, . . . . 17- r > 
 
 OCTOBER THE GREEN HILLSIDE, ..... 183 
 
 THE CHIELD GOT o' WARK, ...... 188 
 
 A RAMBLE, ......... 191 
 
 THE BETTER LAND. WILL AND GEORDIE, . . .194 
 
 NOTES TO ANNIE WEIR, ....... 202
 
 ANNIE WEIE 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 ANNIE WEIR 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY a burn, that dimpling crept, 
 'Neath the leaves that o'er it slept 
 In the balmy breezeless eve, sat an old man, thin and 
 
 grey, 
 
 And two children at his side, 
 Sunny-faced and merry-eyed, 
 Aweary with their sport, on the green sward lay : 
 
 A
 
 ANNIE WEIR. 
 
 And while from the poplar tall 
 
 Fell the "blackbird's madrigal, 
 While the wagtail on the boulders chirruped near, 
 
 And the thrush sang down the dell, 
 
 In the thorn above the well, 
 The story of his youth they sought to hear. 
 
 " Uncle Eeuben, long ago, 
 When the fields were white with snow, 
 
 And the glen with gleaming icicles was gay, 
 Well we mind that even then 
 You went daily from the glen 
 
 To sit among the tombs on yonder brae. 
 
 " And when the spring had come, 
 And the bees began to hum, 
 
 And morn came with her chalice filled with dew, 
 Still the graveyard had its charm 
 Long you sat, when days were warm, 
 
 But why you went at all we never knew.
 
 ANNIE WEIR. 3 
 
 " Once we asked you why you went, 
 And what your lingering meant, 
 
 Oh ! ' Not to-night,' you answered ' not to-night.' 
 "Would it pain you now to tell, 
 While yon labour-closing hell 
 
 Sounds sweetly, and the sky is golden "bright 1 
 
 " We'll "be silent as the thrush 
 That is listening in yon hush, 
 
 The while her mate with rapture cheers the dale : 
 Uncle Eeuhen, will you not ? " 
 And the old man, so besought, 
 
 Assenting, thus began the promised tale : 
 
 " And sae ye wish to ken 
 
 "Why I daily leave the glen 
 To spend a lonely hour in the auld kirkyaird, 
 
 That nestles 'neath the limes 
 
 That, since the olden times, 
 Hae a solemn shadow flung owre its billowy swaird.
 
 4 ANNIE WEIR. 
 
 " Be still, and ye shall hear ; 
 
 But if ye hae nae tear 
 
 To drop owre sorrow's tale, or sigh to heave, 
 Then to your play begone, 
 And leave me here alone 
 
 To paint anew my heaven my old dream -web to 
 weave. 
 
 " Owre bye, near yonder bank, 
 Where the coltsfoot's growing rank, 
 
 And the binweed thrives where the bere should be ; 
 Where the rigs are hower" yet, 
 Langsyne there was a pit, 
 
 And auld anes owre ayont it were twa or three. 
 
 " 'Twere owre lang a tale to tell, 
 How, in thae times, aft it fell 
 That sic pits, wi' bounds unmarked, and of water 
 
 brimming fou, 
 
 Were but traps for maids and men ; 
 The pent flood now and then, 
 Wi' ruin in its roar, bursting through.
 
 ANNIE WEIR. 5 
 
 " In the pit near yonder bank, 
 "Where the coltsfoot grows sae rank, 
 
 And the binweed thrives sae weel, 'twas mine to toil ; 
 And there earth's dearest maid, 
 Like a glow-worm in the shade, 
 
 Made an Eden o' the gloom wi' her smile. 
 
 " Oh ! she was fairer far 
 
 Than the go wan or the star, 
 In the green glades o' earth or the blue o' heaven, 
 
 And gentler than the dove ; 
 
 And her heart's first love, 
 In its freshness and its faith, to me was given. 
 
 " She wasnae seventeen, 
 
 But at work she lang had been, 
 And up the weary stairs wi' her coal-creel laden, 6 
 Day by day, wi' trembling limb, 
 In the twilight dim, c 
 
 For her frail old father's sake, clamb the peerless 
 maiden.
 
 6 ANNIE WEIR. 
 
 " That her silken auburn hair, 
 
 Snawy hauns, and face so fair, 
 Should be daily soiled sae sair I aye was mourning ; 
 
 But my Annie at her wark, 
 
 Aye as lichtsome as the lark, 
 Gaed singing to the stair, and sang returning. 
 
 " Oh ! sweet's the laverock's trill 
 
 In the cloud that crowns the hill, 
 And the hidden blackbird's sang in the hazel bush at 
 
 e'en; 
 
 But ne'er sae sweet nor dear 
 As the sang o' Annie Weir, 
 In the darkness o' the pit heard hersel' unseen. 
 
 " Ae morn ae summer morn 
 
 When white was every thorn 
 When the barley braird was silvered wi' the dew, 
 
 Sweet was every scene and soun', 
 
 And but few I mind gaed doun, 
 But I and Annie Weir were o' the few.
 
 ANNIE WEIR. 7 
 
 " Frae the ithers far awa' 
 
 We toiled our ainsels twa 
 Strange fears that day came owre me now and then ; 
 
 Aften down my pick I flang, 
 
 Listening eerie for her sang, 
 And thinking she was lang o' coming ben. d 
 
 " Tak' yonrsels in fancy doun, 
 
 And frae the waste e aroun' 
 Let this sudden cry o' terror strike the ear 
 
 ' Oh ! the water's broken in ! 
 
 To the stair for safety rin ! ' 
 And fancy a' the fears o' Annie Weir. 
 
 " She heard the awesome din, 
 
 And she saw the others rin 
 She saw them to the stair for safety flee ; 
 
 She heard the distant rush 
 
 0' the water's coming gush, 
 Looked upward, and the sunshine filled her e'e. 
 
 Her foot was on the stair, 
 
 But, oh ! I wasnae there ; 
 Sae, flinging aff her creel, she flew for me.
 
 8 ANNIE WEIR. 
 
 " In the shearing/ 1 was thrang 
 Crooning Annie's faVrite sang 
 
 (A lay of humble love and its reward), 
 When from the silent waste 
 Cam' the voice o' ane in haste, 
 
 And ' Eeuben, Reuben, rin !' I wondering heard. 
 
 " 'Oh, Eeuben, Eeuben, rin ! 
 For the water's broken in ! 
 
 They a' cam' to the bottom but yoursel'. 
 Oh ! Eeuben, haste ye fast, 
 For it's coming like a blast, 9 ' 
 
 And how we're to win oot I canna tell.' 
 
 " Though I trusted she was wrang, 
 Yet I didna tarry lang, 
 
 But hurried out my frichted burd to meet, 
 And we ran to win the stair, 
 Oh ! but lang ere we were there, 
 
 The black and stoury flood h was at our feet.
 
 ANNIE WEIR. 9 
 
 " Turning roun' wi' frantic speed 
 
 O* nae danger taking heed, 
 Through the waste for safety's path we sought in vain, 
 
 Then eerie, bruised and sair, 
 
 Haun' in haun' and in despair, 
 To the road that best we kent we came again. 
 
 " We didna tear our hair, 
 But it surely was despair, 
 
 That made us ither's hauns sae wildly tak' ; 
 For our heavy hearts aye sunk, 
 As wi' hollow, dismal, clunk, 
 
 The water slowly rose and drove us back. 
 
 " For hope .there was nae room, 
 
 There we saw and kent our doom, 
 skill, nor faith, nor prayer could scaur' t awa, 
 It would creep up pace by pace, 
 And to reach the farthest face 
 It could but tak' a day, or maybe twa.
 
 10 ANNIE WEIR. 
 
 " ' Come, Annie, let's gae ben, 
 A' our sorrows soon will en', 
 
 For us nae earthly morn can hae a breakin', 
 We'll our watch in patience keep 
 Oh ! that we could but sleep, 
 
 Ere owre us creeps the flood, and never waken.' 
 
 " ' Oh ! Keuben, Eeuben Shaw, 
 
 T the' nae way out ava ? 
 ~WT this ae feeble light on our white faces streaming, 
 
 Maun we our hopes resign 
 
 And our dear lives tyne ? 
 Oh ! waefu' waefu' end o' a' our gouden dreaming ! ' 
 
 " Sae in the first wild hour 
 
 Did we our wailing pour, 
 Nor thought how e'en the feeble light would fail us 
 
 Nor that the flood might stay, 
 
 Far frae us on the brae, 
 And yet a sterner foe ere lang assail us.
 
 ANNIE WEIR. 11 
 
 " Let your fancy, if it can, 
 
 Paint us sitting worn and wan, 
 Watching owre our last bit candle as it flared its dying 
 
 flare; 
 
 Fled our guardian Angel seemed, 
 And till then we had not dreamed, 
 That ony darker shade could fa' on our despair. 
 
 " Like parents owre a child, 
 
 That its hindmost smile hath smiled, 
 Owre the glowing loweless wick low we leaned wi' 
 
 fondling care, 
 And gently blowing strave 
 The lowe alive to save, 
 And chase away the gloom for ae brief moment mair. 
 
 " But we gently blew in vain, 
 So we raised our een again 
 
 At ance, I kenna why nor what we wished to see ; 
 But I saw and see it noo 
 Beaming memory's mazes through, 
 
 The old sweet look o' love and trust in Annie's ee.
 
 12 
 
 ANNIE WEIR. 
 
 " But the wick a faint dull red 
 In its ain white ase half hid, 
 Lang glowed and seemed a soul that the Fates were 
 
 loath to sever; 
 Then it dwindled to a spark, 
 That a star seemed in the dark 
 A star that sudden set to rise no more for ever. 
 
 " And then no more was seen, 
 
 Save as we strained our een, 
 To bless our longing hearts wi' anither look o' ither, 
 
 Ae flash we thought we saw, 
 
 But it could be nocht ava', 
 Save the ee o' frenzied Hope as she left us a'thegither. 
 
 " Oh ! ne'er before since Light 
 Half his kingdom won frae Night, 
 
 Had the darkness of the pit haen a dreariness sae drear ; 
 For the shadow seemed to clasp 
 With a stifling, chilling grasp, 
 
 While uncannie feet we heard on the water drawing near.
 
 ANNIE WEIR. 13 
 
 " How the laneness grew mair lane, 
 
 When a' note o' time was gane ; 
 HOAV our hearts sank now and then, and to die we laid 
 
 us doun; 
 
 How the hours crept into days ; 
 How we prayed and warbled praise, 
 That wakened in the waste a sadly solemn soun'; 
 
 " How the hunger pang we bare 
 
 When the water was our fare ; 
 How we tried to be contented with our cheer ; 
 
 How the flood rose to our feet ; 
 
 How it stood, and durstnae weet 
 The garments o' the Angel, Annie Weir; 
 
 " How we heard sweet music swell, 
 If asleep we briefly fell, 
 
 And, waking, heard what seemed the hum o' bees ; * 
 How we closer crept in awe 
 When the phosphor-light * we saw, 
 
 That seemed a spirit sitting 'mong the trees ;
 
 14 ANNIE WEIB. 
 
 " How the old folks were our thought 
 How to want they might be "brought ; 
 
 How the God aboon would surely guide them through ; 
 What we would hae done ava, 
 Had our number no been twa, 
 
 And how a solace aye from that we drew ; 
 
 " How the fearfu' thought that death 
 
 Mightnae come at ance to baith, 
 Made the sore-tried reason reel, and the blood with 
 
 horror chill, 
 A' this, and mickle mair, 
 Ye the telling o' maun spare, 
 For the memory o't awakens horror still. 
 
 " But the end at last drew near : 
 
 At my side lay Annie Weir, 
 And murmured lowly, ' Eeuben, part maun we. 
 
 Oh ! how wearied I hae grown, 
 
 Like a hunted bird that's flown, 
 Despairing, lang, across a biel'less lea.
 
 ANNIE WEIR. 15 
 
 " ' Oil ! sweet it was to dream 
 We at ance should cross the. stream 
 
 Whase shores are Earth and Heaven, but 'twinna be ; 
 A' my dreaming's been in vain ; 
 I the stream maun cross alane, 
 
 And ye your weary doom alane maun dree.' 
 
 " Then she seemed asleep to fa', 
 And I thought she was awa', 
 
 When, hark ! 'twas surely voices in the waste 
 (It sae like a fancy seemed, 
 That I thought I had but dreamed), 
 
 'Twas the searchers coming cautious in their haste. 
 
 " Frae another, ebber' pit 
 I can tell ye where it's yet 
 
 Three weary days they, hour aboot, had redd ; m 
 Like giants had they toiled, 
 And success had on them smiled, 
 
 For safely to the sunshine were we led.
 
 16 ANNIE WEIR. 
 
 " Annie Weir and I were wed, 
 But her bloom for aye was fled ; 
 
 Ae year she lived, and ere she was a mither, 
 She was laid in yon kirkyaird, 
 'Neath the greenest o' its swaird, 
 
 And oh ! that we were ance again thegither."
 
 17 
 
 A DAY AMANG THE HAWS. 
 
 WHEN the beech-nuts fast are drappin', 
 
 And the days are creepin' in, 
 When ilk carefu' mither's thinkin' 
 
 0' the winter's hose and shoon ; 
 When the mornin' "bells loud ringin' 
 
 To the Fast-day worship ca's, 
 Out comes the city callan' 
 
 For his day amang the haws. 
 0' the dangers that await him 
 
 ^"e'er a troublous thought has he, 
 Nought cares he for the tearin' 
 
 He his claes is sure to gie; 
 But the light o' comin' pleasure 
 
 On his heart like sunshine fa's, 
 For dear as stolen waters 
 
 Is a day amang the haws.
 
 18 A DAY AMANG THE HAWS. 
 
 Frae the mill where stourie "jennies " 
 
 Kound him aye are whirrin' thrang ; 
 Or the forge where ponderous " Condies " 
 
 Dunt and did the hale day lang; 
 Or the press-room's inky regions, 
 
 And the gaffer's cuff and ire ; 
 Or the needle, or the Hngle, 
 
 On he plods through mud and mire. 
 Frae the lane where Vice holds revel, 
 
 Where beneath fair Virtue's shield, 
 Like birds escaped the snarer, 
 
 Aye a gratefu' few find bield; 
 Frae the stench that kens nae sweetenin', 
 
 And the din that has nae pause, 
 To the freshness and the freedom 
 
 0' a day amang the haws. 
 
 Think ye thus 1 " The graceless callan' 
 To the kirk should rather gang; 
 
 Does his mither never warn him 
 That sic Fast-day traikin's wrang ?
 
 A DAY AMANG THE HAWS. 19 
 
 If her heart is for him pleadin', 
 
 Kennin' weel how sair he's wrought, 
 For the customs o' her faithers 
 
 Has she ne'er a reverend thought 1" 
 Oh, rather thus excuse her : 
 
 " She was born amang the hills, 
 And she minds the autumn grandeur 
 
 0' the thorns beside the rills ; 
 There are memories fresh frae girlhood 
 
 Crowdin' fast to plead his cause, 
 And she canna keep the callan' 
 
 Frae his day amang the haws." 
 
 Like a flood the rain's been pourin', 
 
 But the sun beams through at last, 
 As amang a host o' ithers 
 
 Frae the town he hastens fast ; 
 On the whinny slopes o' Cathkin, 
 
 Or on Pollock's woody knowes, 
 He already roams in fancy 
 
 Where he kens the haw-tree grows.
 
 20 A DAY AMANG THE HAWS. 
 
 On the bitter blast that's brewin' 
 
 He looks west wi' hopefu' ee, 
 For he kens the woods frae keepers 
 
 In sic weather will be free. 
 If the bells around him ringin' 
 
 Whisper whiles o' broken laws, 
 "Oh!" he thinks, "there's surely pardon 
 
 For ae day amang the haws." 
 
 Fu' boldly has he ventured, 
 
 And in darin' weel has thriven, 
 He the ripest, richest branches 
 
 Frae the;sweetest trees has riven. 
 See his jacket hangs in tatters, 
 
 Owre his hands the bluid-draps steal ; 
 But his mither mends fu' neatly, 
 
 And his scarts again will heal. 
 Frae his hair the rain is dreepin', 
 
 But he never thinks o' harm, 
 For Pleasure, wanderin' wi' him, 
 
 Wi' her mantle keeps him warm.
 
 A DAY AMANG THE HAWS. 21 
 
 How his heart wi' pride is swellin', 
 
 As he near the city draws, 
 For he kens he comes joy-laden 
 
 Frae his day amang the haws. 
 
 Wha thinks he frae his ramble 
 
 Winna better come, but worse, 
 "Wi' its memory hangin' owre him 
 
 Like an angry father's curse ? 
 In Nature's face what is there 
 
 That a city bairn should fear ? 
 In the woodland's autumn whisper 
 
 Is there ought he shouldna hear ? 
 Wha kens what heavenly music 
 
 May be stirred his breast within, 
 As the sapless leafs faint rustlin' 
 
 Turns the sparklin' ee aboon, 
 While his fancy paints the Painter 
 
 0' the million-tinted shaws, 
 And the poet-spark is kindled 
 
 In his soul, amang the haws ?
 
 22 A DAY AMANG THE HAWS. 
 
 Oh ! keepers, spare the callan' 
 
 And sweet dreams ye shall not lack 
 For the wee things' sake that weary 
 
 Wait the wanderer's coming back ; 
 They hae shared the city's hardships, 
 
 And o' plenty little ken 
 Let them taste in rich abundance 
 
 0' the spoils o' hill and glen. 
 Owre the priceless feast they'll linger, 
 
 Till their lips and teeth grow brown ; 
 Or wi' the ruddy treasure 
 
 In their bosoms cuddle down. 
 Oh, there's nane the joy can measure, 
 
 That a boon sae sma' may cause ! 
 Tears are dried and sorrow's lightened 
 
 Wi' a day amang the haws. 
 
 And ye whase lot is coosten 
 Aye amang the caller air, 
 
 Wha on a gift sae common 
 
 May a thought but seldom wair,
 
 A DAT AMANG THE HAWS. 23 
 
 Oh ! think if Heaven had placed ye 
 Far frae glen and mountain stream, 
 
 Where the woods are things o' fancy, 
 And the yorlin's sang a dream 
 
 Oh ! think how ye would weary- 
 But to hear ae laverock sing, 
 
 And to watch the matron peesweep 
 Chase the hawk wi' daring wing 
 
 How wild would he your longin' 
 For the breeze on hills that blaws ! 
 
 How muckle would ye venture 
 For ae day amang the haws !
 
 24 
 
 SONG LONELY STEEAM. 
 
 WHEN the ice that hangs adorning 
 Yon grey rocks that o'er thee frown, 
 
 Loosened in the Maze of morning, 
 Gaily glancing, topples down ; 
 
 While thy brown flood's foaming free, 
 
 Lonely stream, I'll come to thee. 
 
 When the wintery tempest, fluting 
 'Mong the beeches, o'er thee blows, 
 
 Or, the ivied ash uprooting, 
 
 Bridges thee with broken boughs ; 
 
 In thy boulder nooks to dream, 
 
 Then I'll seek thee, lonely stream. 
 
 When the coltsfoot flower is thrusting 
 All aside its way that barred ;
 
 SONG LONELY STREAM. 25 
 
 When the hawthorn bud is bursting, 
 
 When thy banks are primrose-starred, 
 While thy linnets chant their glee, 
 Then be sure I'll come to thee.
 
 26 
 
 A DEATHLESS LOVE. 
 
 OH, sing that plaintive sang, dear May 
 
 Ance mair ere life I tyne ; 
 There's no in all the world, dear bairn, 
 
 A voice sae sweet as thine. 
 Alang life's path I've tottered lang, 
 
 The broken arch is near ; 
 And when I fa' I fain would hae 
 
 Thy warbling in my ear. 
 
 Oh, sing again that plaintive sang ! 
 It waukens memories sweet, 
 
 That slumbered in the past afar, 
 Whare youth and bairn-time meet.
 
 A DEATHLESS LOVE. 27 
 
 I roam through woods wi' berries rich, 
 
 Or owre the breezy hills 
 Unwearied, wander far to dream 
 
 Beside love-hallowed rills. 
 
 Sit owre beside me, winsome bairn, 
 
 And let me kiss thy brow ; 
 Wi' baith thy warm wee hauns press mine 
 
 Oh, would the end come now ! 
 Or would but 'tis a sinfu' wish, 
 
 As sinfu' as it's vain ; 
 We could not sit for ever thus, 
 
 Nox thou a child remain. 
 
 There's nane I love like thee, dear bairn 
 
 Thou ken'st nae why, I ween : 
 Thou only hast thy grannie's smile, 
 
 Thou only her blue een ; 
 Thou only wilt the village maids 
 
 Like her in sang excel ; 
 Thou only hast her brow and cheek, 
 
 Wi' rosy dimple dell.
 
 28 A DEATHLESS LOVE. 
 
 It's mony a weary year since she 
 
 Was 'neath the gowans laid, 
 
 Yet aft I hear her on the "brae, 
 
 And see her waving plaid : 
 And aften yet, in lanely hours, 
 
 Returns the thrill o' pride 
 I felt when first we mutual love 
 
 Confessed on Lavern side. 
 
 They say there's music in the storm 
 
 That tower and tree o'erturns, 
 And beauty in the smooring drift 
 
 That hides the glens and burns ; 
 And mercy in the fate that from 
 
 Our fond embraces tears 
 The angel o' a happy hame 
 
 The love o' early years : 
 
 But he whase house the storm has wrecked, 
 
 No music hears it breathe. 
 Wha e'er saw beauty in the drift 
 
 That happed a frien' wi' death 1
 
 A DEATHLESS LOVE. 29 
 
 Or wha, when Fate wi' ruthless haun', 
 
 His life's ae flower lays low, 
 Can breathe a grateful prayer, and feel 
 
 There's mercy in the blow ? 
 
 Sae thought I when her een I closed ; 
 
 And, though the thought was wrang, 
 It haunted me when to the fields 
 
 My meals nae mair she brang. 
 And aften by the lone dyke-side 
 
 A tearfu' grace was sain ; 
 And aft, alas ! wi' bitter heart, 
 
 The books at e'en I taen. 
 
 Nane think how sadly owre my head 
 
 The lang, lang years hae passed 
 Nane ken how near its end has crept 
 
 The langest and the last ; 
 But I fu' brawly ken, for, May, ] 
 
 Your grannie came yestreen, 
 And joy and hope were in her smile, 
 
 And welcome in her een.
 
 30 A DEATHLESS LOVE. 
 
 Sit near me, May sit nearer yet 
 
 My heart at times stauns still : 
 "Tis sweet to fa' asleep for aye 
 
 By sic a blithesome rill 
 My thoughts are wanderin', bairn. The veil 
 
 0' heaven aside seems drawn ; 
 The deepenin' autumn gloamin's turned 
 
 To summer's brightest dawn. 
 
 My een grow heavy, May, and dim 
 
 What unco sounds I hear ! 
 It seems a sweeter voice than thine 
 That's croonin' in my ear. 
 
 Lean owre me wi' thy grannie's face, 
 
 And waefu' glistenin' ee ; 
 Lean kindly owre me, bairn, for nane 
 Maun close my een but thee.
 
 31 
 
 THE FIKST GUID DAY. 
 
 IT is the showery April ; 
 
 The spring-time has "begun, 
 And o' the coroin' summer 
 
 There's a promise in the wun'. 
 The hawthorn "buds are burstin', 
 
 The birds in chorus gay 
 A hymn o' thanks are warblin', 
 
 For the first guid day. 
 The breeze is warm and westlin', 
 The firs sae saftly rustlin', 
 To doves among them nestlin', 
 
 Say, "Winter's passed away;" 
 While clouds o' downy lightness 
 Float on in snowy whiteness, 
 As if to aid the brightness 
 
 0' the first guid day.
 
 32 THE FIRST QUID DAY. 
 
 It is the herald April ; 
 
 The fanner looks abroad, 
 And thinks how such a sunshine 
 
 Will dry the wettest clod. 
 Stour-cluds he sees in fancy 
 
 Ahint his harrows play, 
 While dreams o' wealth are whispered 
 
 By the first guid day. 
 And see by yonder plantin', 
 Athort the lea-rigs rantin', 
 Wi' tails in air tossed, wanton, 
 
 His stirks leap jauntily. 
 And why are they sae canty 
 While grass is yet sae scanty? 
 They feel the coming plenty 
 
 In the first guid day. 
 
 It is the buddy April ; 
 
 The roads wi' bairns are thrang, 
 Whase fairy glee is bursting 
 
 In rude and rapturous sang :
 
 THE FIRST GUID DAY. 33 
 
 Ilk little face, but lately 
 
 Sae joyless and sae blae, 
 Is wreathed wi' smiles and roses 
 
 On the first guid day. 
 And hark ! that gentle hummin', 
 Frae yonder cottage comin', 
 Is it the careless thrummin' 
 
 0' fingers skilled to play 1 
 Oh, no ! it is the singin' 
 0' bees around it wingin', 
 The gladsome tidings bringin' 
 
 0' the first guid day. 
 
 It is the joyous April ; 
 
 We feel we kenna hoo 
 As if the world were better, 
 
 ' And our lease o' life were new. 
 Our hearts are beating lightly, 
 And on life's brambly brae 
 The upward path seems smoother, 
 On the first guid day. 
 c
 
 34 THE FIRST GUID DAY. 
 
 The lark on wings untirin', 
 To reach the lift aspirin', 
 The bard below is firm', 
 
 To sing a crowning lay. 
 All nature says, " Be cheery, 
 0' gladness never weary, 
 But banish all things eerie 
 
 Frae the first guid day."
 
 35 
 
 GEATITUDE. 
 
 THOU that rul'st the storm, and wisely rein'st 
 The war-steed Desolation, rescuing 
 
 From his raised hoof the poor, 
 
 Who marked with life our door, 
 And saved us, God of every good, 
 Let us before Thee pour our gratitude. 
 
 Forgive, God ! the discontent which rose 
 Within our sinking hearts, when we had seen 
 
 The idle plough fast hound 
 
 In the snow-mantled ground 
 From weary week to week, and saw 
 ^NTo sign that told us of the coming thaw.
 
 36 GRATITUDE. 
 
 Forgive our lack of faith the thoughts which oft, 
 In murmuring speech expressed, told all who heard 
 
 That we had ceased to see 
 
 Omniscience in Thee, 
 And dared to turn our eyes above 
 And doubt Thy goodness and preserving love. 
 
 We saw a happier race speed daily forth 
 To pleasure on the lakes, returning thence 
 
 With feasting, cups, and song, 
 
 The evening to prolong ; 
 That made our little nothing less, 
 But all our thoughts were thoughts of bitterness. 
 
 The robin sat upon our sill and sang, 
 
 Like one that hoped, though hungry; but in us 
 
 His heaven-taught melody 
 
 No hope inspired, for we, 
 The while we listened to his strain, 
 Thought of our wants, and of the snow-hid drain.
 
 GRATITUDE. 37 
 
 But suddenly Thou bad'st the warm winds blow, 
 And down the flood came sweeping. Tiny streams 
 
 The storm-chained plough unbound, 
 
 And coltsfoot flowers were found, 
 And larks the showery mornings hailed, 
 And all the hills appeared again unveiled ; 
 
 And the green fields were softened, and our spades 
 Were labour-polished; glowed with toil our hands, 
 
 And plenteous, though poor, 
 
 The morning meal came sure; 
 Our children answered to our call, 
 A little thinner each, but living all.
 
 38 
 
 THE STEEAMLET. 
 
 LATELY in the songless gloaming 
 
 Of a sunny winter day, 
 Strolled I by a stream that, nameless 
 Free from finny tribes, and fameless 
 
 Wandered on its Clydeward way. 
 
 Vacantly its windings tracing, 
 
 From its freshness nought I sought 
 
 Nothing wished in verse to treasure ; 
 
 Love, or hate, or care, or pleasure, 
 Won or craved no passing thought. 
 
 Like a lullaby its music 
 
 Eose beside me, and my soul, 
 To resist its spell unarmoured, 
 Scarcely hearing that it murmured, 
 Yielded to its soft control.
 
 THE STREAMLET. 39 
 
 Like a dreamless midnight slumber, 
 Fruitless, passed the flying hour ; 
 
 Memory kept her lamp extinguished, 
 
 Fancy, for the hour, relinquished 
 All its world-creating power. 
 
 Nought I of the young moon's presence 
 
 Nor the first star's rising knew, 
 Till a robin, like a spirit 
 I could less observe than hear it 
 
 Close before me flitting flew. 
 
 Suddenly the darkness deepened, 
 
 Presence to the moon was given, 
 Night's first star was twinkling o'er me, 
 Burning mine-heaps glared before me 
 On the knowes, like Mars in heaven. 
 
 Trees that slept as erst I passed them, 
 
 Now to graceful wavings stirred, 
 For my reverie was broken 
 Some all-potent charm was spoken 
 
 In the flitting of that bird.
 
 40 THE STREAMLET. 
 
 And the stream itself, how altered ! 
 
 Full of life it onward dashed, 
 Music mingled with its wimple, 
 Moons and stars in every dimple 
 
 Broke and shimmered, danced and flashed. 
 
 " In its babble there's a sermon," 
 Muttered I, and straight began, 
 Nothing of my folly weening, 
 Something of its hidden meaning 
 To interpret, as it ran. 
 
 Pausing oft, intently listening, 
 
 All my wits to work were thrown ; 
 But the language of its streaming, 
 Though of most familiar seeming, 
 Was to me a thing unknown. 
 
 Yet the low and dreamy murmur 
 
 Of its dimly rippling flow, 
 And the whisper of its laving, 
 Round the last year's rushes waving 
 
 In the shadow, to and fro,
 
 THE STREAMLET. 41 
 
 Would not from my thoughts be driven 
 
 Would like human sayings seem, 
 Though the language of its streaming 
 Did not seem so much the dreaming 
 As the reading of a dream. 
 
 " Yes," I said, " there is a sermon 
 
 Uttered in its gentle roll; 
 But I must interpret poorly, 
 For the strange-tongued talker surely 
 
 Speaks the promptings of my soul." 
 
 Then away my memory wandered 
 
 Slowly, far along the past; 
 Boyhood ventures and achievements, 
 Manhood's troubles and bereavements, 
 
 Came before me crowding fast. 
 
 And the while my memory travelled 
 
 Early love and joys among, 
 Lo ! the stream a lyric quoted 
 Syllables and rhymes I noted 
 
 And I knew the song it sung.
 
 42 THE STREAMLET. 
 
 Never was there such a preacher ! 
 
 Now my soul was filled with glee; 
 Smitten now with fear and wonder, 
 When aloud it seemed to thunder 
 
 Things "but known to Heaven and me. 
 
 Now 'tis an accusing spirit, 
 
 Torturing while it holds in thrall 
 ' Like an angry eye it glistens, 
 
 No delightful reminiscence 
 Suffering memory to recall ; 
 
 ' Now a nattering nymph, my merits 
 
 Telling o'er with Siren art 
 Could a meed so sweetly numbered 
 Leave asleep the pride that slumbered 
 Cloaked and hidden in my heart? 
 
 Now while round its boulders rushing, 
 
 Witch-like, in my ears it dinned 
 Thoughts of suicide once uttered, 
 Curses deep in madness muttered, 
 Tales of sins in secret sinned;
 
 THE STREAMLET. 43 
 
 Feelings nourished in the struggle 
 
 For existence, o'er it conned; 
 " Mine's a care that has no waning, 
 Sin is not in my complaining," 
 
 Like a weary slave it groaned. 
 
 Then, while with an almost voiceless 
 
 Motion gliding underneath, 
 Budless brambles o'er it bending, 
 From its breast there seemed ascending 
 
 Wailings of decay and death. 
 
 Lispings of long-silent voices 
 
 Thrilled me; and four names most dear 
 (Whispered low in anguished falter), 
 Agnes, Mary, Catherine, Walter, 
 
 In its murmur I could hear. 
 
 Then where rounded pebbles glistened, 
 
 Scarcely covered in the stream, 
 All its sweetly murmured story 
 Was of love, and hope, and glory, 
 
 Brighter than the brightest dream.
 
 44 THE STREAMLET. 
 
 Musing as I homeward hasted 
 
 Through Garscadden's flowerless vales, 
 This appeared a truth the surest 
 They whose hearts and lives are purest, 
 Hear from streams the sweetest tales.
 
 45 
 
 GIBBIE'S LAMENT. 
 
 DEAR Bessie, owre my dreary cell 
 
 Again has gloomed the night ; 
 The sulky jailer has been roun' 
 
 And ta'en away my light. 
 Baith heaven and earth seem fled, and through 
 
 The winnock at my side 
 I vainly gaze the verra stars 
 
 Frae me their faces hide. 
 
 The hale day lang I've pingled owre 
 
 That heap o' tautit tow, 
 And thought my burning finger-nebs 
 
 "Wad sotten't in a low. 
 And oh I'm sure I wish they had 
 
 The thought may weel be wrang, 
 But patience comes but seldom here, 
 
 And never tarries lang.
 
 46 GIBBIE'S LAMENT. 
 
 Oh, Bessie, could you through, thae wa's 
 
 Your faithfu' Gibbie see, 
 I'm sure your heart wad burst in sabs, 
 
 Your tears would blear your e'e ; 
 To think that I sae cauld should lie, 
 
 My bed as hard's a stane, 
 Wi' no a living thing except 
 
 The cloks to hear my mane. 
 
 Were I a swindler or a thief 
 
 This cell would be my pride, 
 There canna be a better place 
 
 Frae a' the world to hide ; 
 But I've nae skill to steal or cheat, 
 
 Yet here I'm forced to stay: 
 I've thought on't, Bessie, till I fear 
 
 My thoughts are gaun agley. 
 
 My head is turnin', Bessie dear ; 
 
 I ken I'm wauken wide, 
 And yet I see ye wi' the bairns 
 
 Here stannin' at my side.
 
 GIBBIE'S LAMENT. 47 
 
 Your breath is on my cheek, your haun' 
 
 Upon my face I fin' 
 It's passin' owre my shirpet chafts, 
 
 And een sae far faun in. 
 
 But yesterday I waled me out 
 
 A tuft o' tow sae fine, 
 And sat me doun, wi' mournfu' pride, 
 
 To plait a fishin'-line ; 
 And had I haen but ae wee swirl 
 
 0' thy saft gouden hair, 
 I would hae bow't a preen, and tied 
 
 A yellow flee fa' rare. 
 
 And, Bessie, on my bed I sat 
 
 And thought the floor a stream, 
 And siller grilse and gouden trout 
 
 Were soomin' through my dream, 
 When in the prowlin' jailer cam' 
 
 The fiend was in his e'e ; 
 And, Bessie, with the supper-hour 
 supper cam' to me.
 
 48 GIBBIE'S LAMENT. 
 
 Oh, Bessie, to the water side 
 
 At dewy gloamin' steal, 
 And in your faithfu' Gibbie's name 
 
 Bid a" the streams fareweel. 
 For me, I'll never see them mair ; 
 
 I hear a voice that says 
 " Life's pirn's unwinding fast ; ye'll ne'er 
 
 Wun through thae sixty days."
 
 49 
 
 VEESES 
 TO A (SUPPOSED) FOSSIL FISH. 
 
 [The following verses were suggested by a ball of ironstone, of a 
 very fish-like shape, which was brought into the School of Mines, 
 Glasgow, and which it was thought would prove one of the family 
 of coal saurians, two of which have been found in the coal-measures 
 of the carboniferous system. It proved to be no fish, however.] 
 
 AND didst thou once frequent the sea 
 A living creature could it be 1 
 Let me wi' reverence lean owre th.ee 
 
 And view ilk. part ; 
 A wonder in the first degree 
 
 Thou surely art. 
 
 Oh, what a graceless form is thine ! 
 Was that contorted ridge thy spine ? 
 Did hony plates thy flesh confine, 
 
 Or wrinkled scale 1 
 Did at that fracture smooth once join 
 
 A lang lithe tail 1 
 
 D
 
 50 VERSES TO A (SUPPOSED) FOSSIL FISH. 
 
 Thy venturous path how didst thou guide 
 Throughout the wonder-peopled tide 1 
 No trace of fin at back or side 
 
 Dost thou display : 
 Did gills the needfu' air provide, 
 
 Or nostrils, pray ? 
 
 Strange creature of the auld- world brine, 
 Was this thy living form's outline ? 
 Did at that oval mark once shine 
 
 A lashless e'e ? 
 And didst thou other parts combine 
 
 Than those we see 1 
 
 Thou syllable in truth's narration, 
 Were sedgy shores thy habitation ? 
 In life's unmeasured roll thy station 
 
 We fain would know. 
 Say, in the morning of creation 
 
 What part played thou 1
 
 VERSES TO A (SUPPOSED) FOSSIL FISH. 51 
 
 Wert thou a thing of blood, to whom 
 The weaker tribes gave ample room ? 
 That stony wame their living tomb 
 
 Preserve us a' ! 
 What thousands may have met their doom 
 
 Within that maw ! 
 
 Perhaps thou never saw the sea, 
 
 And lived from blood and murder free ; 
 
 Thy home some tideless pool might be, 
 
 Deep fringed with heath, 
 Which, drying, 'mang its weeds left thee 
 
 In deathless death. 
 
 How came it that thou wert encased 
 Langsyne within the weedy paste, 
 Where calamites and tree-ferns chaste 
 
 Luxuriant waved 1 
 What pickle strange from utter waste 
 
 Thy being saved ?
 
 52 VERSES TO A (SUPPOSED) FOSSIL FISH. 
 
 When sound could penetrate thy ear 
 What awful voices thou wouldst hear, 
 As o'er the estuary drear 
 
 The storm would roar, 
 While huge amphibians sought in fear 
 
 The hutless shore. 
 
 When life was thine, no human wile 
 Could to destruction thee "beguile ; 
 The fisher's art and hunter's toil 
 
 Were yet to be ; 
 And maybe aft since then our isle 
 
 'S been 'neath the sea. 
 
 I need not ask thee if thou e'er 
 
 The wild bird's morning song didst hear, 
 
 Around thee swelling far and near; 
 
 For though their glee 
 The loneliest human heart would cheer, 
 
 'Twas nought to thee.
 
 VERSES TO A (SUPPOSED) FOSSIL FISH. 
 
 Besides, 'tis maybe true that then 
 No wild birds warbled in the glen, 
 And morn unhailed rose o'er the fen 
 
 From year to year ; 
 For music shunned the world till men 
 
 Her voice could hear. 
 
 And yet, half-shocked, the fancy says, 
 Tis strange if even those far days 
 While rarest flowers adorned the braes 
 
 And ferns the plain 
 The earth should have no birds to raise 
 
 The praiseful strain. 
 
 Say, do they madly theorise 
 
 Who say our form from thine doth rise ? 
 
 Art thou our father in disguise ? 
 
 It may be true, 
 There yet a faint resemblance lies 
 
 About the mou'.
 
 54 VERSES TO A (SUPPOSED) FOSSIL PISH. 
 
 Thou etching of a wondrous plan, 
 What are our wizzen'd mummies gran' 
 Compared to thee, whose life-stream ran, 
 
 Syne ceased to flow, 
 Long cycles ere there was a man 
 
 To mak' ane o'. 
 
 But I may guess till doomsday bell 
 Shall ring the world's departing knell, 
 And aye return frae truth's deep well 
 
 "With empty pail, 
 Unless thou deign' st to rise thysel' 
 
 And tell thy tale.
 
 55 
 
 THE MABIGOLD. 
 
 I KEN a sweet spot where the marigold blooms, 
 
 And pinkies breathe balm in their season, 
 Where the rambler may roam frae the dawn to the 
 gloam, 
 
 And no churlish laird ask the reason. 
 There the lark a' day lang trills his lady-love's praise, 
 
 And wagtails their mates seek to gladden, 
 While the burn wimples doun wi' a saft singin' soun' 
 
 Through the gowany howes o' Garscadden. 
 
 Weel kent is the spot where the marigold blooms, 
 The peesweep's wild paean sounds o'er it ; 
 
 The goldie secure 'niang the whins has her nest, 
 The wren 'neath the bracken before it.
 
 56 THE MARIGOLD. 
 
 Dear, dear is it aye to the bright bonny burn, 
 
 Sae blithely its seaward way haudin', 
 And dear to the shilfa aboon it that broods 
 
 In the balmy haw-bloom o' Garscadden. 
 
 Oh, bleak was the spot where the marigold blooms 
 / 
 When the March winds were blustering around it ; 
 
 And bleak when the burn ceased to wimple and sing 
 In the grasp o' the ice-king that bound it. 
 
 'Twas nae place to gang wi' a fou heavy heart, 
 For care there the mair seemed to madden ; 
 
 But spring wi' a bound comes to brighten and soothe 
 The homes and the hearts o' Garscadden. 
 
 To the- sweet modest pinkie lang faithfu' I've been, 
 
 0' singin' its praise never weary, 
 And seeking at gloaming its home on the fen, 
 
 As ane seeks the home o' his dearie. 
 And now in my eild I've grown fickle, I ween, 
 
 Transferring my warmest applaudin'j 
 But nowhere on earth is sic marigold bloom 
 
 As among the green howes o' Garscadden.
 
 57 
 
 JOHN FROST. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE PRATTLE OF A CHILD. 
 
 OH, inither, John Frost cam' yestreen, 
 And owre a' the garden he's been ; 
 He's on the kail-stocks, 
 And my twa printit frocks 
 That Mary left out on the green, 
 Yestreen, 
 
 John Frost foun' them out on the green. 
 
 
 
 And he's been on the trees, the auld loon, 
 
 And heaps o' brown leaves shooken doun ; 
 He's been fleein' a' nicht, 
 Frae the dark to the licht, 
 
 And missed nae a house in the toun, 
 The auld loun 
 
 He's missed nae a house in the toun.
 
 58 JOHN FROST. 
 
 And, mither, he's killed every flee 
 
 Nbo ane on the wa's ye'll no see ; 
 
 On the windows there's nane, 
 For the last leevin' ane 
 
 Fell doun frae the rape in oor tea, 
 Puir thing ! 
 
 Just drappit doun dead in oor tea. 
 
 And, mither, the path's frostit a' ; 
 If ye gang the least fast ye jist fa'. 
 
 Oh, ye ne'er saw sic fun ! 
 
 I got ae curran'-bun, 
 And wee Annie Kenzie got twa, 
 
 Daft wee thing"; 
 She jist slade a wee "bit and got twa. 
 
 And my auntie her een couldnae close, 
 
 For she said her auld bluid he just froze. 
 He cam' in below the claes, 
 And he nippit oor taes 
 
 And he maist taen awa' Bobby's nose, 
 Puir wee man ; 
 
 Sure, he couldnae dae wantin' his nose.
 
 JOHN FROST. 59 
 
 And my uncle was chitterin' to death, 
 And John Frost wadna let him get breath ; 
 
 And the fire wadna heat 
 
 Uncle's twa starvin' feet, 
 Till the soles o' his socks were burned baith, 
 
 Birslet brown, 
 And the reek comin' oot o' them baith. 
 
 But what brings John Frost here ava, 
 Wi' his frost and his cranreugh and snaw ? 
 
 It's a bonny-like thing ! 
 
 He just wafft his lang wing, 
 And a' oor wee flowers flew awa', 
 
 Every ane ; 
 And Ross's red dawlies and a'. 
 
 And, mither, he gangs through the street, 
 Just looking for weans wi' bare feet ; 
 
 And he nips at their heels, 
 
 And the skin aff them peels, 
 And thinks it's fine fun when they greet, 
 
 The auld loon ; 
 He nips them the mair when they greet.
 
 60 JOHN FROST. 
 
 Wi' his capers the folk shouldna thole. 
 
 D'ye ken 1 He "breathed in through, a bole 
 Whare a wee lassie lay, 
 And she dee't the next day, 
 
 And they laid her doun in the kirk-hole, 
 Puir wee lamb 
 
 And covered her in the kirk-hole. 
 
 But guess what my auntie tell't me ? 
 
 She says the wee weans, when they dee, 
 Flee awa' owre the moon, 
 And need nae claes nor shoon, 
 
 To a place whare John Frost they'll ne'er see, 
 Far awa' 
 
 To a place whare John Frost daurna be. 
 
 And she says our wee Katie gaed there, 
 And she'll never be hoastin' nae mair. 
 
 Sure, we'll gang there ana' 
 
 We'll flee up an' no fa' 
 And we'll see her jist in her wee chair 
 
 And she'll lauch 
 In her bonny wee red-cushioned chair.
 
 61 
 
 AULD ARCHIE BELL. 
 
 AULD Archie Bell has his hame in Eockneuk, 
 He's honest, and douce, and a wabster o' pluck ; 
 And, born a' the rest o' the world to excel, 
 Unmatched wi' his shuttle was auld Archie Bell. 
 
 But Archie, wha has in the parish a name, 
 
 To weavin' alone wasnae bound for his fame ; 
 
 No ae thing, nor twa things, could Archie do weel, 
 
 For a' bodies owned him a gey clever chiel. 
 
 And mony a braw lassie, though ne'er ownin' why, 
 
 For Archie would sigh, and her supper lay by 
 
 Na, ladies, 'twas said, frae the Duke's and Dalziel, 
 
 Glanced love frae their carriage on auld Archie Bell. 
 
 There wasnae a loon in the hale country roun', 
 But in a lang race Archie Bell could rin doun ;
 
 62 AULD ARCHIE BELL. 
 
 And if he at sports ne'er a prize could display, 
 'Twas only because he was pleased to hae't sae 
 On's fours he could rin wi' the speed o' a grew,* 
 Owre hurdles, yard high, like a lintie he flew : 
 And whether restricted to gallop or trot, 
 'Twas a' ane to Archie, he cared nae a grot. 
 
 When Eeynard was roused frae the glen o' Dalziel, 
 Wi' the barkin' o' hounds and a wild human yell, 
 Where'er the chase led them, be't foul day or fair, 
 Wi' his shoon in his oxter auld Archie was there 
 The chief dread o' Eeynard, the soul o' the hunt, 
 Owre hedges and ditches he spankit in front : 
 The horses might fag dogs lie doun oot o' breath 
 But Archie ne'er failed to be in at the death. 
 
 In Archie's lithe bouk there was nae needless length, 
 And the bend at his knees was a token o' strength ; 
 He could spin like a peerie through lang Highland reels, 
 And dump like a black on the floor wi' his heels. 
 * Greyhound.
 
 AULD ARCHIE BELL. 63 
 
 Wi' Archie's wild " hooch! " and his still wilder screigh, 
 E'en bridegrooms at weddings ne'er thought the hours 
 
 dreigh ; 
 
 And the fiercest o' waps wi' ae cry he could quell, 
 For the lungs o' a lion had auld Archie Bell. 
 
 But wha a' the feats o' his youth could rehearse ? 
 E'en the meed o' his eild soars aboon my poor verse : 
 How he wooed, how he won, though the battle was hard, 
 The bonniest lass in the whole Middle Ward ; 
 How in hard times he turned owre the green orchard sod ; 
 How he wrocht wi' the masons and carried the hod ; 
 How the mortar he mixed, spite o' frosts and wet thaws, 
 Will bind and haud fast till the last trumpet blaws. 
 
 mortal wi' Archie can fettle bee-skeps, 
 And wide is the fame o' his windlestrae caps ; 
 The bees as he shears them wi' music him cheer, 
 And the bee-farmers after them come far and near. 
 There ne'er was a tinkler that e'er wandered by, 
 Wi' him heather-besoms or house-brooms could tie ;
 
 64 AU'LD ARCHIE BELL. 
 
 And DaMel's famous curlers to own think nae shame 
 That Archie's braw cowes are the half o' their game. 
 
 Ae fondness has Archie : In sunshine and mirk 
 He longs to be bedral o's ain parish-kirk. 
 To him that's sae honoured he wishes nae ill, 
 But just he would like sic a station to fill 
 To ken every bane in the mools o' Dakiel, 
 And every Lord's mornin' to ring the kirk-bell, 
 And bear the Guid Books up the auld pu'pit stair 
 Ye powers ! grant him that, and he'll fash ye nae mair ! 
 
 He every heigh grave would smooth down by degrees, 
 And plant a' the borders wi' flowers and wee trees ; 
 And wi' an e'e hameward there's nae sin in that 
 Hae cabbage and kail here and there for the pat. 
 A pattern to a' future bedrals 'twould be : 
 Auld folk to be laid in't would weary to dee ; 
 And the saunts that frae't rise at the great day o' grace, 
 Would swither ere wanderin' frae sic a braw place.
 
 AULD ARCHIE BELL. 65 
 
 Lang life to ye, Archie ! may sorrow nor care 
 ISVer alter tlie tint o' your ever snod hair : 
 Secure may ye sit, 'mid the world's din and strife, 
 Wi' a pension to brighten the gloamin' o' life. 
 If, ere ye're a bedral, ye're laid in your grave, 
 For guidsake lie still till ye're roused wi' the lave ; 
 And dinna, wi' openin' auld graves in the nicht, 
 Or ringin' the bell, kill the parish wi' fricht.
 
 66 
 
 A CANDLEMAS EHYME. 
 
 FIRST. 
 
 IT was the eve of Candlemas, and in her easy-chair 
 Sweet Mrs Cameron knitting sat with thrifty zeal and 
 
 care ; 
 And silent sat, in slippered ease, her lord, of portly 
 
 frame, 
 And sturdy Cameronian faith, and stainless local fame. 
 
 And on that eve of Candlemas, if memory reckoned 
 
 fair, 
 'Twas sixteen years since they were wed, a humble 
 
 hopeful pair, 
 Rich only in a love that ne'er by coldness had been 
 
 crossed, 
 And theirs was now the beinest house that Lavern- 
 
 shaw could boast.
 
 A CANDLEMAS RHYME. 67 
 
 Full blithe was Mrs Cameron and wherefore should 
 
 not she ? 
 For where were six such blithesome bairns to keep a 
 
 house in glee ? 
 'Twas true there should another been, but Heaven had 
 
 deemed it best 
 To make their first an angel, and the guardian of the 
 
 rest. 
 
 And as the children played, she let her happy fancy 
 roam, 
 
 And saw in summer loveliness her childhood's moor- 
 land home ; 
 
 And memory brought its store of joys, and garrulous 
 she grew, 
 
 And talked of pleasant times that were ere Lavern- 
 shaw she knew. 
 
 " Ah ! bairns," she said, " this was an eve that, thirty 
 
 years ago, 
 To every one at school aye passed full wearily and slow
 
 68 A CANDLEMAS BHYME. 
 
 Because to-morrow was a day when all went blithe to 
 
 school 
 A day on which the master stooped to laugh and play 
 
 the fool. 
 
 " Oh ! dear, dear gala-time ! There were no dreary tasks 
 
 that day, 
 
 No grim ferule upon the desk in leathern terror lay, 
 But trays with sweeties richly heaped to fill its place 
 
 were seen, 
 With pyramids of oranges in order ranged between. 
 
 " And, oh ! how graciously our gifts the happy master 
 
 took, 
 And smiled as if its wonted frown his face no more 
 
 could brook. 
 Nor less the widow's child received, who laid her 
 
 penny down, 
 Than she, the daughter of the Laird, who gave her 
 
 silver crown.
 
 A CANDLEMAS RHYME. 69 
 
 " And, oh ! what glorious liberty that day conferred on 
 
 all! 
 Ours seemed the mirth of slaves relieved from long and 
 
 hopeless thrall ; 
 The watch-dog barked, and spiders from their nooks 
 
 crept out to hear 
 That laughter which shook down the dust no more 
 
 than once a-year. 
 
 " And well I mind how every year the master spoke a 
 
 speech, 
 The same one still his voice seems yet my startled 
 
 ear to reach ; 
 
 How I with terror quaking sat, as with a madlike pace 
 He stamped about the floor, and still waxed redder in 
 
 the face. 
 
 " I knew not then what speech he spoke, nor why he 
 
 spoke so loud, 
 And waxed so fiery in the face, and seemed so fierce 
 
 and proud,
 
 70 A CANDLEMAS RHYME. 
 
 But wondered aye why such a storm should follow 
 
 such a calm, 
 And the ferule in fancy felt once more upon my palm. 
 
 " And sweet was the relief when he had through his 
 passion toiled, 
 
 And panting stood, and wiped his brow, and on his 
 audience smiled. 
 
 And, doubtless, when we cheered he thought our judg- 
 ment sage and good, 
 
 And was convinced his " Norval " for our minds was 
 proper food. 
 
 " And then he told us who was king, and told us who 
 
 was queen 
 And queen and king were always those whose gifts had 
 
 greatest "been ; 
 I ne'er was queen, nor hoped to be, for father's folks 
 
 were poor, 
 And silver crowns were scant among the cottars on the 
 
 moor.
 
 A CANDLEMAS RHYME. 71 
 
 " Then on the shoulders of the boys their happy king 
 was seen, 
 
 And homeward singing as we went, we bore our blush- 
 ing queen ; 
 
 And Jealousy among us walked, and Envy told her tale, 
 
 And so, although we knew it not, we bowed the knee 
 to Baal." 
 
 So garruled Mrs Cameron, but still her portly lord, 
 As if the past had charmed him, sat, nor cheered her 
 
 with a word. 
 
 To-morrow and its vast affairs had on him laid their 
 
 yoke, 
 And hard he smoked, and much he thought, and thus 
 
 at length he spoke. 
 
 SECOND. 
 
 " Eebecca, seek my gouden studs and newest velvet 
 
 vest, 
 To-morrow's nomination-day, and I must wear my best ;
 
 72 A CANDLEMAS RHYME. 
 
 To-morrow's nomination-day, the battle will be keen, 
 But ye shall be the Provost's wife before to-morrow's 
 e'en. 
 
 " And ye shall be the Provost's wife Eebecca, hear ye 
 
 that? 
 And ye shall hae a Paisley plaid, the best that e'er ye 
 
 gat, 
 And ye' 11 a velvet bonnet wear, with feathers waving 
 
 braw, 
 And ye shall wear the grandest gown in bonny Lavem- 
 
 shaw." 
 
 " John Cameron, John Cameron, my heart to hear ye's 
 
 sair, 
 On worldly honours vain and vile a thought why 
 
 should ye wair ? 
 Let him wha likes be provost, John, since they sic 
 
 things maun hae, 
 A Cameronian can but smile at all their vain display."
 
 A CANDLEMAS RHYME. 73 
 
 " And wherefore should I change, gudewife? come 
 
 honours as they will, 
 
 In faith, as in affection, I will be John Cameron still ; 
 But I'll be in the provost's chair before to-morrow's 
 
 e'en, 
 And we in bonny Lavernshaw shall reign a king and 
 
 queen." 
 
 " John Cameron, John Cameron, the Tempter's with ye 
 
 been, 
 
 And ye hae yielded to his wiles with little strife, I ween ; 
 Gang to your closet, John oh ! gang, and grace seek 
 
 frae aboon, 
 Ye maunna let the morning sun salute you in your sin. 
 
 " Why mind ye their elections, John would ye dis- 
 pense their law ? 
 
 The Council or the Provost's chair is no for you ava ; 
 The oath of loyalty and love ye could not dare to swear, 
 And at the table of the Lord's communion syne appear."
 
 74 A CANDLEMAS RHYME. 
 
 " Rebecca, hear ye me. The town has business to be 
 
 done, 
 And maun hae men to role, or things would a' to ruin 
 
 rin; 
 
 My duty in the kirk I've done, and so I hope will do, 
 But surely one may serve the Lord, and serve his 
 
 country too." 
 
 " Look out, John Cameron ! Behold ! God's smile 
 is on the earth, 
 
 The laverock and the blackbird join to hail the snow- 
 drop's birth. 
 
 We've seen another spring let us be thankful for the 
 boon, 
 
 Nor dare with black apostasy to woo His vengeance 
 doon." 
 
 "With black apostasy, gudewife, what can ye mean 
 
 ava 1 ? 
 Our faith is in the synod's care 'tis theirs to give us 
 
 law;
 
 A CANDLEMAS RHYME. 75 
 
 The testimony of our sires they to the winds have 
 
 thrown, 
 And that they well and wisely did, have well and 
 
 wisely shown. 
 
 " Now to the Queen my loyalty and love I'm free to 
 
 swear, 
 And I amang the Volunteers a captain's coat may 
 
 wear. 
 
 That testimony was a dyke that cowards hid behind, 
 No coward I'm, and blithe am I 'twas thrown unto the 
 
 wind." 
 
 " But, John, among the Synod, though it seems o' 
 
 grace bereft, 
 Ken there, like Lot in Sodom, is a faithfu' remnant 
 
 left; 
 Let them be our example, let us link our lot with 
 
 theirs, 
 And ye shall be a captain in a band that fight wi' 
 
 prayers.
 
 76 A CANDLEMAS RHYME. 
 
 % 
 
 " Or if the worldly weapon's raised, as in the days of 
 yore, 
 
 John Cameron, there's the good broadsword your faith- 
 ful fathers wore ; 
 
 Would they to thrones of sin an oath more sinfu' still 
 have sworn ? 
 
 For them wha scorn the Covenant would they a sword 
 have borne ? " 
 
 "The Covenant and household swords were weel in 
 times awa', 
 
 When martyrs won their crowns, and kings had no re- 
 spect for law ; 
 
 But every heart is loyal now, and some maun provosts 
 be, 
 
 Or Britain wouldnae lang be found the country o' the 
 free." 
 
 " John Cameron, John Cameron, our angel bairn I 
 
 see, 
 And there is sorrow on her face that was not wont 
 
 to be;
 
 A CANDLEMAS RHYME. 77 
 
 I 
 
 Oh, wherefore, owre a bairn in heaven, should hang 
 
 that cloud o' care ? 
 Can one so innocent as she be ought but happy 
 
 there ? 
 
 " Oh ! maybe on the book of life a moment she has 
 
 gazed, 
 And maybe she has seen the name o' ane she loves 
 
 erased. 
 Some sin o' mine, or thine, gudeman, her peace has frae 
 
 her riven, 
 And oh ! how foul maun be the sin that taints the joys 
 
 o' heaven." 
 
 " It may be sae, wha kens ? but I my gouden studs 
 
 maun wear ; 
 And I maun think about a speech to please the public 
 
 ear. 
 Our angel bairn will smile belyve Eebecca, so shall 
 
 ye, 
 
 And be as proud and happy as a Provost's wife should 
 be."
 
 78 A CANDLEMAS RHYME. 
 
 SEQUEL. 
 
 IT is the eve of Candlemas, the laverock has been 
 
 up, 
 And from the garden-borders peeps the golden crocus 
 
 cup; 
 Bright clouds, that seem of summer, from the west 
 
 creep o'er the moon, 
 And the weather-prophets mutter, " "We have spring a 
 
 month too soon." 
 
 It is the eve of Candlemas, and in her easy-chair, 
 Sweet Mrs Cameron knitting sits, unscathed by time 
 
 or care ; 
 The hours have passed on fairy feet, the chapter has 
 
 been read, 
 And all the Word suggested has in homely phrase been 
 
 said.
 
 A CANDLEMAS RHYME. 79 
 
 Unchanged the household seems, save that a sweeter 
 
 rose has blown 
 Upon their eldest's cheek, and save that John has 
 
 greyer grown. 
 
 Tis true he straighter sits, and has a more important air, 
 And there's a military frizz about his beard and hair. 
 
 And well may he important seem he's Provost Came- 
 ron now, 
 
 And " sitteth in the judgment-seat," with wisdom- 
 laden brow ; 
 
 ibid yen's a captain's sword that hangs beside the rusty 
 blade, 
 
 That for the Covenant was drawn at Bullion's bloody 
 raid. 
 
 And is there then no hidden change, no hardening of 
 
 the heart 1 
 
 !N"o grudging of the minutes to devotion set apart ? 
 Sprung up around their honours is there not a waste of 
 
 cares, 
 In which the angels read again the story of the tares ?
 
 80 A CANDLEMAS RHYME. 
 
 Oh, no ! the yoke of riches has by them been lightly 
 
 borne, 
 The roses of their honours have no peace-destroying 
 
 thorn : 
 They from the war of creeds to live apart have nobly 
 
 striven, 
 And in a grander company they climb the hill of 
 
 heaven.
 
 81 
 
 A MOTHEE'S WAIL 
 
 OH, Jamie, Jamie, let me greet, 
 
 Your kindness cheers nae mair ; 
 I canna dry my tears at will, 
 
 Nor frae me fling my care. 
 I ken your ain heart's sad, for she 
 
 Was sunshine in your e'e j 
 But yours is but a father's love, 
 
 And ye maun bear wi' me. 
 
 Oh, Jamie, let me greet my heart 
 
 Is sad as sorrow's sel' ; 
 It seems but yesterday our tears 
 
 On Willie's cauld face fell. 
 F
 
 A MOTHER'S WAIL. 
 
 "We thocht our lot was hard when Death 
 
 Ae bairn had taen awa' ; 
 But, oh ! it's muckle harder noo, 
 
 When we hae nane ava. 
 
 Had Heaven "been pleased to warn us 
 
 0' the "blow that was to fa', 
 And, lichtly leanin', let her dwine, 
 
 As Willie dwined awa', 
 We micht hae schooled our hearts to bide 
 
 The fate we couldna flee, 
 And waited, wi' a patient grief, 
 
 To close our darling's e'e : 
 
 But, oh ! without a gloamin', 
 
 Fell bereavement's gloom at last 
 Wi' scarce a rustle o' its wings 
 
 Awa' her spirit passed. 
 Though hopefu' seemed her cheek's new bloom, 
 
 And hale her e'e's blithe licht, 
 'Twas but the clearness o' the sky 
 
 When fa's the April blicht.
 
 A MOTHER'S WAIL. 83 
 
 She wasna like anither bairn, 
 
 Whase prattlin's nocht but din ; 
 For there was wisdom in her words, 
 
 Far, far her years aboon. 
 And whiles sic startlin' things she speired, 
 
 That in my heart I've sain, 
 An angel, watchin' owre our souls, 
 
 Is speakin' in my wean. 
 
 And ance wi' sparklin' een she sat, 
 
 And at the lift gazed lang, 
 And speired, when I nae sang could hear, 
 
 " Wha sings that bonny sang 1 " 
 And yet, alas ! we saw nae sign ; 
 
 For hard were we to learn 
 That a' our love would fail to shield 
 
 Frae death our only bairn. 
 
 She aye was at my foot, Jamie, 
 
 And whiles I fashed awee, 
 When, maybe at my thrangest time, 
 
 She grat to get my knee.
 
 84 A MOTHER'S WAIL. 
 
 And butt and "ben, and oot and in, 
 
 To toddle was her pride 
 The dear wee lamb ! she couldna bear 
 
 To leave her mither's side. 
 
 Oh, Jamie, twa lang days I've watched 
 
 Her wee white face in vain ; 
 My longing brings nae warmth her smile 
 
 Will ne'er return again. 
 'Twas some sad solace on her brow 
 
 At times to lay my hauns ; 
 But bleak will be the morning, 
 
 On a bairnless hearth that dawns. 
 
 She'll lie in Willie's grave, Jamie : 
 
 Oh ! come nae soon awa', 
 But wait and smooth the turf, and drap 
 
 A tear aboon the twa ; 
 For if, as weel they may, they should 
 
 Unseen be lingering near, 
 'Twill cheer them even in heaven to mind 
 
 Their father's parting tear.
 
 85 
 
 TO A LAEK, 
 
 ON HEARING ONE SING EARLY IN FEBRUARY. 
 
 UP in the sky, sweet lark ! Up ! up ! 
 
 The sun Kilpatrick braes doth brighten, 
 The care-draught brimming in my cup 
 
 Thou sweetenest, and my heart doth lighten. 
 Up, and thy first spring-lay prolong; 
 The labour-ache flies from thy song. 
 
 A little higher, lark ! No eye 
 
 On earth should see thine eye's joy-glisten; 
 Hide in yon blue spot of the sky, 
 
 And I'll beneath thee watch and listen ; 
 For if thy voice but reach my ear, 
 Sweet bird, no other sound I'll hear.
 
 86 TO A LARK. 
 
 From yonder busy mine "but now- 
 Emerging, I was murmurs muttering; 
 
 In vain the sunshine touched my brow, 
 Till from the grass I saw thee fluttering, 
 
 And heard thy " Hail, Spring ! " o'er me burst, 
 
 Sweet as the water-spring to thirst. 
 
 I foolishly and faithless deemed 
 
 These knowes had nought my heart to gladden; 
 And nursing discontent, but dreamed 
 
 Of toil and trouble in Garscadden ; 
 Till, like the sun a cloud dispelling, 
 Thy song came better things foretelling. 
 
 What was it called thee up to sing ? 
 
 The merle and thrush thy song hear mutely; 
 Yon frozen uplands feel no Spring ; 
 
 The winds with chilling breath salute me. 
 Say, wherefore didst thou soar so proudly, 
 And trill thy ecstasy so loudly 1
 
 TO A LARK. 87 
 
 Didst thou perceive the care-cloud spread 
 
 Upon my face, and, sympathising, 
 Spring from the grey turf, kindness-led, 
 
 And on thy angel-mission rising, 
 Above me hovered trilling, trilling, 
 My soul with peace and gladness filling 1 
 
 Or wert thou only love-inspired, 
 Of thy own pleasure thinking only? 
 
 Nor looked where I so vexed and tired, 
 Among the pit-wood sat so lonely? 
 
 And had the song, so sung and heard, 
 
 A sensual source alone, dear bird ? 
 
 Tis said thou hast no joys of thought 
 That raptureless from earth thou springest; 
 
 And thus melodious toiling, nought 
 
 For sunshine car'st, and aimless singest ; 
 
 And art at most a feathered creature 
 
 A whistle in the mouth of nature.
 
 88 TO A LARK. 
 
 But thou, sweet bird, art of the seers, 
 To whom a wondrous foresight's given, 
 
 And when to men no sign appears, 
 Thou, in the calendar of Heaven, 
 
 Spring's advent read'st, and with weird skill 
 
 Her footprint not'st on holm and hill. 
 
 And whatsoever else thou art 
 
 Where'er celestial sages rank thee 
 
 The tribute of one grateful heart 
 
 Thou hast ; with all my soul I thank thee. 
 
 "Where spring ne'er comes, where none can hear 
 thee, 
 
 The memory of thy song shall cheer me.
 
 89 
 
 THE CEOWS' CHOKUS. 
 
 CAW ! caw ! the frost's awa' ; 
 
 The river is full of the melted snaw ; 
 
 The burn foams in flood through the blithseome shaw, 
 
 And pickings are plenty caw-caw, caw-caw ! 
 
 mair we're weak-winged wi' our scanty fare ; 
 The clown wi' his gun to get near us we'll dare ; 
 We'll scent his vile powder a field-breadth awa', 
 And soar oot o' danger caw-caw, caw-caw ! 
 
 Caw ! caw ! the soft winds blaw, 
 And melt in the valleys the drifted snaw ; 
 The boulders appear on the heathery law, 
 And pickings are plenty caw-caw, caw-caw !
 
 90 THE CROW'S CHORUS. 
 
 And who are yon strangers that feasting roam 
 At the water's edge on the flood-filled holm, 
 "WT their green-tinted feathers and crests so braw 1 
 The spring-bringing peesweeps caw-caw, caw-caw ! 
 
 Caw ! caw ! let's cheerily caw ; 
 The children are shouting, " Your nest's awa' !" 
 The horse through the stubble the plough can draw, 
 And pickings are plenty caw-caw, caw-caw ! 
 
 The sheep on the meadows beheld with delight 
 The hastening awa' o' the blinding white ; 
 Nae mair they stand scraping wi' weary paw, 
 But nibble 'mang plenty caw-caw, caw-caw ! 
 
 Caw ! caw ! in concert caw ; 
 
 The starling shall join us the laverock, the daw ; 
 And the snipes in the marshes their whistles shall blaw, 
 For pickings are plenty caw-caw, caw-caw !
 
 THE CROW'S CHORUS. 91 
 
 And see the white buds on yon lown willow twig ; 
 Our mates are to woo and their nests are to big ; 
 But that's a sweet toil that fa's lightly on twa, 
 When pickings are plenty caw-caw, caw- caw !
 
 92 
 
 SONG LET US DEEAM TOGETHEE. 
 
 COME, let us dream thegither, May, 
 
 There's nought so sweet as dreaming ; 
 The joys that purest are on earth 
 
 Are those that live in seeming. 
 On yonder bank twa hawthorns spread, 
 
 Whose buds are kissing ither ; 
 The burn we'll wade, and in their shade 
 
 "We'll sit and dream thegither. 
 
 To weave a wreath ye'll gowans pu', 
 And while the stems ye're plaitin', 
 
 Delights owre pure for ither een 
 "We'll see before us waiting :
 
 SONG LET US DREAM TOGETHER. 93 
 
 And while wi' fragrant rustling down 
 The boughs shall lean to screen us, 
 
 We, cheek to cheek, owre blithe to speak, 
 Shall dream ae dream between us.
 
 94 
 
 ROBIN 0' EAPLOCH. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 PART I. 
 
 YOUNG Eobin o' Raploch gaed south, to the muir, 
 "W7 his faither's auld gun, and his dog so rare 
 A leave or a licence he hadna, I wat, 
 But Robin o' Raploch cared naething for that. 
 
 " What deil wi' a licence want II" quoth he 
 
 " The hills and the heather to all are free ; 
 
 Nae leave will I "beg for, yet whare is the loon 
 
 Daur claim the muir-hen that my gun shall bring down 1 " 
 
 Young Eobin o' Raploch had roamed a' day, 
 And keeper or watcher had crossed nae his way;
 
 ROBIN O* BAPLOCH. 95 
 
 He ne'er frae the muir liad sae laden gane hame, 
 For his dog had been keen, and unerring his aim. 
 
 By a wee merry burnie he sat down to dine, 
 ~Nae roast could he boast o', nor sparkling wine ; 
 Some cakes and a flask frae his pouches brang he, 
 And Eobin was proud as a king could be. 
 
 His table he spread on the bent sae lang, 
 His grace was a stave o' a hunting sang, 
 Nae guest had he but his dog sae rare, 
 But Eobin o' Eaploch dined cheerily there. 
 
 But feastin' and happy they hadna been lang, 
 Till up frae his green couch the auld dog sprang, 
 And a growl deep and low let his master ken 
 That foes were approaching, both dogs and men. 
 
 Eobin o' Eaploch sprang fast to his feet, 
 But he thocht nae o' fleein', though nane were sae fleet ; 
 He grasped his gun when their four foes he spied, 
 And whispered to Hero " Keep close to my side."
 
 96 ROBIX O' KAPLOCH. 
 
 But vain was his caution, for e'en as he spoke 
 There burst from the foemen one puff o' white smoke, 
 And Hero leapt up wi' a sharp howl o' pain, 
 And dropt ne'er to rise from the green bent again. 
 
 But once at poor Hero paused Eobin to look ; 
 All fettering emotion he from his heart shook, 
 And quickly a ball in each barrel he thrust, 
 While deeply by everything evil he cursed; 
 
 And then at the mongrels, that, fierce for the fray, 
 Tore straining the leash a few paces away, 
 An instant aimed grimly, then, hit in the head, 
 The brutes at the feet of the keepers fell dead. 
 
 But careless o' that, on the keepers came fast : 
 " Ah, Eobin ! " they cried, " we hae found ye at last. 
 Come, march to the Sheriff, but first to the Ha' 
 Yield, Eobin o' Eaploch, ye're but ane to twa." 
 
 Eobin o' Eaploch was six feet three, 
 His answer was only a glance o' his e'e j
 
 ROBIN O' RAPLOCH. 97 
 
 His gun on the bent by his Hero he flang, 
 And slowly he faulded his arms so lang. 
 
 But white were his cheek and his lips, I trow, 
 And wild was the flash o' his een sae blue : 
 " Gin ye were twenty and ye are but twa 
 Robin o' Raploch would scorn ye a'." 
 
 Wi' a fearsome shout, at the twa he sprang, 
 And his heavy nieves on their breasts he brang 
 Twa dreadfu' thuds, and a deathlike mane, 
 And Eobin o' Eaploch stood up alane. 
 
 Then steevely he bound them back to back, 
 And syne in a tauntin' tone he spak' 
 " Eobin o' Eaploch's a rare prize to win, 
 Strike boldly, and tak' him ye're twa to ane. 
 
 " But why should I spare ye, ye cowards," he cried, 
 " That spared nae the faithfu' auld dog at my side ?" 
 Wi' his een flashin' madly aboon them he stood, 
 For the Tempter was whispering " Blood for blood." 
 o
 
 98 ROBIN O* RAPLOCH. 
 
 " Na, na !" murmured Eobin, " a taunt or a blow 
 Till now I ne'er had for a conquered foe ; 
 But nane human blood at my door e'er shall lay ;" 
 And he turned to the bank where his Hero lay. 
 
 Sadly he down by his faithfu' freen knelt, 
 
 And fondly the pulseless breast he felt : 
 
 He strokit its head o' the silken jet, 
 
 And his rough brown cheek wi' a tear was wet. 
 
 He taen oot his knife, aye sae bright and keen, 
 And cut out a sod o' the bent sae green ; 
 In the soft damp moss he a little grave made, 
 And soon owre his Hero the green turf kid. 
 
 And aye as he thought o' the dog sae dear, 
 The Tempter was whispering revenge in his ear : 
 And oft his brow darkened, his cheek grew mair wan, 
 And oft the keen edge o' his knife he fan'. 
 
 But " Vengeance ! " still " Vengeance ! " the Tempter 
 
 cried : 
 See ! Robin bounds owre to his helpless foes' side,
 
 ROBIN O' BAPLOCH. 99 
 
 His foot on them presses, his knife gleams in air, 
 When the cry of a maiden is heard on the muir. 
 
 Half bent o'er his victims stood Eobin, and gazed, 
 His foot on the nearest, his hand o'er them raised, 
 He stood like a statue, grim, awful, and grand, 
 The " Vengeance Arrested " of some master- hand. 
 
 And then looking round him, uncertain he seemed 
 If all that had passed was not fancied or dreamed, 
 Till the maiden's soft hand on his shoulder was laid, 
 And " Eobin ! oh, Eobin ! " she gently said. 
 
 Feebly and skaithless his arm fell down, 
 
 And the shame-flush spread owre his face sae brown, 
 
 And, blending wi' pity, love shone in her e'e, 
 
 As " Eobin," she murmured, "oh, what's this I seel" 
 
 He pressed and he kissed her wee haun' sae white, 
 And his blue een filled wi' a safter light, 
 His knife through the bonds o' the keepers he drew, 
 Then gleaming afar frae his hand it flew.
 
 100 ROBIN O' RAPLOCH. 
 
 His gun owre an auld oak root he bent, 
 In pieces asunder his game-bag he rent, 
 His powder-flask 'neath his heel crushed he, 
 And smiled on the ruin so mournfully; 
 
 And then turning round wi' a smileless despair, 
 " Sweet May, o' thy love I need never dream mair; 
 I'm ta'en, and my future a bairn may divine, 
 But, May, I would rather been prisoner o' thine. 
 
 " A prison, a trial, a trip owre the sea, 
 Or maybe the gallows, sweet May, waits on me, 
 For but for thy comin' my haun' would been red, 
 And the heather been tinted wi' murdered men's bluid. 
 
 " As life dear was freedom ae short hour sin syne, 
 Kow life I wi' freedom would careless resign. 
 Lead on to the Sheriff, since sae it maun be ; 
 Dear May, never mair shall I wander wi' thee." 
 
 " Lead on to the Sheriff?" the keepers replied; 
 " JSa, Eobin, we'll lea' ye at bonny May's side,
 
 ROBIN O* RAPLOCH. 101 
 
 We'll dare the laird's -wrath, and ill-luck may he hae 
 That seeks a rude haun' on your shouther to lay." 
 
 Then frae the stained heather their dead lifted they, 
 And slowly and silent and sad marched away, 
 And by Hero's green grave lingered Robin and May, 
 Till the thin gloamin' mist o'er the muir gathered grey. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Whare Clyde like a crescent gleamed round a green 
 
 haugh, 
 
 Wi' dark woodlands skirted, and bounded wi' saugh, 
 Whare a rill through the haugh ran wi' saffc ceaseless 
 
 sang, 
 And the grass, green and plenty, thrave a' the year lang, 
 
 There close by the wood a trig cottage was seen, 
 Its roof thatched wi' heather, its wa's ivied green, 
 And there wi' her grannie 'bade bonny May Lee 
 Her grey reverend grannie o' sixty-and-three.
 
 102 ROBIN O' RAPLOCH. 
 
 And near the Haugh cottage stood Eobin and May : 
 " Fareweel, May," said Eobin, "and maybe for aye; 
 The laird will be wild when he hears I'm yet free, 
 And I for my madness maun answer or flee : 
 
 " Thy love is the ae sunny spot in my fate, 
 But how for my comin' can I bid ye wait ? 
 Fareweel, May, my angel, sin sae it maun be, 
 I'll face nae the scorn o' your grannie's grey e'e." 
 
 " Come in wi' me, Eobin ; my grannie is kin', 
 And never says nay to a wise wish o' mine ; 
 I'll tell how you're changed, ye shall plead at my side, 
 And, Eobin, we little ken what may betide." 
 
 They reached the Haugh cottage and softly stepped ben. 
 " Wha's this wi' ye, lassie 1 I surely should ken." 
 " It's Eobin," said May ; " he was owre on the rnuir, 
 And cam' at my seekin' to see how you fare." 
 
 Up rose the grey grannie o' sixty-and-three, 
 And stood like a queen wi' command in her e'e.
 
 ROBIN O RAPLOCH. 103 
 
 " Come owre to my side, thoughtless hizzie," said she ; 
 " What wants Poacher Eobin wi' auld Grannie Lee 1 ?" 
 
 " I've come, Grannie Lee, e'en to plead my ain cause, 
 And tell ye I'm weary o' breakin' the laws ; 
 The Eobin ye kent has departed for aye, 
 Unworthy was he o' yer ain peerless May. 
 
 " But I, Grannie Lee, hae nae dog and nae gun, 
 And the angel he lo'ed I hae courted and won. 
 Forget him, he'll ne'er cross your hallan again, 
 And tell me ye'll gie me your May for my ain.'' 
 
 " The Robin I kent had your face and your e'e, 
 A braw buirdly chiel, but a worthless, was he ; 
 Wi' ane that's sae like him my bairn ill would fare 
 Let that be your answer, and fash me nae mair." 
 
 " Oh, Grannie," pled May, " when the lang nichts hae 
 
 come, 
 And the storm, loud and eerie, roars down the spence 
 
 lum,
 
 104 ROBIN O' RAPLOCH. 
 
 If Eobin were wi' us nae bogles we'd fear, 
 And the "black-maskit thieves would nae mair venture 
 here." 
 
 " Alack ! pleads the lamb for the vile reivin' tod ! 
 'Twere better, my bairn, to be laid 'neath the sod- 
 The lark wi' the starling may mate on the lea, 
 But Eobin o' Eaploch is nae mate for thee. 
 
 " Fie, Eobin ! nae wonder your cheek blushing burns : 
 Nae wonder your e'e frae an auld woman's turns ! 
 O' a' but my Marian's ae bairn I'm bereft, 
 Why seek ye to blight the ae flower I hae left ? " 
 
 " I seek nae to blight your ae flower, Grannie Lee, 
 But would to her aye as the summer sun be. 
 Lang, lang I hae lo'ed her oh, Grannie, be kin', 
 Fu' little ye wist o' the sorrow that's mine. 
 
 "My Hero lies cauld 'neath the bent on the muir, 
 My gun and my flask boVd and broken lie there;
 
 ROBIN O' RAPLOCH. 105 
 
 I'm nae mair a poacher I've sworn't, and I swear 
 And peacefu' and thrifty I fain would hide here." 
 
 " This house, Eohin Eaploch, yon cow and kail- yard, 
 Yon green rentless haugh, are the gift o' the laird ; 
 But frae me a' this would his angry haun' sweep, 
 Should Eobin o' Eaploch ance 'neath my roof sleep. 
 
 " And, Eohin, ye ken I am feehle and auld, 
 And canna weel warstle wi' hunger and cauld, 
 And sae, if ye hae nae a heart o' the aim, 
 Ye'll lea' me in peace wi' my bairn's only bairn." 
 
 Sad Eobin o' Eaploch turned roun' on his heel : 
 " Fareweel, May, my angel and, Grannie, fareweel; 
 I'll steal away saftly, the laird ne'er shall ken" 
 When wha but the laird, wi' a smile, steppit ben ? 
 
 " The laird kens already, bold Eobin," quoth he, 
 " But fear nae. I'll plead for him too, Grannie Lee. 
 He shall work at the ha' I've a cow yet to spare, 
 And May will be surety he'll never poach mair."
 
 106 
 
 INNOVATION. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 WHEN violets were on the lulls. 
 
 And meadow-queen beside the rills, 
 
 While foxgloves decked the moorland dykes, 
 
 And bees were busy wi' their bykes, 
 
 And lassies thrang amang the hay, 
 
 I wandered out one summer day. 
 
 And musing as became a bard 
 
 Like one that neither saw nor heard, 
 
 I reached at length the Hyndog Glen,* 
 
 It little matters how or when. 
 
 There nature revels in the grand, 
 
 And welcome on her face I fand ; 
 
 * A beautiful and romantic glen in the hills above Dairy, free to 
 all wanderers.
 
 INNOVATION. 107 
 
 She seemed to say, " Come, take a seat, 
 The flowers shall bloom among your feet, 
 And ye shall sit on flowers, and flowers 
 Above ye in their bosky bowers 
 Shall on you breathe, and birds shall sing, 
 And butterflies, on rainbow wing, 
 Shall flit about and seem to say, 
 ' Be cheerful : life is but a day.' 
 
 " And if ye sit till tunefu' even, 
 The glen shall hae the hue of heaven ; 
 The setting sun frae Beadland braes, 
 Shall till the glen with golden haze. 
 The Rye shall seem a golden stream, 
 Each sunward leaf with gold shall gleam, 
 And sweetly indistinct the hum 
 Of voices from yon bank shall come, 
 Where bairns in many-coloured duds, 
 Out-tinting e'en the autumn woods, 
 The strawberries among are seen, 
 The straggling rows of briers between,
 
 108 INNOVATION. 
 
 With cheeks that rival in their hue, 
 The peerless wildings that they pu'." 
 
 I sat not, "but, my aimless dream 
 Eesuming, left the glen and stream, 
 And upward clamb till, ere I kent, 
 I waded deep 'mang Beadland's "bent, 
 And heard the plover piping loud, 
 And gazed on Goatfell's cap of cloud, 
 And marked wi' fancy-glamoured e'e 
 The heaving of the distant sea. 
 
 And to my fancy-quickened ear 
 The plash at Ailsa's foot seemed near ; 
 I saw, with awe, the mystic line, 
 Where in the sky the sea we tyne, 
 And, dimly, Carrick's classic coast, 
 And Ayr, of Coila's Burns the boast ; 
 And turned with pride a look to steal, 
 At Swinderidge Muir, where gallant Neil 
 Roamed often, dreaming of the strife 
 And glory of the soldier's life,
 
 INNOVATION. 109 
 
 And haply prescient of the fame 
 That now endears his honoured name. 
 
 Grown drowsy, down myself I laid, 
 And o'er my face my napkin spread, 
 And soon in careless slumber fell, 
 And dreamed, as I shall shortly tell. 
 
 Across the moor twa dames I saw, 
 Wi' stately step together draw ; 
 The youngest frae the eastward prest, 
 The eldest frae the gleaming west. 
 
 The last appeared a matron, sage, 
 And weel aboon the middle age ; 
 Her face was pale and something long, 
 Sonorous was her voice, and strong. 
 Severely reverend was her air, 
 And grey her een and grey her hair ; 
 Her robe o' black behind her trailed, 
 And she was unco lingle-tailed.
 
 110 INNOVATION. 
 
 The ither was a dame, I -ween, 
 Who five-and-thirty years had seen ; 
 Her garments had a modern air, 
 A velvet net confined her hair ; 
 Her shapely head had that upon it, 
 Which modern fashion names a bonnet. 
 A hoop she wore whose gracefu' swell 
 Became her sonsy shoulders well,; 
 Her gown was of the wincey, grey, 
 And trimmed with velvet gravely gay ; 
 A silver thistle brooch she wore, 
 And owre her arm a plaid she bore. 
 
 Her een were of the speedwell's hue, 
 And something sparkling in their blue 
 Of strength in noble purpose spoke, 
 And scorn of superstitious yoke ; 
 And eke a spark of humour keen, 
 But genial, in their glance was seen. 
 Whene'er a pleasant thing she said, 
 About her cheeks two dimples played,
 
 INNOVATION. Ill 
 
 As if uncertain where to stay, 
 Then passed, when silence came, away. 
 Unmoved she had an air of sadness, 
 "But laughed the very soul of gladness. 
 
 She smiled and spoke. " Weel met," quoth she 
 " Our judge and jury ye shall he ; 
 We here hae come wi' solemn ettle, 
 A question great and grave to settle." 
 
 " Wi' pride," quoth I ; " hut may I speir 
 
 What unco matter "brings ye here ? " 
 
 When spoke the eldest, " Wait a wee ; " 
 
 Then wi' a measuring stare at me, 
 
 " Eead ye the papers, sir ? " quoth she. 
 
 I answered, " Antrin anes I see." 
 
 " The Scotsman 1 " " Yes." " The Saturday? " 
 
 Quoth I, " Whene'er it comes my way." 
 
 Again she pierced me wi' her een, 
 
 Until it seemed my thoughts were seen, 
 
 Then muttered, " Sinfu' human natur' : " 
 
 And something like, " An Innovator ; "
 
 112 INNOVATION. 
 
 Then added bravely, " Be it sae, 
 For right is sure to win the day." 
 
 " The question that disturbs the nation," 
 She then resumed, " is INNOVATION ; 
 And, sir, it's best the truth to tell 
 At ance the question's ' Heaven or Hell.' 
 And ye'll, I beg, keep that before ye 
 The while ye listen to my story. 
 
 " Since ye the ribald ' Scotsman' read, 
 
 And if ' The Saturday' ye heed, 
 
 I e'en maun tell ye to your face, 
 
 I fear ye hae prejudged my case. 
 
 But ye at least this truth maun ken, 
 
 That, lately, erring sons of men 
 
 Their fathers' decent ways forsakin', 
 
 A^nd after modern notions traikin', 
 
 In spite of fleechin', threatening threepin', 
 
 By them that hae their souls in keepin', 
 
 Like silly sheep are gaun astray, 
 
 Nor see that ruin's in their way.
 
 INNOVATION. 113 
 
 Already, sir, they're at the brink o't, 
 I'm cauld wi' horror when I think o't. 
 
 " Scotland ! hae I seen the day 
 
 When ye in kirks can sit and pray, 
 
 And there, irreverend, on yer feet 
 
 Wi' psalms your Lord and Master greet, 
 
 And calmly on a pastor look 
 
 Wha reads his prayer frae a hook ? 
 
 And mair and waur oh, fifty waurs, 
 
 To think o't wha wi' patience daurs ? 
 
 Within the House o' God they've brought 
 
 (There's desecration in the thought !) 
 
 A whistle-kist, that, gaily gilt, 
 
 And near the holy pu'pit built, 
 
 Hauds up its head wi' shameless front, 
 
 Defy in' righteous axe and hint ; 
 
 And when the psalm for praise is gi'en, 
 
 A fiddler chiel, that sits unseen, 
 
 Weel hidden wi' a board or screen, 
 
 Wi' feet and fingers fuglin' plays 
 
 Some rant that modern saints ca' praise ; 
 
 H
 
 INNOVATION. 
 
 While a' the congregation staun', 
 The Book of Books in every haun', 
 Yet, to the ongaun listenin' mute, 
 God's praise to gilded pipes depute, 
 And think their duty done. My plea 
 Is that it's sinfu' what say ye?" 
 
 I summoned reverence to my aid, 
 
 And thought, but nought in answer said. 
 
 The younger smiled ; " That cuckoo sang," 
 Quoth she, " has "been her owre-word lang. 
 She thinks our good and zealous sires 
 Hae a' escaped the infernal fires, 
 And chant in heaven's blest dominion, 
 And that, Sir, is my ain opinion. 
 But she insists the sons maun ape 
 Their fathers if they would escape ; 
 In short, her system of salvation 
 Consists of reverend imitation, 
 And proof of virtue lies alone 
 In gesture, attitude, and tone ;
 
 INNOVATION. 115 
 
 And here sae widely differ we, 
 I doubt if we shall e'er agree. 
 
 " Deliver standing your petition, 
 
 She cries, or your reward's perdition. 
 
 To repetitions dreech and dreary 
 
 Attend till every leg is weary 
 
 Till strong men shift frae foot to foot, 
 
 And inly wish 'twas right to sit : 
 
 Or groan, impatient in their pain, 
 
 ' Lord will he never reach Amen ? ' 
 
 And some ae desperate step advance, 
 
 And sit them down and tak' their chance, 
 
 Until a gladsome rustling drowns 
 
 The lang-drawn prayer's closin' sounds : 
 
 'Twas so our fathers did, and so 
 
 Maun we, or wail and gnash beloAV. 
 
 " And so in all things else, salvation 
 
 Is won alone by imitation. 
 
 Our worthy fathers sat and sang 
 
 God's praise, and therefore stannin's wrang.
 
 116 INNOVATION. 
 
 JS"ae organ, touched wi' faultless skill, 
 Wi' holy sounds the kirk might fill ; 
 
 And so the hymn I mean nae jest 
 Was but a medley at the best. 
 They sang, 'tis true, wi' zeal thegither, 
 But didna wait on ane anither ; 
 The echoes of the holy places, 
 Ashamed to hear them, hid their faces \ 
 Or screamin' to the riggin' flew 
 As soon's the opening line was through. 
 
 " The learned precentor vainly led, 
 Wi' sic a choir his skill fell dead, 
 And every ither verse the tune 
 
 He closed himser, a bar behin' ; 
 Or, sweatin', noted as he sang 
 That half the kirk were singing wrang 
 The * Martyrs ' some, and some the ' Bangor.' 
 What then was that a cause of anger ? 
 If half the kirk but kent ae tune, 
 Twas surely wise to sing that ane.
 
 INNOVATION. 117 
 
 Sic things to ony modern ear 
 "Would seem, to say the least o't, queer ; 
 But so our fathers did, and we, 
 Like them, maun murder melody, 
 Assured we praise the Lord, in danger 
 If jarring discord's kept a stranger. 
 
 " I say the growin' innovation 
 Will be a credit to the nation." 
 
 " 'Tis ever thus," the elder cried ; 
 
 " I'm answered aye wi' sneers and pride. 
 
 It's wrang to answer fools wi' folly, 
 
 And chiefly sae in matters holy, 
 
 Else I might answer jeer for jeer 
 
 But what would that avail us here ? 
 
 " Let it he granted that to sit 
 At prayers proves amended wit ; 
 And granted, on the other haun', 
 That at our praises we should staun' ;
 
 118 INNOVATION. 
 
 What follows then ? Shall it he said 
 
 God maist approves the praise that's played ? 
 
 If harmony our worship hallows, 
 
 "What then ? Need it be blawn by bellows 1 
 
 " Oh ! for an angel's arm to sweep 
 The pests into the mighty deep, 
 And to simplicity restore 
 Our worship as it was of yore, 
 When psalmody was void of art, 
 Except the warbling frae the heart, 
 And angels pleased came half-way down 
 Frae heaven to meet the gratefu' soun'. 
 
 " But pleasant are the paths o' sinnin' : 
 Observe how small was the beginnin', 
 And note how rapid was the gain of 
 The ills that I sae sair complain of : 
 A pastor troubled wi' the ailin' 
 Of eild, and findin' memory failin', 
 And these as good excuses pleadin', 
 Instead of preachin' takes to readin';
 
 INNOVATION, 119 
 
 The thing, like Popery's sel', is hated, 
 
 But for his sake is tolerated. 
 
 A younger pastor hears o't syne, 
 
 And thinks he might in readin' shine 
 
 So reads : the people grumble sair, 
 
 But then he's placed, they hardly dare 
 
 For sic a trifle to disgrace him, 
 
 Or ask the synod to displace him. 
 
 Another, on some vain pretence, 
 
 Of which the root is indolence, 
 
 Wi' written screeds his hearers doses, 
 
 And turns the leaves before their noses. 
 
 And so the innovation grew, 
 
 Till now our preachers are but few, 
 
 And affhaun 1 pu'pit declamation 
 
 Will soon be lost unto the nation. 
 
 " And so in singin' ; ane first brang 
 A music-fork, and made it twang 
 Aloud before the astonished people, 
 Wha could hae hung him frae the steeple
 
 120 INNOVATION. 
 
 But, waes me ! didna : then ane saw 
 That if he had a voice or twa 
 To help alang a kittle air, 
 'Twad ease him o' a load o' care. 
 Still swelled the gathering evil higher, 
 Till each precentor had his choir; 
 The choir established firm and sure, 
 The canker then was past a' cure; 
 And noo our souls the organ vexes, 
 And what is comin' next perplexes. 
 What's next ? It's easy guessed. Alas ! 
 Alang the laft a band o' brass, 
 Wi' tinklin.' thingumbobs o' steel, 
 Will help alang the service weel, 
 And, waes me ! nane will in them see 
 The damning toys of Mammonrie. 
 
 " The spate at first but swells the rills, 
 And then the river-banks it fills, 
 And then, o'erwhelmin' fast the strath, 
 It roars wi' ruin in its path.
 
 INNOVATION. 121 
 
 " Say, then, if foolish are my fears, 
 
 And say, should I be soothed wi' sneers?" 
 
 The ither laughed : " That band of brass 
 Is good," she said, " and weel may pass 
 For argument, but I would fain 
 Convince you that your fears are vain. 
 
 " The organ's roll and swell ascending, 
 Wi' human voices sweetly blending, 
 In sacred song, ne'er fails to fill 
 ~Wi' such emotions as should fill 
 The soul that worships ; but the blare 
 Of brazen bands were coarser fare, 
 And few will entertain the notion 
 Of sic assistants to devotion. 
 Confess your fears were mere pretence, 
 Unworthy of a douce defence, 
 And only in your kindness mooted 
 That it wi' ease might be refuted. 
 The ither phases of the ' canker ' 
 (The term is yours), I canna hanker
 
 122 INNOVATION. 
 
 Wi' merry haun' to brush awa', 
 Convinced that whare ye thocht ye saw 
 A festerin' and a deadly wound, 
 - The part is healthy, hale, and sound; 
 There's naething in the choir to fear 
 And say, which would ye rather hear ? 
 A pastor hankerin' owre his text, 
 By treacherous memory sair perplexed, 
 Wi' stammerin', stutterin', and repeatin', 
 Affronted, and wi' torture sweatin', 
 Yet flounderin' on wi' zeal profound, 
 Tae fill the alloted hour wi' sound : 
 Or ane that brings his ' written screed,' 
 As ye would ca't, affhaun' to read 
 Why should the turnin' o' a leaf 
 Be cause of anger or of grief? 
 Since frae the harvest of his meanin' 
 The flock may carry hame a gleanin'. 
 
 " Shall none but those whose angel tongues 
 Frae far can charm delighted throngs
 
 INNOVATION. 123 
 
 Like Guthrie, or Macleod, or Caird, 
 Or Candlish be wi' patience heard ? 
 "Would ye the nation's pu'pit close 
 To all but those and such as those 1 
 The river of majestic thought 
 That flows upon their tongues unsought, 
 Delights us only here and there, 
 And's not expected everywhere. 
 
 " And why should printed prayers distress 1 
 
 Think you their influence is less? 
 
 If they to memory were committed, 
 
 The scrup'lous conscience might be suited ; 
 
 But where the difference would be, 
 
 I frankly own I fail to see. 
 
 " Oh ! wherefore should we walls erect 
 To keep asunder sect from sect ? 
 Why should I think my narrow road 
 The only path that leads to God ? 
 And, looking proudly o'er my wall, 
 Think all but me in Satan's thrall ?
 
 124 INNOVATION. 
 
 And, like the Pharisee of old, 
 All virtue in myself "behold ? 
 And speak as if the entrance-fee 
 To heaven were Christian liberty? 
 Oh ! sister, we the walls must raze 
 That hem us in our narrow ways; 
 And less exclusive texts employ, 
 Whose use-in-chief is to annoy ; 
 And practise less our lair and wit, 
 On hairs of doctrine trebly split ; 
 Nor ire provoke, with keen contention, 
 On things above our comprehension. 
 And charity our rule maun be, 
 Till Christian intercourse is free. 
 One aim we have, one faith, one God ; 
 . Oh ! sister, let us walk one road ! 
 
 Be this our task ' One Christian Union;' 
 And this our motto ' One Communion ;' 
 And when the nickname ' sect ' 's deleted, 
 We'll rest and think our work completed. 
 Oh ! let our senseless bickering cease, 
 And let us jog to heaven in peace."
 
 INNOVATION. 125 
 
 Then smiling, and with hand extended, 
 Quoth she, " I trust our quarrel's ended." 
 
 The elder curtsied, and with pride 
 Eeplied, " The umpire shall decide." 
 
 How I got up wi' solemn hem. ! 
 
 And ca'd my hearers " Miss " and " Mem," 
 
 And wi' confounding eloquence, 
 
 And deep-convincing common sense, 
 
 Confuted this, and that admitted, 
 
 And this ane praised, and that ane twitted, 
 
 Until the elder's sel' began 
 
 To say " There's something in the man," 
 
 Some ither pen than mine maun tell 
 
 It's doubtfu' praise that praises sel' ; 
 
 But thus I ended " Sisters, ye 
 
 Maun gi'e the kiss of peace, and 'gree;" 
 
 And, haith, nae sooner had I said it, 
 
 Than, smiling, they advanced and did it. 
 
 I saw their een wi' joy were gleaming, 
 
 And then I woke, and had been dreaming.
 
 126 
 
 ASPIKATION. 
 
 " OH ! father, we read in the schoolroom to-day 
 Some lines that from memory will not pass away; 
 And they've caused in my heart such a pleasing sing- 
 song, 
 
 I've done nothing but think of them all the day long : 
 No sum would come right, and how stupid I felt 
 When the master had marked all the words I misspelt. 
 I was forced with my long-cherished medal to part ; 
 But less than the ode my disgrace fills my heart. 
 And yet there seems nought to make any one sing, 
 For the verses were all about cuckoos and spring. 
 What's poetry, father ? (for, doubtless, you know), 
 And whence the strange power of its jingle and 
 flow?"
 
 ASPIRATION. 127 
 
 " Ah ! boy, you your father's poor wisdom o'ertask 
 
 ~No mortal can answer the questions you ask ; 
 
 Some say, ' Tis the sweetest words happily waled ;' 
 
 And some, ' 'Tis where rhyme has o'er reason prevailed.' 
 
 In grammar you find it reduced to a rule, 
 
 But it is not a thing to be learned at the school : 
 
 The source of its power long a mystery has been, 
 
 And, here, it will aye be a mystery, I ween. 
 
 Great minds full of learning to solve it have striven, 
 
 But it baffles them still, like the star blaze of heaven/' 
 
 " And where did it come from 1" 
 
 " Some say from above, 
 
 The first gift to man from the Father of Love. 
 The one deathless pleasure that flits o'er the earth 
 In human emotions it daily has birth : 
 'Tis it that gives sadness to sorrow's wild wail ; 
 'Tis it that gives gladness to mirth's happy hail. 
 To thrill a pleased world it from peace emanates ; 
 It shouts on the war-fields of mad human hates. 
 On the flower-hills of heaven to revel it soars, 
 And regions where stars have not ventured explores.
 
 128 ASPIRATION. 
 
 Now a bird calls it forth, now a bud, now a flower ; 
 Now gloaming awakes it now dawns holy hour ; 
 Now it hangs o'er a dewdrop, now floats on a river, 
 And -all that it touches is sacred for ever." 
 
 " What wonder this wakens ! but surely I've heard 
 That poetry's only the voice of a bard, 
 Or the tones of a harp. Is it so, father ? "Well, 
 In what happy land do the harper-bards dwell ?" 
 
 " In all lands, my son. In the city they're found, 
 And out in the country ; on hills ; under ground. 
 
 
 
 They croon in the hut by the wild souching sea, 
 And in the old cot 'neath the lone moorland tree. 
 Some live by their song, while the world wonders how; 
 Some pine at the shuttle, some follow the plough ; 
 Some sweat at the forge, and some bend o'er the awl 
 They dream in the palace, the manse, and the hall : 
 For the spirit that whispers, ' Thy lot is to sing,' 
 Now speaks to a peasant, and now to a king."
 
 ASPIRATION. 129 
 
 " Oh ! father, how much I am longing to sing 
 But one ode like that of 'the cuckoo and spring; 
 I long 'mong the singers of earth to be heard, 
 And when I am old to be hailed as a bard ; 
 For, doubtless, on everything pleasant they fare, 
 And are of their countries the pride and the care." 
 
 " Ah, no ! silly boy, they are nobody's care, 
 
 And they must, as they can, on life's pleasant things 
 
 fare. 
 
 A few have with Fortune tript on as they sung, 
 But many have wandered life's sorrows among ; 
 Yet singing so well that the world oft declared 
 Their song grew the grander the harder they fared. 
 They spring, like the coltsfoot, where men least ex- 
 pect, 
 
 And seldom droop chilled by the blight of neglect. 
 In the hardest of lots they find something that's sweet ; 
 They stoop and lift beauties at common men's feet. 
 With hope in the future, and joy in the past, 
 They sing, as the lark warbles, facing the blast." 
 i
 
 130 ASPIRATION. 
 
 " And what good do they do ?" 
 
 " You may ask me as well 
 
 What good does the blackbird that sings in the dell, 
 Or the violet that blooms on the brow of the hill, 
 Or the music that lives in the linn-leaping rill : 
 They brighten our lives, and they lighten our cares, 
 But the bard has a mission far nobler than theirs. 
 To bim human language its beauty all owes 
 The graces of virtue 'tis his to disclose ; 
 And Liberty's stay on the earth he prolongs, 
 For tyranny fears less the sword than his songs. 
 Let bards and their poetry bid us farewell, 
 And men would be demons, and earth would be hell." 
 
 "Are they happy and wise, father?" 
 
 " Tuts ! how you ask ! 
 
 Why should you the wit of your father o'ertask ? 
 There are people who say but perhaps say amiss 
 ' The bard's but a finger-post pointing to bliss/ 
 ' Poor fellow,' say others, ' his wit's taken wing ; 
 But his business is not to be wise, but to sing. 
 His sayings with sound are so sweetly relieved,
 
 ASPIRATION. 131 
 
 Their lack of sound wisdom is little perceived. 
 
 He's not very stable, but prone to do wrong, 
 
 But we pardon him much, for the sake of his song 
 
 And singing, you know, is a simple affair, 
 
 He has only to think of some old happy air, 
 
 And look at the sky with his chin lifted so, 
 
 And his words of themselves in sweet measure will flow. 
 
 If e'er he goes fishing for thoughts, he's at fault, 
 
 For the thought that is angled for's never worth salt.' 
 
 So lightly, my son, of his wisdom talk men, 
 
 And he justifies all that they say now and then. 
 
 " Myself have seen one standing still, like a fool, 
 In the rain, at the brink of a little road-pool, 
 There weaving the first happy lines of a strain, 
 Whose burden (to be) was ' The beautiful rain ; ' 
 What music its low measured pattering awoke, 
 And to those who would listen how wisely it spoke ! 
 How it scorned in the clouds to be longer confined, 
 And to reach the dull earth made a steed of the wind ; 
 How it paused in its flight the bare hedge to adorn, 
 By hanging a pearl on the point of each thorn ;
 
 132 ASPIRATION. 
 
 How it trickled down trees in the tiniest rills, 
 Or gathered in torrents to rush from the hills ; 
 How it came when it chose, not at any one's call, 
 And meant no offence in its falling at all. 
 
 " But the wise ones of earth might have envied the 
 
 fool, 
 
 Who stood so entranced by the little road-pool 
 Not fearing the storm nor complaining of fate, 
 He smiled like an angler on Garnock in spate. 
 He was craving an alms at the threshold of thought, 
 And took with delight the poor pittance he sought. 
 
 " The rain-drops were mortals, the little pool earth, 
 And the bubble each drop made at falling was birth, 
 And the circle that spread round each drop when it fell, 
 To the mark a man makes in the world answered well ; 
 And the meeting and breaking of circles the strife 
 Of men jostling men in the battle of life ; 
 Though the biibbles and circles to some might reveal 
 The bob and the whirl of a blithe Scottish reel,
 
 ASPIRATION. 133 
 
 That memory would waken, and make the cheeks glow 
 With the music and dancing of long years ago. 
 
 " In the brattling of burns, and the glistening of leaves, 
 The Bard more than others aye hears and perceives j 
 The mountain afar, through the mist peering dim, 
 Is more than a vapour- veiled mountain to him. 
 Dear, dear is the glen where the green ivy creeps, 
 And the beech-bough the face of the mossy crag sweeps ; 
 And, oh ! how delicious the vague gloaming dream, 
 Where the fern-royal's dipping her fronds in the 
 
 stream 
 
 How dear the delight when he stealthily roams 
 In the wood's sacred shade where the great river foams ; 
 For inanimate things, that to others are mute, 
 For. him have a voice and a cheerful salute." 
 
 " How grandly your words on my wondering ears fall ! 
 But, father, their meaning comes not at my call : 
 That bards should hear ought in the voice of the 
 
 stream, 
 Beyond a sweet murmur, a marvel doth seem ;
 
 134 ASPIRATION. 
 
 Why flowers in their presence should cease to be dumb, 
 And mountains ought else than great mountains be- 
 come, 
 
 Seems more than a wonder but why it is so, 
 I fear is not meant that a schoolboy shoiild know. 
 Sometimes as I walk from the school all alone, 
 I smile when I think what a dreamer I've grown ; 
 And once more than once, father, many a time 
 I've wondered to find myself thinking in rhyme, 
 And wondered still more when a thought, ere I wist, 
 Would start into view like a ship in the mist, 
 And startle me strangely, and then, ere I knew, 
 Like a ship in the mist it would flit from my view; 
 And often I've found my tears ready to fall, 
 When the phantom thought would not return at my 
 
 call. 
 
 And now I've but one wish, and that is, to sing 
 Just one ode like that of the cuckoo and spring."
 
 135 
 
 A STKUGGLE. 
 
 
 OH ! wherefore tempt me thus, sweet Muse ? 
 
 Why on me smile so kind and fainly ? 
 Though ever dear as summer dews, 
 
 Alas ! I dare not entertain thee ; 
 I'm captive in the realms of lair, 
 And have for thee no fitting fare. 
 
 Oh ! wherefore tempt me thus ? Thou art 
 No more a solace nor a pleasure ; 
 
 "With thee, once mistress of my heart, 
 For dalliance now there comes no leisure ; 
 
 To rhyme, that once such pleasure gave, 
 
 I am no more a willing slave. 
 
 With book and rocks surrounded, see 
 My drooping fancy, wae and wingless,
 
 136 A STRUGGLE. 
 
 Sits fondling with dejected air 
 
 The harp she fears will soon be stringless ; 
 While Hope, of sunny dreamland queen, 
 Sits in the shadows of the scene. 
 
 Still dost thou smile ? What wouldst thou sing 
 If I with wonted warmth should press thee t 
 
 Of love, or care, or odorous spring, 
 
 Whose zephyrs all, unthanked, caress thee ? 
 
 Ourselves ? Poor Muse ! can it he so ; 
 
 Art thou reduced to themes so low ? 
 
 Nay, nay, I know thou canst not brook 
 The heart that yields a half devotion, 
 
 Nor swells, if thou "but deign'st to look, 
 Up in a spring-tide of emotion. 
 
 What canst thou have for him but hate, 
 
 Who, e'er he sings, must calculate ? 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! I dare not trust 
 
 My longing hand in thine, sweet charmer ;
 
 A STRUGGLE. 137 
 
 Fools only warfare wage with must 
 
 I dare not, if I would be wanner ; 
 NOT stop to ask if we do wrong 
 To part, who have been friends so long. 
 
 I must not pause to ask if, when 
 The crawbell from the grass is peeping, 
 
 And in the flowery stream-thrilled glen 
 The blackbird's heart to love is leaping, 
 
 There shall be power in human art, 
 
 Sweet Muse, to keep us then apart* 
 
 "When from the thorn the first fair spray 
 Of bursting blossom-buds I'm pu'ing, 
 
 Must I still wish thee far away, 
 
 The gathering swell of song subduing, 
 
 And hear the rapture of the lark, 
 
 Without a note my joy to mark ? 
 
 Shall I the early primrose see, 
 
 So sweetly with its leaves contrasting,
 
 138 A STRUGGLE. 
 
 And round the sloe-bloom hear the bee, 
 
 While yet the breeze that bloom seems blasting, 
 And pass as if I cared not, lest 
 My thought in song should be expressed 1 
 
 Oh ! why is it so sweet to sing ? 
 
 Oh ! Muse, why dost thou smile so brightly, 
 And meanly stoop thy pearls to fling 
 
 Before a fool that rates them lightly ? 
 With thee a drag in learning's race, 
 My only prize must be disgrace.
 
 139 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 ON TAM, A NOTOKIOUS POACHER. 
 
 AND are ye dead, my braw black cat, 
 That was sae sleekit aye and fat ! 
 Your fur was aye like John's new hat 
 
 When brushed fu' tentie, 
 And muckle praise your beauty gat 
 
 Frae a' that kent ye. 
 
 May ne'ey guid-luck be near the gamie 
 That aimed your hurt, my gleg kin' Tammie, 
 And made your skin sae cauld and clammy, 
 
 Wi's cursed slugs ; 
 For ye were gentle as a lammie, 
 
 And worth ten dowgs.
 
 140 ELEGY ON TAM, A NOTORIOUS POACHER. 
 
 What though he met ye in the wud, 
 Whare scores o' feckless rabbits whud ? 
 He needna grudged ye ae puir fud 
 
 0' lawfu' prey. 
 Oh, may his gun, wi' thriftless thud, 
 
 Shoot aye agley ! 
 
 Puir Tarn ! I'm sure we'll miss ye sair; 
 It's just sax years come Glasgow Fair 
 Since ye brang in your first young hare 
 
 A fat wee thing ; 
 For ye were ane that aye took care 
 
 The best to bring. 
 
 Ye ne'er would learn to fetch and carry, 
 Nor e'er to jump owre hauns would tarry, 
 But weel ye lo'ed to hunt and harry 
 
 "When nicht had lowered; 
 Then, licht o' foot as ony fairy, 
 
 The woods ye scoured.
 
 ELEGY ON TAM, A NOTORIOUS POACHER. 141 
 
 hidden stamp e'er hurt your paw, 
 Kae deadly bait e'er crossed your maw, 
 But wi 1 a snuff o' scorn ye saw 
 
 Their poisoned flesh; 
 For, lion-like, ye likit a' 
 
 Your feasts ta'en fresh. 
 
 mice alive your nose e'er passed, 
 And when ye had them hard and fast, 
 Up in the air ye would them cast, 
 And kep benignly; 
 
 And though ye swallowed them at last, 
 'Twas aye done kindly. 
 
 That winter when the lang frost lay, 
 When John gaed idle mony a day, 
 Ye were amaist our only stay 
 
 The Lord was wi' ye ; 
 Though John wad never let me say 
 
 He held ocht to ye.
 
 142 ELEGY ON TAM, A NOTOEIOUS POACHER. 
 
 Ye mony a dainty hare brang in, 
 Some warm, and wi' nae broken skin : 
 The heads, it's true, o' mair than ane 
 
 We never saw, 
 But wi' a gratefu' look aboon 
 
 "We used them a'. 
 
 Ae nicht I'll min't for evermore 
 (Grim want cam' in the nicht before, 
 And to refill our empty store 
 
 Nae south wind cam') 
 A something scartit at the door; 
 
 Quo' I, "That's Tarn." 
 
 And to the door in haste I flew ; 
 And when ye in your burden drew, 
 I fand my heart come to my mou' 
 
 Wi' gratefu' swell; 
 And dearer frae that hour ye grew, 
 
 Than's wise to tell.
 
 ELEGY ON TAM, A NOTORIOUS POACHER. 143 
 
 We read hoo, by a lonely brook, 
 "Weel hidden in some rocky nook, 
 A prophet frae twa ravens took 
 
 His Heaven-sent fare, 
 While they their glossy plumage shook 
 
 And flew for mair. 
 
 But mony a time, when ye brang in 
 Your prizes wi' sae little din, 
 I thocht (it was a fearfu' sin, 
 
 And showed my havins) 
 Ye had the angel 'neath your skin 
 
 That led thae ravens. 
 
 Sic sense as thine is rare, I trow ; 
 Ye kent, I kenna why or hoo, 
 Whare safety frae your claws was due 
 
 To bird or beast ; 
 For though ye o' a stranger doo 
 
 Hae made a feast,
 
 144 ELEGY ON TAM, A NOTORIOUS POACHER. 
 
 Yet when oor hens wi' chickens gaun 
 
 Were temptin' ye on every haun', 
 
 Ye on your paws would let them staun', 
 
 And sangs has sung them, 
 When ony ither cat wad fa' en 
 
 Like fire among them. 
 
 Oh ! muckle are we in your debt ! 
 For friens like you are rarely met ; 
 Death never says, " If ye'll regret 
 
 I will not strike," 
 But flings his dart, and lets us fret 
 
 As lang's we like. 
 
 Ye were a brute o' noblest kind 
 I had amaist said " noblest mind "- 
 For in ye I could naething find 
 
 To meanness swerved. 
 Some are the human rank assigned 
 
 That less deserve't.
 
 ELEGY ON TAM, A NOTORIOUS POACHER. 145 
 
 The happy glimmer o' your e'e, 
 Auld Tarn, I never mair shall see, 
 As when your wee drap ream and tea 
 
 Ye daily gat ; 
 venison to you could be 
 
 Sae sweet as that. 
 
 The sang o' birds the woods within, 
 The poet's praise ne'er fails to win 
 (It lifts his soul the world aboon, 
 
 And sweetens thocht), 
 But to the music o' your croon 
 
 Their sang was nocht. 
 
 You, sleepin' soundly on my lap, 
 My apron never mair shall hap 
 To sweeten your bit morning nap 
 "Was aye my care ; 
 kindly word or kindly clap 
 Can cheer ye mair. 
 
 K
 
 146 ELEGY ON TAM, A NOTORIOUS POACHER. 
 
 But, Tammie, ye shall live in sonnet ; 
 John o' your skin would mak' a bonnet, 
 Your snout and paws he would hae on it, 
 
 A show to see ! 
 But I will wad a groat, and won it, 
 
 That ne'er shall he. 
 
 In honouring ye we haith shall vie, 
 And we a hraw glass case will buy, 
 Whare your trig form, fu' warm and dry 
 
 And clean, we'll keep, 
 And ye upon my drawers shall lie, 
 
 And seem asleep.
 
 147 
 
 JEAN TAMSON'S DKEAM. 
 
 YESTREEN I dreamed a dream^ John a kirk I thought 
 
 mysel', 
 Wi' lichened wa's and dumpy tower, and old familiar 
 
 bell; 
 And raws o' flowering trees the thorn, the chestnut, 
 
 plane, and limp. 
 Kept "bees aboot me bummin' aye through a' the sum- 
 
 mer-tinie. 
 
 And high upon a hill I stood, whare a' the parish 
 
 saw 
 My very station seemed to prove my right to read the 
 
 law; 
 And there was nae excuse for them that by me dared to 
 
 steer, 
 For I had but to wag my tongue to let the parish hear.
 
 148 JEAN TAMSON'S DREAM. 
 
 But though a kirk I seemed, John, o' sturdy lime and 
 
 stane, 
 I thought the power that wrought the change had little 
 
 frae me ta'en ; 
 For I could hear, and see, and smile, and shake a 
 
 friendly haun', 
 And, thumpin' strongly in my breast, I fand my heart 
 
 aye gaun. 
 
 mortal e'er had sic a dream ; for as I gazed aroun', 
 And let my e'e frae fragrant dells pass owre the busy 
 
 toun, 
 
 I saw amang the slaty waste, as sure as sure could be, 
 Yoursel', that nae disguise could hide, a kirk as weel as 
 
 me. 
 
 And wi' your old ambition, John, that nae misluck e'er 
 
 tired, 
 
 E'en to my height upon the hill I thought ye had aspired ; 
 Aboon the highest lums I saw your vane had mounted far, 
 And in the moonbeams faintly shone beside the laigh- 
 
 most star.
 
 JEAN TAMSON'S DREAM. 149 
 
 But, John, I thought ye seemed sae trim, sae freshly 
 
 scoured and gay, 
 Sae lacked the douce decorum that a kirk should ever 
 
 hae, 
 That sorrow gathered in my heart, and wandered to my 
 
 e'e, 
 And we, I thought, were pairted, John, together ne'er 
 
 to "be. 
 
 I kenna how it cam' aboot, but, someway, as I gazed, 
 The veil that hid your secret thoughts by some fell 
 
 haun' was raised, 
 And sic a sight ! They were nae thoughts that in a 
 
 kirk should dwell, 
 And that which seemed the thought-in-chief was how 
 
 to help yersel'. 
 
 I couldnae trust my senses, and I seemed aboot to drap 
 "WT loathing, and I hid my een and farther frae ye crap ; 
 And when again I lookit, as my heart wi' pity glowed, 
 A river broad and ferryless I thought between us rowed.
 
 150 JEAN TAMSON S DREAM. 
 
 I gazed upon the foamin' flood in wonderment and awe, 
 And, oh ! the angry words I heard were waur than a' I 
 
 saw; 
 Your curses, clothed in saintly terms, cam' surgin' owre 
 
 the stream 
 It maun hae been the Fiend himsel' that banned me in 
 
 my dream. 
 
 And as I gazed frae hill and dale, frae hamlet, ha', and 
 
 toun, 
 
 A great unreckoned multitude was gathering fast aroun'; 
 And had ye been an angel, o' the joys o' heaven wha sung, 
 Nae louder shouts o' triumph could amang the hills hae 
 
 rung. 
 
 And aye as ye misca'd me, John (oh, this was warst ava !) 
 Amang the mad applauding crowd my ain dear bairns 
 
 I saw; 
 They forward wi' the foremost pressed, and yelled, and 
 
 hissed, and groaned, 
 And would, had Heaven permitted, me, their reverend 
 
 mother, stoned.
 
 JEAN TAMSON'S DREAM. 151 
 
 And aye ye patronage denounced, and raved o' martyrs' 
 
 blood, 
 
 And like a prophet reamin' fou o' inspiration stood : 
 Sae glib your gab, sae hard your cheek, your power o' 
 
 prayer sae great, 
 It seemed as if ye had a voice in the affairs of Fate. 
 
 Oh, surely ne'er were spitefu' words to human ears sae 
 
 sweet ! 
 For muckle was the treasure they were pourin' at your 
 
 feet; 
 
 I couldnae keep frae thinkin' o' the fools o' ancient days, 
 Wha brang their wealth, a gouden calf, at Horeb's feet 
 
 to raise. 
 
 'Twas pitifu' to hear ye whiles my comin' doom bewail, 
 And fearfu' was your thunder when the funds began to 
 
 fail; 
 But chief your wheedling powers excelled, sae sweet 
 
 your coaxing smile, 
 Ye frae the craw wad wiled the egg, had it been worth 
 
 your while.
 
 152 JEAN TAMSON'S DREAM. 
 
 Ah ! John, it was a fearfu' dream I far mysel' 
 
 forgat, 
 And when ye " kettle" cried, sometimes would weakly 
 
 answer " pat." 
 I thought nae o' the fatted calf, and wished ye care and 
 
 skaith, 
 And claimed and revelled in the glebe that might hae 
 
 sair'd us baith. 
 
 It was a weary facht we focht, and far we baith gaed 
 
 wrang 
 "We cared nae how we soiled oursels if dirt we only 
 
 flang; 
 And aye in ither's cares we saw the haun' o' angry 
 
 Fate- 
 It's humbling to believe twa kirks could hate wi' sic a 
 
 hate. 
 
 It's true I fand the tears at times cam' drappin' frae my 
 
 een, 
 When for the needfu's sake your plans were mair'than 
 
 ord'nar' mean
 
 JEAN TAMSON'S DREAM. 153 
 
 Forgettin' that nae cottar thrives wha scorns to use 
 
 the rake, 
 And them that by their wits maun live, maun keep 
 
 their wits awake. 
 
 But, John, before I wauken't a sweet change cam' owre 
 my dream 
 
 We baith forgot to rail, and then less darkly flowed the 
 stream 
 
 That rowed between us, and I gazed and saw it narrow- 
 ing, till 
 
 It murmured at our feet a bright and gently murmuring 
 rill. 
 
 And better far than that, I thought my hand ye kindly 
 
 ta'en, 
 And blessed me wi' the kiss o' peace that made us ane 
 
 again; % . 
 
 And just when angels hovering near wi' harps and 
 
 palms I saw, 
 I wauken't wi' a start, and fand we ne'er were kirks ava.
 
 154 
 
 TO MES H. WILSON. 
 
 Dec. 20. 
 DEAR MADAM, 
 
 I hae been your debtor 
 In that important thing a letter. 
 How lang ? 'Twill be a month gin Monday ; 
 I thocht to write ye every Sunday. 
 (Hae patience ; here we're in the mirk, 
 And hardly think aboot the kirk.) 
 But by the nichts and weeks aye slippit, 
 And my resolves in bud were nippit ; 
 But noo a canty screed I'll gi'e ye, 
 And surely patience will be wi' ye. 
 Between my lugs I hear a hummin', 
 Nae human skill can guess what's comin' ; 
 And just as little could it guess, 
 If 'twill be common sense, or less ;
 
 TO MRS H. WILSON. 155 
 
 But you, I trust, o' this are sure, 
 It can at best be naething mair. 
 
 Dec. 21. 
 
 Dear Madam, I had weel intended 
 
 My letter should yestreen been ended ; 
 
 But when wi' muckle toil I got 
 
 My Hobby spurred into a trot, 
 
 As fate would hae't, the youngest wean, 
 
 Seized sudden wi' some inward pain, 
 
 Began to greet, and grat sae lang 
 
 And sair, that by my pen I flang. 
 
 For though my muse, when in the mood, 
 
 Can in a Fair find solitude, 
 
 And to the close would croon her strain, 
 
 She canna bear a greetin' wean. 
 
 So to the promise that was gi'en, 
 
 Anent a canty screed yestreen, 
 
 Ye maunna haud me, else I fear 
 
 A sorry strain ye're like to hear,
 
 156 TO MRS H. WILSOX. 
 
 For the puir bee within my head 
 
 Is either stiff wi' cauld, or dead ; 
 
 If it should prove to "be the latter, 
 
 There's nocht, I think, would please me better, 
 
 For mony a weary tramp it's cost me, 
 
 And mony a bonny penny lost me. 
 
 Oh, Jove ! in anger ye decreed it 
 
 Why should a collier be bee-headed ? 
 
 Oh, keep that madness 'mang the gentry, 
 
 Wha cash and leisure hae in plenty, 
 
 And far frae ane whase toils and groans 
 
 Maun keep his weans in duds and scones. 
 
 Some speak about the boundless pleasure 
 0' croonin' sonnets at your leisure, 
 Or croonin' when wi' heavy wark 
 The sweat is steamin' frae the sark. 
 Alas ! the pleasure's but a flash 
 True pleasure bides wi' nae sic trash. 
 It's true, that when to new-spun rhyme 
 The ringin' pick is keepin' time,
 
 TO MRS H. WILSON. 157 
 
 The weary shearin's sooner shorn, 
 
 And labour's burden lichtly borne ; 
 
 But hardly hae we sung our sang, 
 
 Till wi' our worldly cares we're thrang^ 
 
 For, sneer about it as we will, 
 
 The world's our lord and master still. 
 
 He only has on earth a heaven, 
 
 To whom the gift divine is given 
 
 Of livin' only for the hour ; 
 
 He never sees misfortune lower. 
 
 Does want draw near ? He hears nae tell o't. 
 
 Despair ? He ne'er endures the hell o't. 
 
 Though penniless, he's never puir 
 
 (True wealth is only want o' care). 
 
 But ane sae highly blest, I fear, 
 
 Can hardly hae existence here ; 
 
 If ane there were, vile human nature 
 
 Would scorn to trust the happy creature. 
 
 Alas ! that we should be sae fear't 
 For ills that end, and aye sae sweer't
 
 158 TO MRS H. WILSON. 
 
 To think that, though a cloud hangs o'er us, 
 
 A happy sunshine waits hefore us. 
 
 Why nurse despair, the serpent guest 
 
 That stings the hospitable breast 1 
 
 They say the bairn that's ance been brunt 
 
 Has aye a fear o' fire and lunt. 
 
 Is this, when we are auld, the reason, 
 
 That hope's sae aften oot o' season? 
 
 Oh, sweet is faith ! but still the fact is 
 
 "We fear the bitter pill o' practice, 
 
 And fail to mark the " silver linin' " 
 
 0' clouds that keep the sun frae shinin' ! 
 
 "What think ye ? Write and say. Adieu ! 
 Ye'll gi'e my best respects to Hugh, 
 And say 'twill be my pride and pleasure 
 To ca' as soon as I hae leisure. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 I). W.
 
 159 
 
 A B R A H A M. 
 
 WHAT is the cry that comes 
 
 O'er the blue main, 
 Wrathfully, wailingly? 
 
 " Abraham's slain !" 
 Abraham, the honest, slain ! 
 
 Can it be true ? 
 Has he been venturing 
 
 Where battle-balls flew ? 
 Aiding a circle 
 
 To close round the foe, 
 And urging the soldier 
 
 To strike the last blow, 
 And there, as a soldier would, 
 
 Sudden laid low ? 
 
 Ah ! not as soldiers would 
 Draw the last breath ;
 
 160 ABRAHAM. 
 
 Ah. ! not as citizens 
 
 Fain would meet death ; 
 Not on the rutted plain, 
 Cresting a mound of slain, 
 Straining his dying ear 
 Victory's voice to hear, 
 Pleased if he hears it 
 
 Swell faintly afar ; 
 Not in a weeping home, 
 Waiting till doom would come, 
 Cheered by Love's presence 
 
 And Hope's bright'ning star. 
 While in the house of glee, 
 Founding a jubilee, 
 Smiling and happy he 
 
 Loyal eyes fed : 
 E'en while a grinning clown 
 Wooed noisy plaudits down, 
 Sudden a hidden hand 
 
 Death's message sped 
 Sudden the martyr's crown 
 
 Dropped on his head.
 
 ABRAHAM. 161 
 
 What will men say of him 1 
 
 What dare they say, 
 But that an honest soul's 
 
 Hurried away 1 
 
 Hearken ! Some after him 
 
 Shouting, thus cry 
 " Spirit of Abraham, 
 
 Where wouldst thou fly ? 
 Wouldst thou to heaven ascend ? 
 Dar'st thou to grace pretend? 
 Hitherward, spirit, wend ; 
 
 Leave not the land, 
 Till of a nation's blood 
 
 Washed is thy hand. 
 Pass o'er each battle-scene ; 
 Float where the torch has been ; 
 Pause where the widows sigh ; 
 Look in the orphan's eye : 
 Then of the saints on high 
 
 Join the bright band ,
 
 162 ABRAHAM. 
 
 Dare 'mong the chosen then, 
 
 Spirit, to stand." 
 What do men say of him ? 
 
 Thus they dare say 
 
 " Earth had no tyrant 
 
 Like him that's away : 
 Heartless and gaunt and grim, 
 Why should we weep for him ? 
 
 " Was he not loathingly 
 
 Friend of the slave 1 
 Was it not grudgingly 
 
 Freedom he gave 
 Never "beholding 
 
 Their chains till pressed hard, 
 Then using their sinews 
 
 As sharpers a card ? 
 
 " What for their scourgings 
 And groanings cared he 1 
 
 What on his ribald lips 
 Meant liberty 1
 
 ABRAHAM. 163 
 
 a deliverance 
 From long-suffered ill, 
 But only permission 
 To plunder and kill. 
 
 " He, when he cried to them, 
 
 ' Lo, ye are free ! 
 No longer black cattle 
 
 But citizens ye,' 
 But meant his sweet sayings 
 
 And smiles "broad and bland 
 Would ruin and rapine 
 
 Spread o'er a fair land. 
 Weep for him 1 Weep for a 
 
 Tyrant that's gone 1 
 May every tear shed for him 
 
 Burn to the bone ! " 
 Thus of the soul away 
 
 Kuined men dare to say. 
 
 Wail, lyres, your saddest tones ; 
 Mourn, Afric's sable sons
 
 164 ABRAHAM. 
 
 That which he did for you 
 
 Was not his all. 
 Had he been spared to you, 
 More had he dared for you ; 
 Hard has he fared for you, 
 
 Mourn for his fall. 
 Europe, speak well of him, 
 All the good tell of him, 
 Letting his short-fallings 
 
 With his heart rest. 
 He in a tangled web 
 Wove with a knotted thread, 
 Doing what mortal 
 
 Could do for the best. 
 
 Abram the Honest's gone, 
 Struck from the people's throne ; 
 Well may they sigh and moan, 
 
 'Bating their glee, 
 Sounding a note of woe, 
 E'en while the conquered foe,
 
 ABRAHAM. 16."> 
 
 Yielding, unwilling, low 
 
 Bends the proud knee 
 For where hath Columbia 
 
 Better than he ?
 
 166 
 
 THE BIEDIE. 
 
 I MET a wee bird in the early dawn, 
 "When the morning star was shining, 
 
 That hovering aboon me said, " Whare are ye gaun, 
 Your morning slumber tyneing?" 
 
 " I'm gaun to yon cliff wi' the broomy brow, 
 With the linn beyond it leaping, 
 
 To sit and gaze on the pool below, 
 AVith peace in its bosom sleeping. 
 
 " I'm gaun to gaze on the tranquil pool, 
 "While the star-decked east is brightening, 
 
 To dream of the ending of sorrow's rule, 
 And labour's burden lightening."
 
 THE BIRDIE. 167 
 
 " What sorrows hae ye?" said the little bird, 
 
 Its dark e'e kindly beaming, 
 " And what is the labour that leans so hard, 
 
 And tints wi' grief your dreaming ? 
 
 " Why come ye on tempting cliffs to mope, 
 In the dark pool's peace believing ? 
 
 I fear you've been listening to nattering Hope, 
 And bear like a bairn her deceiving." 
 
 " Oh ! little ye ken, bonnie bird," I said, 
 " The strength of a human longing, 
 
 When sleep-reiving cares on a ruthless raid 
 Are round his pillow thronging ; 
 
 " And little ye ken how he longs for peace, 
 
 When the future gives no token 
 That the bark of life will from heaving cease 
 
 Till the anchor-chain is broken. 
 
 " Ye hae nae been fretting 'neath sorrow's rule, 
 Nor vigils with care been keeping,
 
 168 THE BIRDIE. 
 
 And ken nae how sweet is the tranquil pool, 
 Wi' peace in its bosom sleeping." 
 
 " Gang hame to your bairns," said the little bird, 
 " And the wife that waits and wearies, 
 
 And blush if nae sweeter thoughts are stirred 
 By the glee o' your lisping dearies. 
 
 " Gang hame to your bairns," said the scornful bird, 
 
 " And as you're hameward faring, 
 Observe the poor in yon rows that herd, 
 
 Your lot with theirs comparing. 
 
 " There children in squalid rags you'll meet, 
 
 The breath of Boreas scorning, 
 While leaving the print of their naked feet 
 
 In the snow of the winter morning ; 
 
 " And Hope with their fathers and mothers has been, 
 
 With tales of bliss deceiving ; 
 But none on yon tempting cliff are seen, 
 
 In the dark pool's peace believing."
 
 THE BIRDIE. 169 
 
 " And what are their troubles, bird ! to me, 
 
 But danger-beacons burning] 
 I fear them as landsmen fear at sea 
 
 The weathered gale's returning. 
 
 " I saw in the starlight a shadow gaunt, 
 
 And as the day grows clearer, 
 I fear 'tis the form of the giant "Want 
 
 That's slowly drawing nearer : 
 
 " I knew him of old, and I fear his rule 
 How grandly the linn is leaping ! 
 
 Sweet bird, let me pass to the tranquil pool, 
 With peace in its bosom sleeping." 
 
 So on to the cliff with the brow of broom, 
 
 The tortuous path I wended, 
 And me far up in the " scattering gloom " 
 
 The little bird attended. 
 
 But the linn now fell with a sullen roar, 
 That seemed of the angry ocean,
 
 170 THE BIRDIK 
 
 And the once still pool was trembling o'er 
 With an eerily-glimmering motion. 
 
 There Peace, no more like a spirit bright, 
 Me down to her breast seemed wooing ; 
 
 But a writing in fire was the ripple-light, 
 And the written word was " Kuin."
 
 171 
 
 THE SIN 0' SANG. 
 
 I'VE come, sweet Jean, while owre the hills 
 
 The evening shadows steal 
 I've come to give thee back thy love, 
 
 And say for aye, fareweel : 
 It is nae that my love's grown cauld- 
 
 For that can never be ; 
 But I hae sinned the sin o' sang, 
 
 And dairrnae wed with thee. 
 
 I thought my dreams were " beams frae heaven," 
 
 And hailed them aye wi' glee ; 
 For aft they showed a happy home, 
 
 Whare thou the queen should be.
 
 172 THE SIN O* SANG. 
 
 And Hope was ever at my side, 
 New pleasures to reveal ; 
 
 And so I sinned the sin o' sang, 
 And I maun say fareweel. 
 
 Oh ! dinna look sae waefu', Jean ; 
 
 Nae heartless loon am I, 
 To win a bonny lassie's love, 
 
 Then careless bid good-bye. 
 Oh ! fondly, fondly I hae wished 
 
 To win thee for my ain ; 
 But I hae sinned the sin o' sang, 
 
 And now maun wed wi' nane. 
 
 To him who sins that deadly sin, 
 
 And canna frae't refrain, 
 Thrift's sure to be the rainbow's base, 
 
 Pursued for aye in vain. 
 Oh ! seldom will they drink o' joy, 
 
 Who life's cup wi' him pree, 
 And, Jeannie, I hae sinned that sin, 
 
 And daurnae wed wi' thee.
 
 THE SIN O* SANG. 173 
 
 Oh ! had I but in secret sung, 
 
 And won nae praise but thine, 
 A lot that angels might hae grudged, 
 
 Dear Jeannie, would been mine. 
 But, far and near, the're some that ken, 
 
 And my reward is sure 
 A loveless and a lonely home, 
 
 And eke a life o' care. 
 
 Oh ! if there had been but one hope 
 
 To shimmer in the van 
 Of labour's battle, I for thee 
 
 Would fouchten like a man; 
 And like a man I'll fight, although 
 
 Success will smile nae mair; 
 For I hae sinned the sin o' sang, 
 
 And maun for aye be puir. 
 
 Thou kens that in the hive o' life 
 
 No idler I hae been, 
 But aye wi' glowing hands amang 
 
 The toilers hae been seen;
 
 174 THE SIN O' SANG. 
 
 But " This is he that murdered Time " 
 
 Is written on my "brow, 
 And wha in a' the busy world 
 
 Will dare to trust me now ]
 
 175 
 
 TO COUNCILLOE WILSON, 
 
 GLASGOW. 
 
 February 23, 1863. 
 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 THANKS for the printed speech ye sent me.* 
 In lyme I fain would compliment ye, 
 But faith my muse has grown so lame 
 0' ryme, I scarce can mind the name, 
 And wi' a blush I e'en maun tell't, 
 I've clean forgot the way to spell' t. 
 I ken an " h " should be in ryme, 
 For I hae written't mony a time, 
 But whether it should follow " y " 
 Or " r," uncertain now am I. 
 
 * Referring to a speech of which he sent me a copy.
 
 176 TO COUNCILLOR WILSON, GLASGOW. 
 
 But owre the thing I didna swither. 
 Quo' I, " I'll out wi't athegither 
 What matter when I hae the soun"?" 
 And sae the " h "-less ryme gaed down. 
 When next I use't I'll make it right, 
 But I maun be excused to-night. 
 
 But yet, sir, I maun compliment ye : 
 
 It is a charmin' Bab ye've sent me ; 
 
 Sae tastefully it's tied thegither, 
 
 But few could tie me sic anither. 
 
 On sic a Bab, and sic a string, 
 
 What muse could gaze wi' faulded wing 1 
 
 For months I hae nae felt sic pleasure. 
 
 Oh ! for an hour o' quiet leisure, 
 
 That I micht sit and let the fire 
 
 0' Burns's muse my soul inspire 
 
 Until (as aft before) I'd feel 
 
 As if I at his feet did kneel, 
 
 And felt his haun' upon my head, 
 
 And saw his mantle owre me spread
 
 TO COUNCILLOR WILSON, GLASGOW. 177 
 
 His dark e'e kindly on me beam, 
 The star o' an eternal dream. 
 
 But, while I write, frae roof tae hallan's 
 
 Like bedlam wi' thae x noisy callans : 
 
 0' a' the Deils wi' which we're curst, 
 
 The Printer's Deil's by far the worst ; 
 
 But his allotted place he fills, 
 
 Like other necessary ills. 
 
 (Be't understood, dear sir, whate'er 
 
 I say o' him he maunna hear. 
 
 He needs be neither dumb nor blate 
 
 Wha meddles wi' the Fourth Estate, 
 
 And soon or late he'll sure sink under 
 
 Some weel-aimed bolt o' morning thunder. 
 
 Sae wi' the inky imp my plan 
 
 Is aye to praise him when I can.) 
 
 At times, when fancy lacks employment, 
 
 His din's a source o' true enjoyment; 
 
 But though he aften plagues me sair, 
 
 To wish him ill were hardly fair. 
 
 M
 
 178 TO COUNCILLOR WILSON, GLASGOW. 
 
 There is a kind o' fellow-feelin' 
 That owre my heart at times comes stealin' 
 I mind how I in youth was cuffed 
 Like him, when I my maister huffed, 
 And how, the less I would oppose, 
 The thicker cam' the ungenerous blows ; 
 I sabbed, 'tis true, in piteous mood, 
 But he ! it seems to dae him guid. 
 
 There's no 'tween coal and printer's ink 
 Sae muckle odds as ane wad think ; 
 Indeed, we may the difference split 
 Between the pressroom and the pit : 
 They hae the din, I had the damp ; 
 They hae their gas, I had my lamp ; 
 My toil the sunlicht never saw, 
 And theirs the sunlicht sleeps awa' ; 
 And though they're aye the earth aboon, 
 I had the Country, they the Toun. 
 
 I said we micht the difference split 
 Between the pressroom and the pit,
 
 TO COUNCILLOR WILSON, GLASGOW. 179 
 
 But as I on comparin' gang, 
 In sooth ! I think the sayin' wrang ; 
 A bairn o' mine, however dear, 
 I'd rather see him there than here. 
 0' " Life " he aihlins less micht learn, 
 But he wad langer be a bairn, 
 Micht leeve a life a thocht mair sainted, 
 His tongue wi' filthy slang less tainted. 
 Alas ! to hear them ane wad think 
 The verra earth ashamed wad sink ; 
 0' vilest deeds they tak' the credit, 
 And say wi' shameless front, " I did it ; " 
 Eemarks that they think only smart, 
 On wrinkled cheeks gar blushes start. 
 Sae learned in the affairs o' woman, 
 God help us ! they appear scarce human. 
 The beardless rakes ! death ! be kin', 
 And keep frae that ilk bairn o' mine. 
 
 And sae, sir (though I've far digressed), 
 What wi' their rampin' and unrest,
 
 180 TO COUNCILLOR WILSON, GLASGOW. 
 
 Their rattling, clattering, deaving din 
 
 (The devils a' wear wooden shoon), 
 
 A guid new thought that's worth rehearsin' 
 
 Can ne'er be putten decent verse in, 
 
 And ane in prose his say maun sum, 
 
 Or listen fretfu' and be dumb. 
 
 There was a time, it's no lang gane, 
 
 And owre't 'twere hardly wise to mane, 
 
 When I had but to say, I'll sing, 
 
 And straight my ready muse took wing. 
 
 Stiff was the theme ! she rose the prouder ! 
 
 Loud was the noise ! she sang the louder ! 
 
 Like prisoned laverock in the town, 
 
 That strives the causeway din to drown ; 
 
 But now the Dame is grown sae taupit, 
 
 She maun be coaxed, and praised, and clappit, 
 
 And maunna be disturbed, or she 
 
 Will mute as winter blackbird be, 
 
 Else I in Burns's praise wad join 
 
 And tie a Bab to eke to thine.
 
 TO COUNCILLOR WILSON, GLASGOW. 181 
 
 And yet, dear sir, what can we say 
 That would be new ? For mony a day 
 Enthusiasts in his praise hae sung, 
 And commentators sage hae wrung, 
 Frae every line its subtlest meaning : 
 There's little left for future gleaning. 
 
 Ca' we him Scotland's ain her best ! 
 It is a truth by a' confest. 
 Great master o' the Doric reed ! 
 It is a praise that's stale indeed. 
 The pride o' every honest man ! 
 For sixty years the strain's sae ran : 
 Though sonnet follows sonnet fast, 
 Yet each but counterfeits the last, 
 And that which tells his praises best 
 Seems mair an echo than the rest. 
 
 His memory lang within my heart 
 Has been a star that " dwelt apart ;" 
 But of its ever-growing beams 
 To sing, to me irreverend seems.
 
 182 TO COUNCILLOB WILSON, GLASGOW. 
 
 I dare not to a theme aspire, 
 
 That seems too grand for human lyre. 
 
 Again, sir, let me compliment ye 
 
 On the rich paper ye hae sent me. 
 
 This random rhyme ('tis weel spelt noo) 
 
 Is hut a puir return, 'tis true, 
 
 And doubtless, it wad been far better 
 
 That I had still remained your debtor, 
 
 Than sic vile payment sent but then, 
 
 As soon as I had ta'en my pen, 
 
 My thoughts in measured form cam' clinkin', 
 
 Wi' every thought a rhyme cam' linkin', 
 
 And sae I wrote awa, ne'er heedin' 
 
 If what I wrote was worth the readin', 
 
 Till decency I far owrestep't it, 
 
 But, sir, in lieu o' thanks accept it ; 
 
 You see in rhyme I'm prone to sin yet, 
 
 Good-bye, 
 
 Your Servant, 
 
 DAVID WINGATE. 
 
 W. WILSON, Esq.
 
 183 
 
 OCTOBEE THE GEEEN HILLSIDE. 
 
 A SONG for dun October, 
 
 That tints the woods wi' broon, 
 And fills wi' pensive rustling 
 
 The wooded dells aroun', 
 While lintie, merle, and mavis 
 
 Nae langer pipe wi' pride, 
 Nor larks wi' song salute us 
 
 On the green hillside. 
 Auld nests are noo beginning 
 
 To peep frae woods fast thinning, 
 And, wi' nae thocht o' sinning, 
 
 Lairds death are scatterin' wide ; 
 While some are grumblin' sairly, 
 
 O' fields that yield but sparely ; 
 But nature yet looks rarely 
 
 On the green hillside.
 
 184 OCTOBER THE GREEN HILLSIDE. 
 
 What though, our posie borders 
 
 In waefu' plight are seen 
 Though stocks and staring dahlias 
 
 Hae tint their summer sheen ? 
 Thy hoary dawns, October, 
 
 They ne'er were meant to bide, 
 Unlike the halesome clover 
 
 On the green hillside. 
 Though Robin's town-notes swelling, 
 
 0' summer's flight are telling, 
 A sober thought compelling, 
 
 That nane would seek to hide ; 
 Shall we at hame sit chaunnering, 
 
 0' frost and famine maundering, 
 "While wiser folks are wandering 
 
 On the green hillside 1 
 
 We'll see the souchin' peesweeps, 
 In gatherin' flocks prepared 
 
 To leave the glen and meadows, 
 Whare love's delights they shared ;
 
 OCTOBER THE GREEN HILLSIDE. 185 
 
 Their cheerfu' cries we hear nae, 
 
 As owre our heads they glide. 
 Poor birds ! they part in silence 
 
 Wi' the green hillside. 
 And though nae lambkin's gambols 
 
 May cheer us on our rambles, 
 0' hips, and haws, and brambles,* 
 
 Ilk brake we'll reive wi' pride, 
 And pu' the lingering gowan, 
 
 Whare, late, the clustered rowan, 
 In scarlet grandeur glowin', 
 
 Graced the green hillside. 
 
 When streams the gouden sunset 
 
 Frae 'tween the hills and cl'uds, 
 While hangs the double rainbow 
 
 Aboon the sparkling woods, 
 In the herald lull that tells us 
 
 The storm-king by will ride, 
 Oh ! wha would haste in terror 
 
 Frae the green hillside ? 
 
 * Hips, haws, and brambles wild berries.
 
 186 OCTOBER THE GREEN HILLSIDE. 
 
 What though, the clouds close o'er us, 
 
 And glens grow dark before us, 
 Some bush frae blustering Boreas, 
 
 "Will ample beil' provide, 
 While thoughts we lang shall treasure, 
 
 The bairns o' purest pleasure, 
 Shall leap in canty measure 
 
 On the green hillside. 
 
 Oh ye wha life are wearin' 
 
 Amid the city's smeek, 
 It's no in noisy taverns 
 
 Ye pleasure's face should seek. 
 'Mang " social tankards foamin'," 
 
 She cares nae lang to bide, 
 But weel she lo'es the freshness 
 
 0' the green hillside. 
 For summer's flight she cares nae, 
 
 And winter's frown she fears nae ; 
 To slight poor toil she dares nae, 
 
 Nor frae him seeks to hide.
 
 OCTOBER- THE GREEN HILLSIDE. 187 
 
 By burnies murmuring sweetly, 
 
 At morn or e'en she'll meet ye, 
 And wi' a smile will greet ye, 
 
 On the green hillside.
 
 188 
 
 THE CHIELD GOT 0' WARE. 
 
 SOME tell hoo the turtle-doo mourns for its mate, 
 Some tell hoo puir Peggy laments faithless Pate, 
 Some muses mak' wan hopeless widows their mark ; 
 But wha cares a snuff for the chield oot o' wark ? 
 "We hear o' the sodgers in battle that fa', 
 We hear o' the sailors that waves wash aw a', 
 In "ballads they'll sing o' their lost bonny bark ; 
 But wha mak's a sang o' the chield oot o' wark 1 
 
 The chield oot o' wark disappointment maun bear, 
 Maun suffer wealth's frown and its cauld heartless sneer; 
 Ilk sumph o' a gaffer may mak' a wit-mark 
 A butt for his scorn o' the chield oot o' wark. 
 He wanders aboot frae dull morn to grey e'en ; 
 Where'er Hope invites him, he's sure to be seen ;
 
 THE CHIELD GOT o' WARK. 189 
 
 But aften Hope's star dwindles doon to a spark, 
 And hides frae the e'e o' the chield oot o' wark. 
 
 The chield oot o' wark, see ! his guttas are dune, 
 His breeks are threadbare, an' his coat's wearin' thin ; 
 And though he can brag yet o' mair than ae sark, 
 How long will't be sae wi' the chield oot o' wark ? 
 His wardrobe maun gang to the sharks o' the pawn, 
 For backs maun be bared at the belly's commaun' : 
 He'll soon hae sma' need to be learned like a dark, 
 Wha values the gear o' the chield oot o' wark. 
 
 His wee things at hame but o' them speir nae mair 
 Their weal is his comfort, their misery his care ; 
 Their wants wauken thochts unco sinfu' an' dark, 
 That whisper relief to the chield oot o' wark. 
 Nae honour for him, let him tramp as he may 
 He mauna aspire to the laurel or bay ; 
 And nae smiling Queen prins a bright hero-mark, 
 To shine on the breast o' the chield oot o' wark.
 
 190 THE CHIELD GOT O* WARK. 
 
 The chield oot o' wark mauna beg daurna steal, 
 An' pride bids him struggle his grief to conceal : 
 Believe me, my friends, since the days o' the Ark 
 The dreif wretch on earth was the chield oot o' wark. 
 Ye wealthy, on whom wit and wisdom descend, 
 Oh ! be it your care him frae want to defend ; 
 On Fame's deathless page he may scribble his mark, 
 Wha plans a relief for the chield oot o' wark.
 
 191 
 
 A EAMBLR 
 
 WHILE gloaming grey on dell and brae 
 
 Wi' dripping wing is settling doun, 
 Beside the flowers o' yesterday 
 
 I set me doon a sang to croon. 
 Wi' happy friends I climb again 
 
 The whinny knowes sae blithely ranged, 
 And wi' them pu', wi' heart fu' fain, 
 
 Thae floral gems sae sadly changed. 
 
 Frae hazel bower to steal that flower 
 Wi' emerald leaf and gouden cup, 
 
 Through scroggy gill, by tricklin' rill, 
 Wi' boyhood's glee we scramble up. 
 
 Our feet are on the hallowed hills, 
 
 Whare bards hae strayed and heroes striven ;
 
 192 A RAMBLE. 
 
 The hymn o' streams and laverocks seems 
 An echo o' the hymn o' heaven. 
 
 What joy to hear the tit-larks near, 
 
 In slae-thorn brake whare nane we see, 
 Whare linties chant, and goldies haunt, 
 
 And hermit foxgloves feast the bee ; 
 Though "blossomed hawthorns are nae seen, 
 
 Nor trees festooned wi' woodbine sweet, 
 Here's lady's-mantle gouden-green, 
 
 And balmy thyme blooms 'mang our feet. 
 
 Wi' gratefu' e'e mouse-peas we see 
 
 Adorn the dykes wi' tufts o' blue ; 
 Wi' mosses rare, and speedwells fair, 
 
 And gracefu' ferns, our hauns are fu'. 
 Wha says that we're wi' slavery cursed ? 
 
 It is nae true it ne'er was true ; 
 When flowers sae fair auld Nature nursed, 
 
 They ne'er were meant for slaves to pu'.
 
 A RAMBLE. 193 
 
 And noo our downward course we wend 
 
 The loch's in view ! the loch's in view ! 
 The waters gleam ! the heron's scream 
 
 Comes harsh the hazy distance through. 
 Amang yon knowes, through mazy links, 
 
 The Lavern glides wi' dimpling smile, 
 Syne owre the braes, wi' hasty jinks, 
 
 Trips blithely wimpling doun to toil. 
 
 See Raggit Robin owre the bent, 
 
 His bonnet waves in rosy pride ; 
 Has Flora for our pleasure sprent 
 
 The balmy, breezy, cool loch-side ? 
 See, as the ripple shoreward streams, 
 
 And moves the reeds wi' gentle lave, 
 Each distant wave a sea-bird seems, 
 
 Each distant floating bird a wave !
 
 194 
 
 THE BETTEK LAND. 
 
 WILL AND GEORDIE. 
 
 " COME "ben and tak' the muckle chair, the wife's at 
 
 Wishaw toun ; 
 Fu" blithe she'll be to see ye, and the 'bus will bring 
 
 her doun. 
 Sit doun and warm your feet, and thoWe the cranreugh 
 
 frae your hair ; 
 I fear ye shouldnae venture out in sic a frosty air. 
 
 " The bottle's toom ; but, Geordie, Jean has ta'en the 
 
 jar awa', 
 And, to gi'e you the hans'ling o't, the cork she'll blithely 
 
 draw;
 
 THE BETTER LAND. 195 
 
 I seldom fash wi't noo indeed, I swore I ne'er wad 
 
 pree, 
 But Jeanie whiles insists, and draps a cinder in my tea. 
 
 " And so, till she comes name, we'll fill our pipes and 
 
 tak' our smoke, 
 And crack o' times awa,' when we bore lichtly labour's 
 
 yoke 
 When hearts were light and bluid was warm, and short 
 
 the blithesome year 
 When mist and frost, and rain and win', were faced 
 
 without a fear." 
 
 " Ay, Willie, we are turnin' auld and frail ; for me, 
 
 I'm done, 
 My picks beneath the bed ha'e lain unused sin' sixty- 
 
 ane; 
 My auld pit-breeks this mornin' wi' the ragman gaed 
 
 on tramp, 
 And Peggy for a scourin' thing's hung up my auld 
 
 pit-lamp.
 
 196 THE BETTER LAND. 
 
 " I'm sure I neednae keep my picks nae mair than keep 
 
 my claes 
 An auld and weel-worn collier, "Will, I maun be a* my 
 
 days; 
 Sweert's, sweert's my breath to come and gang, and 
 
 whiles it seems to swither, 
 And wonder if it were nae best to leave me a'the- 
 
 gither. 
 
 " Whiles, Will, I dover in my chair, and muse on days 
 awa', 
 
 When Peg and me were young, and had nae backs to 
 cleed but twa 
 
 How hard I wrocht, what sprees I had (for I was fool- 
 ish then), 
 
 And thocht (if e'er I thocht) the aim o' life was ' won 
 and spenV 
 
 "My Peggy hain't as weel's she could, and wrocht 
 
 whene'er she micht, 
 And muckle flate, and weel advised, and strave to keep 
 
 me richt.
 
 THE BETTER LAND. 197 
 
 I ne'er would own't, but weel I kent 'twas wrong and 
 
 unco wrang : 
 But what's the guid o' frettin' owre a thing that's by 
 
 sae lang 1 
 
 " When roun' me whiles I look and see the plenishin' 
 
 we hae 
 
 A meal for every mornin', and a hap for every day 
 And think ' Whase guidin's this ? ' man, "Will, a mist 
 
 comes owre my e'e ; 
 There never was a better wife, sin' wives began to be. 
 
 " She minds it yet. Teth ! ay, she minds't, and 
 
 mentions't noo and then, 
 When neebor wives come in to bann their idle, 
 
 drunken men. 
 But even then wi' kindly clasp she tak's my pithless 
 
 haun', 
 And whispers, ' Gude be thankit, ye were ne'er a lazy 
 
 man.'
 
 198 THE BETTER LAND. 
 
 " It's perfit true ! I likit wark, and blithely at it sang, 
 My verra pick was proud o' me, and while I wrocht it 
 
 rang; 
 There's joy in drinkin' ! even in stauns (if short) there's 
 
 wealth o' mirt.li, 
 But nocht's sae sweet as weel-paid wark amang the joys 
 
 o' earth. 
 
 " Ah, Will ! when stauns tak' place, we sit amang the 
 
 chiefs nae mair ; 
 Ye never hear them cryin' noo, ' Put Geordie in the 
 
 chair !' 
 But ance I was an oracle, and crowds o' men could 
 
 charm ; 
 I needed hut to lift my voice and wave abreed my arm. 
 
 " Ah, man ! It was a triumph aye to see in print my 
 
 name, 
 And ken that * Geordie's ' words were read a thousand 
 
 miles frae hame ; 
 
 And hear the fules o' editors denounce me for a rogue, 
 A stirrer-up o' strife a pest a wanderin' demagogue.
 
 THE BETTER LAND. 199 
 
 " I likit it ! but, Will, thae days are frae us ever gane; 
 The wark we had to do is done, and a' our say is sain; 
 We noo maun turn our een to things that ance were 
 
 reckoned nocht, 
 And mair about 'the Better Land ' maun think than 
 
 ance we thocht. 
 
 " Our Missioner, an honest man, wha jokes a harmless 
 
 joke, 
 And has a humble heart, and likes a hamely crack and 
 
 smoke, 
 
 And has a hope for a', and has nae fearsome tale to tell 
 0' weepin' and o' wailin' in the lampless pit o' hell 
 
 " He says that in ' the Better Land ' there's food and 
 
 raiment aye, 
 And noble drink that rins in burns, and naething for't 
 
 to pay; 
 Xor rent, nor stent, nor heavy darg, to cross its borders 
 
 dare, 
 And collier, master, lord, and laird, are equal-aqual 
 
 there.
 
 200 THE BETTER LAND. 
 
 "Nae asthma's there, wi' weary wheeze, to wear the 
 
 life awa', 
 Nor rheumatism, Will, for there there are nae banes to 
 
 gnaw; 
 Bereavement comes nae there to clip Affection's cord in 
 
 twain, 
 And Discord's voice is never heard in a' the wide 
 
 domain. 
 
 " We'll soom about on wings, like doos, and blithesome 
 hymns will chant, 
 
 Wi' which compared, earth's sweetest airs are yill- 
 house roar and rant, 
 
 And join wi' fau'tless skill, untaught, some ' Hallelu- 
 jah baun',' 
 
 Or dreamin' sit, on gouden harps to thrum wi' tireless 
 haun' ; 
 
 "Or wanderin' owre the sunny hills, 'mang flowers 
 
 that never dee, 
 We'll crack, and wonder at our lair o' a' we hear and 
 
 see;
 
 THE BETTER LAND. 201 
 
 And surely, "Will, if hearts we hae, they'll warm wi' 
 
 gratefu' glow, 
 When we the life in heaven compare wi' collier-life 
 
 below. 
 
 " And, Will, we hae nae lang to wait Death soon will 
 
 draw the screen, 
 And prove the land we dream o' has nae human fancy 
 
 been; 
 And what we'll dae, or what we'll say, a wonder 
 
 needna be 
 That there's a Better Land ava's enough for you and 
 
 me."
 
 202 
 
 NOTES TO ANNIE WEIR. 
 
 Page 4 < a > "Where the rigs are hower yet." Hower Where 
 the strata and soil above the workings of the pit had subsided. 
 
 Page 5 (6) "And up the weary stairs wi' her coal-creel laden." 
 Where the pits were shallow the coals used to be carried by girls 
 and women to the surface. They had a "creel" slung over their 
 shoulders. The road from the bottom to the mouth of the shaft 
 was a series of short stairs. This must have been very hard work. 
 
 Page 5 <"> "In the twilight dim." Even when the sun shone it 
 would be twilight in the shaft, owing to the interception of the 
 light by the woodwork of the stairs. 
 
 Page 7 (d) "Coming ben." Towards the faces is "ben," or 
 "in;" towards the pit bottom from the faces is "but," or "out." 
 
 Page 7 (e) "Frae the waste aroun'." Waste The wrought-out 
 workings of the mine. 
 
 Page 8 M "In the shearing I was thrang." Shearing The 
 most advanced part of a working face. 
 
 Page 8 <) " For it's coming like a blast." Coming like the blast 
 caused by an explosion of fire-damp. "She's blastet" is still a 
 common way of saying there has been an explosion in a pit. 
 
 Page 8 < fc > "The black and stoury flood," &c. Bearing on its 
 surface the light coal-dust of the mine. 
 
 Page 13 (<) "And, waking, heard what seemed the hum of bees." 
 In reality the hum of innumerable small flies which the rising flood 
 had driven to that part of the mine. 
 
 Page 13 ( * " When the phosphor-light we saw." Phosphor-light,
 
 NOTES TO ANNIE WEIR. 203 
 
 Sometimes over certain kinds of wood-props used in mines there 
 creeps a network of a brown weed, pointed with white. In the 
 absence of lamp or candle light it emits a faint phosphoric gleam, 
 which when first seen is alarming even to a man of ordinary 
 courage. 
 
 Page 15 <() "Frae another, ebber pit." Ebber Near the crop- 
 out of the seam. 
 
 Page 15 (m) "Three weary days they, horn- aboot, had redd." 
 Redd To remove the fallen roof-stones in the mine.
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 Dr Robert Young, Woodville, Chapelhall. 
 
 Mr William Russell, do. 
 
 Mr George M. Russell, do. 
 
 Mr Robert Paterson, do. 
 
 John Cram, Esq., do. 
 
 Mr James Russell, miner, do. 
 
 Mr Thomas Forsyth, do. do. 
 
 Mr James Gibson, do. do. 
 
 Mr Thomas Paterson, do. do. 
 
 Mr Robert Wilson, do. do. 
 
 Mr Robert Gibb, do. do. 
 
 Mr Thomas Gibb, do. do. 
 
 Mr John Forsyth, do. do. 
 
 Mr William Yuill, Glasgow. 
 
 Thomas Johnston, Esq., Stevenston House, by Holytown. 
 
 Mr William Aitken, Stevenston Colliery. 
 
 Mr John Dargavel, do. do. 
 
 Mr George Haldane, Balbardie do. 
 
 Mr Thomas Hair, do. do. 
 
 Mr Archibald Prentice, do. do. 
 
 Mr James Adam, miner, do. do. 
 
 Mr Alexander Hamilton, Legbrannock Store, by Holytown. 
 
 Mr William Smith, Calderbank Store, by Airdrie. 
 
 Mr Lauder, do. Office, do. 
 
 Mr David Connor, do. do. do. 
 
 Mr Hugh Ferguson, do, do. do.
 
 206 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 Thomas Morton, Esq., Milton Cottage, Mother-well. 
 
 John Craig Waddell, Esq., solicitor, Airdrie. 
 
 J. Montgomerie Alston, M.D. do. (4 copies). 
 
 John Shaw, Esq., clothier, do. 
 
 James Hendry, Esq., National Bank, do. (2 copies). 
 
 James Kidd, Esq., banker, do. do. 
 
 George Thomson, Esq., do. do. 
 
 Mr John Harvie, druggist, do. 
 
 Mr Thomas Love, do. 
 
 Matthew Waddell, Esq., Newmains, do. do. 
 
 Robert M. Rodger, Esq., factor, Airdrie (2 copies). 
 
 Frederick Penny, Professor of Chemistry, Andersonian University, 
 
 Glasgow. 
 
 Mr John Kirkland, Newmains Store, by Wishaw. 
 Mr William Eadie, Barkip Store, Dairy, Ayrshire. 
 Mr James Clark, Armadale Colliery, Bathgate. 
 Mr John Shanks, Glengarnock Store, Ayrshire. 
 James Baird, Esq., do. Ironworks, do. 
 
 Mr John Thomson, Woodhall Office, by Airdrie. 
 Library, Ardeer Ironworks, Ayrshire. 
 Mr J. Scobbie, Fortisset Colliery, Shotts. 
 Mr Andrew Wingate, Mossend Ironworks. 
 John Pettigrew, Esq., 2 Brougham Terrace, Glasgow. 
 Andrew Cassels, Esq., merchant, Hamilton. 
 James Ferguson, Esq., H.M. Customs, Grangemouth. 
 William Govan, Esq., 15 Renfield Street, Glasgow (2 copies). 
 William Govan, jun., Esq., do. do. do. 
 
 John Watson, jun., Esq., coalmaster, 123 St Vincent Street, Glas- 
 gow (4 copies). 
 
 Mr Thomas Brown, 176 Stirling Road, Glasgow. 
 Mr John G. Couper, 16 Virginia Street, do. 
 Mr John Miller, do. do. 
 
 Mr William Strang, do. do. 
 
 Mr Thomas Lindsay, jun., 36 St Vincent Place, Glasgow. 
 Mr Peter Lennox, 49 Maxwell Street, do. 
 
 Mr Francis Braidwood, 12 Argyle Street, do. 
 
 William Shanks, Esq., manager, Omoa Ironworks, by Motherwell. 
 John Ferguson, Esq., do. (2 copies).
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 207 
 
 Mr John Dyer, engineer, Omoa Ironworks, by Motherwell. 
 
 Mr D. M'Callum, do. do. 
 
 Hugh Robertson, Esq., Omoa Foundry. 
 
 Mr Thomas Thornton, do. 
 
 Mr John Brown, underground oversinan, do. 
 
 Mr James Watt, Wishaw. 
 
 Mr Joseph Waddell, Newarthill. 
 
 Mr Thomas Lithgow, Meadowside, Clelland. 
 
 Mr Alexander Smith, do. 
 
 Mr James Johnston, do. 
 
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 208 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
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 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 209 
 
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 O
 
 210 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
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 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 211 
 
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 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
 
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 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. 7 
 
 CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD: SALEM CHAPEL. 
 
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 CONTENTS. 
 
 VOL. I. The Glenmutchkin Railway. Vanderdecken's Message Home. The 
 Floating Beacon. Colonna the Painter. Napoleon. A Legend of Gibral- 
 tar. The Iron Shroud. 
 
 VOL. II. Lazaro's Legacy. A Story without a Tail. Faustus and Queen Eliza- 
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 VOL. III. A Reading Party in the Long Vacation. Father Tom and the Pope. 
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 VOL. IV. How I stood for the Dreepdaily Burghs. First and Last. The Duke's 
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 VOL. VI. My Friend the Dutchman. My College Friends No. II. : Horace 
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 VOL. VII. My English Acquaintance. The Murderer's Last Night. Narration 
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 Willis, B.D. The Wags. The Wet Wooing : A Narrative of '98. Ben-na- 
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 VOL. VIII. The Surveyor's Tale. By Professor Aytoun. The Forrest Race 
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 VOL. IX. Rosaura : A Tale of Madrid. Adventure in the North-West Territory. 
 Harry Bolton's Curacy. The Florida Pirate. The Pandour and his 
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 VOL. X. Antonio di Carara. The Fatal Repast. The Vision of Cagliostro. 
 The First and Last Kiss. The Smuggler's Leap. The Haunted and the 
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 VOL. XI. TteNatolian Story-Teller. The First and Last Crime. John Rintoul. 
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 VOL. XII. Tickler among the Thieves .'The Bridegroom of Barna. The Invol- 
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 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. 9 
 
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 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. 11 
 
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 GEOLOGICAL MAP OF SCOTLAND. 
 
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 HANDBOOK OF GEOLOGICAL TERMS AND GEOLOGY. 
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 THE PAST AND PRESENT LIFE OF THE GLOBE: 
 
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 of have the facts and phenomena of biology been presented in at once so systematic and succinct a form, 
 the successive manifestations of life on the earth set forth in so clear an order, or traced so vividly from 
 the earliest organisms deep-buried in its stratified crust, to the familiar forms that now adorn and people 
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 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. 13 
 
 THE GEOLOGICAL EXAMINATOR: 
 
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 DAVID PAGE, F.R.S.E., F.G.8. Second Edition, (Sd. 
 
 77/.E GEOLOGY OF PENNSYLVANIA: 
 
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 SEA-SIDE STUDIES AT ILFRACOMBE, TENBY, THE 
 
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 PHYSIOLOGY OF COMMON LIFE. 
 
 By GEORGE HENRY LEWES, Author of Sea-side Studies,' <fco. Illus- 
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 CHEMISTRY OF COMMON LIFE.- 
 
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 crown 8vo, 11s. 6d. 
 
 NOMENCLATURE OF COLOURS, 
 
 Applicable to the Arts and Natural Sciences, to Manufactures, and other 
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 NARRATIVE OF THE EARL OF ELGIN'S MISSION TO 
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 A FAMILY TOUR ROUND THE COASTS OF SPAIN AND 
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 14 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 THE ROYAL ATLAS OF MODERN GEOGRAPHY. 
 
 In a Series of entirely Original and Authentic Maps. By A. KEITH 
 JOHNSTON, F.R.S.E., F.R.G.S., Author of the 'Physical Atlas,' &c. With 
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 " Beyond doubt the greatest geographical work of our time." Museum, 
 
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 A NEW MAP OF EUROPE. 
 
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 ATLAS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
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 GENERAL AND DESCRIPTIVE GEOGRAPHY, exhibiting the Actual and Com- 
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 CLASSICAL GEOGRAPHY, comprising, in Twenty Plates, Maps and Plans of 
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 A MANUAL OF MODERN GEOGRAPHY: 
 
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 With Index. 7s. 6d., bound in leather.
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. 15 
 
 THE BOOK OF THE FARM. 
 
 Detailing the Labours of the Farmer, Farm-Steward, Ploughman, Shepherd, 
 Hedger, Cattle-man, Field-worker, and Dairymaid, and forming a safe Monitor 
 for Students in Practical Agriculture. By HENRY STEPHENS, F.R.S.E. 
 2 vols. royal 8vo, 3, handsomely bound in cloth, with upwards of 600 , 
 Illustrations. 
 
 " The bst book I hare ever met with.;' Profemor Johnston. 
 
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 in general terms, commend them to the careful study of every young man who wishes to become a good 
 practical farmer." Tintet. 
 
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 THE BOOK OF FARM IMPLEMENTS AND MACHINES. 
 By JAMES SLIGHT and R. SCOTT BURN. Edited by HENRY STEPHENS, 
 F.R.S.E. Illustrated with 876 Engravings. Royal 8vo, uniform with the 
 ' Book of the Farm,' half-bound, 2, 2s. 
 
 THE BOOK OF FARM BUILDINGS: 
 
 Their Arrangement and Construction. By HENRY STEPHENS, F.R.S.E., 
 and R. SCOTT BURN. Royal 8vo, with 1045 Illustrations. Uniform with 
 the ' Book of the Farm." Half-bound, 1, 11s. 6d. 
 
 THE BOOK OF THE GARDEN. 
 
 By CHARLES M'INTOSH. In 2 large vols. royal Svo, embellished with 
 1353 Engravings. 
 
 Each Volume may be had separately viz.: 
 
 I. ARCHITECTURAL AND ORNAMENTAL. On the Formation of Gardens 
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 Illustrated by 1073 Engravings, pp. 766. 2, 10s. 
 
 II. PRACTICAL GARDENING. Directions for the Culture of the Kitchen 
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 tables, Fruits, and Plants. Pp. 868, with 279 Engravings. 1, 17s. 6d. 
 
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 PRACTICAL SYSTEM OF FARM BOOK-KEEPING: 
 
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 AINSLIE'S TREATISE ON LAND-SURVEYING. 
 
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 INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE ANALYSIS OF SOILS. Fourth Edition, 2s. 
 
 THE RELATIVE VALUE OF ROUND AND SA WN TIMBER, 
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 THE YESTER DEEP LAND-CULTURE: 
 
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 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. 17 
 
 A MANUAL OF PRACTICAL DRAINING'. 
 
 By HENRY STEPHENS, F.R.S.E., Author of the 'Book of the Farm.' 
 Third Edition, Svo, 5s. 
 
 A CATECHISM OF PRACTICAL AGRICULTURE. 
 
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 HANDY BOOK OX PROPERTY LAW. 
 
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 million, a book which the author tenders to the prv/anum vutyiu as even capable of beguiling a few 
 houn in a railway carriage.'" rim. 
 
 THE PLANTER'S GUIDE. 
 
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 STABLE ECONOMY: 
 
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 ADVICE TO PURCHASERS OF HORSES. 
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 THE CHEMISTRY OF VEGETABLE AND ANIMAL PHYSI- 
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 of Utrecht With an Introduction and Notes by Professor JOHNSTON. 22 
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 THE MOOR AND THE LOCH. 
 
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 SALMON-CASTS AND STRAY SHOTS; 
 
 Being Fly-Leaves from the Note-Book of JOHN COLQUHOUN, Esq., 
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 COQUET-DALE FISHING SONGS. 
 
 Now first collected by a North-Country Angler, with the Music of the Airs. 
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 THE ANGLER'S COMPANION TO THE RIVERS AND LOCHS 
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 RELIGION IN COMMON LIFE: 
 
 A Sermon preached in Crathie Church, October 14, 1855, before Her Majesty 
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 SERMONS. 
 
 By the REV. JOHN CAIRD, D.D., Professor of Divinity in the University of 
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 This Edition includes the Sermon on ' Religion in Common Life," preached 
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 LECTURES IN DIVINITY. 
 
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 ANALYSIS AND CRITICAL INTERPRETATION OF THE 
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 PRAYERS FOR SOCIAL AND FAMILY WORSHIP. 
 
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 PRAYERS FOR SOCIAL AND FAMILY WORSHIP. 
 
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 THEISM: THE WITNESS OF REASON AND NATURE TO 
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 ON THE ORIGIN AND CONNECTION OF THE GOSPELS 
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 of the ' Voyage and Shipwreck of St Paul.' Medium 8vo, 16s.
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. 19 
 
 INSTITUTES OF M ETA PHYSIC: THE THEORY OF KNOW- 
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 LECTURES OX METAPHYSICS. 
 
 By SIR WILLIAM HAMILTON. Bart., Professor of Logic and Metaphysics 
 in the University of Edinburgh. Edited by the Rev. H. L. MAXSEL, B.D., 
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 and JOB x VEITCH, M.A., Professor of Logic, Rhetoric, and Metaphysics, St 
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 LECTURES OX LOOIC. 
 
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