LIBRARY nvsrsity of California IRVINE From a Photograph l>\> Pettigrc~(.< and Amos, Lcith. JA/AES LUMSDEN, THE BATTLES OF DUNBAR & PRESTONPANS, AND OTHER SELECTED POEMS (NEW AND OLD). BY JAMES L U M S D E N (" SAMUEL MUCKLKBACKIT "), Late of Nether Hallos, East Lothian, Author of "Country Chronicles," " tiheejj-Ifead and Trotters" d'c. HADDTNGTON : WILLIAM SINCLAIR, 63 M.\I;KI;T 81 MELT. 1896. PREFACE. This publication might be described as the poetic portion of my last work " Sheep-Head and Trotters " with many omissions and additions ; and it is issued simply because all the former editions are now out of print. With the exception of: the new poems, all the others are selected from what now only remains of the whole poetical produce of my life, for I foolishly destroyed the great bulk of it before finally leaving the farm, in a moment of chagrin, worry, and with a feeling akin to despair. The selected pieces with some others were saved through having in the course of time been pasted to the leaves of a large private scrap book, and I am quite willing to leave them, with my later offspring, in the hands of all candid readers or critics, stipulating only that they do read the book before pronouncing judgment upon it. The con- tents of the work have all been carefully revised and are now presented in the best style and guise that I can give them. As I said in my first preface, " I am well aware that the cordial reception most of the pieces met with on their debiU in their native locality may not prove to have been an earnest of their ultimate success in the world at large. But whatever the fate of this my latest literary venture may be, I must now await and accept it with what patience and fortitude I may. I have nothing to advance in the way of anticipating honest, or disarming hostile, criticism. I desire to stand or fall by the merits or de- merits of the book alone." Saving the new poems, " all the pieces contained in the volume were produced in the brief and often interrupted intervals of leisure which the busy life of an arable farmer affords ; and that they have not been permitted to fall into oblivion ere this is no fault of mine, but of my friends, of whom, I am proud to say, I have a large and apparently ever increasing number." God bless them all ! If my gratitude can do them good they will be a happy lot yet indeed ! J. L. EDINBURGH, 1896. CONTENTS. PAGE. Preface, HISTORICAL AND LOCAL POEMS The Battle of Dunbar, 1 The Battle of Prestonpans, ... ... 7 Punch and Da wty, ... ... ... ... ... 12 Address to Traprain Law, ... ... ... ... 25 The Legend of Traprain Law, ... ... ... 29 Auld Hansel Monday, ... ... ... 37 Hogmanay, ... ... ... ... ... ... 45 The Hiring Friday, ... 52 Robert Burns, ... ... ... ... 55 At Prestonkirk, ... ... ... ... ... 00 EPISTLES To a Young Writer On Robert Burns, ... 02 To a Shoemaker, ... (58 To a Young Commercial Friend, ... ... ... 71 To Thomas Pintail, Esq., ... ... ... 74 To Rab o' the Hill, ... 77 To the Man in the Moon, ... ... ... ... 70 To My Landlord, ... ... 81 To a Ploughman, ... ... ... ... ... 85 To a Friend in America, ... ... ... ... 88 Second Epistle to a Friend in America, 92 To a Retired Dominie, ... ... ... ... % To the Rev. l)r Whitelaw, ... !) To Dr K. Brown, of Birkenhead, 103 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES The Foppish Young Farmer, ... ... ... ... ICXi The Adventures of Benjamin Solomon, Yeoman, in Search of a Spouse, ... ... ... ... ... 110 At the Grave of a Young Friend who was Accidentally Killed, 113 At the Auld Abbey Brig, ... ... ... ... 11G The Flittin' Day, ... ... ... ... 119 Written in the Country, ... ... ... ... 122 "Wae, WaeisMe,"... ... ... 123 Auld Charlie, ... 125 "AnldLees," ... 127 Professor Blackie on Confessions of Faith, ... ... 133 Ane Deevlish Prank of Ye Wicked Elfin King, ... ... 135 MorhamDoll, 138 Onr Ain WeeToun, ... ... ... ... ... 141 "The Daft Days," ... 144 Our Johnnie, ... ... ... ... ... 147 On Hearing the Result of the Haddington Burghs' Election of 1878, ... ... ... ... 140 Marriage Lines, ... ... ... ... ... 153 The Wee Broun Squirrel, ... ... ... ... 1(>0 In the Auld Kirkyard, ... Ki2 Testimonials to Provosts, ... ... ... ... 10(> End of the Auld Don.inie, ... ... ... ... 170 The New " Reapers," ... ... ... ... 174 The Auld Farmers Lament for a Wet Harvest, ... 177 " Ane Auld-Farrant Rame," ... ... ... ... 179 A Bonnie Nook on Tyneside, ... ... ... ... 182 The Auld Toun My Birthplace, ... ... ... 183 On Mr Robert Sharp, Hotel Proprietor, Leaving Linton, lsf> By My Native Stream, ... ... ..'. 188 Leaving East Liuton, ... ... ... ... 190 Fareweel, ... ... ... ... ... ... 192 Auld Castled Hailes, ... ... 194 Jeanie's Fareweel, ... ... ... ... ... 19(> A Sunday in May, ... ... ... ... 198 Written on a Beautiful October Day, ... ... ... 201 " Mither Caledon," ... ... ... ... ... 203 William Wallace, ... ... ... ... ... 205 The Battle of Bannockburn, ... ... ... ... 207 JohnKnox, ... ... ... ... 208 Julie-Annie, ... ... ... ... ... 209 The Fa' o' the Leaf, ... ... 211 East Lothian, ... ... ... 213 Auld Langsyne, ... ... 214 SELECTED SONGS The Knox Memorial, ... ... ... ... ... 215 "FarAwa'," ... ... 218 Athie Graeme, ... ... ... ... ... 220 The Broken Bank, ... ... 222 The Ploughman, ... ... 224 Little Lauchiu' Jean, ... ... ... 22(i "Reciprocity,'' ... 22.S Linton Lynn, ... ... 22!) ' ' The Oharteris Dykes, " ... 230 Now Willie's Awa, ... ..231 North Berwick Nell, ... ... 233 Kyley Broun, ... ... ... 235 Tranent Massacre, ... ... 237 "Jamie the Joiter," ... ... 23i) HISTORIC AND LOCAL POEMS. THE BATTLE OF D L T N B A R, SEPTEMBER SKD, 1650. XXE Lammermoors, ye silent hills, Xfc^ Ye plains an', vales that kythe sae fair ! Thou braid-spread ocean that uptills This scene o' peace beyond compare ! O bide ye in rapt sleep awhile ! O wake na wi' the morning dawn ! Heck not war's legions thee despoil, List not his dread trumps o'er thee blawn ! Alas ! ye happy hills and plains, The day breaks that will bring to thee A heart-break time o' waes an' pains, An' mortal mane an' miserie ! Schismatic strife, fanatic zeal, Grown furious, meet wi' sword in hand, "VVhare priestly arrogance for skill Is looten tak' supreme command, B JAMES LUMSPENS POEMS. Ev'n while, I trow, the ither side Is led by ane a king o' men ! What ferly gif the gods decide A "glorious victory" he should gain ? The wauchty Leslie brang them on- Twenty an' seeven thousand men An' rank'd them on this Hill o' Doon, As trig as gin they'd been but ten. The deep "Lord General" gnaw'd his lip, An' claw'd his heid sic skill to rlree ; " The Scot has smat me owre the hip, I'm ill at ease, I'm sick !" quo' he. " For Caldbraml's Pass is closed nae way Is left to back intil Eng-land ! 'Twere best my foot should pack, an' gae Tak' ship, an' flee this cursed strand ! " Syne grant, O Lord ! I'll head my horse My brethren dear of Marston Moor ! And burst their ' Pass ' yea nae perforce And mak' our swith retreat secure !" Meantime in either host the " saunts " Of countless sects spared not their wind ; They preach'd an' pray'd, or scream'd their chaunts, Or argued ither hairse an' blind. " This pending battle ? Whey ! the Lord " (On this p'int only they agreed) "The Fae ane harvest for our sword Serves ripe an' ready ! shear 't wi' speed ! THE BATTLE OF D UNBAR. " Scud doim this hicht ! speare, hack, an' slay ! Brook not ane Heretick to stand ! All ! level all ! nane sail gainsay Ye Haly Covenant of our Land ! " As Israel ance, at auld Gilgal, The Philistines crush'd doun araang, Sae then do ye ! Upo' them fall Ooter destruction mete the gang !" Sae doun furth this fair hill they sped Into the clutch an' pit o' death - Tumultuous hordes raw levies led By screichiri' clerics drunk wi' "faith." O, whare is he, the ae ane man, That ever yet could cope wi' " Noll ?" Whare's worthy Leslie wi' his " plan," Anither Bannockburn to poll ? All, sirs ! he lacked the pith o' Bruce, To king-like rule as weel as scheme ! Owre sune the Sophists preach'd him loose, Owre sune his rule pass'd like a dream ! Then did the Southrons thank the fools, Then did their hearts loup wild to see The living bands, like weel-play'd bools, Row prizes to their feet sae free ! Cromwell out-spak' he could nae less, His very soul cried out for glee " Behold ! the Lord His cause doth bless, He cives His enemies to me ! JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. " Mount ! mount, ye soldiers of the Lord, Ye iron-hearted veterans true ! Mount ! fall upon them, pike an' sword, They'll be as stubble now to you !" The onset given by Foot an' Horse, What time the risen sun was seen, Broad in the east, start on his course, The combat spread fast, fierce, an' keen. Around the hill, down to the sea, The war-cluds roll'd, and when they rose Were seen, high-borne, an' fluttering free, The sacred flags o' friends an' foes. Syne gleams, an' stars, an' flashes white, Frae spears, an' swords, an' armourie, An' brazen guns glanced, glisten'd bright, An' sparkled like the sunny sea. And wild a' owre ane uproar's heard, Like winter storming Norlan' coasts, And piercing it ilk side's watchword " The Covenant !" and " The Lord of Hosts !"' And cannon boom'd and muskets crack'd, An' swords an' lances clunk between; Drums, trumpets, bagpipes, blared an' rack'd, An' rived the bleeding Peace in twain ! Then, swith as ye thrice ten micht count, The English Horse were victors there ; Syne up the hill like fiends they mount, Wild waving lang swords in the air. THE BATTLE OF DUNBAU. The Scots stude firm they e'en repulsed The fore-front foemen, but their best Were sune cut throo, and then, convulsed With fear, a' turn'd, an' hamewards prest ! They scatter'd like a liirsel, when Slee Lowrie-Tod sneaks them amang, A panic mob recruits an' men A priest-led and sair habbled gang ! In horror Mercy turn'd about, Forsook the shamefu' scene for good ! Then License, stark-mad, ruled the rout, And espoused Slaughter sick with blood ! Yet gloaming cam' at gloaming time, The harvest moon rose braid an' glad, But never yet in Scotland's clime Did e'enin' close owre scene sae sad ! NOTE. As for other things, the district of Dunbar (one of the most beautiful and interesting in Hritain) is celebrated as being the scene of two great national battles, both of which ended disastrously for the arms of Scotland. The first contest took place six centuries ago on the 28th of April 1296. The cause of this great defeat was an imprudence similar to that which occasioned the one of the second battle, nearly on the same ground, in the time of the CVmnmonwealth. Concerning this now world-famous combat, Robert Chambers says: " Immediately after the death of the King (Charles I.), when the Cavaliers rose in the Xorth for his son, in what was calle slie was created, in consideration of his great services and sufferings in the Royal cause, Lord Newark, by patent dated the 31st of August 1001, to him and the heirs male of his body lawfully begotten, with a pension of five hundred pounds per annum. . . . His lordship died in the year 1082." THE BATTLE OF PRESTONPANS. *OW, hail !" cried Cope, " Hail, Prestonpans I For saut, for fish, for glorious beer, The Queen o' touns ! thy creels and cans Shall sune this valiant army cheer ! "The morn, my lads, the brek o' day, Shall see yon beggary scum doun-dang'd ; Syne shall the Auld Pans' barrels pay Rare price for ' Charlie' shot or hang'd ! " Great is our drouth but thole a wee, Till aiice we've claw'd thae lousy ' clans,' Then, by this sword ! I vow we'll pree A wassail worthy Prestonpans !" So spak the soople Sir John Cope, A cheeiy captain aye was he ; His bed that night was Seton slope Him ready graith'd to fecht or flee } Athort the Moss, in plaids or nane The breekless legions of the North, In raggit herds abreed were lain, Like their ain hirsels owre the Forth. The pawky mune, thro : rifts o' clouds, Took merry peeps athwart the plain ; The wanton winds play'd wi' their duds, The caterans snor'd and snor'd again. JAMES LUMSDENS POEMS. Them that had plaids had hapt their chouks, An' slept in something decent trim ; But maist had nane, sae their bare bouks Spatted the field baith grue an" grim ! Their watch-fires flicker'd weird alang The battle line from east to west, The silvery Forth lay twined amang Her isles an' hills, to silence prest. Midway atween the muir and sea, Like stooks o' beans, the English foe Spread gross an' dark, the stars on lue Spark 't as the watch-fires did below. The careful Cope, behind a tree, Gazed sleepless on the clans' array ; In great surprise an' wrath was he They didna rise an' rin a\vae. He swat an' steam'd in anxious plicht, Aye marvelling they didna flee ; Till creepin' fogs till'd all the nicht, An' wrapt his sodger's soul in glee. But sunny morn the misty wraith Fast scatter'd wi' the twilicht dun, Tho' calmness lay on earth like death ; Cope fetch'd his horse he'd heard a gun ! " Hark ! footsteps ; ho, to arms !" he cried, " I shall be butcher'd in cold blood ! Up, Gardiner, up ! hast not descried The rebel torrent all a-flood ?" THE BATTLE OF PRESTOXPAXS. Then thro' the haur belyve was seen The clans come on wi' fiery scud, Each tribe a phalanx, rivalling keen Its fellows, wha would first draw blood. " Upon them, lads !" Clanranald shouts. " Cast plaids an' sarks your bare briests striek ; Let dirks an' claymores find their throats ! Strike home ; nor quarter give nor seek." Then thro' that land the slogans rang Wild as thy tempests, Loch-na-Gar ; Yell rose on yell, while forward sprang The mist- born children of Red War. .High in the gloom above the foe, Like white sea-birds, the claymores wheel'd ; And like thae birds they flash 'd below To a sure prey 'neath Saxon shield. Oh, dreadful now the battle din ! As drums an' pibrochs swell'd the fray, Com mingling with the cries of men And clank of steel an' musketry. The twa hosts sway'd in mortal throe ; The onset, as a Highland spate, The English red line ay or no Met, broke, and o'er-ran in retreat. One war-like fragment of their wall, A while, in god-like majesty, *Stood Christian Gardiner in his fall Made deathless, for he chose to die ! 10 JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. But where was Cope the sapient Cope A prudent Captain aye was he ; His carcase, friend, on Seton slope In " cold-blood butcher'cl " seek not ye. When Charlie charged wi' a' his loons, Upon his steed the Noble Wicht Charged in the east the farm touns, And pat baith sheep and kye to flicht ! Nor dykes, nor yetts, nor collie dougs, In this invasion he cared nane ; Frae Hielant clours lie saved his lugs, And Berwick wan tho' 'twas their ain. Behind their captain bold, pell-mell, His faithfu' followers strove an' ran ; Tis said they never marched so well As now, since the campaign began. In Berwick safe at last, these dregs, Clawing their cluits like " lousie clans," Dree'd that sad nicht all void the kegs, And " wassail worthy Prestonpans !'' NOTE. The far-celebrated IJattle of Prestonpans was fought on the 20th of September 1745, just over 150 years ago, between a number of the clansmen of the Scottish Highlands, led by Clanranald in rebellion, purposely to dethrone George the Second, in favour of Prince Charles Edward and his father, and a section of the Britl-h army numbering, horse and foot, about (000 m?n under the command of the illustrious Sir John Cope. The battle, as is well known, issued after the first furious onset of the Highlanders in the complete overthrow and calamitous retreat of the Royalists and the death of their best soldier, the virtuous, and heroic Colonel Gardiner of Preston, whose family mansion stood within gunshot distance of the sad scene of his last moments. A few hours after the brief contest, his body was discovered on the battle-field, THE BATTLE OF PREST0NPAXS. 11 The Highland victors stripped an' reived Their slaughtered foeinen to the bane : Boots, sarks, coats, watches were " retrieved "- Jews pluck gey bare but they left nane ! stripped of everything that had been thought worth carrying away. Some years ago an obelisk or pyramid monument was erected in his honour, directly fronting his house at Preston, and close to the main line of the North Biitish Railway. As indicated in the ballad, Sir John Cope, with a few of his followers, hastily sought and found shelter on the evening of the day of the battle in the garrison town of Berwick 50 miles from "Seton Slope," his dreadful camp-ground of the previous night. He arrived none the worse of his long and heroic ride, and slept well and long. PUNCH AND D A W T Y. (Two OLD FARM HORSES.) LOWERING, dour, December sky Hung o'er the Loudon lands, that lie Spread out sae braid and bonnilie Between the Lammermoors and sea ; Sae green, sae fair in simmer time They're ca'd the garden o' our clime. But now they look as drench'd an' clroukit As gif they Noah's nude had sookit A' draiglet, dreepin', sodden t through Wi' snawy thows, and jumly broo Of melted ice, and slush, and rain, That winter brews and swills amain. Nae laabor gets the land 'e noo It's far owre wat to cairt or ploo ; The " men" are plouterin' breakin' sticks, Or in the barn mendin' seeks ; The " cottar bodies" bide at hanio, Whare, eident aye for back and wame, They bake, or darn and patch their duds, Or plunge them in the saipy suds ; And scour and redd a' things sae fine, Their little housies fairly shine. PUNCH AND DAWTY. Pent cosh within the stable wa's, The tether'd horses in their sta's Lounge wearily throughout the clay, Deid tired o' a' rest, corn, and strae. Some, drowsy, doze and titfu' sleep ; Some, rapt in cogitations deep, Nod, nod, till in a maze profound And sage-like, they sleep saft and sound. The younkers o' the stud meanwhile Mischievously the hours beguile, And tak slee nibs at neibors' necks, Or rive an' pilfer frae their hecks. But, to speak truth, the ploo naigs maistly Their dear-prized leisure spen' deuced chastely. At Clipilaw, as is weel kenn'd, There's some that for tine manners stand Conspicuously aboon the heads Of ither ord'nar quadrupeds ; And in horse gumption they are great, And scarcely equal! 'd ony gate. Yon farthest aff ane is a meer, A Clydesdale o'er-gane thirty year, Fat, sleek, and sonsy, slow but sure ; And yet a sicker jaud and dour, A perfect fiend to turn the sod, Or birl a cairt, wi' twa ton load ; A pawky yaad nor Inch nor haughty Kent far an' near as " Canny Dawty." Her neibor in the nearer triviss, The maist redoubted nai' Wae ! ' I ken mysel' a' that's to say About the maitters thou has mention'd ; And in thy lug ! I am intention'd To fall upon and burst thae blethers .Neist time our Horse Assembly gathers ! But tell me noo, and tell me quickly What thou o'erheard that made thee sickly. DAWTY. O Punch ! wilt thou believe it true 1 The Maister's fail'd ! clean broken throo ! A broken farmer and an auld, To be cuist out o's house an' hald ! And flee he kensna how or whare, And find some hole to hatch this care, And nurse its cleckin' evermair ! PUNCH. What ! fail'd ! bankrupt ! a dy vour ! HIM ! The Maister bankrupt ? Oh, thou grim, Black Hag accurst they " Fortune " name ! If aucht on yirth could thee defame Or bring just evil now, pell-mell, Thou'dst flounder fathomless in hell ! 18 JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. The Maister fail'd ! Wi' a' my force I thank my stars I'm but a horse ! DAWTY. Wheesht ! Punch, man, wheesht ! or sune thy gabble Shall stir to revolt a' the stable ! The Maister's doun that tale's owre true, But 's reason nane for this ado ; He's doun, and wi' him hunders mair Already crowd Misfortune's flure ! A giftie crap sure Ruin's threshin' By " Agricultoorawl Deepression ! " PUNCH. Now, Dawty, naething waur can come We touch, this nicht, the pit o' Doom ; And what a change sin' we were Vaigies, Twa scamperin', prancin', bits o' staigies, Wi' snortin' snouts an' flowing tails Careerin' owre the pasture fiel's, Wi' twa-three ither cowtes an' fillies, In summer days a band o' billies, And frisky titties a' as gay, And fou o' fun as bairns at play ! Nae sough in those days of aggression By agricultural depression ! Nor were the markets funerals Of hopes and joys, laid low in shoals ! But gatherings wi' pleasure fraucht, Whareat the staff o' life aye bi-aucht A just and fitting meed to all, Whase labour, skill, and capital PUNCH AND DAWTY. 19 Had wrung it from the stubborn moor, And laid it ready at each door ! Faigs ! rent was safe to reckon on The year that we were brokeii-in ! (No' " broken " as the Maister 's noo, But broken-in to cairt and ploo). It made a differ whan our wheat Fetch'd three times that whilk noo we geit ! And ither things proportionate If no' a tate " extortionate," To hantrin folk and burgh bodies, With wham content a "slavish " mode is ! In such a row thy, prosperous time, We and the Maister pass'd our prime ; And did, safe-like, renew the lease Of Clipilaw, in hope and peace ; He little wotting, honest man ! The slovyh o' care he into ran ! / saw 't, and spak, but thou forbad' me, And, sneering, " Jerimiah " ca'd me ! DAWTY. Yes, Puncher, but thou stand'st sae high, Nae wonder that thou " sloughs " descry ! At such a hicht, wi' such an e'e, Thou micht the Bog Sarbonian see ! Thou a True Prophet ! true, I ween, To prophesee what's here, and seen. Gif truly thou this storm foresaw That now bursts owre auld Clipilaw, Why did thou ne'er the Maister tell ? 20 JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. He understands thy neighing well ! But cheep about it, ne'er before Have I heard thee aince nicher owre ! PUNCH. I daur say no ! How could'st thou hear A sound that never reach'd thy ear 1 But, saucy hussy ! a' the same, Know now, to thy disgrace and shame I tauld the Maister years ago Truly what's come to our great woe. I tauld him, gin fool folk teuk ferms, For leases lang, upo' the terms Whilk me and a' the warld then heard Were offer'd baith by writ and word, They wad, as sure as my name's Punch, On sorrow's soups sune sup and lunch ! Ay ! sup and lunch, and denner, too, And feast, and feast, and ne'er be fou ! The Maister understood me weel (For e'en mirac'lous is his skeel And learning, baith of men and brutes : He kens us a' frae croon to cloots). Says he, whan he had heard me out, "Well, Punch," quoth he, " I hae nae doubt, " Sid sic things come as thou's observing " I wad my guid auld trusty servan' ! " Thy Maister bond, indeed, cry ' hain ! ' " Gin wheat an' meat frae owre the main " Cam' in the dreiclfu' bulk thy fears, " For me an' mine id efter years, PUNCH AXD DAWTY. '21 " Ma.k' thee to think an' tell me noo ; " But, cheer up, auld horse ! and eschew " Sic dotard fancies ! Thou'rt aware " ' A faint heart ne'er wan leddy fair ! ' " The die is cast the tack's renew'd "And, weal or wae, I'se never rued!" Na, Dawty, he 'se ne'er " rued " but yince, But yince will serve him his life hence, For it will last his life and him Altho' he beat Methoosaleni ! DAWTY. Dear me ! Oh, Punch, what sail we dae 1 We 'se a' be said, the debts to pay ! I heard him say .sae my ainsel' Oh, his words rang like my death knell ! It 's hard to say owre his narration, But something he ca'd " Sequestration" Is cuisten noo owre a' his fjear Baith deid an' quick and sair I fear They'll shaw nae ruth, but in the ring, At the great sale displenishing, We 'se a' be run, and have to go To the best bidder ay or no ! Oh dearie me ! that I should dree Sich 'whalming wae and yet no' dee ! PUNCH. Sell! Let them sell us ! Ev'n for that I hae a remedie, dear Dawt ! Sin' we war' brak we've been a pair, We've ploo'd thegither thirty year ! 22 JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. For twenty, Tain has been our driver A willint fouter, and keen striver ; Ablins, I micht hae lat him. slip, Were he less ready wi' his whip ! But for his leishin's he maun pay I'll funk his buttock weel some day ! Dawty, my jo ! tak' tent o' " Punch !" Gin grief thy breastie rug or runch, As weel it may, for this last jar Is a mischance by-ordinar' ! Pruve noo thou art o' noble grit, And bid despair stand aff a bit ! Mind, naethirig 's ill but what is thocht ill, E'en death itsel' to that is brocht still, By noble and heroic sauls, Whan high resolve them disenthralls Frae doited friets and dowie fears The weaklin' getts o' waning years ! Gin we maun leave fair Clipilaw And drag out our auld age, awa' And far abeigh our native fields, On mailin's that but slav'ry yields, Or city streets, mirk-dim wi' smeak, And dinsome as they 're black and bleak, Hauling puir cadger muggers' ruchles, Trockin' auld airn, banes, an' bauchles, Limping wi' spavie, weeds, an' racks, Till at the last, laid on our backs, Deid, stiff and stark, they hack us sma' To be by dougs devourit a' ! PUNCH AND DAWTY. 23 Sid sic fell fate as this betide us, What odds, gin Hope stands close beside us, Her dexter digit pointing free A heeven for even thou an' me ? For if such meeds the human class, Wham we in virtue far surpass, It stands as plain 's a pheerin' pole For brutes there is a sim'iar goal ! O thou condemn'd this world's accurst ! 'Tis writ " the prison bars shall burst- The first be last the last be first ! " There, Dawty, on that happy shore We 'se meet at last, and part no more ! But wander ever, side by side, Thro' rowthy pastures, spreading wide, And greener even than our ain haughs, Whan spring-time busks the siller saughs 1 DAWTY. The nicht comes slap on efternoon ! The men will a' be here anon ! That thrawn diel Tarn wad fell us doun, Gin he but heard the slichtesc soun' ! Punch my lord ! my comforter ! 1 wasna able ev'n to stir, Or cock a lug, whan thou began ! Noo ! I'm as blythe as whan we ran Twa playsome foalies wi' our mithers, And kent o' neither thangs nor tethers ! But Tarn 'se be here 'enoo ! May be Yet at auld Clipilaw we'll dee ! Wha kens but the new Maister man 24 JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. Will buy us baith, and let us stan' ? Lord grunt he may ! my auld heart's set On this auld place our auld hame yet ! But there they come ! they 're at the door ! Oh, govy ! 7/oo that Tain does roar ! We're deid horse, Punch, for wan word more ! ADDRESS TO TRAPRAIN LAW. J venerable, .ample, steadfast friend Dear as a mother's form is thine to me, So, as a child might, at thy foot I bend, To pour this lay of filial love to thee. Thou wast the wonder of mine infancy, And tho' in youth afar I drifted hence, Again thou art my sacred mount to be Mine own Parnassus whose high grottoes whence The mature Muse may sweep the Universe immense ! For thou art as the pivot of my world, All round thee circles that I love or know ; Tho' to the utmost Cosmos Thought were hurl'd Buck to this source and centre, here below, Would it rebound though loathing to forego The bootless chase of problems which old Time Makes mockers of research life, death and woe- The How and Why of Nature's wonders prime The secret infinite the mystery sublime ! To jaded, baffled bard, how calm, how sweet, Are thy familiar and mute mountain nooks ! I press thy springy turf beneath my feet, * A striking, and, as seen from the west and north, a high and symmetrical hill, which rises abruptly from the centre of East Lothian to the height of !)00 feet above sea level. 26 JAMES LUMSDKN'S POEMS. I breathe thy purer air which holds nor brooks No element to feed the pain that books Not Nature's breed by false imaginings ; And all my morbid cares take wing, like rooks, When sudden March-dawn on their roost-wood springs, And Boreas e'en is hushed with sough of clanging wings. Then o'er the rounded field of thy grand dome And craggy glories of thy southern side, "With zest unwearied do I climb, and roam, And revel in the spreading prospect wide, Which, from far Ochils to the Northern Tide, And from green Lammermoor to Grampians grey Affords one landscape, seen in summer's pride Might well ev'n Dryasdust himself betray Beyond his highest flight lugubrious " Lack-a-day ! " For what unutterable beauty's given, And spread to man o'er this his natal sphere ; And if this is but earth, what will be heaven, Tho' sure its sheen 's anticipated here Or its gates stand ajar, and thro' them clear A beam celestial streams athwart our strand, Flooding each valley, moorland, plain, and mere, Up to the mountain tips, with mantling grand, Till rare old .Scotia 's dight like an Enchanted Land ! Hither and thither o'er the green expanse, Sprinkled with homesteads as thy slopes with flocks Gleaming and glistening in June's radiance, The raptured breezes nit in fragrant shocks, ADDRESS TO TRAPRAIN LAW. 27 And sing like children 'inong thy rifted rocks Where I sit musing, blessing heaven the while, That such a land no malison provokes, On lawless anarchy, or slav'ry ,vile, For 'tis of Freedom true the law-ruled home and isle. Around thy swelling base and beetling crags No more, Durnpendor* ! whirls the rout of war, Where oft have flouted pitted legion's flags ; Now the green tree and " milk-white hawthorn " are Seen waving in this summer peace afar ; And for the blaring trurnp and deaf'ning gong, And shouted slogans of fell foes at jar, Are heard the low of herds and ploughboy's song, And that pseou of Art the roilgod's whistle strong ! Ah ! many a change of varying might, I ween, Hath swept thy ken alternate rest and throe Since thou emerged, nude-born, upon the scene, Ten thousand "times ten thousand years ago ! Immortal Hill ! the years that man doth know A century fall and effect thee yet Ev'n less than one light, melting flake of snow Doth his most lasting hand-work waste and fret, His vaunted " Pyramids " -Time's laughter and regret ! Before the deluge of the " Flood " had swept O'er thee the ages as a pall were hong, 'Neath whose dark folds remote thy dead youth slept, Eras ere Troy was by Homer sung ; Eras before old Noah was young ; * The old name of Trapraiu Law. 28 JAMES LUMSPEN'S POEMS. \ Eras ere ever from thy flinty grasp The first rude axe by early man was wrung, And fashioned with the laborious chip and rasp, In search of food or foe his trusty f riend to clasp. And as thy semblance now, so in past time, Thou must have look'd and filled that concave sky, Bending all round thee its old arch sublime Summer's and winter's one fit canopy ! With all thy brethren round thee far and nigh Edina's Crags, Inchkeith, sea-level May, Bass, Berwick, Boon Hill, and the Lammer high ; Gullane and Garleton, and far away Old Scotia's cloud-like seats the " Bens " and Grampians Thus ever 'midst our Lothian garden set Uprear thy cairn-top'd cupola for aye : Colossal dome ! no nakedness regret ! Thy massive splendour needs no trickery gay ! A mountain and a monitor alway, As palpable to dullest thought as sight ; Teach thou the hordes of men that fleet away The lesson of thy time-enduring might Thy pledge of glorious hope to those who read aright. THE LEGEND OF TRAPRAIN LAW.* LOTH, the Grim, sat on his throne Owre a' the Lothians King was he ; Nor friend nor kin loved he, hut ane- Ismolde his ae fair daughter, she. To castled Hailes his warriors beat Thanes and wise men, frae far and near In troops, on horse, or sandal'd feet, With flowing locks and warlike gear. * " King Loth, who held sway in the Lothians, and to whom the county is indebted for its name, had a fair and only daughter, on whose brow the diadem was in due time to repose. The monarch kept court at some quarter of his dominions not far from Traprain. A shepherd youth lived at this place, witli whom the young princess fell hopelessly in love. >tolen interviews followed, and the king too late discovered that his daughter had brought disgrace on her lineage. The punishment was death, and that in one of the most appalling forms. The erring damsel was taken to the top of Traprain, and was thrown from the dizzy height of three or four hundred feet to the plain below. The spot where she fell was ever afterwards known by a spring of delicious water that burst forth from the ground the moment she alighted upon it. She was found by her friends not quite dead, but insensible, and was conveyed t > the shores of the Forth, where she was put in an open boat, and left to drift at the mercy of the tide. The wind and waves proved more merciful than her unforgiving sire, and the still unconscious but miraculously preserved lady was wafted in her frail bark as far as Culross, where she gave birth to a son, who, under the name of St Mnngo, became the patron saint of Glasgow. One day, not far from the spot where his daughter had fallen, Kins? Loth was espied and killed by the peasant lover. He was buried at the base of the hill, and, according to the chronicler who relates the story, a stone was raised to tell future generations where he had been laid." D. CROAL. 30 JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. And clern they bear their Saxon brands Sword, dagger, spear, and battle-axe ; While swings the mace, with iron bands Clampt like Thor's hammer, at their backs. Athort the fosse they jostle in Thane, Viking, Scald, and Odin's priest And h'll the Hall with clam'rous din, As 'twere to jocund wassail feast. But wherefore sits the King so pale, In sable, throned on wool-pack hie ? Before that throne arraign'd is one, Now doom'd for death, Isrnokle is she ! " Daughter of Kings ! thy weird betide, I Loth, B ret w aid a, Lord, and King, From Eastern Merse to Strath of Clyde, Thy Prince, in judgment, 'gainst thee bring. " By right and birth this seat were thine, By deadly sin now lost ere won ! Alack the clay ! that child of mine So base could stoop to born thrall's son ! " Yea ! not to stoop, but seal with love, Before the gods, thy royal troth ! Dread Tlior ! Valhalla's gates above Burst vengeance full for childless Loth ! " Yon smooth Oswald of Deira, he That, homeward bound from Col u nib's isle, Foot-sore, sojourn'd a space with thee, Hath fool'd thy head with tales the while.' THE LEGEND OP TRAPRAIN LAW. 31 " Oh, father ! " cried the noble inaid, " Oh, royal Loth, traduce him none ! Ralph loved me since we children played ; I love him for his worth alone ! " Who mated me from earliest days 1 Who shamed Fife's champion bow and spear ? Who saved thee from the dreadful assays Of wild Scots on the Ochils drear ? " Deny him not ! but Ralph I love. Or weal or woe I care not else ! As for the gods One reigns above ; Our fathers' gods, as dreams, were false ! " " Say'st thou ? Those gods confound the wench, And by their god-given power in me, Their wrongs and mine this night I'll quench In thy heart's blood mine tho' it be ! " Lost child of Hengist ! list thy weird : From Traitor's Rock, Dumpender Hill, Be thou cast forth this eve declared 111 traitress, ripe for death as ill ! " And let thy bones unhousen'd rot Fit carrion for the night boar now ! Accursed whereon they fall the spot, Grim haunt of gorgons curst as thou ! " And torn from mouth of him the tongue That henceforth names thy name shall be ! And death his guerdon old or young Who this black day wouldst succour thee ! ' JAMES LUM8DBM8 POEMS. So spoke the tyrant, and withdrew ; Him none in all that Hall gainsaid ; Forth rushed his murd'rous menial crew, And as 'twere wild beast, bound the maid I They've ta'en her to that dreadfu' Hill ; No plaint made she, no word she spake, But whiter than her white robe still, Her ghastly face your heart might break. They stand upon the fatal rock How hush'd that star-lit gloaming's pause : They from her limbs the thongs unlock How hushed sad eve night's curtain draws !. O, they were twenty stalwart men, She but a maiden slim and slight ; Thus high in arms, Ismolde is ta'en, And flung sheer forth that awful height ! As white downpours a mountain flood O'er crag and cliff upon the heath, As drops an eagle from the cloud, Whom fowler's barb has carried death, So fluttering fell the fair Ismolde That vicious thrust the Saxons gave From scarps and jagged peaks untold Her fragile form unscath'd did save. Their brute strength proved her boon, I trow ;, Their Saxon lack of ruth her gain ; O, for her lover champion now, With arms outstretched upon the plain ! THE LEGEND OF TRAPRAIN LAW. 33 Alas ! 'twas but a birken tree Ralph, far in Fife, Loth's ire had flown But blessings on that birken tree And the soft sward she lights upon ! Sae dreid her fate, sae pure her heart, Her safety gart the breezes sing, And frae the ground she landed on Flows welling aye a caller spring. Close on the witching hour o' night, Stowlins, old Madge, her nurse, drew near, And swarf'd outright wi' gladsome fright, Yet moaning low, Ismolde to hear ! Like wearied babe she lifted her ; Like nurse gane gyte, away she fled, Nor baited she till o'er the sea, Ismolde in fisher's skiff she'd sped. The Powers aboon look friendly doun, Nor nigh that bark came storm nor strife ! It drifts anori by Culross touri Stronghold of Oscar-, King of Fife. The King held Beltane on the strand, " What drifting wrack is yon 1 " cried he ; " Come, Claude, Harewolf, and Louden Ralph, Who takes it first his prize shaH't be ! Three galliots, like three proud swans, That sweet May morn shot o'er the sea ; And oars were plied like willow wan's But Ralph right nobly bore the gree. D 34 JAMKS LUMSDEN'S POEMS. " A hooly prize, fair won, my lad ! A hooly prize !" the King cried he ; " Hist thee ashore the foundling inoor What ocean stray -waif mot she be 1 " Moor'd high and dry, they round it pry, " Jesu ! " cried Oscar, " what is here ?" As from the hold the fair Ismolde, From deep sleep waking, 'gan to peer ! Dumfoundered ghaistlier than ghaist, And staggering as a champion fell'd " O King ! " cried Ralph, " he this no jest- A miracle is here beheld ! " This is the maid, for whom I said, I'd flown her pagan father's ire ! Fair won, Ismolde, let me unfold A ' hooly prize,' indeed, my Sire ! " Oh, Oscar was a knightly King A Beltane wedding gave he both ; But when Ismolde her tale had told, His vow he pledged to chastise Loth. When Hallowmas had swept the plain, A fleet of ships stood o'er the Forth Oscar's bold eagle, freed again, In full broad light from furth the North. But Oscar was the truest knight, And in surprise did scorn to take Even Loth ; quo' he " We corne to fight, Not slaughter, ev'n for Lsmolde's sake. THE LEGEND OF TRAPRAIN LAW. 35 " Speed, envoy, then, to Court of Loth, Say ' To redress foul murder home, A thousand gallants, bound by oak, Even Oscar and his knights have come.' " The deed he knows but give this ring, Rasped from the nape of Ralph a thrall, Who wed the fallen child of his King. Yet nathless comes to 'venge her fall ! " To Castled Hailes the envoy came, And told King Oscar's challenge full ; King Loth no warrior lag or lame Full wroth, his royal beard 'gan pull. " Back, braggart, back to Seton's Bent ; Let all your Highland stags be shown ; Thy heid's a feast by Odin sent Our Saxon dogs to gorge upon ! " Around Dumpender's western base, Upon them Oscar's knights did fall, And many a rueful Saxon face That day kiss'd mother earth withal. Wild was the fray like boars at bay The Saxons fought frae dawn till dine ; And blude eneuch by niony a sheugh, Gart lang or night rin red the Tyne. When Oscar charged the tyrant Loth, Their spears both in flinders flew ; Syne swacked they swords in deidly wroth, But a churl behind King Oscar slew ! 36 JAMES LUMSDEX'S POEMS. The sacred spot the hero fell Tells to this day his Standing-Stane ; Another, neaier to the Hill, Where Loth by Ralph was fought and slain AULD HANSEL MONDAY.* grim King Winter hauds his reign 'Mang trains o' gloom appearing Auld Hansel Monday conies again \Vi' routhy mirth an' cheerin' ; His look is like the Freend o' Man's To aukl and young endearin' ; A haill year's w filth is in his halt's He scatters without fearin' To a' this day ! His bags are fou o' wondrous cheer, His social face is glowin' * Hansel Monday, the first Monday of the new year, is equivalent to Boxing Day in England and America. Auld Hansel Monday is the first Monday after the 12th of January, the New Year's Day in old style. Both days have the same signification. Auld Hansel Monday originated at the time of the Reformation. There were certain well defined and marked holidays and festival seasons, and Christmas, or Yule, was the chief one. At this period, in feudal times, it was customary for the lord of the manor to present his retainers with a "box," or gift, hence Boxing Day. After the overthrow of the Papacy the stern Presbyterian divines proved themselves so zealous for the cause of the new faith that they even forbade their flocks to observe the old holidays. Christmas, it was given out in every pulpit in the land, was to be obliterated at once. Every good man, and every matron and maiden, was commanded to be at the plough, or to bring the spinning wheel and work at it before the eyes of all men at the cottage door on that day defaulters to sit on the creepie stool for three consecutive Sundays. The very buskings of Popery were to be burned up and not a visible shred to remain. In pity, however, those ardent theological reformers, for the loss of the old Yule, humanely granted their devoted followers a gift, or hansel day, which th0y appointed should be the first Monday of the year, old style. In Banff, Fife, Peebles, and other parts, Hansel Monday the first Monday of the year is still in 38 JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. \Vi' heartfelt glee tho' whiles a tear Doun his fat cheek is rowin' ; On happy auld lang syne thinks he ! But shortly does it tout him, For auld Scots hospitality Mak's a' thing round about him Blythe, blythe this day ! Hail, merry morn ! the puir man's day I When furth the cottar's fowre wa's Care packs him aff without delay To girn in touns his puir cause ! Then ilka en', Jock's butt and ben, The lichtsome foot on floor fa's, O' rustic joy, nor shy nor coy When Time a fittin' hour shaws. As now this day. By screich o' morn the bairns are up, And loud the auld folk rousin' ; a fashion observed, but it is only in East Lothian, and in a part of East Lothian only, that Auld Hansel Monday is recognised and observed in anything like its pristine glory. It is there a hallowed name to East Lothian men, women, and children. Auld Hansel Monday ! With it are associated feelings, and thoughts, and fond longings and yearnings of the human heart peculiarly. \N ith it are associated the tenderest memories of the family and the fireside circle, and every home tie that a loving heart holds dear. From the loud-sounding, sense-confounding, and busy cities come the servant girls, the shop boys, and the artisans, back to their native calf-ground. Whole families are re-united, with here and there, alas ! a friend amissing. In the rapid glance of the eye, in the hurried, vigorous grasp of the hand, untold volumes of well-understood meanings are conveyed by Scottish men and omen from one to another on Hansel Monday morning. Long-suppressed feelings have this day an outlet. The village streets, from an early hour in the morning, are thronged with visitors. The early trains bring in large numbers of them from fvery quarter. From the aurroiinding rural districts come all the forenoon literally crowds of youngsters, well-dressed, respectable-looking young men and "bonnie lasses," and grave, sagacious-looking, con- scientious, grey-headed Scotchmen men, the like of whom can be seen in no other country. AULD HANSEL MONDAY. 39 What braws are clonn'cl, what sangs are conn'd, What daffin' an' carousin' ! The parritch pat this morn I wat, The mice themsel's may doze in On rarer fare baith rich an' puir Do deeply shute their nose in Wi' joy this day ! Our warnes appeas'd, the young an' stout Maun graith them for the shootin' ; And mony a queer gun's faitchin' out, And bullets ticht to put in. Tam shouthers arie like a rain spout A roostit Copenhagen, That " even Auld Nick wi' couldna shute," As Pate confides the lug in O' Jean this day ! Aff wi' the lads we leave a while The auld folk, bairns, and lasses, Wha cosh at hame, shall time beguile Wi' ane and a' that passes ; Sae brisk and bauld we jump the stile, And for the toun address us, Owre wintry roads, for mony a mile Thick-thrang wi' raaist a' classes, Glaun lowse this day ! The toun it stands beside a burn That loups a rockie linn there, And as below the brig we turn Oh, Wow ! the deavin' din there ! The Linn, galore, did ramp an' roar, And trains an' crowds cam' in there ; 40 JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. And whalm'd an' whirl'd, and brawl'd an' birl'd, And vortex-like did spin there, This awfu' day ! The " Red Lion's " fount our drouth maun slake Wi' genial Jamie's best ane, Syne to the Games, weel-primed, we'll make, And see the grand contestin' ! Within a ring o' hemp an' stake, Some chields their claes are castin', While shifting crowds around them break In laughter loud an' jestin', Richt gleg this day ! In skin-ticht duds o' flannel soy, They loup, and rin the rases ; Lang, lang they've practised for this ploy, Noo they maun shaw their paces. But vain, alas ! Baith man and boy The day ere lang disgraces ; Few win, maist fa' and sair destroy Their braws, or splairge their faces Wi' glaur this day. Hammers and cumbrous caubers now Like willow wands they're swingin' ; Wi' wild huzzas at each big throw The startled lift is ririgin' ; But we maun go the targets, ho ! And leave the giants flingin' Their shafts an' dread bolts to and fro, Like Jove, some great god bringin' To grief this day ! AULD HANSEL MONDAY. 41 " Three shots a shillin' ! bleeze awa' ; " A sturdy auld carle cries us, As we draw near the butts in fear O' burstin' guns' surprises ; " A rnuckle cheese, twa chairs and a', Forbye some tea, 's the prize?, Ma faith ! he is nae man ava Wha comes an' never tries us Ae round this day ! " Dick shouthers first the trusty gun That craw herd Johnnie lent him {Wha chuckie stanes wi't, mony a pun', Amang the sprugs had sent 'em), He took a lang and deadly aim At the bull's e'e foment him, Syne steekt his een, an' fired as game As gin his lass ahint him Look'd 011 this day. Whare did the wayart bullet speed 1 Gae speer in Beanston Valley ; The muckle target, right a-heid, It cleared as clean 's a swallow ! Tain neist for Copenhagen paid His last bob but, puir fallow, Not even a lowin' clout to 't laid Could coax a single volley Frae it this day ! Lang, lang, wi' friendly joke an' crack The crowd gart muskets smack there, But gif the target ere ane strack We didna stey to mak' sure. 42 JAMES LUMSDEX's POEMS. On leaving, as we keekit back, All huge in white and black there, It stude, defying the haill pack, As lairge, and as intack there, As Sol this day. Sune ran we hame wi' anxious haste For our grand Hansel denner, Pork chops and dumplins, sic a feast, A boon for saunt or sinner. Our country core were a' weel braced, And wearyin' to begin her ; The board's richt eithly served an' graced That's spread for health an' hunger Like ours this clay ! The furious onslaucht, knife and fork, Was a' owre in a whuffy, Sae weel our tusks an' talons work In this wee glorious jiffy. At Prestonpans his Hielant dirk Nae clansman plied mair stuffy, Than did our lads their weapons yerk Amang the creesh an' taffy, In lochs this day. And aye atween the s techs, galore, We pree the tither drappie, To synde the gusty mouthfu's owre And clear our claggit crappy ; Ilk lad and lass their glasses pass, And touzzle owre the nappy ; The auld folk see, but let a-bee, And wyte the time sae happy For pranks this day. AULD HANSEL MONDAY. 43 When toasts were dune and things aside, In stumps auld Andrew Brodie, Wha in his oxter, like a bride, His fiddle braucht, blythe body ; He screwed her up wi' conscious pride, And rosin'd her that snoddy, He saw'd us aff sweet Kelvinside, Like Gow, inspired wi' toddy And sneesh this day. Then soon wi' reels, and " waltzes," even, The wee cot housie clirled, As a' the blasts o' yearth an' heaven Were 'gainst its boukie hurled ; Braw lads and lasses lap and skirled, Bang men, and folk wha'd striven Man's number'd years in this hard world, Cried " heuch ! " like warlocks driven Clean gyte this day. But daffin', jigs, an' sangs, an' tales, Sped far too swith the hours on, For freends were met whom morrow's gales Must waft apart life's course on. Anither year, and maybe ne'er Again while time's flood roars on, Might they e'er meet, or even greet, Abune this world's horizon, Tho' here this day ! Weird hopes and fancies fill'd each heart, A wild fond sadness moved us ; We lingered lang sae laith to pairt, And the " farewell," it proved us ! 44 JAMES LUMSDEX'S POEMS. But blessings on that, Hansel ploy, It aye the mair behoved us, To pray the Powers for oh, what joy It braucht wi' those wha loved us, This matchless clay ! HOGMANAY.* O^.ET sighing " saunts " and niim-mou'd bards "'JMl Rant owre their " dying year ;" The rustic muse, mair meet, awards And speeds 't \vi' sang an' cheer, And joys that Mirth, as far owre earth As common sense hath sway, 'Mang simple folk her e'e shall cock, And welcome Hogmanay Ance mair this nicht. Auld Hogmanay ! The funniest nicht, Tho' hindmost o' the year ; Thou ev'n in sulkiest, sourest wicht Gars gleams o' glee appear ; And young an' auld mak' blythe an' bauld, And nane but surnphs look glum, Whan cakes and ale a'where prevail Till dyvours even are rum Wi' joy this nicht ! * Xew Year's Day Eve. The customs and practices described in the above verses were universally in fashion amongst the peasantry of East Lothian in the writer's early days. Nor are they altogether forgotten or obselete yet in the rural parts of the country. The "big bands" of nimnmers or guLsers, indeed, may not be as often met with now as formerly, but this time-honoured species of frolic is still very common and popular amongst the country and village children during "Yule Tide " and especially on the evening of Hogmanay. 46 JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. The youngsters in yon wee cot hoose At hame whare we were born, This nicht, task-free, are looten lowse, And merry guisers turn : Fause-faces on, and sarks they don Abune their coats an' breeks ; Syne ramp an' roar frae door to door, And tirl the neebors' snecks Like ouphes this nicht ! Against this time, for weeks before, They've conn'd their plays and sangs : Sae furth they troop, equipped galore, In noisy gleesome " gangs." And ilk guidman and wife affhaun' The " bairns " richt welcome gi'e, For lang, lang syne they bring to min', Whan they themsel's wad be " Guisers " this nicht ! "Whyles Kate or Johnny's feart an' blate, But aiie their " Judas " he Is, sure, nae " Mutf ;> at onyrate, Tho' timmer tuned he be. Sae forth he stands, and shouts wi' pride- " Goloshan is my name ! With sword and pistol by my side, It 's me shall win the game, Ye dwarfs, this nicht !" Whereat a mannikin wee " lord " A kid Napoleon Strides out, and waves his wooden sword, Crying, " Golosh, follow on ! HOGMANAY. 47 The game, sir ! the game, sir ! It 's not within thy pow'r, For with this my bloody dagger I shall flay thee on that floor, Thou sheep, this nicht !" Like Celts at feud they weapons wiel', But little Nap, I trew ; Like Nap the Great, sin pruves his skill, And rins his foeinan " through." Then giant Golosh on the floor, A driedfu' doom wad dree, But " Doctor Gore " does him restore, As soond as you or me, Wi' a J 'link this nicht. Lang ere the tragedy is closed, A' bashfulness hath fled ; Ilk youngster's lilt will sune be lowsed, And bawbee ballads said ; Syne currant scones, and ha'p'nies round, Will mak' their hogmanay ; And merrier weans may not be found In Christendie than they, This joyous nicht. But noo, in yonder auld toom hoose, A greater band convene Big country chiels, an' cummers crouse, And halflin' lads a wheen ; Out-workers, they, their toggery gay, The lads wi' lasses swap ; And as ilk ane, transformed comes in, Wi' mirth they niaist do drap, Like drunks this nicht. 48 JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. Jock Skaed in Maggie Ritchie's goun, And dress-iinprover lairge, Comes airm in airm wi' wild Tarn Broun,. Wha, despite cost or chairge, Is buskit out, and flounced about For a' his tawny baird Like Royal Bess in a " progress," When wi' Leicester's laird She toy'd at nicht. Wee Katie Todd, sae sweet an' snod, For a' her toils obscure, Comes thundering in wi' Kirsty Glen, A brigand blackamoor ; And Jeanie Hogg, the winsome rogue, And rage o' a' the toun, Ev'n joins the band togged like a grand 1 And dashing smart dragoon, Love-bound this nicht ! Whan they've a' met, the band will tell, Wi' n'ddlin' Joseph More, And Hielant piper, Rob M'Call, Both sexes near a score ; And, for time's short, they tak' the road, Belvye wi' richt guid will ; The mune comes oot in heaven abroad, And glamourie rare will fill The warld this nicht. The starrie gleans thro' rifts an' seams Of stormy skies are seen, And darklin' wuds, like thunder cluds, Tower huge and black between HOGMANAY. 49 The shadowy fields, and ourie bields, Whare lonesome flocks repose : The winds sough by, and seein to sigh " The Auld Year's at a close, And dees this nicht !" The guiser bands meet guiser bands, And merrily fraternise ; Their lood guffaws, like storms on strands, Resound alang the skies, And echo frae the wondering hills, As freends at kenn'd freends start ; In sooth their looks micht scare life's ills Frae even an auld maid's heart, Love-lorn this nicht. Anon they pairt in hurrying glee, And rin their several ways, For lang the tramps this nicht do be That ilka band essays ; Our gentry's ha's for miles around, Maun stage their mimic fun, And ilk ferm house 'ithiii their bound Be in its turn owre-run, Ere twal this nicht. Their pipes an' fiddles skirl an' squeck, And, on the flaggit floors, They dance till doors and winnocks shake, And own the plough-boy's pow'rs ; And gentles draw in Grange an' Ha' To swithly join their plays A' folk are loved a' hearts are moved, And melt in Hogmanay's Warm clasp this nicht ! 50 JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. The yill gaes round sangs, toasts abound. Wow ! hoo the gentles laugh ! Our proud Queen Bess, in his Court dress, Ev'n condescends to quaff A flowing can " To the gudeman And mistress o' this house ; " Wha, pleased, rejoin, and a gowd coin Slip him, for the band's use And treat this nicht. Meantime the auld folk, blythe at hame, Await the youths' return, Wi' neebors they a winning game Play wi' John Barleycorn : Auld yarns are spun, auld ballads sung Screeds heard but ance a year ; The spell-bound bairns baith auld and young- Sit up, them a' to hear Again this nicht ! But anxious keeks are gi'en the clock Nae mean Wag-at-the-Wa', But ane frae Alec Cameron's stock, An " aucht-day," lairge and braw Its twa hands maist meet at the twal, When, sudden at the door, The band, returned, are heard to brawl, And gabble owre their store O' gifts this nicht. Fu' sune they crood the cottar's house, Till guests and guisers fill Its butt and ben sae fou, a mouse A cat there couldna kill. HOGMANAY. 51 And they a' stare the aucht-day clock, And every saul is dumb Husht listening for the Auld Year's stroke, And the " I come ? I come ! Lo ! I am here, the New-born Year, On the ' for ever ' cast ; To strive and speed, thro' peace and feide, Till I shall gasp my last, Twal months this nicht." The haill crowd bound upo' their feet, And, with a Scotch huzza, They joyously the New Year greet, And shake hands ane an' a'. The young chaps bring their bottles out, And ilk ane gets a wettin' ; Syne, sune's they've tasted, turn about, They a' set aff first-fittin' On New Year's morn ! THE HIRING FRIDAY.* business call'd, I gaed to toun, An' braved the hiring warsle ; So thae " impressions " I note doun O' the great human hirsel. Morosely, by a glowing fire, I retrospect the babble : Yet scorn my soon-suppressed desire To execrate the " rabble." For while humanity is dust, And man a vagrant creatur' "Whase aft daft antics bring disgust Your " sagely " meditator ; He is not all he seems to be In holiday careering ; Aft thro' the scum of foamy sea, The pearly treasure's peering. Where ignorance and folly meet Wi' youthfu' glee to prompt them, What if vulgarity should greet, An' her dear children compt them ? The boorish speech, the gait, the leer, An' mind a blank we pity, * This is a "red-letter" day in the livea of the peasantry of East Lothian the Hiring Friday at Haddington. THE HIRIVG FRIDAY. 53 Yet what ye lack God's truth is here, Ye shams in toun or city ! Here simple human nature shaws, All unsophisticated ; Unknown, unheeding fashion's laws Her yearning heart unsated ! That one heart, worn on rustic sleeves This day for knaves to peck at Is Adam's still and joys and grieves Or plush or purple deck it. Still, cross'd was I our manlike " hinds " To see them fool'd an' cheat'd, By gallows scamps, wi' tricks an' blinds, A school miss might defeated ! By riff-raff rogues, whase victims were, In a' that decks the wearer, To such tag knaves as Tyneside air To Cowgate reek superior ! But drunts aside ; the " ither facts," Let us a moment scan them Behold auld Scotland's buirdly backs, An' shanks that shaw men awn them ! 41 Beloved at hame revered abroad ! " The " wall of fire " around her ! The arm with whilk she cuts her road When thick faes would confound her ! An' lasses, sweet ! as lads are stoure ! Braw cockernonied ladies ! Show faces that would papists sour, Mak' benedicts an daddies ! 54 ' JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. Nae prim-faced, dwarfish, dolly jades That cankered guidrnen bothers, But, " plump an' strappin' " stately maids- Proud Scotland's future mothers ! ROBERT BURNS. [WRITTEN ON AN ANNIVERSARY OF HIS BIRTH, IN MY EARLY DAYS.] $/^\j!H, Muse of Caledon ! with fervid wing 3$a From the blue hills thou mak'st thy sacred seat, With mountain cataract and cliff interned, To our stream'd valley in a strath lowland Descend ! and justly of thy minstrel true, This day his day to us the day of days, Commemorative of him evermore, Teach me, child-like, to sing ! O'er heirs of fame Of ours above philosophers, or they Whose martial story or historic page Or song confounds decay his laurel'd head, Spiring the groups of Scotia's giant sons, Towers like a king's. No longer moody brow'd, I see him o'er his empire sweep his eye The master of the fields of song beloved, Sowing and reaping joy ! No truer eye E'er peep'd, like lover, into Nature's face So sympathetic with the love of her He grew unto her, and her breath was his, His, hers them both a melody, Wedding their two souls one ! " Sweet Ballochmyle ! " The dew-eyed spirit of a summer's eve, Tender and loving as the face of pity, In one small song ! 56 JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. Then, as we turn the page, And reading " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled ! " A blast, as of Mar's thunder, wakes the heart, And the most peace-wed souls, with sudden fire, Blaze with heroic ire and martial eye As patriots arm'd ! " Should Auld Acquaintance Be forgot ? " Never ! Thou hast made it sure It never can ! That query is a spell To sprite the querist's name from age to age To the fag end of time ; and being there, To charm time back again. Turn me the leaves : Not one of which but glows with Nature's light As sweet as sweet eves, when the harvest moon Keeps watch the golden field, and overhead The plover's cry is heard ! Here's an old friend " A man's a man for a' that ! " So he is But many a man was scarce a man before Ye breach 'd his mind and let the knowledge in That makes him so. Given assurance true Of the grand fact a man he surely was He one became ; mayhap a slave before, Or cringing yokel to exacting " lord ; " With cap in hand, and fearful downcast eye, Mumbling the enforced homage abjectly, His soul as darksome as his gait confess'd, The immortal mandate " A man's a man, The rank is but the guinea stamp, the man's The gowd for a' that !" charged as with Heaven's fire, Lit up his darkness, as the levin bolt Night's murky gulf, and let him see the ground Whereon they both stood was the equal earth The earth, nor less, nor more ! Henceforth, to both ROBERT BURNS. 57 All life was changed ; the lordling doffed his pride, Forgot his " strut ; " the serf, a serf no more ! Shoulder to shoulder stood up with the port And modest dignity that graces man, The bluest princeling's peer ! But to resume : " Highland Mary !" " Ye Banks an' Braes !" "Tarn Glen ! :> Each one of these, and eke a hundred more All matchless Scotia doth hold dear, and sings Them to all peoples of the wondering lands, Who drink their rapture from her dulcet lips With charmed and greedy ears, till they, entranced, Grow dead to every care of all the world But her harmonious woe ! In many a clime, In many a land of many-corner'd earth, In Indian jungles and Columbian wastes, In Afric arids and mysterious wilds, Islands, like Edens, in the purple seas, Pacific, and Australian worlds, The wondrous opposites and heirs of ours, As well King Winter's realms the home of Frost Hudson's and Lapland these old songs of Burns, Like veriest wizards in the human heart, Have conjured with the weary exile's thoughts, And in the sighs of longing wanderers, Bewitched impossibles to patent facts ; And o'er the frem and foreign continents Made misty Scotland with her hills arise To fondest memory true ! There is a gem A talisman in two brief verses which, 58 JAMES LUMSDEN'S POEMS. Many a dreary hour in Far West lands Hath, like a mother's voice, soothed me to peace, And pillowed in the awesome wilderness, My home-sick troubled heart, and made me love, Like hers, the name of Burns ! The Poems now. To me to every Scot Whose unsophisticated breast is proof To ward aside the testy showers of cant, Like April rain, these Scottish poems are (" Familiar in our mouths as household words ") Sources of richest, never-ceasing joys ; Fountains of never-failing glorious mirth, With humour spurting to the gravest verge ! Repositories rare of Fancy's spoils, Which she, when raiding with her Scottish Knight, Carried from Dreamland's territories bright, Where Beauty, absolute, sits Queen of Art And universal song. Here we behold Fruit mellow as the tree whereon it srew ; Angelic tenderness and satire keen ; Piercing sagacity arid wisdom sage ; A sword of wit, with which this David slew The Giants humbug and hypocricy ! A laverock-throated bird of sentiment, That, singing, makes our hodden-grey Scotch sky Beyond the radius of semi-earth, Glint with the harmonies of inspired thought And raptured feeling as the glamoury dome Of Poesy's own Fane ! And here we meet Description in her simple robes of truth, Sweet nurse and ruler of the Poet's art, Leading in either hand, through all his works, ROBERT BURNS. The seen and the ideal sisters twain Up to perfection's feet. For all do feel, Who read both Nature's and the poet's book The fact that Nature cannot clearer prove That she is Nature, than the page of Burns, Her faithful bard, attests ! Graved with his pen, Her happy lineaments pluck from our eyes Amazed conviction, with the infant view Which recognises them ! AT PRESTONKIRK. [MARCH 12-rn, 1888.*] eastlin' wind blew cauld an' keen, <$K The auld Kirkyaird was clad in snaw, But eastlin' wind or snaw, I ween, That day I neither felt nor saw. My heart was in a coffin there, Slow sinking down an open grave ; The wide world micht be foul or fair For me, sae sunk in sorrow's wave. I kenn'd the king that coffin held, As nane on earth could ken like me, An' loyal love would not be quelled, An' death but quickened memorie. My thochts, like birds, winged thro' the past, Dead summers blossom'd green again ; I saw that king, baith firm an' fast, Enthroned among his fellow men. * Alexander Lumsden, a singulaily robust, and, in one or more ways, a somewhat remarkable man, the father of the writer, died, overcome with agricultural disasters, and domestic calamities of an exceptional kind, on the 9th March 1888, at East Linton ; and was buried us above at Preston- kirk on the 12th of March, a very large concourse of tl.e whole people following his remains to the grave. AT PRESTOSKIRK. 61 The sceptre in his hand, it was The carle stalk integritie ; His croon was truth, an' for his cause He claim'd the friend of right to be. With stern, but kind and valiant mien, Owre life's high way he march'd alang ; Whate'er he wist, he gain'd, I ween, With resolution fix'd an' strang. But sicker ills pursued the king, His lofty crest was stricken low A thousand times, but nocht could bring That regal heart despair to know. Thro' wreck an' ruin, woe an' want, Wi' steadfast nerve he held his way ; Nor age, nor pain, nor death could daunt That matchless spirit to this day. Wi' breaking hearts we leave him here, Oh, may his sleep be deep an' blest ! For never on earth's rounded sphere Did truer man or stronger rest. EPISTLES. TO A YOUNG WRITER. [ON ROBERT BURNS.] JEAR SANDY,- Of wark this nicht I'm clear an' free To sey the promise gi'en to thee About the rhyme on Burns That you an' Jock wish me to spin ' First time the Muse cries ' Sam begin ! Your Fancy's hour returns ! ' ' Sae I hae ta'en my muckle chair, Ink, paper-scraps, an' pen ; But what to scribble I declare I trow na yet nor ken ! Your scheme is, the theme is Sae loomin', lairge, an' hie, I nither an' swither, Till Peg maist tak's the gee ! For Burns is he wham every Scot Gars bauld fire up an' glow red-hot, An' thrill frae tap to tae For love an' pride o' auld Scot-land TO A YOUNG WRITER. 63 His rugged Mither, wha doth stand Sae strang by freend an' fae. Her thistles wagging owre the moor, Her daisies on the lea, Her foaming streams, her mountains dour, Her rock-bound tumblin' sea, He sees a', an' gi'es a' A ready welcome dear, As soon as the name fa's O' Burns upo' his ear ! And up come visions efterhend O' bluidy weir that Scotland kenn'd, Ere ever Bannockburn ; And Wallace " red-wat shod !" he sees Triumphant Scotia's standard heeze, And her. usurpers spurn ! A ne'er-match'd wally wicht was he, Sae staunch he couldna steer, As stark as Strength, as Freedom free A Peer without a peer ! A Pearl, a carle, Up-towering abune a' ; A Hero, whase marrow The haill wide warld ne'er saw ! He braucht the dawn, and Bannockburn, The ae, lone star o' Freedom's morn, Did herald in the day, Whan Liberty uprose as bricht As a June sun that scatters nicht, An' scaurs the haurs awae ! Wi' flashing eye he sees the Bruce His marshal'd phalanx wave JAMES LUMSDEN S EPISTLES. Wi' war-brand in the closing truce To victory or the grave ! Inspiring and firing, All hearts to do or die, And welcome, what will come- Red death or victorie ! As high for humble social Man The Burns trumpet note was blawn His living pages through ; Despite chance wealth or poverty, He was (and would that a' should be) The natural man an' true : A modest independent mind, A heart sincere an' free, To live an' feel for a' mankind Wi' him aye bure the gree ! And sure aye the poor aye In him a Wallace fand ! Whase creed was, whase deed was By Worth alone to stand ! Wi' piercing, clear, prophetic eye He saw the time fast drawing nigli, The coming Age of Right ; The age of justice and content, When wrong an' falsehood's power is spent,. And love and truth have might ! The brotherhood and sisterhood Inalienable of Man, The victory of the wise and good, The universal plan, TO A YOUNG WRITER. 65 Assign'd is, design'd is, And fix'd by Heaven's decree, Which timely, sublimely, The " warld owre " yet shall see ! And seeing and believing this, Frae first to last what was amiss, And shored to block its course, "WT satire, of the power of fire, He molten'd into laughter dire, And stronger made the force Of right and righteousness, that aye Warm in his briest he nurst, To throw, when time was ripe, and slay All things to Man accurst- Vain fashions an' passions, Inhuman acts an' ills, Yea, a' wrang, that ere lang Man's weal allures an' kills. Sagacity, as her First Son, And Heir o' a' her realms an' throne, Hail'd Burns at his birth ! And, that he weel micht rule an' reign For ages o'er her wide domain, She ransack'd Heaven an' earth For regal gifts to serve his needs, And King-like him adorn, Sae's a' his sov'reign words an' deeds Nae man could scout or scorn ; But surely, securely, As treasures from above, Believe them, receive them In reason, faith, an' love ! F 00 JAMES LUMSDKN'S EPISTLES. Transcendent wit, an' sympathy, Wide as the warld's sel', had he, And gifts divine of Sang ; A soul of eloquence was his, Where Harmony abode in bliss, And revell'd aft an' lang ; Description's watch-tower was his eye, All Nature was her field, Whase every limit, low an' high, Did to her pleasure yield ; Sae nappy, sae happy, Her limner drew in sooth, His pictur's were victors, Whose " art " became as truth ! The myst'ries of the human heart, The saul's dread chammers to this " art " Disclosed their secrets a' ; His ingine was a search-licht that Their dark neuks made as clear, I wat, As noonday mak's the Law ; * And this grim human heart an' saul, Whilk god-like he explored, He turn'd at will into the Hall, And High Haunt of Concord. Thence, pinging, an' ringing, Its labyrinthines throo, His sangs rise to Paradise, Frae whilk at first they flew ! But conscience, Sandy ! Halt ! my lad ! Wot ye the time ? The nicht has fled, An' Janwar's day creeps in, * Traprain Law. TO A YOUNG WRITER. Just like a peevish auld gray man, Wha ill this bitter cauld can stan' An' fain wad thow his shin ! Owre Airthur's Sait the growin' licht The rested toun revives ; Laz'rus shogs aff the sloth o' riicht, Sair envying cosy Dives ! And graphic the traffic Resumes its darg o' din, Sae, Sandy, aff hand, I Cry thee " Ta-ta !" an' rin. G7 TO A SHOEMAKER. K^LL HAIL, thou king of leathern bales, ^Ok Behold ! thy subject, " Sain," to-night Before thee falls that is, to write Anent thy note on human ails, And answer, as he best may dow, The sage thoughts of thy sapient pow. Thy charge " That all is ruled by chance Is proved by men's unequal lots "- Is just as wise as saying, " Coats, And caps, and boots, brand-new from France, A.re undesigned, and erring all, Because the big don't fit the small." Does't shock thy tender soul to see " The good and true to ruin shied, While up life's sunny heights descried The false and vile mount fast and free f ' Ah ! lad, this is but seeming ill, The fattest land's at foot o' hill. " Some, whiles, by thunderbolts to earth Are struck ; by ruthless engines some Are crushed, or torn limb from limb ; Many are maimed, or blind from birth, And countless creatures their life long Endure the pain of others' wrong. TO A SHOEMAKER. 69 " With purposed ill and accident, War, famine, massacre, disease, And ignorance chief cause of these This world's way is darkly pent !" But even, with these full in thine eye, Can'st thou no god but chance descry 1 " Yon proud ship, mann'd with hopeful souls, To our white cliffs comes bounding home ; Just one night more to stem the foam Ere into England's arms she rolls ! Alas ! that one night more at sea Must mean for her Eternity !" Again, " the weirdly, dripping mine Beams and resounds with light and life, And workmen whistle at their strife, Hopeful of rest and bright sunshine When flash ! one flare of after-damp Puffs out for them Life's flickering lamp !" Well, Dick, may not a " Father-God " Administer the seen, at least, By " fixed laws " which, observed, feast, In this their nursery-like abode, His children all, to greatest gain, With disciplining peace and pain ? I wot so. " Accident " to me Is but a shell the husk wherein A divine purpose is, to win A rapid end : On land, on sea, The mightiest " fact," the meanest " dot," Are both the guise of what's seen not. 70 JAMES LUMSDEN'S EPISTLES. Did e'en but one of all " God's laws " Provoke or effect ill obeyed Then might thy creed be not gainsaid, And pessimism find good cause ; What then, if they but good afford All round unbroken, unignored 1 I may not say that " evil " all Is the result of broken law ; Evil there is, and it may draw And train to strength man's virtues small Your craft would little skill disclose But for our need of boots and shoes ! So then, O King, to close with thee, Be not so sure of what thy brain Suggests when sadly o'er Life's main Hope flies thy sight, for nought can be More certain than that human wit Disclaims those marks it fails to hit. TO A YOUNG COMMERCIAL FRIEND. [THE NEW AND THE OLD WAYS TO " WEALTH."] writ'st me, Jack, o' thy intent v/JX To " win an independence," An' pray'st, wi' " advice," I anent Thy purpose dance attendance : For Auld Langsyne, see " Samuel," then, As thy fond love beseeches, Clank doun, an' point wi' ready pen The shortest cut to riches ! Begin wi' slichtin' ilka friend A cast aneth thy " station," Frae poortith's neives thy kids defend As ruinous degradation ! An' every " chum," though true an' staunch, Gin thou in gear o'ermatch him, Straight from thy favour root an' branch Without a tear detach him. To add ane boddle to the hoard (That " privilege independent ! ") Ne'er grudge to truckle to a lord As low as he's transcendent ! Obsequious, court the monied loons, Lip-worship and adore them Wi' subtile flatt'ry busk their crouns, An' flower the ground before them ! 72 JAMES LUMSDEN'S EPISTLES. Peer out, wi' keen politic e ; e, The a la mode incomin' : So shall thy Protean morals be Found meet when 'Change shall summon ! Like full-blawn ship, tak', then, the seas, Prank't in the blaze o' fashion ; An' tack to ev'ry blast an' breeze Of " nobby " vice an' passion ! A free, accepted, favour'd son, A weel-graced bairn o' Mammon, What thou despise thou needna shun, Nor what see'st fause ca' gammon. Thine ain belief, lock't in thy heart. Do resolutely fate it, Absolve thy soul the good man's part, Tho' heaven desiderate it ! To circumvent, or even draw To ruin the unwary Be bold ne'er fear thy country's law, Gif thousands are the quarry ! Dodge, plot an' shuffle, wind an' wheel, Work auld an' new pretences ; Just thou succeed outshame the de'il Success a sure defence is ! Thus Moderns Mammon's hichts aft eliin, Post on vile crime they sprawl up, Auld wisdom's yoke 's owre lag o' limb Thae geniuses to haul up ! TO A YOUNG COMMERCIAL FRIEND. 73 They maun ruak' spangs at sudden wealth, Abjure as "loss " ways thrifty ; Be millionaires by storm or stealth, Or fled bankrupts at fifty ! An' gin the envied guerdon 's won Alas, thou lord o' nature ! " Self made " art thou ! Ah ! self-undone One moment scan the creature : Lo ! prematurely auld an' spent, " A conscience but a canker ! " In " independent " discontent, The Knave finds sorry " anchor ! " Dear Jack, deep ponder this a wee The " self-made " rogue's repletion ; Then, sure, thine after aim shall be A nobler far ambition ! For competence the brave will fight, Nor worlds in urins debar them ; But, want or wealth, they follow right, Tho' yawning death would scaur them. Adieu ! I shun that higher ground, Where best I might exhort thee ; But holy themes let priests expound, " Sam's " rhymes they 'd ill comport wi'. Go on an' prosper to the end, Auld honour put thy trust in ! Heed not what meed this world send, Heaven metes at last the just ane ! TO THOMAS PINTAIL, ESQ. [OUR CHURCH VACANCY.] TAMMAS, I got your note. Fell proud I be To learn you're on our " Comytee," " We've got a judge and referee " (Cried I, richt vauntie !) " In our polemic dominie, Wuth ony twenty ! " Now shall each daurin' candidate Be heckled weel on Kirk and State ! John Calvin's creed the " five points " great They maun endorse 'em ! Armenian heresies on " fate " Avoid or curse 'em ! Tackle them, Tarn ! an' be nae sparin' On that teuch doctrine Trinitarian ! If in yer grips ae cheep, like Arian, They dare to mew Expunge them wi' the Unitarian Socinian crew ! Syne pruve them wi' the Athanasian That " creed " wi' ne'er a twa-faced phrase in ; Gif ane demur, ye'll spier nae reason, But pack him atf Folk hae nae mind, when barns are bleezin', To riddle chaff ! TO THOMAS PINTAIL, ESQ. 75 Oor need is urgent therefore wale A shepherd famed owre hill an' dale For zeal, an' wrath, an' lungs to quail This stiff-neck'd age, Wi' graphic notes on Clootie's jail Its destined cage ! And, also, Taiu, / rede ye weel Yer choice be on a Union chiel, Wha will go in for pawkie skill An' compromise, Cannily to " bird-lime," " trap " or steal A' prey that flies ! Noo warrin' patronage is gane Worried the auld contention bane Why should we, like three jowlers, strain At ithers' neck ? Oh ! sune oor trinal leash rin ane, For Scotland's sake ! Ye mooted " Disestablishment," An' spier hoo I think thereanent ! Ye ken fu' weel I'm that way bent ; But, Dominie ! "Tis that towards UNION it wud tent The sisters three I An' lastly, Tarn, mak' sure yer choice Fa's on a lad wi' catchin' voice, An' genty mien fit to rejoice Our lasses fickle ; Or ye may raise yer lugs a noise Wad gar them tickle ! 76 JAMES LUMSDEN'S EPISTLES. They doubly can out-vote the " men," Sae, gin ye widna toil in vain, Mind what I say 'bune a', wale ane A woman wanter ; An' there's my loof ! the Manse, aff haun', Is his instanter ! TO RAB O' THE HILL. [l\ REPLY TO A CHARMING POEM BY MR ALEXANDER DONALDSON ("RAB O' THE HILL ") OF GIFFORD, ENTITLED " TWA WEE WEANS."] " |IpHEY toddle up an' doon the stair " (fjg* Your twa wee weans ; And there they'll toddle evermair The twa wee weans ; The " dainty cherubs " ne'er again Shall leave fond Memory's sweet domain, But ever in our hearts remain Your " twa wee weans." Fa' blessings doun on you an' them The twa wee weans ; They canna help but bless your harne, Sich twa wee weans ; To be the dad o' sic a pair I'd swap a hantle rhyming ware, Syne point, defiant, dool an' care My twa wee weans ! Tho' I'm a stranger to you a', And your wee weans, I wadna fear to swear ava The twa wee weans 78 JAMES LTJMSDEN'S EPISTLES. Were bonnier than flowers in May, Sang sweeter than a laverock's lay, And innocent as lambs at play Your twa wee weans. I fancy noo, an' think I see Your twa wee weans Trot but an' ben in merry glee Twa rare wee weans ; Their little cheeks the budding rose, Their saft blue eyes the violet shows, And snawy white the seraph brows O' your wee weans. Their daddy sits .and bids the wife See their wee weans, And prizes higher than his life Sich sweet wee weans ; For then he'll act the man, and be A sturdy struggler, firm an' free Nae weakly fool shall faither ye My twa wee weans. Fareweel ! my couthie, canty chiel, An' your wee weans ; I ken your heart beats true an' leal For thae wee weans ; I havena felt for weeks afore As when your rhyme I read it o'er They moved me to the vera core, Your twa wee weens. TO THE MAN IN THE MOON. iLL HAIL ! high ancient patriarch !S Antediluvian Man, Wha needed nae auld Noah's Ark Whan the dreidf u' Flude began ; But viewed the waxing storm o' rain, Nor cared ae pinch o' snuff; " Cah ! lat it rain, droon hill an' plain," Quoth thou, " I'm safe enough ! " When elfins lea' the breaks an' shaws, To trip their fairy round ; With howlets in auld castle wa's, Thou hold'st converse profound. And whan, ainang the stars sae bricht, The braid moon tak's the field, There, plain, thou look'st by warlock slicht, The device on her shield. And, sicht o' yearth 'tis aft to see Thy grand career on high ! A roving Scotch wind blawin' free, A Scotch November sky ! The star o' morn blinks i' th' west, Bricht in its patch o' blue, Till, dim owreheid, thou slip'st to rest. Whan our Rab yokes the ploo. 80 JAMES LUMSPEN'S EPISTLES. Ride on ! bauld Lunar artiste, ride, Thy car 's baith gilt and brent ; This war-Id is thy grand circus wide, Thae heavens thenisel' thy tent : Mankind, thy audience fit below, Cheers on with fit guffaw ; Thou art their monarch fit, I trow, They thy fit subjects a' ! TO MY LANDLORD. [THE AGRICULTURAL DEPRESSION.] 2, weal, an' wealth, an' length o' days, Wi' leal Scots love an' honour, Combine an' bring a' happiness, Your lordship o' the manor ! Excuse this blaud, tho' poor always, And all obscure its donor, His rustic Musie pleads an' prays, Ye'd ne'er for this disown her. (Her screed's nae threat'ning missive sent By Parnell-fired Hibernian, To shore ye death as punishment For drawing rents agrarian : Scotch to the core ! nae compliment Gin she lilts " sense " unvaryin', And relegates the violent To Fenian an' barbarian ! But noo, my lord, she'd fain ye'd ken She's dounricht sair distressit ; Her wut in degrees aucht or ten 'Neath zero I should guess it : G 82 JAMES LUMSDEN'S EPISTLES. In truth, the drap ink in her pen Seems frozen wi' distress o't, An' sair she dreads my parl'd brain This yarn will mak' a mess o't). Cumbrous restraint frae tacks out-weed, An' root out auld hypothec ; Entail, an' a' the land law breed That plague us waur than toothache ! And compensation grant, indeed, " Improvements " tho' not shoe thick, An' gie to land, like grub, free trade, So's a' may buy an' ploo quick ! And when a's dune, my lord, sure then We'il laugh the Russ an' Yankee They may as weel as us cry " hain !" The rocks o' Killiecrankie. A fair field gie to Scottish men, Your favour keep, an' thank ye ; An' gif they downa stand their ain, The di'el plays them a pranky. But, oh ! my noble lord and chief, What will or then betide us ? This crisis like a midnight thief, Is in the house a-side us. That foreign rung in's neive is prief, Destruction maun abide us, If landlord mercy some relief Does not aff-hand provide us. TO MY LANDLORD. 83 In common times 'twad men degrade To hint or crave abatement ; That all should 'bide fcheir bargains made, Is truest doctrine statement. But there are pits in every trade, And some that seem by fate meant, To swallow whole the best rules laid For trade's true honest treatment. An' this is ane, my lord, the noo The pitfa' term'd " Depression ; " An ugly, black quagmire to view, But uglier to play clash in ! Yet heid an' lugs, a droonin' crew, This bog the farmers plash in ; Some hope the strong may struggle thro', But sinkin' here's the fashion. Here, then, my lord, your bard's appeal ! Exceptional our strait is ; So, in the way ye ken sae weel, Exceptional grace do mete us ! A chieftain let your people feel, Tho' high o'er their's your state is, To meanest clansman's woe an' weal Your chieftain's heart elate is. Kemember in your castle ha', Whaur never poortith dare look, When in your princely rents ye draw, What a' they cost your puir folk. In simmer's sun an' winter's snaw, For duds an' brose a queer lock, They toil'd in hundreds, grit an' sma'. To heap your burstin' gear-pock. 84 JAMES LUMSDEN'S EPISTLES. Abridgement o' a half-year's rent Would scarce suffice to ease us ; And not e'en three times ten per cent, Discounted, would release us. It seems to " Sam," then, what we want, An' in lang-run micht please us, Is to revalue by consent, An' tak' what justice gi'es us. Choose each a fittin' arbiter, The Shirra he another, An' let them fix a rent that's fair, Without mair bosh or bother. This micht mak' a' our jealous stir In mutual goodwill smother, An' laird an' tenant hand an' fur Like auld naigs pull together. Fareweel, my lord ! this humble strain In its ain spirit tak' it, Judge not its counsel wi' disdain Because a clod-poll spak' it ; But, whether by you scorn'd or ta'en, Till some ane better mak' it, The feck o' folk this time again May side wi' " Mucklebackit ! " TO A PLOUGHMAN. [AT "SPEAKING TIME."] JAMIE, Thy letter duly cam' to hand Thou'st clark'd like a scholar grand ! Quoth I, " He wields the writer's brand Wi' fell wit spear'd !" Syne leuch, to think my native land Such peasants rear'd. Thy reasons for the plooman's way, To seek new hames each term day, Almost convinced me thine essay Was Wisdom's voice But, based on premises astray, It's just " mere noise." For the big bulk o' ploomen chiels, 'Tis fated they maun till our flel's ; This is their certain lot, which wills The Powers Eterne ; And, health an' breid, wi' a' its ills, 'Tis nae sae stern. I grant at times it may be richt Even necessar' in mony a plicht Our dear auld hames and haunts to slicht For guid, for aye ; 86 JAMES LUMSDEN'S EPISTLES. But what about the general flicht Each term day 1 In aulcl times " hinds " were valued at Sae much a heid nor much at that Like needfu' owsen, dowg, or cat, They war " retained," And, toiling like the brutes, I wat, They brute pay gained. But this is changed, or changing fast, The " slave's chain " clanks but in the past, Man's coming to his " right " at last The warld owre, And only tyrants backward cast An envious glower. But if true independence brings Free will, free speech, and ither things As cash and dignity it flings Nane's dues aside, Nor with a sneer insolent stings A maister's " pride." Nae " maister " either in his station Should mak' o' this new dispensation A vantage ground all obligation Henceforth to slip, And, with his bare " remuneration," The workman clip. But, Jamie, be thou leal an' chaste, And tak' a true freen's word in haste, TO A PLOUGHMAN. Stick whaur ye be ! Blaw not like waste Life's common o'er ! The wheat soon rests the chaff amaist Flits evermore. 87 TO A FRIEND IN AMERICA. [AFTER A WET YEAK.] SEAR M , Hoo are ye a', man, owre the Ferry ? O' thee I aft think an' Fort Garry, And ferly gin Time's restless wherry Shall e'er again Waft us thegither, bauld an' merry, Some glorious e'en ! Lang in the backwoods we twa ran, Defying skaith, clime, beast, or man, Adventure in our hearts, in haun' A Col burn rifle All friendless, in that strange long Ian' Deeming a trifle. Sin syne, auld comrade, I am here ; But this by thee seems not to lear', As in your dear-prized note ye speer Gin "Peg" I'd mount O' this far-famous awfu' year Some true account. I'm stagger'd whereat to begin, The tale sae far, far back does rin, TO A FRIEND IN AMERICA. 89 But I'll just jump my story in Where last hairt ended, And first the deluge, like a linn, On us descended. A' winter, lowlands, haughs, an' glens, Were transform'd lochs, an' bogs, an' fens ; Even weel-drain'd upland, loamy plains In your auld kintra, Up to midsummer, wi' the rains, Kythed deserts wintry. Sma' wheat was saun, an' maist o' that Was droun'd out to a waesome scrat Ere Mayday cam', like ominous bat Wi' cloudy wings, To usher in the nicht distraught This harvest brings. A' thro' the spring, the Land o' Cakes Ne'er buskit her auld shaws an' brakes ; But storms an' multitudinous wrecks Clad her in woe ; An' for birds' sangs, we'd bardies' shrieks 'Bout " Dolereaux ! " Trowth ! drear an' gurly was the simmer ! Puir nature ! May month wadna trim her ; June whistled thro' her leafless timmer Like surly March, And e'en July, the turn-coat limmer, Proved hard an' harsh. 90 JAMES LUMSDEN'S EPISTLES. St Swithin's Day stole on apace, Great promise in its watery face, The legendary tale he'd grace The " forty days," Like water kelpies, each in 's place, Beyond gainsays. A month ahin', at lang an' last, 'Tween showers, an' gales, an' skies o'ercast. And sick hope daily sinking fast, The hairst began, When lo ! anither horror pass'cl Owre auld Scotland. A flood, to whilk the floods afore An', trust me, we had score on score ! Were but as gutters to the roar An' rack in' din 0' spated Tyne's tumultuous pour Owre Linton Linn. The Craps ? I beg thee, dearest M v Constrain me not to talk o' them, For if sae, ye'd my screed condemn As patent lees ; And deem a madman grown auld " Sam " Athort the seas ! Sae warrily, I'll simply say, We've gat our hairst a' in this day ; And we've some forty stacks o' strae Forbye the chaff; As for the corn, baith guid an' gray, Is just some draff. TO A FRIEND IN AMERICA. 91 The tatties ? "VVae's me for the tatties ! For, tho' not fond o' them as Pat is, I railish them wi' herring as saut as Yerl Beconsfiel' ; But, och, this year, alas ! their faut is Sae few to peel. The neeps an' them are just a match, Wi' here an' there a guidish patch, Of failure absolute a swatch The best I've seen Sin daylicht, suffering, drew the latch O' " Sammy's " eyne. Fareweel, dear Malcolm, fare ye weel ! God bless ye a' ! And thou, dear chiol, Should e'er blind Fortune's chancy wheel Ligg us thegither, Wow ! what a glorious nicht we'd steal Frae care an' bother ! SECOND EPISTLE TO A FRIEND IN AMERICA [AT THE BEGINNING OF THE AGRICULTURAL DEPRESSION.] ut, I fear, Even in this icy hemisphere, Whether of Saxon, Dane, or Gael, Our annals tell as bad a tale ; Nay, even in times contemporaneous, We see our records miscellaneous, Teem daily with a mass of crime, As hellish as of any clime. Beloved by Sol the god of fire As any Christian should desire ! Mayhap we cannot boast those " rare Stern virtues," which, in lands more fair, Do " bloom as in a heavenly air." What then ? sure that 's no reason why Our friends should burn us when we die ! If 'tis our climate's fault, it seems Bad taste, that we, by those same beams We sadly lack'd in life, should be At death despatched so terribly ! But seriously. Down from thy " Manse " Look not, my brother, so askance ; Love thou the tombs more tenderly, And view them with untroubled eye ! They are the spots, of all the earth, Most sacred. Altar, home or hearth, Or battlefield where Liberty, Thro' war's riv'n clouds, hail'd Scotland free, 102 JAMES LUMSDEN'S EPISTLES. Have not such influence to enthrall Or draw thought to them, as withal Those green and silent mounds possess Down through all life's mysteriousness ! Then, cherish still our " Auld Kirkyard," Its tear-bedewed and love-pressed sward ; Its hallow'd memories revere With reverent soul and heart sincere ! Care nothing for its rayless gloom Thy soul shall never know the tomb ! Turn not from it in coward fear, But trust it more as death draws near ! Invoke no visions of crossbones, Death's heads, or worms beneath its stones ; But look upon " God's Acre " as The porch through which to Him we pass ! The bed where we lie down a-weary Of tumult vain and sorrow dreary, To wake above, renevv'd for aye, . The heirs of everlasting day ! TO DR R. BROWN OF BIRKENHEAD. [THE AUTHOR OP AN APPEAL AGAINST DISESTABLISHMENT, AND AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW OF THE WRITER'S.] o'er, old fellow, through and through, t>25 Your bookie I've perused in view 0' the "just notice, or review" I'm ask'd to send- - A kind critique, yet strictly true, As friend to friend. The Auld Kirk's cause, in chapters ten, You argue wi' a subtle pen, " Establishment," ye apprehen', " Is her true weal," And surmise when she tints that then She's wed the Deil ! Ye'd deem the pow that plann'd that blow That o' the Auld Kirk's greatest foe, Unwitting all if she'd forego Loof o' the State, She soon her auld sel' scarce might know Sae grown and great ! That's so ! And it just comes to this : If Scotland thinks her Kirk amiss, Then, though ye scribes in crowds cry " hiss ! " The Kirk shall fa' That is establishment and kiss Her new-made law ! 104 JAMES LUMSDEX'S EPISTLES. Indeed, 'tis granted by yoursel' Page twenty-fourth, ye'Il mind it well Your vera words ring like a bell Here pat an' prime, An' toll your hollow logic's knell, Ev'n in my rhyme ! You say that "We the people made The Kirk State-bound, all unafraid Of priests or princes in the trade Of freedom's foes ;" By what right, then, are we gainsaid Thae bands to lowse ? You dub us " persecutors," for By righteous means we'd fain restore To the whole nation as before The nation's funds ! Sure, Doctor, now thy wit in store Kins near the grunds ! Your ither reasonings I like better, And some endorse as soundest matter, Tho' even in them ye less than flatter Chiefs o' our Party, And even D. M. L. bespatter Till he looks clarty ! To me the subject o' " statistics " Is ane o' those I term " the mystics," But sums in your book hit like fist-sticks In Paddy's neive, When freend or fae come in for their licks, Sans let or leave. TO DR K. BROWN OF BIRKENHEAD. 105 But you're for Union. There, my freen', I shake hands wi' you, fast an' keen ! And ferlie if we strive to gain The same grand goal ? Tho' how to reach it still has been As hard 's the Pole ! Could Union be "discovered" now, Sans Disestablishment, I trow, I'm not the Iconoclast 'twad throw The Kirk her eyrie, But rather her spread wings below I'd nestle cheery ! " But this can never be " so I, Being all for Union, fain would try (What's coming certain by-and-bye, Despite " Appeals ! ") The grand " unstateing " reniedie, Whilk " cures or kills ! " Fareweel, auld playmate ! Braw, braw thanks For your grand book ! Whilst I'm on shanks I'se ne'er forget ye nor the pranks We play'd lang syne ! Twa funnier f outers frae its banks Ne'er fish'd the Tyne ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES THE FOPPISH YOUNG FARMER. !;IEW him at market with mustachioed face, Assuming manners which he cannot grace ! Affected, magisterial, insolent His landlord's fawning flunkey for a rent ! (That is prospectively the pup I draw Owes all his lustre yet to " poor papa.") With lesser farm, his neighbour near is dirt He'd scorn to recognise ; but, all alert To puff his vanity, he'll stretch as high E'en as my young lord in his London fly. For one mere distant bow from one so great, Our embryo husbandman would strangle Fate, Tramp through the wheat to catch him at the turn, Or for his " good day " ford waist deep Tyne Burn 1 See him at market : From this window here The Rhymer spots him in his gorgeous gear ! The peacock's in full tail behold the Flam The Duck of Puppeydom, the Prince of Sham ! And such an officer ! Ye'd think ye saw The living Bismarck giving Frenchmen law ! THE POPPISH YOUNG FARMER. 107 While, all the time, in solid worth and power, Yon mason's 'prentice, whose trade craft's his dower, Towers o'er him as the giant forest oak Does o'er the nettle or the wanton dock ! With swaggering strut see him parade the streets, All smirks and bows for each " great man " he meets. A local lord he salutes with an arm Like bending boat-mast swaying in a storm ; The Burgh Sires and Councillors, grown fat On sweet authority, or Bernard's maut, Are all his rage, his hob-nob friends, 'twould seem Ah, bless you, reader ! this too's just a whim Of vanity ! Our knight they only know By name or custom, which is here below The " Open, Sesame !" to the closed world's heart, And short-lived honours of the street and mart. The " ladies," too, our Spark does deftly greet. Veneered with pride, but few points of him meet Their passing gaze ; besides, angelic eyes See good in all things either side the skies. Yet, doubtless, there is one whose discreet mind Deems him a catch all " true love " 's riot sand blind. His form is stalwart, if his mind be mean, And his farm home why, it might serve a queen ; Beaux, too, like nags, are scarce, and one's oft glad Not to be nice, but bit what can be had ! A little while, our Hero starts for home, The Rhymer follows. Up in May's blue dome, Sol, all secure, a long arc yet can sight Ere Dian shall awake and supersede him quite. The farm is reached, the stylish drive is o'er ; We join " young master " at the big-house door, Then saunter with him through his brairded fields, 108 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSEF. Quiet smiling at the pleasure which it yields This rural princeling thrum the gamut o'er Of self-laudation, and the treasured store Of puerile nonsense, aneiit mean details, And petty incidents the shreds and tails Of simple farming telling all the trash Like one divulging plots that might a nation smash ! To test him in his own line, we enquire " Why weeds thrive most when cultured plants expire?" The response is a vacant stare ! 'Tis vain One crinch of wisdom to attempt to gain From one who knows this as his highest lore " ' Spur ' won the last race, ' Whip ' the year's before ! " All knowledge of this wonder teeming round The gather'd spoils of scientists profound, The splendours of the god-like Shakespeare down To the harsh ditties of the poet clown, The annalist's strange tale, the problems sage And vast philosophic with which our age Is riven ; nay, the monthly storm and surge Of wrath and balderdash within " The George " All to our Dandy are as unto one Who lived before the flood when schools and tawse were none ! Now, should, my culprit, this too truthful sketch Of thee meet thine own eyes, do further stretch Thy patience love whets the true censor's dart That wisdom shoots. One word more, ere we part : Because thou art thy father's son, and set A master over men, deem thee not yet The master of their thoughts which measure thee Intuitively just where, if thou be In them awanting, all thy lofty airs THE FOPPISH YOUNG FARMER. 109 Can never raise thee ! Arrogance impairs What it would mend. Ah, grasp the better role Be true, if nothing great, for ev'n thy soul Is worthy of this choice, tho' dwarfed and tame Son of thy father, father not his shame ! Nor deck thy cheek with skin humility, But let thy very core and centre be True modesty's own home ! Then whosoe'er, World honour flaunts, doing thy falling share Of honest work, the hairst will come anon, When thou wilt reap in sheaves what thou in grains hast sown ! THE ADVENTURES OF BENJAMIN SOLOMON, YEOMAN, IN SEARCH OF A SPOUSE. fN a light grey suit of West of England tweed, Bedight and garnish'd with kid niits and flower, Behold our Solomon, rigg'd out on his steed, Ambling at twilight to his lady's bower. Behold our " Ben," our annalist of threescore, The lover of three " dears " two of whom " deid," He'd replace, like King Hal, with just one more, To cheer his gouty eld with love's sweet meed, And warm his wintry nights, now wintry cold indeed. Miss Park of Spott was in his eye tho' she, Eighteen and pretty, had ne'er with him spoke If even, in fact, she knew such kniyht did be I would not swear by ev'n our Jubilee clock. But what was that to Solomon, douce folk ? " Step out, old Floe ! what, weak wench daunton me ! " With that, and riding wild, the girth he broke, And instant from his throne on Floe did flee, Into a stagnant ditch a noisome brock to see. Old Floe, not in her prime barring in wit Grazed by the hedge (as oft she'd done before), Until her master, Benjie, bit by bit, His slimy plight did full at length explore, Then long he rubb'd and scrubb'd, himself to fit BENJAMIN SOLOMON 111 For love again ; for, being so far, once more Old Floe he'd mount, and, thereon doing it, Set out again, like Crusader of yore By Sar'cen knock'd on head, much lower for his lore. Gently he trotted, musing deep a tale He'd tell Miss Kate ; "How that his steed, being young, Had bolted, bit in teeth, leaped fence and rail, Torn through forests, over crags had sprung, Like poor Mazeppa's, as by Byron sung, Till on a tattie bing she last did fail To make one inch more when he quickly flung Him from the saddle, as't had been the " Whale," * And run for his dear life, to tell his love the tale ! Miss Kate was in the Old Lane doing what ? What other Kates have done since beaux would woo, When Solomon burst up, broke the lovers' chat, And love's sweet spell that held the lovers true ; Told him gross lies with hand on heart, and blew More monstrous sighs than ever fiend begat ; Kate laugh'd, like waterfalls when May is new, And thinking " such a lark," puffed Ben so that She led him to the house like gander gone distraught ! His sad lorn love tale there he told, and, oh ! Ere one brief hour, his troth was given and ta'en ; Then leaving him, to fetch before he'd go A " nip " and biscuit for her weary swain, The merry Kate revolving in her brain A merry trick to farce her feigned vow, Tripped to her lover, waiting in the lane, And told him, as her laughter would allow, The errand of old Ben, and all his lies and show. * The famous monster one which was stranded and captured at Longniddry. 112 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. Then quickly in the chamber reappeared The maiden with decanter, cake, and all, And pouring out a bumper round she veer'd, And said, " Sweet : for my love drink this you shall, With one quick gulp place it beyond recall ! No excuse, darling, can this night be heard ! " Ben, in the third heaven, and fearing not a fall, Pluck'd up the glass as 'twere a queen's reward, Stood on his feet, bow'd, drained the tonic gall For it was vinegar but if he cared The tears that streamed his cheeks told rather how he fared. Then on the doorstep, too, his ardent flame Gat further quench'd, for, bidding him good-night, Kate slapp'd his face, that fierier grew for shame, Then slamm'd and lock'd the door upon him tight. He could not choose, but mount old Floe, poor knight, As down the avenue her steps proclaim ; But that night's cup he had not drunk yet quite, For from among the bushes there now came Kate's beau and others mask'd, to wreak on him their game. They dragg'd him from the saddle dress'd him out Like fish-wife from Dunbar, or Fisherrow; Remounted him, hand-bound, and legs about And underneath they warp'd to ancient Floe, Then cheer'd him for to find his home or no ! Next morn at dawn, in Black's field, where both " nowte " And sheep did graze, ah ! such a woeful " show ; " Solomon " in all his glory," 'midst the brute rout, Bound high on Floe, a fish-wife, bearded, fresh from love's redoubt ! AT THE GRAVE OF A YOUNG FRIEND WHO WAS ACCIDENTALLY KILLED. 'S dead, this is his grave ! Is then This a' we ken 1 Oh, I would ken, In very fact, if thus my frieu' Shall pass away 1 And here life's wondrous process en' In kirkyard clay ? In painful fancy, all intent, From birth and upwards, stent by stent, I trace thy strange " development," To manhood's guise ; When world of wonder death is sent, And here thou lies ! Are then thy twenty years in vain, And a' thy parents' care and pain ? Thy hard won lear ? all life inane, Or as a feast, At close o' whilk, death yawns " Amen," An' sleep's the rest ? Conjointly with thy brain's alway, I traced thy " soul's " growth day by day ; Now, here thy brain, compact of clay, Death-struck, dissolves. But where that "soul" itself? away, 'Yond our resolves 1 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. Is aught in Nature a vain boast ? Is aught in Nature ever lost ? Have riot all things a purpose most Even seen by man ? Where, then, is thine 1 not here, death crossed, Ere life's mid span ? In a' the works an' ways of God, Discern'd alang life's devious road, I thought poor worm injustice showed In much I saw ; Deceived by lack of power to prod His simplest law. In ' we really understand Grains dropp'd from Nature's careless hand- What wisdom, measureless an' grand, Astounds our view ; Proclaiming love's supreme command, A' Nature through. Then, can this tomb the finale be, O' a pure being such as thee 1 If so in thy sad death I see The rule despotic, Of " chance," " mishap," or " destiny " Blind, mad, chaotic. It may be but what tho' if 'tis ? The fact that, whether woe or bliss, The Ego finds in warlds than this (As here, indeed,) For her a form corporeal is The first grand need. AT THE GRAVE OF A YOUNG FRIEND. 115 What then, ye dull, material core ? May not the Power, that from a spore, Developed man, develop more Than ye discern ? Can ye wi' thy peep-glass explore The all eterne ? Nae mair ! Here on thy grave, dear lad, I'll wail thy fate, sae seeming sad, While deeper thought gives deeper haud, Of faith by me, And to my heart assurance glad Tis well with thee ! Wail on, thou drear December win' ! Fa' doun, mirk nicht, an' close within Thy blackest pall this warld o' sin Death-beds and graves ! What reck we, gin we ken there's Ane Wha sees an' saves ? AT THE AULD ABBEY BRIG. [BKLOW HADDINGTON.] as thou \vert langsyne, ?tf3> Braid-sheeted, gleamin' Tyne, Thou sweeps this hallow 'd scene o' rny life's early morn Aye still the same fair stream, Tho' sair, sair's changed life's dream, An' I'm a stranger grown i' the place whare I was born ! As owre the brig I gaze, I'm lost us in a maze, While the gloamin' breeze comes soughin' like the sound of the dead past ; And in the river clear, Dim, dusky shades appear The forms o' friends departed, by memorie fond recast ! The weel-kehned banks I scan, The woods on either han' ; The glimmering " Cascade," like a fair vestal's sheen ; The auld mill an' the weir, The kirkyard lone an' drear The white-wa'd ancient clachan, whare sae happy I hae been ! Aneath me is the " Green," And the dark, deep pool wherein I hook'd my maiden trout ae memorable Fast-day ; AT THE AULD ABBEY BRIG. 117 Wi' nervous joy an' fear, Owre head I whisk'd him clear High through the middle air, some twa score yards away ! And there, by " Corbie "Wall," Grew the spire-like spruce tree tall, From whase cloud-stabbing tap I shook the May morn dew, Reiving a starling's brood, When, in owre careless mood, I slipt my daring perch, an' swith cam' doun, I trew ! But ilka bush an' tree, Bank, brae, an' grassy lea, To " Sam's " fond sorrowing heart reca's its tale o' yore ; To him a' Nature here Yearth, lift, an' atmosphere Are laden sick wi' memories o' the " days that are no more ! " Whaur's a' the auld folk flown, That, thirty towmoncls gone, Ca'd this auld village " Hame," ere its last glory fled 1 Saved wi' the wreck, not ane,* Alas ! is left behin', Upo' the final exodus ae mournful gleam to shed ! Its Worthies, weel I min' ! Shae-cobblin', " Auld Corrine ! " A veteran Peninsular, wha focht wi' Sir John Moore How keen was he to tell O' the nicht his hero fell When on pension days he quaffed a dram, and loud for " grief " wad roar ! * A literal tact. 118 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES " Dick Scott ! " wee " Sandie Baird ! " " Auld Steele ! " anither caird Frae that red pack o' Mars that o'er-ran Waterloo. But, wow ; nae sot was he Owre stern an' proud to " spree," He strode a " soldier " to the last, majestical an' true. Noo, ane an' a' are gane, Fled, scatter'd, dead alane Here on the Brig I stand, an' inuse on life an' death ; The murmuring stream below Wails like the voice of woe, As I turn and face the wide warld, an' its lowering sturt an' scaith ! THE FLITTIN' DAY. iE sweet May morn, when blabs o' dew At bud an' blade were hingin', An' larks, to hail the dawn anew, Spiel'd up the lift a-singing ; 'Twas then that I, ray Peg to try, Slipt doun the auld green learning, To ane dear nook, beside the brook, Whaur sune I fell a-moaning. A rumblin' like a yirthquake shook My simmer morning bourie; Sae I ran out, an' lap the brook, To see what was the stourie : Alack, alack ! I stagger'd back, My bardie wrath forgettin' To learn its cause was cairts in raws, Wi' scores of puir folks' " flittin' ! " On every road the heapit teams Swung hameward rockin', nodding; The household gods portentous gleams Of instant wreck forbodin' ! But ropes an' strae conjoint that day Did haud in coalition, Clocks, cradles, stools, beds, tikes, and dails, Secure despite position. 120 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. A-tap the cairtloads, wives and weans, Crouch'd eerie an' dumfoun'ert ; I wat, weel sheuken were their banes, An' sair was mony a lone heart. The grave gudeman, the "coo" in hand, Cam' soberly an' hinmaist ; But aft, I trew, nae crurumie noo, As in past time was seen inaist ! But what by ord'nar' look'd to ane That siccan scenes has view'd aft, Was, the new modes in plenishin', Clocks, knick-knacks, grates, an' woodcraft ; Red polish gleam 'd, veneerin' seem'd Nae real mahogany that day ; But easy chairs, and sofa lairs, Tauld plainly how the cat lay ! The lads haill clad, the lasses braw, An' deil o' either sickly ; My saul waxed proud to see them a' O' little drunts ne'er stickly. A sturdier class will seldom pass Your traveller's view the same day Pith, body, sense, intelligence, And pluck ne'er lag nor lamely ! And seeing this, 'twere hard to tell, Why should be a' this " flittin' ; " Sae straucht I speir'd the hinds themsel' ; Quoth they, as they'd been bitten : " Ye silly gowk ! we farm folk (Could ye but comprehend it), Some fyke's aye wrang we're bound to gang- And hence we shift to mend it." THE FLITTIN' DAY. 121 I answer'd, sadly, to mysel', Ye are the silliest gawkies, To rive auld hames, 'maiig frena to mell, For sic wheen triflin' niawkies ! D'ye think, quo' I, that heaven ye'll try When ance ye win the " new place 1 " My lads, before, there's ill in store, And all unknown 's its true face. Out o' the pan, iiitil the fire, Is neither fine nor fittin' ; But even waur, despite desire, May be the wage o' " flittin' ! " What then, what then ? again, again, Ye flit an' flit like Show-Jack ; Till, some slee day, .Death ca's to say " Your final ' flittin' ' now mak' ! " An' musing thus, I daunder'd hame, Richt proud I wasna " flittin' ; " Haith ! " Sam's " run plenty in his time To prize a cosh dounsittin' ! Auld Clover Riggs ! thy cleuchs an' craigs, Green haughs an' winding river, As fixed as thy castle wa's Be " Sam " to thee for ever ! WRITTEN IN THE COUNTRY. [ON ANOTHER FLITTING DAY MORNING.] flittin' teams I mark afar, <*^ An' froon upon this world's way ; Our country neuk has been the star An' gem o' Scotia mony a day ; Wha say her children are na free Ye gowks, ye gowks, come here an' see ! But are they wise wha freedom sae Accept in this nomadic style ? Are they auld Scotland's staunch mainstay, Wha canna stay themsel's the while ; But flit and flutter here and there, Like bumbees that on nettles fare 1 I wat the wale o' our Scotch folk Hauds little share in this day's show ; The feck o't is but scum an' brock, An' dregs up-jumlet from below ; Whilk being licht, as froth is licht, Maun e'en wi' the first puff tak' flicht ! For a' that, wha can weel deny What noble fellows, bane an' brain, Some flitters are ! I gaze, an' sigh " There's imiir sides to this tale than ane." That's sae ! an' just because it's sae, We acquiesce, an' let it gae. " WAE, WAE IS ME !" [AN OWRE TRUE TALE.] O&N my lone little cot in the suburb o' the toun, "W? Musing to the music o' the wind's eerie soun'- Brooding in a strange land on a' me an' mine, How a' my joys hae fled wi' the days o' Langsyne. To think I ance was Queen o' my ain faither's hame, A bricht lauchin' lassie nae care wad tame ; When "Willie, dear, he woo'd me, an' won me for to part Wi' the dear auld place an' that auld faither's heart. 0, shame befa' the fause friends that wiled Willie on Frae his fireside and his Mary to their haunts about the toun ; Sae happy for a year were Willie, dear, an' me O, that awfu', awfu' drink, that such a thing can be. For a' things prospered then, an' oor little tot was born, An' Willie was sae proud that birthday morn ; Noo they baith sleep side by side so dear, so dear to me In that strange kirkyard in this strange countrie. A gloom fell owre the hame when Willie jee'd awa, No' mony nichts a week at first but ane or twa ; But aye it deepened deeper that Storm he wadna see, For the world was a' against him, an' he was changed to me. 124 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. O' waefu' was the douncome, waefu' was the fa' ; Credit lost a bankrupt said out house an' ha' Despair disease the mad -house, and onward wi' the wave, Till the shatter'd wreck was sunken in a lowly pauper's grave. O, my heart is like to break, my Willie, dear, to me, An' wee Jamie, too, what gar'd my laddie dee ; What gar'd my darling dee, when I only had but ane ? O, Willie, Willie, Willie, we've pay'd the wage o' sin ! Noo to think that a' around me is blooming in the May, The green fields getting greener wi' the lengthenin' o' the day; The very birds so happy wi' their loves in ilka tree, While lonely I maun wail O, wae, wae is me ! The sun is in the far west enthroned on glowing gold, My heart is wi' my dear ones in the kirkyard cold ; When morning breaks so brightly o'er wood an' flowery lea, It will break upon me wailing wae, wae is me ! A U L D CHARLIE. [A FA YOU KITE HORSE.] Charlie's deid, his yokin's out I've kenn'd him sin' he was a cowte- A nobler nag, a faithfu'er servaii' Yearth' ne'er bure, nor mair deservin'. His lineage was obscure, I own A sort o' cross bred octoroon Frae nearest blood-royal pedigree Removed even to the aucht degree ; But in himself were gather'd neat The virtues o' a' breeds complete ! And, sure, 'bune either looks or birth, Even in horse flesh, ranks Moral Worth 1 An' this was Charlie's greatest " point "- Guid nature, mense, an' " wut " conjoint ! In him dwelt neither wrath nor guile, But leal desire to serve an' toil. He wadna cruik'd a limb to harm, Nor, kennin', trampit on a worm ! A cannier beast does no' survive him He loot our wee'st callant drive him. Oh, proud as gipsy king on's cuddy, How aft he rode him to the smiddy, An' felt, when cock't upo' his mane, As safe as mamma's cradled wean ! An' then ye could'na fit him wrang 126 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. In whatna yoke ye bade him gang Following or leadin', hand or fur, Just what ye wish'd he'd ne'er demur, But, bricht an' ready, lithe an' free, Gin ye were pleased, content was he. Tho' but a "draught horse " was his end, Yet his great service did transcend His fate ; sae aftiines of a Sunday A spankin' gig-hack, grooin'd an' dandy, Thro' foul and fair, mid-day or mirk, Did he rin to and frae the kirk, Hurliii' his maisters wi' a birr That gart the sooplest " roadster " stir. But now thou'rt deid, my peerless nag ! Sma' need is thine o' praise or brag ! Thy noble life I'se ne'er forget, But in fond heart thy memory set. And it is much, tho' deid in truth, To have inspired this love an' ruth, An' deep regard an' grief for thee, Even in this sad extremity. Only a horse " a brute " thou wast, But did stern justice mete at last Deserving dues to nags an' men, How were the tables turn'd then ! Some hantle o' our human kin', I wot, would have to change wi' thine ; An' the true " brute " would then be seen Too often in Man's shape, I ween. "A U L D LEE S." [A RUSTIC PHILOSOPHER.] ^J OME years ago, in the heart of East Lothian, I ?^ encountered, and afterwards became familiarly intimate with, a somewhat extraordinary character in the semblance, flesh, and actual being of a poor and hard- working farm servant, distinguished in those parts by the homely sobriquet of " Auld Lees "his rightful designation being Jamie or James Lees. In any position of life this unique man would doubtless have been notable, but to my mind considering his social status, his scant chances, and what he had intellectually mastered and made his own, despite his lowly origin and destiny he was more remark- able than if, with better opportunities, he had risen, like others, to European eminence as an inventor or scientist. A few years previous to my first knowledge of him, he had the shocking misfortune to lose his right arm by a threshing mill. His old master no doubt knowing and appreciating his worth retained him after the accident in his service, and at the time I became acquainted with him he filled the position of grieve, or steward, on a large arable farm. On this holding he likewise, for an extra perquisite, acted as general mechanic ; and despite the loss of his arm, he erected fences and kept in good repair all the gates and carts, threshing mill and engine, and the whole machinery 128 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. on the farm. The cart mending, c., he overtook during wet weather, and at other odd times when not engaged in the field ; and I have often stood by and watched him with intense interest while thus employed. On all those occa- sions he was invariably accompanied and assisted by a little schoolboy a favourite son, or nephew of his own, I forget which ; and it was truly surprising to observe the workmanship executed, the invaluable and substantial result of the extraordinary methods and combined efforts of this original pair. But, astonishing as these outside or professional opera- tions of this man were, his mechanical, scientific, and other successes at home were even more so. He had been all his life not a mere reader only, but a voracious devourer, of books, magazines, and newspapers of all kinds novels, politics, travels, histories, scientific works, etc. in short, of all and of everything that he could possibly by hook or by crook buy, borrow, or in any way lay his eager hand upon. He was a keen polemic and political partisan, a fluent, ornate, and pointed speaker if not a born orator and could harangue you by the hour in his native and ex- pressive vernacular on any or all of the burning topics or favourite heroes of the day. He had made himself acquainted with far more than the simple elements of astronomy, botany, and biology, and was also deeply read in the geological lore of his time. His house was a singular combination of a hind's cottage, a chemist's laboratory, a circulating library, a millwright's workshop, and a scientific museum a miscellaneous collection and repository of plant, animal, and rock " specimens ;" tools, retorts, books, maps,. AULD LEES. 129 instruments, and other knick-knacks, too numerous to mention. His grand study and hobby, however, when I first got acquainted with him. were the (to him) attractive problems of meteorology, or the " wauther science," in his own par- lance ; and in pursuit of these he had actually constructed with his own hand all the appliances and instruments named in the annexed rhyme. This rhyme I wrote at his own earnest request, but for reasons which I need not here allude to, it was not then printed barring two or three of the last verses. The occasion of it was an intolerably cold, wet, and evil year for farmers, whom he deeply commiser- ated, and whom he longed to re- inspire with hope and to incite to fresh efforts by his brilliant " forecasts " of a bright time coming. The brother of this remarkable man was also a mechanical genius in his way, and an ardent amateur musician, and I once had in my hands a beautiful fiddle he had made with his knife solely out of a portion of a paling rail taken from a gap in a thorn hedge. Both brothers have now " joined the majority," leaving no sign, and for some time I have lost all trace of the whereabouts of their surviving relatives. I print again the full rhyme in order to illustrate and record the indefatigable industry, ingenuity, and, I may add, the admirable sagacity of this wonderful being. " THE WAUTHER." " Auld Lees' " been tichtly exerceesed this while about the " wauther," That endless theme to ferm folk o' deevilish frait and bather ; K 130 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. Sae in my noddle a' his pranks hae been conspiring lang, To inak' me sit an' ease mysel' wi' a bit blast o' sang. He kens a' kinds barometers the Siphon ; Common Wheel ; The Hermatic " puir man's wauther gless " that never does work weel ; The touchy Sympiesometer, of heedrogen an' ile ; An' mony a sic-like instrument owre fashious here to style. Leeze me on his thermometers that tell o' cauld an' heat Hoo muckle or hoo little aye will gar ane grue or sweat ; Or, wi' a meenit's feegurin', as owre the hills we stride, Can tell 's their hichts, maist to an inch, abune the Norlan Tide. Rain gauges, spheres to weigh the winds, an' note hoo fast they blaw, Anemometers, Hygrometers, Electrometers braw, Maps, plates, an' grit charts synchronous o' storms past an' to come, An' learn'd gab ambiguous, their grand results to sum ! He'll state hoo great the pressure is owre sich a wide areeay, As Europe or America as 'twere his ain idea ; And, \vi' a visage grave as Job's, tell whaur at " 4 p.m. The lift was blue, the sea was smooth, an' a'thing else the same." " Winds are the ae deerect result o' change o' temp'rature, Whan air is hett it rises, like the steam o' toddy pure ; Syne in to till the vawcum sweep the gusts off every neuk, Just like oor hens at feedin' time when Ailie cries ' chuck, chuck !' " AULD LEES. 131 Thus tells he in a jiffy the cause o' every storm, But what's the cause o' that cause, alack ! wha can inform 1 Here Lees' " profoondly ignorant," an' claws his head and says " The Wauther Clerk caps Beaconsfield in 's unexpected ways ! " The currents aikquatorial an' polar rise an' fa', But why they dae sae, at sich times, I canna find ava ! Before I e'en can guess that Why, far far'er inaun I peer But I do trow the truth lies in the Northern Hemisphere ! " This year has had a surfeit o' the tempests o' the warld Canadian frosts an' Polar snaws roond 's infant thrapple swirl 'd ; Syne Monsoons, Simoons, Tornadoes, an' Levanters frae the east, Wi' Boreal squalls 'tween coorses, have comprised his con- stant feast. " Then mists, an' rain in deluges, have drouk't an' drench'd him weel ; Pestiferous, deleterious blasts have pierced his bouk like steel ; Disastrous caulds an' arid gales have brocht him pain an' blicht Till noo, like drugg'd incurable, he'd fain succumb outricht ! " Puir deevils are the farmers a' ! My heart loups to my mou' To hear them murn their sad, sad lot nae gleam o' hope shines through ! 132 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. But they maun rlicht their tears amain an' look Fate in the face, An' daur her warst like Scottishmen to whom despair's disgrace. " Let ' Almanacks ' an' ' Wauther Seers ' foretell o' ' evil days !' Vile caterers to ignorance wha lie because it pays ! Pass them a' by as knavish rants nane scans the Wauther gleam Beyond twa days for certain hoosoever wise they seem ! " Neither be o' hope forlorn, but frae this deid wa' o' time Streetch to pluck the golden fruitage, peerin' surely thro' its grime. There are lessons hung like signboards, that a little child may read, What your wants are how to fill them tho' Necessity cry speed .' " Then the mirk hour o' the present in immediate time shall be The prelude, birth, an' earnest o' retored prosperity. The overthrow o' Poortith grim maun aye forerun the reign O' the smiling prince his brither jovial Plenty, fat and fain !" PROFESSOR BLACKIE ON CONFESSIONS OF FAITH. ? C NDER the heading of " Creeds and Canaries " there appeared some very clever lines by the late professor of the Greek Chair in the University of Edinburgh. Notwithstanding, I do not agree with their author upon the subject so deftly and neatly disposed of in them to wit, the " mooring " of the intellectual life and theological beliefs of Christian ministers in this advanced age to a fallible document propounded and drawn up by a body of fallible and comparatively ignorant men upwards of two centuries ago. Hence the following rhyme by way of answer to him. LARKS AND LIBERTY. I had a little laverock bird Whose doleful song was scarcely heard The gilded cage beyond it ; All day it leapt from perch to perch As if for freedom sweet in search ! Day after day again, again - It tried and tried, but all in vain Its jail securely bound it ! One morn the glorious summer sun, To gladden nature wide, begun His upwards march thro' Heaven, 134 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. In love and joyous liberty The larks, like fllackies, sang on high ; " Poor bird," I said, and op'ed the door, " Come out and join the merry core- Come out, release is given ! " Down from the topmost spar it leapt, Whisk ! thro' the door ajar it swept As hawk-death were behind it ! Then up the sparkling morning air Up, up it mounted, singing rare, In grateful raptures and elate, A lay to Freedom consecrate, That now no cage did bind it ! " If birds are wise, men are not fools ! " For they, too, hate their narrow rules And old dogmatic cages ! " And should you wish to make them free, Just ope the door and you will see " How all agog, with plumed wing, They ready are to soar and sing With Truth's own bards and sages ! " The lawyer and the grave D.D.," Whom sect-dividing enmity In life-long strife engages, Might then fling to the winds their " creeds," And cease to fight schismatic screeds, And turn to preach and practise free At last True Christianity, Which knows no " gilded cages ! ' A N E DEEVLISH PRANK OF YE WICKED ELFIN KING. tAR up the glen, on a whinny knowe, Yellow -haired Effie sat a' day, Plaitin' a snood for her dreamy brow, An' learnin' the Hntie's sweet, sweet lay, Till the gloamin' fell O'er the lonely dell ; Oh, bonnie Effie, gae hame, gae hame Thy ruinriie'll froon An' ye come na soon, An' auld angirt faither do mair than blame. " Gude nicht, lintie, I'm aff an' awa ; Gude nicht, burnie, too ; An' a wee, wee kiss for my wee flowers a', The fairest that ever grew ! Oh ! just like a bee, Am I happy wi' thee, As I sing thro' the lang simmer day, Wi' the sun-blinks coming, Where the bees are humming Lilts o' true Nature, the lealest for aye ! " Foxgloves, bluebells, thimmels, an' spinks, Lootit their heids a-wee ; She gazit doon the glen where the burnie jinks, Ane waesome wench to see ; 136 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES " O the stars are shootin', An' the kye are routin', An' name I maun gang, ye weel, weel ken ; I'll come agen To this bonnie glen, An' luve ye for leavin' ye a' nicht alane ! " Noo, a blae wee deevilick Son o' an Elf, Was crooned the king o' his tribe, Had heard a' this, and quo' he to himself Wi' ouphish like lauch an' jibe " Eicht queens are mine, She'll make the nine ; O stars ! O stars ! by the moon woo'd well, We'se caper an' sing, We'se dance in a ring, Wi' the king i' the middle mysel', mysel' ! ' He pressit his horn to his impish mou' An' toutit three times three ; Like bells his twa cheeks were blawn, I trow, An' the tears ran frae his e'e. " Rat-a-too ! rat-a-too ! " He summoned his crew Wi' an elfin blast under the mune, They heard the command In the clap o' a hand They were swarming lielow an' abune. Wee Effie, sae mazed, she sank on the swaird, In a leefu' an' sleepy-like dwarn ; The king o' the Elves, a snell proud caird, Spake orders to bind the wee lamb ! ANE DEEVLISH PRANK OF YE WICKED KLFIN KIXG. 137 " And carry," said he, "Her tender] ie All unto ray palace so fine ; For there in Elfland, In the silk so grand, Of my queens she'll be <]ueen o' the nine ! " Up the glen in the moonshine, awa, awa, Wi' volte, an' caper, an' funk, They danced, they snappit, an' heuched awa, Like Alloway's ghaists a' drunk. An' the valley a' rang, As the burnie sang " O Effie, wee Effie, fareweel, fareweel ! Lang years three times three Elf queen ye maun be, An' sigh for auld Garvie in revel an' reel ! " MORHAM DELL.* [FOUNDED ON AN ACTUAL DREAM.] Nicht had closed the Day's ae e'e, A-watchin' the yowes, sleep found out me ! An' I laid me doun on the clover-land, Like wrack on an unkenn'd ocean strand. " Sweet Morham Dell ! sweet Morhana Dell ! Fairies an' moonshine love thee well," Sang a wee voice as there I lay An' again unto me its winsome way : " Sleep no more, dream no more hearken to me ! Fair Queen Mab, 'neath ane rowan tree, Low, low lies in pale sickness laid ; We go to bring her Leech with our cavalcade." Then up sough'd a night wind, strong an' shrill, To waft me athort yon eerie hill Whare Auld Garvie bursts its broken way Doun Snawdon's lanely Howe astray. I thocht o' the Leech as on I sped Ane auld Warlock, gray and staid, Wha wins by himsel' in a rocky cave, Whilk, when he dies, will be his grave. In an eerie den between twa linns O' the Garvie, this warlock wins * A beautiful little glen, about a mile and a half west from Traprain Law, noted for its fairies, in the poetic " days of Eld." MORHAM DELL. 139 Bearded an' rough of antique line On 's shoonless shins, three feet an' nine. " O warlock o' the Snawdon Howe ! " The elfins cried, "Leech o' the fairies ever thou, Trusty and tried ; Haste thee, haste thee, Warlock, haste ! Steer up, pack up pottle and paste, Low, low, on the swaird o' Morham Dale Lies our Lady stricken an' pale. O haste ! Convoy and all is ready and made For thee in our royal cavalcade ! Let bugles blow ! " First, then, in the multitude Rode the grave Leech in high mood ; Then a fairy maiden came, In white locks of elfin fame Pure of heart, tho' queen-like she Driving in her coach an' three. By her side of royal mien, Consort o' the sickly queen Rode an Afric Cat whose eyes Burn'd like stars in frosty skies. Then lo ! the musicianers Mab ! a glorious band is hers Horn on high, so sweet and clear, Starnies droopt half way to hear. They play'd ane fairy burial psean, Till old M ight did sigh again ; 140 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. Then an imp-like, ouphish ditty, Made the vera Leech grow witty. I leuch For the very air did quiver Round them, over them, and ever, Till they a' passed but Ane, and he Dash'd his fire-tail in mine e'e ! " Therefore ! " quo he, an' flew on, Leaving me to grieve an' groan : O'er me stoopt ('twas a' in sleep), An' smellit my face my Southdown Sheep ! OUR A I N WEE T O U N. [HADDINGTON.] 5/|i\|H, dizens are the cities I've parawded up an' doun, f^ff> But n'ent a ane's comparable to auld Ada's toun ! There's Glesca 1 smoor'd wi' reek ! There's Lon'on ? over- grown ! They canna haud a caunle to OUR AIN WEE TOUN ! Throo foreign lands I've rammlet, and niony touns I've seen Wi' " capitols " and " avenues," and big kirks in between : Wi' streets a' made like railways, whaur cars ran up an* doun, But the Lang Cause'ay cowes them a' in OUR WEE TOUN ! The black folk an' the Hielanders have houses in the hills The feck are rabbit warrens, an' the lave are whisky stills An' thae they ca' their " Tounships," in whilk folk aften drown, Like to kittlins in the Lang Cram at OUR WEE TOUN ! In Embro' they hae biggins on the vera Calton's broo, In the Cowgate there are dwellings that wad sicken ev'n a soo ! They hae tours an' michty Jang lums, an' a Castle for a croun, But they haena gat a Steeple like OUR Am WEE TOUN ! 142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. The auld toun Our Ain Toun is beautiful an' fine ; She is the Queen o' a' touns on Tiber, Thames, or Tyne ! What toun can boast a John Knox or a Commentator Brown ? Or a bardie like the Samuel o' OUR WEE TOUN ? Nane o' them has a Nungate far less a Nungate Brig ! " Sautmarkets," an' " Broomielaws " in prent look vera big; But you'll agree wi' me my freen' whan yince ye've view'd them roun', By far the most remarkable is OUR WEE TOUN ! Wastminster an' muckle Paul's are nae doubt unco kirks, The Roman an' the Yorkshire anes are fairish mason warks ; But a stap ye maun gang far'er, tho' ye tramp a' Earth arouii', Ere ye match the Lamp o' Lothian o' OUR AIN WEE TOUN. Syne as for " splendid moniments !" Whare-ever can there be Sic famous fanes as our fanes, at hame or owre the sea ? The Knox, the Home, the Tweeddale, forbye lots knockit doun, Declare for sculpts maist marvellous is OUR WEE TOUN ! Nor less renown'd for living folk than for stookies o' the deid, Our Wee Toun's wally offspring in life's race tak' the lead : Frae the highest to the lowest frae the Provost in his goun, To the street waif in his tatters, far in front shutes OUR WEE TOUN ! OUR AIX WEE TOUX. 143 For lawyers, scribes, an' ministers we surely bear the gree, We hae sae mony o 1 them that few ither folk we see ! To Courts an' Kirks they jostle like to drive ilk ither doun, 'Twere best to leave them to themselves in OUR WEE TOUN. THE DAFT DAYS." 'HEN abune our Loudon plain, Like King Winter on his throne, Tower'd the muckle Law Traprain, Wi' a snawy mantle ou, And his heid wreath'd wi' mist for a croun, Cam' the Daffin Days again Rowthy Yule and a' his train, Bearing glorious cheer amain To our toun ! Let ajar the schule doors flee, And like sheep frae out the fauld Mark the youngsters burst in glee, Lads and lasses bricht and bauld, Hurrahing for the " New Year Holiday ! ' r Books and slates owre shouthers swung, What a yelping mak' the young ! Happy heart mak's tattling tongue, Kicht and day ! Hame belyve. But from that hour, Till the schule gaes in again, Mithers ! dream of Peace no more, But give Hubbub room and rein, To exhibit his mad frolicing galore 1 Busk the brats in droll array, THE DAFT DAYS. 145 Guiserding they a' maun gae Guiserding for " Hogmanay," Door to door ! New Year's morn, " first-footing " owre, In to Embro' some will flee ; Some alang gun-barrels glower, Aiming at a far " bull's e'e, ' And loudly silence pierce the lee-lang day ! Twa-three on their sins will pore, Crowds in Publics haud the splore, And, be-muddled, brawl and roar, Yea or nay ! But the same the same auld sky, Shade and sunshine meet and mix ; Just as ither years gane by, Comes this pilgrim Ninety-Six, A pack upon his back of fate for a' ! Tramp, tramp, tramp alang his route, Day by day, he'll count us out Life and death, and change to boot, Grit and sma' ! Tragedy and comedy, Drama, drivel what he will, On this earth stage, scores per day, He'll " bring out " and act wi' skill, Shifting the scenes wi' god-like art and speed ; Men, the puppets of his play ; " Kings " or " subjects," sons of clay, Thousands on their backs he'll lay, Stiff and deid ! 116 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. Sae time, year by year, rolls on As it 's been sae will it be But tho' millions thus have flown Hastens, Bardie, sune to thee A black ane, that thy " rhymes" will quaten a' But ne'er moonge, man, sing it through Yarns mak not if joys are few ! Ever, whilst thou wag'st thy pow, Rhyme awa' ! OUR JOHNNIE. ! here he comes again wi' his Shanter capie on, : An' buskit an' dinkit like a Prince Royal ! Upo' his Mammy's knee at nicht he rules as on a throne, An' young an' auld within the house are his subjects loyal ! Haith ! for a fowre year auld, He is a Ruler bauld ! A Tyrant an' a Despot wha will never brook denial ! He awaukens i' the morning by first scriech o' day, Screamin' like a corbie for " something to eat !" An' his " Mammy " jumps up, withouten delay ; For, oh, her " Bonnie Darling she hates to hear greet ! " Sae he rairs an' he clatters What cares he for his betters, Loud yelping at five o'clock for " something to eat ?" The women-folk o' the house he rules like his slaves, Wha daurna for their vera lives his word disobey ; For instant comes the penalty gin ane misbehaves, In yells waur than Gruinphie's on the killin' day ! Wi' his face thrawn out o' shape, An' his little mou' agape, Most unyirthly skirls he metes them wha daur his will gainsay ! Dabblin' in a glaur-hole, or wading i' the burn, This Despot in a daidley aft passes an hour ; 148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. Or, captain o' the bairn band, he tak's the foremost " turn " Swingin' on the gairden gate or plout'rin' i' the stour. Hoo weel he does subdue 'ein ! Hoo laigh they a' bow to him ! Ha ! his threat that he'll " tell Mammy " gars the bauldest o' them coo'r ! When comes his early bed-time, an' he's deid tired at last, Our Monarch abdicates, an' is pleased a bairn to be ; Then aff come little booties, little socks, an' coaties fast, An' doun in his wee nicht-gown he slips at Mammy's knee ! There wi' faulded hands he kneels, And in innocence appeals, To Him wha of the children said " Sufler them to come to Me!" What wonder is it then if a tender woman doats, On a brawny bairn like this, an' is blind to ev'ry faut ? Let her wair her love upon him time will rub out mony blots ! But the true love o' his Mother, it shall never come to naught ! Doun to his latest day It will licht life's chequered way, And illume wi' ray divine Sorrow's dreariest, darkest spat ! ON HEARING THE RESULT OF THE HADDINGTON BURGHS' ELECTION OF 1878. jLAS, alas ! beyond hope, " done ! " Vain now, Sir James, our roaring fun, And kissing fisher carlins ! Yon Jethart lads may snap the thoom, And sweer the farce had its fit doom In yon smack o' Macfarlane's ! O for a shaird o' Watty's wit To shrine in deathless verse each cit That rallied round our banners ; To tell wha focht, an' tell wha bled, What turncoats wheel'd, an' cowards fled, What true men pluck'd fresh honours ! Thee, U. P. Robson first afield " Free born ! " an' " born," too, to wield The club iconoclastic ! Thy fell onslauchts wha didna rin As did Sir Jamie a' but ane ! Thon dread ecclesiastic ! A " seer," yecleped " St Martin bauld," Next for that kirk that's ca'd " The Auld " Renounced his quondam allies ; An' would have swept them from the field, Had they but let, or he been skill'd In that trade like Auld Wallace ! 150 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. Him smash'd neist see "The Councillor" Of Jethart come the ranks before And fling his gauntlet, crying " Fair play ! fair play ! " Then, ere ye'd wink, Sir James this knight unhorsed some think By babhin' down, or shying ! Then " Ketchen " tierce to the rescue His " floorers " from a wallet drew, An' hurl'd them at the Tory ! As Neptune's spurn'd by St Abb's rock, The Baronet repell'd the shock, An' glitter'd with new glory ! But see oh see ! yon priest arise, With foaming mouth an' wat'ry eyes, His former faith denying : Roaring " I 'scaped from War's fire school, Even Afric and Sebastapol," The canaille rout defying ! Perforce the Liberal hosts shall quake When this mad turncoat for kirk's sake Baas like a bull before 'em ? Alas for Fury, tried full sore, The more he roar'd, they roar'd still more, Till dumb as death they wore him ! Now in the lists rode forth a " chield " With " Nungate ! " blazori'd on his shield, Which guid deeds aft had burnish'd ; But tho' a soger tried an' true, Even him Sir James quite " overthrew "- With lance a friend had fumish'd ! HADDINGTON BURGHS' ELECTION. 151 Oh, rare to see the fence between The veteran warrior an' the green When close the last was corner'd ! Be praised ! a " Ragman," and a carle Ca'd " Gerumell," snatchit frae the parle The Chief just as he founder'd ! Another joust ! another knight In fact, a pair prolong'd the fight, An' kept a' Scotland grinning ! Calvert an' Sprott within the ring, Twa Blackcoat braves, engaged full swing, An' sent ilk ither spinning ! At last the greatest o' them a' The Dunbar Ajax, by whase ca' An' Ulysses-like schemin', Himsel' comes marching owre the plain, Leading his subject fisher train An' randy fisher women ! Tears gratefu' gleam'd in Sir J.'s e'e His true-blue following a' to see Where he is " known so finely ! " Oh, gallant wax'd his knightly heart, Ae " half-daft " wife he drew apart, An' kiss'd her " just divinely ! " Then Ajax spak' the meed of war- - Writ by himsel' to suit Dunbar In simple terms an' candid : " For victory, we shall leave alane The Auld Kirk to the tapmaist stane, An' fix the Harbour splendid ! " 152 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. Alas ! alas ! even this was vain ! The gathering nicht closed doun amain, An' black defeat brak' o'er them ! So closed this far-famed Waponschaw, But neist time they their claymore's draw, Anither tale 's before them ! [WRITTEN AT THE CELEBRATION OF THE HAPPY NUPTIALS o' MR SANDY SELLAR AND MISS AILIE LOWRIE.*] 'OW bauld March shrilly blaws his horn To trumpet in the spring's return, An' gi'es the train o' winter, passed Out owre the north, a parting blast. The farmer hears his warnin' ca', And casts the seed in faith awa'. The wild flowers feel his subtle breath, And wake, and smile at winter's wrath ; The daisy, and meek vi'let even, Dare the chill blast, and spread to heaven Their shiv'ring banners, whilk foretell Sweet spring's approach to down and dell. And nature animate as weel His rousing influence doth feel ; The lambkins owre the greening braes In frolic mood begin their plays. The laverock mounts to heaven's gate To lilt his love for his new mate ; "Sandy Sellar" is a master mechanic on the shady side of life considerably. His excellent bride not so young either is the daughter of a well-known Lothian farmer. The story goes in the neighbourhood that " Sandy " courted for upwards of twenty years before he summoned pluck to " pop the question." But he succeeded for all that ! 154 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AXD VERSES. The coupled paitricks " scriech at e'en," The sparrows chirp the showers between. Fu' sune they'll flee, lang straes in mou' Wi' love an' nests richt thrang, I trew ; And mated mawkins owre the fiel' Whid after ither, rear, an' wheel, The lee-lang day ; the rabbits even An extra share o' spunk are given . Alang the plantin' sides they bicker, An' funk up their white fuddies quicker, Or munch an' map, an' stamp their paws Wi' gusto equal to its cause ; While mavis clear, and blackie-bird, Doun Tyne's sweet valley blythe are heard ! Such being the micht o' March's power O'er bird an' beast, an' tree an' flower, What wonder then, if Nature's lord, Even Man himsel', should feel restored, And something of the general heat In his thaw'd breast begin to friet ! In sooth, this natural feeling, vast An' strange, ower heart o' Sandy pass'd, Ae nicht as sighing he drew near The weel kenn'd dwelling o' his dear. Quo' he, " I've been a wanter lang This nicht niaun change or end my sang, For I shall strecht the c question ' pop, And, from her lips, despair or hope Shall seal my fate an' stap my fear ; This nicht this vera nicht I swear ! " SlARRIAGE LINES. 155 Sae strechtway, then, he order'd Johnie To gang direck and yoke the pownie, Whilk, buckled to, awa' they drive Wi' cauld wind an' het love to strive, Freezing an' burning, out an' in, The lang five miles they had to rin ; But Sandy, pondering the while His manly errand, and the style That he'd adopt wi' his dear jo, Was stone dead to all else below. " Bed-fast auld mither lies," thocht he, " Whate'er her ailing it may be, Sae I'll fetch yont my Sweet to see her, Syne what I may I can do wi' her ; And, aince for a', as I'm a man Ask her to be my wife aff-han' ! " The plot, thus deeply schemed, an' laid In rich fulfilment soon was made A grand success. That Friday week His now " gude-faither " he did seek, And tauld him hoo an' what he meant, And, " Oh ! wad he gie his consent ?" The auld man tidged, syne blunt his mind He spak' richt howe, yet plain an' kind "This month," says he, "'s the month o' Mairch An unco month for wives to sairch, But, shure as Mairch love's wind, deer Waw, My full consent ye fiae it a', Tak' her, my lad, an' mak' her thine Ye'se ne'er reproach the day ye twine Wi' Ailie in the marriage knot, 156 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. But ca't the pearl o' life's lot ; For, tho' she's dootless younger been, As you, yoursel', my ancient frien', She is a lass weel worth the honour, By splicing wi' her ye'd put on her ; She's been reared wee! up to the mark, She kens the nobleness o' wark. 'Twas wark that made me what I am, And she her wark will never sham. To mak' a sark, or wash ain either, My faigs, she winna hang or swither. In culinary maitters, too, She's great at kail and tatty-broo ; Or genty things, like pancakes good, Or stews, or crowdy wale o' food ! Or even bread trashtrie for a bairn, Or bileirig eggs, or frying herrin' Tak' tent o' me, my word rely on, Her skeel in a' there's nae doun-cryin'. She's sich a mistress o' the airt, She kens the cookery book by hairt. As shure my son-in-law to be, As she ane precious bairn to me Has ever been, as shure your hame An' your board end she winna shame. She's nane o' your Miss Modern schule, Unfit for spence or kitchen rule But a douce, mensefu' weel-faur'd queen, Can grace the hame hersel' keeps clean ; With head an' hairt sae stock'd to be Her lord's fit fallow, full an' free ; An' can o' nights, out-owre her seam, Maintain her side, whate'er the theme, MARRIAGE LINES. 157 Be't war, the kirk, or politics, Or scand'lous, breach o' promise tricks, Or craps, or markets, shares, or books The latest novel, or the fooks O' the last mode, brent new frae Paris, Contrived by Worth to deck the dearies ; Thairfore, my son, and to conclude," The auld man closed in sober mood, " Tak' her at aince, and my consent Have wi' her, without grudge or stint, For tho' I'm laith to lose her noo My loss, dear friend, is gain to you ! " Awa' ran Sandy, and fell suiie The news was trockit thro' the toun ; Rumour, as usual, loused her packs, And barter'd guesses in a' cracks ; Tho' naething but this truth was there. The golden fact they'd mak' a pair. Sae tailors, claes, an' mantua makers, Pigmen, an' grocer folk, an' bakers, Were on the rump o' business ridin', Wi' orders for the grand " Providin'." Wow, what a hubbub then was seen, The house was turn't frae morn to e'en, In til a show, bazaar, and fair, Wi' bedding, chairs, an' crockery ware, An' bundles, bales, bend boxes, barrels, Eneuch to mak' ane think this warl's Owre sair misjudged, owre sair maligned, For sure, when siccan walth's designed, 158 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. For only twa, it scarce can be, That some 's sae steeped in misery. Howe'er, 'inang turmoil, stir, an' roarin', The great auspicious hour wore on ; As day by day the bride grew leaner, And day by day the bridegroom keener. His circulation running wild, He grew as restless as a child ; Nor sleep nor rest for nichts had he, And, oh, but he sighed piteously ; His haill heart being wi' her he loved, He thocht the eicht-day clock ne'er moved ; An' round and round, an' up an' doun, He scour'd a' corners o' the toun ; Discarding even his urbane manners, An' blawing like our auld mill fanners. A raving wretch at lairge ran he, Ane fearsome " spectacle " to see, Wham neither sneesh nor dram braucht ease, But only made him bock an' sneeze. At length the fates be praised an' thankit ! - Auld time doun to this nicht has shankit ; An' lang an 1 last, bridegroom an' bride, Are leash'd by Hymen side by side ! As new life opens to the twain, May it bring peace to either ane ; Syne, screivin' doun to auld age gang, , As rowth an : happy as it's lang. May cheerfu' plenty boil their pat, An' greedy health say grace to that ; While truthfu' love's ain pledges dear, MARRIAGE LINES. 159 The girning bairnies fast appear ; And till thae bairnies' bairns flock, A guicl tribe round the parent stock, Mak' their hame thine thou glorious three Peace, pleasure, and prosperity ! THE WEE BROUN SQUIRREL. [A GREENWOOD RHYME.] fN the fir plantin', frae the screich o' day, Like the plumed prince o' the greenwood warl' What time the elfins daurna shake a tae Up a tree, look at me, the wee broun squirrel ! Merrier than cuckoo heard, Gleger than swallow bird, " Puck " himsel's a gowk to me a wee broun squirrel. Deep in the heart o' the evergreen tree, Far frae the ken o' the muneshine crew, Rockit by the winds my forest bowers be, The cushat's my trumpeter croodle, croodle, doo 1 Gyte wi' luve railin', Cooin', an' wailin', Simmer nicht an' mornin' croodle, croodle, doo ! Swith as the hoolet to's auld blichtit tree, Stealeth on saft wing at early cock-craw, Bright as a star flaucht, I spoot up on hie, What time the laverocks on morn's star ca' Cockit luggies, curly Lang tail, an' swirly, Twinklin' on the lerrick taps in the wauk'nin' daw I THE WEE BROUN SQUIRREL 161 The born Jack-tar o' the woodland am I " Steeple-Jack " daurna wage a spiel wi' me ! Yon spruce-pine tap, spearin' the ho we sky, I wad lay it at his feet or he'd coont three ! Up, like the hawk, I'd vault, Down, like the thunderbolt, Syne, oh whaur, " Steeple- Jackie," wad a' yer glory be ? Up a tree, look at me, the wee broun squirrel, Merrier than Robin Hood, the lea-lang day ! Ye little plumed prince o' the greenwood warl' What time the nicht fays daurna shake a tae, Cockit lugs, an' curly Lang tail, an' swirly, A' the elves are sloths to me, the wee broun squirrel ! IN THE AULD KIRKYARD. tyjD|N a sunny, genial day, *$&!> When at length the mid-aged May Wi' the braird begude to busk the waukenin' earth in green, I teuk my staff in hand, And, sudden, slipped the band Whilk hauds us to the \varld roond a stake o' troubles keen ! Tho' wyled by mony a flower, I stayed-na ance to glour, Till the siller-gleaming Tyne sang her paeans at my feet ! Then, like the bard I felt In my freedom fond I knelt At the shrine o' Nature, spell-bound wi' her look sae fair an' sweet ! A' doun the sheltered haughs, The towering feathery saughs, Like queens august waved welcomes to the realms o' wood an' stream ; 'Neath their fairy-flickering shade, Ane enchanted wight I strayed, Wi' the "banks an' braes" around ine in a rapt Elysian dream ! On an' on, thro' yellow broom, Birks an hawthorns, briars in bloom, IN THE AULD KIRKYARD. 163 Cowslips full flowered, springing brackens, daffodils : Linties singing simmer's theme, To the deep-pleased, lingering stream Zephyrs fragrant, roaming idly o'er the hills. Past the mill an' the green wood, Whaur a leafless rowan stood, Like the wraith o' distraught winter still unlaid Ere I wist, mysel' I found In the kirkyaird's waukrife bound Waking up to conscious being, whaur soun' sleep th' unconscious dead ! Thro' a winnock, left undraped, O' the lonely kirk I peep'd It was empty, silent, vasty, eerie, weird ; Sic an awesomeness within, That a running mousie's din Wad gart ane start an' shudder as a skulking ghaist he heard ! But the golden gloaming blazed, And my fancy, as I gazed, Restored the shadowy temple and worshippers of yore ! I heard auld James "invoke," There stood our aulk-kent folk, In reverent postures lowly as they stood in life before ! Tears, burning, scorched my e'en As I fond recalled each frien', Whyles I tholed the dread fact waefu' " In their graves they sleep aroun' ! " 164 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. Sae I turu'd, in sorrow fain, The auld names to con again That afiection, lonely sighing, on memorial stane hath hewn ! Somehow, our footsteps creep Aye whaur our ain kin sleep ; Sae, by rote, I haply saunter'd near a weel-kenned auld ash tree ! On a sair jee'd, moss-grown stane, Lang I leaned an' made my mane For that far-back age the golden when my warld was mother's knee ! For her ! her " laddie's " tears, Some twenty cauldrife years, Have well'd an' flow'd, an' dried ; and well'd an' flow'd again ! Wi' some sma' blinks between, Sae stormy life has been That aft her laddie's bark shored to strew wi' wrack the But thro' a' those years to him (As the Heaven-lit pole star's beam), The memory o' a mother's love hath beacon'd every shoal ! Let seas with tempests war Ae rift may serve a star, To ward the seaman lonely to his love-encompass'd goal I Fareweel, thou sacred dust Safe garner'd in His trust ! Hope pierces the dark shadow with a golden beam of Day IN THE AULD KIRKYARD. 165 Shine on, O Beam divine ! Wi' giowing lustre shine ! As we draw the " bourne " nearer making light death's dreary way ! TESTIMONIALS TO PROVOSTS. [A DREAM.] I had read the ell lang list O' names o' them wha did persist To gi'e a gift to Brodie,* I slippit canny aff to bed, An' fell a dov'rin' sair bestead, An' rack'd in mind an' body ; I didna mind the " uncos " lang That Friday night, I trew ! " Births, Marriages, an' Deaths "an' "sangs " An' "jokes " (a motley crew !) Gaed whummlin' an' jummlin' In riot thro' my brain, Till sound sleep did me steep In Lethe's stream again. But faigs ! nae mair than ance or twice I hadna snored, whan, in a trice, An' distinck in a dream, An ancient carle before me rose, Whase features tousie heid, an' nose 'Maist like mine ain did seem. Quoth he " Son ' Sam ! ' tak' ye nae fricht, In faith look me upon ; I'm come wi' you to crack this nicht - Hear me, my Famous Son ! * The well-known and much respected ex-Provost of North Berwick. TESTIMONIALS TO PROVOSTS. 167 Auld Dawvicl, yon braw lad,* Lies sair upo' my heart To wham ye nae gift gi'e For a' his great desairt. " Roose up, my son, let fly thy wit The curst disgrace nail to the bit Till Loudon girns for shame ; Tell o' his great warks 'mang the drains f Tell o' his superhuman pains To bring the water hame. That caller water, saft and clear That priceless Chesters Water ! Whilk than sour swipes or ' table beer,' Is, oh ! sae muckle better ! Sae sure aye, sae pure aye, In coggie, caup, or tin ; To cook wi', or douk wi', Or wash the workman's skin ! " That water triumph, tell them, ' Sam,' A greater was than ony sham Won on the battle-field Napoleon, Lord of Austerlitz, Nay, Dunbar Brand, wi' a' his wits, To such a feat maun yield. J At their high best, what did they do But tap puir human bluid 1 * The late David Stevenson, Esq., Provost of Haddington. Mr Stevenson was presented with his portrait. t He was the leader of the party who ultimately succeeded in efficiently draining and bringing a supply of water into the " Auld Toun." + A pleasantry which is no longer applicable. Dunbar has now a new and full supply of pure water. 168 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. But Dawvirl tapt a stream, I trew, That flows for nocht but guid, Life-giving, reviving The weary mortal man, And watering, and scattering Wealth, health on every han' ! " But when ye thro' the past hae run, Mind Dawvid, ' Sam,' o' wark undone The Railway and the Gas ;* The Schules, likewise, micht better be ; The Streets the Streets are waur to see Than Killiecrankie Pass. Whan ye gang to the guid auld toun Wi' tatties cheap an' fine, I'm aft deid feart that ye'll clash doun, An' row strecht into Tyne ; The knowes there, the howes there, As ye drive ower yer cairt, Do fret me an' threat me Your teeth an' jaws to pairt ! " And last, but not the least, my son The chief o' a' that's left undone A New Brig ower the Tyne,f The Nungate ane the shame o' Cairns For dougs may do fu' weel or bairns, Their bits o' ' cairts ' to twine. But wow, its back is hump'd wi' age, It mocks what it adorns ; Ev'n Robb, your Antiquarian Sage, Its rainbow passage scorns. * Two other long spoken of schemes. t A fondly cherished project ; but one, alas, which is not even initiated yet. TESTIMONIALS TO PROVOSTS. 169 Get throo then a new ane, And in the by-and-bye The auld ane can hald then The cla'es hung out to dry. " And noo, aboot the gift ye'll gie : Son 'Sam,' appropriate it should be, And worthy o' the man ! His pictyoor 1 Pooh ; he kens himsel' He is your Local Gladstone Swell ! What then 1 My lad, aff haun Gi'e him a bath. Then he may dip, An' douk an' drench him \veel. At hame in that fine liquid sip He brocht from far a-fiel' : 'Twill lichten and brichten, As weel as plumps in Tyne ; And clean him, and sheen him, The mair an' mair to shine. > Out thro' the stocks the dreepin' rain Seeps, seepin' rottin' corn an' strae, An' blastin' a' our hopes again ! The haill wide lift I seek in vain Still thicker grows the cloud array ! How sad noo seems our Loudori plain, Whilk erstwhile look'd sae rich an' gay ! Wae sucks, that wearie Eastlin blast, Frae yont Dunbar that stormest stoure ! A' ither airts south, north, or wast At hantrin times grow dull an' dour ; But thou ! Glide kens nae " simmer shoo'r," Thou brings us whan thou'rt auce owrecast, But ae lang half-week's constant poo'r We maun dree ere thy drunt be past ! O, sirs ! is this the end o' a' O' our lang twalinonth's toil an' care ? To sit thus, feckless, sigh an' blaw, Like snools, mere fraits an' vain despair 1 Alack ! I look around me there, In that black east there's prospeck sum' O' getherin' what aince promis'd fair The richest hairst ere Scotland saw ! 178 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. Ochone ! gif my dreid fears come true Gif baith the corn and tatties rot Syne, what the warld could stap us noo Gaun, ae bite, dooii disaster's throat ! A mairacle could save us not ! The dyvor's court we bud gae throo' ! O Lord ! ease thou t'hy wrath a jot Let not thine ain sae laighly boo ! What wi' rack-rents an' bills to meet Labour a ransom seasons bad The markets farcies finest wheat (Whare it is saved an' can be had) Selling only sae that ane is glad To tak' whatever ane can geet : A' this an' mair mak's me sae mad That J, for dounricht teen, could greet ! Oh ! hard art thou thou wearie warld ! An' sair, sair are we ding'd by thee ! Frae the blue hichts o' Hope we're hurled, Aft in the twiriklin' o' an e'e ! Syne whare we crouch in miserie, Despair's black banner flafi's unfurled, And Ruin's sword is threjit'ninglie Close owre oor heids by factor's swirl 'd ! ANE AULD-F ARRANT RAME." buddis grene maid faire ye scene T J. In oor countrie, And bii-ddis sange and flowris sprange In wud and le ; Ffor I wald rom, I fersuke horn, Maist pensivlie, And through Loudone ane hapie lande I wandert fre. " My doleful mone, like wind, vves gone Quhan anes I saw That hapie lande, with feeldis grande, And streme and schaw ! Quhiles, white and bra', ilk fermir's Ha' Did pleesandlie Ye plane ourluke, lik ane JBas Rok Ye grait blue Se ! " ' O, hapie land ! O, hapie lande ! ' Sang in thir gle Ye merles aroon', ye larks aboon Fra lift and tre ! Quhilk es I heerd, my craig I cleer'd, Rapturouslie, And ' hapie land ! twise hapie land ! ' Maid ansir fre ! 180 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. " Quhairat ane man upstertit than Fra's hedge-side seit Ane puir auld man, ane queer auld man, Quhom I did greit : ' O, deer auld man ! 0, queer auld man 1 Prove thow my fere ! Expound til me thiss fine countrie, This Aiden here ! ' " ' Ilerk ye ! ' quoth hee, es doon salt wee Ane banke upo', ' Thiss fine countrie is al,' says hee, ' Ane land of Wo ! Thae ferms thair, ye wene sae faire, Ye lairds beelang : Wee ferminge fok, like al live stok, But cum and gang ! " ' With grait payments and rackit rents Dett-droon'd are wee ; . And chokt with wheate and teuch deid meif Fra owre the se ! Yon Merkit Ha's lang gless ruif braw On quhilk sol strones, Iss broken all in lozens smawl With fermirs' grones ! " ' Likwyse thae fock thit mang ous trock Hoodwink us sair ! And taxinen crues, and chushie dooze Dou pike us bare ! O, giff som cheeld, in thee law skeel'd, Wald but deevise Som akts or bills till stap thaise ills, Sans ' Kompromize ! ' " AXE AULD-FARRANT RAME." 181 " ' Wee daurna plow, nir reap, nir soe, Bit leeve o' lease Ane daft fule skreed thit's been ye deid Of awl oure race. Shoo ! fine countrie ! Behald,' cried hee, Pointing beelo, < The laust refuse of humbugs huge The Land o' Wo ! ' " Thus havinge skreetch'd, like ane bewitch'd Thiss queer auld man Ran doun ye hill with richt gude will ; Yea, roringe, ran ! Quhairat, amaz'd, mysel' I raised (Til kloze ma rame), And, lawffinge as I'd brust ma hawse, Cam' hotchin' hame !" A BONNIE NOOK ON TYNESIDK ^FJ HERE is a nook on Tyneside, t'lfc* A little, bield, bonnie nook, That aye to me, the warld wide, Is dearer than ony nook ; Around it tangling woodbine, Green ivy an' eglantine, Wi' birks, to mak' a bower, twine An' be love's ain nook. That nook on bonny Tyneside, That secret nook I ken weel ; Oh ! never wi' as fond a tide Did river round a shore swiel ! Saft murmurings are stirr'd there, Sweet is the music heard there, Rare sings the mavis bird there, Gloaming's fa' to peal. Enfauld that nook on Tyneside, Bright spirit powers, evermair I Oh ! ward that nook on Tyneside Wi' ne'er-ending love an' care ! Within its shade we parted, Ere love was sudden thwarted, By fell death, sae stane-hearted, E'en Jean he \vadna spare ! THE AULD TOON MY BIRTHPLACE. [WRITTEN 1 IN SICKNESS, ON LAKE HURON, NORTH AMERICA.] aboot the auld toun, Fu' happy ran I, years agone, Sae weal aye fa' the auld toun, An' ne'er ae ill licht doun thereon ! There merrilie, by green Tyneside, My youthfu' time wing'd fleet awa', I was a loon, whase dearest pride Was aye the " gamest " deed to shaw ; And of a valiant laddie-band, I chosen was the King to be ; And he wha daur'd ray sway withstand, I wat rued his temeritie ! My blessing on that auld toun May never sorrow there be known ! For in an' round that auld toun My dearest dwalt this warld upon ! We were a couthie household bien Titties an' billies sma' an' grown ; But time our roost has harried clean, An' far an' wide the flock is strown ! And Death, fell hunter ! wi' his bow, Has sped some deft-aim'd shafts amang 's- The mother an' seven bairns lie low, Like pair birds drapt frae falcon's fangs ! 184 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES A' round about the auld toun Be fairest Nature's mantle thrown ! And pleasant peace that auld toun Till Doomsday ever rest upon ! She slumbers by Tyne's hallow'd wave, Wha ance could luve rapturouslie ; She moulders in her early grave Wha ance ga'e a' her luve to me ! Oh, Jean, Jean ! by the auld Tyneside Nae mair those raptures thrill again ! The simmer comes but us divide Baith hopeless death an' trackless main ! A' bliss enfauld the auld toun, And for her kindred sake alone, Bright spirits ! ward that auld toun, An' never clud lat licht upon ! My stricken lassie ! earth looks bleak, An' life wi' me is hard to dree ; My hungry heart 'twere better break, Than thole its knawing craving thee. Oh, peerless Jean ! what devilish close Is this for yon bright life we drew ! Thou in the thief grave must repose, I drift like dust life's desert through ! ON MR ROBERT SHARP, HOTEL PROPRIETOR, LEAVING LINTON. [READ ox THE OCCASION OF HIS COMPLIMENTARY SUPPER, TTH DECEMBER 1888.] *HAT dreidfu' news is this I hear ? Is Robin that we lo'e sae dear Is Robin Sharp, wha has nae peer For quenching drouth, Gaun aff to leave us, clean and sheer, In waef u' truth ? For thirty years to our wee toun He's been, I trow, nae little boon ; A' our sad cares did Robin droon, Day after day, Wi' " nips," or caups of foaming broun, Rare barley broo ! Of a' your nappies, cheap or dear, Frae champagne doun to tip'ny beer, Nae saps ava like his could cheer, And warm our heart ! Our every mortal care and fear They gart depart ! On market nichts when we drew nigh The railway brig, forfocht an' dry, 186 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS A\D VERSES. We'd say, " in Robin's by-and-bye, We'll ease oursel's," Syne hoo our mouths wad watter my ! Like muirland wells ! On cattle market days, his house Was like some great lord duke's lat louse, The southern dealers, yamp an' crouse, Wad stech an' denner, As in the days o' auld King Bruce To Scotland's scunner ! The serving lasses raced an' ran, Upstairs an' doun, to haud them gaun ; They daur'dna for ae moment stan' Their breath to draw ; If ane pat aff faith, Robin than Shored her the law ! On Hansel Monday afternoons, Lord lord, to see the country loons ; They swarmed like bees owre a' his bouns, And at his board, His yill an' wheich they swallowed tuns, An' sang an' roar'd ! But noo, waes me ! he shies awa, Nae mair for us our nips he'll draw ; The auld hotel, sae trig an' braw, He'll tend nae mair ; Below Auld Reekie's castle wa' He seeks his lair. MR ROBERT SHARP. 187 Weel, weel ; he was a sonsy lad, Gash, fair an' fat ne'er sour nor sad, But smiling aye richt fain an' glad A freend to greet And shake his hand, and joke like mad, And stand a " treat." Noo he has won his meet reward, May he for niony a year be spared To weet his mou' and wag his beard, An' tune life's harp ; Weel on thee is this supper wair'd, Douce Robin Sharp. BY MY NATIVE STREAM. BY NIGHT. ilfeO ! by the auld grey castle wa's yjJM Art wending on, Where the martin flits as the e'ening fa's, As in years bygone ? Soft an' low, fleet an' flow, Awa', awa'. The stars licht up, as in a dream, Auld castled Hailes ; And o'er thy tide my native stream, The owl still wails, Weird an' shrill, abune the mill " Tu-whoo, tu-whoo ! " And the ouzel, the craik, and the sedge-singer Sing echo forth ; As the " witching hour," griping night's finger, Stalks through the north. Wi' wan star een, an' wild sick mien Ghaistly. ghaistly. Ower the auld " strength," like a risen wight, A solitary daw Darkles a moment in the starlight, An' flits awa' Laughs drear an' clear, the auld mill weir, "Awa', awa'." BY MY NATIVE STREAM. 189 The same as thou didst ever be, My native stream ; The same yet ; oh, the same to me Thou canst but " seem ; " To the world's breast the auld snake 's prest Evil an' care. BY DAY. The wagtail an' lone heron ward Thy lonely ways ! An' the cushat croods her fond regard To the dreaming braes ; When the gloaming broods owre the misty woods "VVoiling, wailing. Sunlight an' shadow guard thee, Like the waited bride ; An' the brown spate makes thee grand to see Roll on in pride ; But gane, dear stream, the grand boy dream Awa', awa' ! LEAVING EAST LINTON. [WRITTEN FOR AN ORPHAN LASSIE.] sun shines owre yon grassy lea, lK Whence singing laverocks m'unt the sky ; An' flocks an' herds sae peacefulie, Move here an' there, or wearied lie ; A' Linton glitters in the glare, An' gladsome blink o' bonnie May ; And licht o' heart is ilk ane there Tho' I maun leave't this Term Day. And I will never see it mair, Oh, never mair again, again ! wearie me, my heart is sair, To say fareweel to a' I ken ! The auld kirkyaird, the water side, The jumping trouts, the siller saughs ; The rocky Linn an's gushing tide, Tyne's banks tin' braes, an' bonnie haughs ! 1 daunder dowie thro' the street, I stoiter weary up and doun ; A tether's wound about my heart Its ither end is round this toun. Oh, bitter fate, that I should dree My last day here in maiden prime, And forsake a.' that's dear to me, Or e'er will be this side o' time. LEAVING EAST LINTOX. 191 Yestreen I wandert to the Law, I clamb again the waly brae ; I kenn'd it was the last o' a' The times that I that clim' wad hae. An' wasna my een wat to see, An' wasna my heart wae to feel, How bonnie is oor auld countrie, An' how I loe it a' sae weel. I've gane to a'where round about To auld Hailes Castle grat fareweel ; Wi' breaking heart an' lingering foot, Pressmennan left and bonnie Biel. An' Binriin' Wood where aft I stray'd Wi' Jamie in the dear langsyne ; The Auld Wa's, Round Taps, an' Langside, Pencraig, an' up an' doun a' Tyne ! And noo, this warld hauds nocht to me But the sad memorie o' them a', O Linton ! what wey should it be That I frae thee maun shog awa' 1 Here, in thy dear lap, wad I rest, Here, in thy bosie, live an' dee My native nook, my native nest But Fate says, " Na ! it canna be ! " FARE W EEL! [WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND LEAVING HAILES COTTAGE.] J 5/p| WHITE, white lies the winter roun' the auld castle An' ruin'd keep an' toorie are wreath 'd wi' the snaw, As time draws near to leu' them, tho' but deid wa's they be, Amid the snaws o' winter they dearer grow to me ! For they mind me o' langsyne, when in the dear old days I ran a thochtless lassie o'er Tyne's sweet banks an' braes, An' roun' an' roun' the Castle, like bairn roun's mither's knee, I grew up, little dreaming how dear it was to me ! Here I a maid was courted was wooed an' wed an' a', Here a' the bairns were born, an' ane was ta'en awa', Here we've been lang sae happy the bairns, gudeman, an' ine It hurts like death to think o' this parting that maun be ! Never again, never to ca' this house our hame ! Never again, O never this auld iireside to claim ! Thro' a' the lang years coining the strangers' place 'twill be, When we are gane for ever the bairns, gudeman, an' me ! FAREWEKL. 193 The bairns they cling to " mither," the gudernan downa speak, "*$ ;$,., -\ I cheery-like tend to them when my heart's like to break ; An' frae this ben-room window, when nae ane's bye to see, What longing looks I'm taking o' the auld countrie ! Ah ! wae is me, thou robin that singest at the door, Ae waefu' lilt o' sorrow is a' thy birdie's store, A wail for byegane simmer that soon returns to thee ; But our bonnie auld hame never, can time gi'e back to me ! To say " Fareweel for ever," ye bonnie banks an' braes, An' fare ye weel, Tyne river, that I lo'ed a' my days ; Fareweel Traprain and Kippie ! fareweel the dear auld Mill, The brig across the water, the fit-road up the hill ! But we a' maun say " fareweel " on earth we canna stay ; "Fareweel!" "fareweel!" "fareweel!" day crieth unto day; The warld is wide an' wearie, an' hard is life, I trew A touch, a turn of fortune the auld is changed to new ! But oh ! my heart is dowie, sae weel it lo'ed this nest, An' a' its ties asunder this flicht to rive at last ! But take this flicht I maun, nor spurn at Fate's decree, An' gae seek anither hame in a strange countrie ! AULD CASTLED HAILES. [ON LEAVING FOR A FOREIGN LAND.] ;EANDER on an' glide awa', My gentle Tyne ; Wend by Hailes' ruined castle wa' Like stream divine ! Too soon to me shalt thou hidden be, For aye, for aye. " For ever ! " oh, the heart is sair For ever, ever ! And I shall scan thee with proud eye nae mair, Never ! oh, never ! Wail, thou wintry gales, through castled Hailes- Och hone the day ! Here my young footsteps lov'd thy keep, Romantic Hailes ! What time the howlet, weird an' deep, The moon assails. And here oh, here I trysted here, My Jean, sweet Jean ! Here the martin and the water ouzel, When gloamings wane, Shall come, sweet summer, musical, When I am gane ; And the cushet crood in the drowsy wood, Like Nature's saul ! AULD CASTLED HAILES. 195 The jenny wren an' the sedge singer, The wagtail, sae spree ; In the golden e'enings here shall linger, While unremembered Me Drees wind and lee in a far countrie Alas ! alas ! O drift my bark where earth 's Lethe Ye westlin' gales Holds memories of thee far owre the sea, Auld Castled Hailes ! Fareweel this day, fareweel for aye Fareweel ! fareweel ! JEANIE'S FAREWEEL. tAREWEEL, thou bonnie Auld Hailes,, An' a' thy broomy knowes sae fair ; I'm broken doun in misery, To say " Fareweel for evermair." Oh, had this warld a warld been, Whare justice aye stood poortith's freen', This weary day I hadna seen, Nor my heart pang'd sae fu' o' care. Fareweel, thou auld Castle wa's, Whare Tyne sae fondly lingers bye, In 's bosom proudly cherishing Thy hoary shadows, braid an' high. As in the stream sae faithfully Thy ruins deep below we see, Sae true thy cherished memory In my leal hear shall ever lie ! Fareweel thou blooming hawthorn, Whare my dear laddie trysted me, When blackbirds sweetly chirrupit To greet the e'ening star on hie ! Nae mair, thou blooming thorn, nae mair Will I to thy sweet shade repair, To meet my gentle laddie there But wander to a far countrie. JEANIE S FAREWEEL. Sae fareweel, bonnie Auld Hailes, An' a' thy brooray knowes sae fair, An' saugh an' hawthorn blossoming Fareweel, fareweel, for evermair ! The little birds on restive wing Tak' up the strain an' seem to sing, *' Oor Jeanie's gaun awa', puir thing Fareweel, fareweel, for evermair ! " 197 A SUNDAY IN MAY. I. AT PRESTONKIRK CHURCH : MORNING. Loot owre me wi' smile sae fain, Listen to thy call ant's strain Mither Caledon ! Roll on the ages owre thee ! Wallace eras nae mair be ; But thou right and liberty ! Mither Caledon ! Generations, law an' line, Tumble frae that lap o' thine ; Thou ! stern an' rude, but heart divine- Mither Caledon ! High in thine eternal seat, Eagle-eyed the epochs greet ; Glean their fair flowers at thy feet Mither Caledon ! Arise ! and take the " vaward," Girt with righteous purpose hard Thine old shield and surest guard, Mither Caledon ! "204: MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES Ahead ! scan out the march-way, Point a warld to light an' day, High on hill-tops, and away Deathless Caledon ! WILLIAM WALLACE. [WRITTEN IN BOYHOOD.] slew thee did they ? Let it be <>*3S No more : it cannot be undone, But, truly, could thy fate back run, I would not wish one breath for thee. The tyrant and the hero sleep- Lift up thy heavens, God, on high, Let light abound, let darkness die, Let truth thy utmost confines keep. The tyrant and the hero, then, In equal, perfect justice show The fiendish lust against the glow Of truest, noblest love for men. He, high beyond all factions, grew, And, despite them, his purpose held, Through petty turmoil, still unquell'd The hero rose we see him now. All power, the worldling's power and gold> To stoop and take were at his feet ; Or, earthly death, defamed to greet, And let sure time his worth unfold. 206 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. And, all undoubting, death was ta'en, Through torture on the traitor's tree O Wallace ! never liberty, For this forsakes our land again ! THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN. [WRITTEN IN MY BOYHOOD.] tAST phalanx'd on Bannock side Oh ! look a risen land ; For one last stroke for freedom dear. Take up her final stand ! Confess'd in heaven's fixed decree 'Tis life, 'tis death but liberty ! Her pennons, dyed in war's red tide, And banners shaped in fight, Flap memories about the winds, And wrongs of Wallace wight ! A thousand arms shall pledge the foe- A thousand fold the tyrant's blow De Boune and Clifford, heralding, The dawn of freedom's morn, First cross the weirds in deadly strife, The foes of Bannockburn. And summer Sol bursts out to see, A sacrifice to liberty ! A voice, as of a mighty wind Up from a redeem'd sea, Sweeps every wrong and woe away With one word Victory ! And smiling peace, so long forlorn, Hallows the field of Bannockburn ! JOHN KNOX. iIKE lion-fronted isle sublime That sheer from ocean seek'st the sky Above the levelled waste of Time Thou towerest heavenward, huge, and high Between this light and yon dark past, An adamantine barrier cast ! And as such isle, sun-rising east Hangs in his orient o'er the sea, Art thou, o'er all time set amidst, The gratitude of all the free Thou, stable midst unstable, stood The worthiest for thy country's good. For thou with fix'd soul didst pursue Thy purpose sacred light for man, Nor fear nor mortal weakness drew Thee from the goal one wayward span, But bursting the chaotic night, Thy one aim cleft " Let there be light ! " And there was light ! and evermore, Sphered radiant in that light, art thou ! A glowing orb amid the gloir That star-wreathes Fame's eternal brow, And tints with amaranthine ray Time's passing turbid flood for aye ! JULIE-ANNIE. 'ATURE, robed in snowy white, As she is this cold March night, Draws again my thoughts to bright Julie-annie ! Fair, in Fancy's waking eye, Lo ! the maiden passes by, First of maidens, I descry Julie-annie ! In my sad heart's inmost core, She's enshrined as of yore, Where she r'eigneth evermore Julie-annie ! From her queen-like, ample brow, Jetty locks the breezes blow, Screening Grecian bust of snow Julie-annie ! Bright, beneath each fringed lid, Dewy orbs swim in their pride, Beaming love on every side, Julie-annie ! Cheeks, whose lustre mocks the morn. They thy youth and heart adorn, For thereon that heart is worn, Julie-annie ! p 210 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES Soft rose lips, where sweetness piles Sweetest bliss in sweetest smiles, And young Love triumphs in his wiles, Julie-annie ! Thus, and thus before me now In this night of moonlit snow, Flits thy virgin vision so, Julie-annie ! Sages say all worlds have spun Ever round a centre sun, So my fate round thee does run, Julie-annie ! But thy bright orb's sphere is o'er In this dark world evermore, Long, long time it set before, Julie-annie ! THE FA' O' THE LEAF. [A FRAGMENT.] 'INTER trips on autumn's heels To her ither climes awa' : Dark grow the woods an' gray the fiel's Where the fitfu' sunbeams fa' ; Gloaming conies wi' afternoon, Hastening nicht to hide the grief ; Luna, pale, amid the gloom, Mourns her earthy chief ; Streams rin wildly to the sea, Winds sing weirdly through the tree- At fa' o' the leaf ! Summer's requiem hear it sung O'er wide ocean in the night, When the trumpet storms are strung Wild as Neptune's own delight ! Hear the staves upon the shore Struck by Boreas in his glee ! Where Tantallon's ruins tower Ruin's tale will be, Misery an' wreck will cry Nature's dirges to the sky Frae the listless sea ! 212 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND VERSES. Hear them through the moaning wood, Hear them o'er the dreary plain, Down the valley o' the flood, O'er the waters o' the main ! Read them in the murky sky In the hour o' closing clay, In the dowie flowers that lie Drooping by the way ! List them in the robin's lore Lilted at your cottage door A' the cheerless day ! What eerie winds are sweeping Over Nature's bier ! Winter's arms are creeping Round the dying year ! And a never-fairing shower Comes flickering on the blast Dead summer's worn dower, With which sweet May her dress'd ; And o'er his naked feet The leaves young winter strews, And binds with wind and weet The vestment round his thews. EAST LOTHIAN. THREE-FOLD picture moorland, plain, and sea- Behold our Lothian, limn'd so matchlessly ! Her rocky isles and castellated shore The blue waves fondling them for evermore ; The white-wing'd ships, her sea-world couriers given, Circling around her like the birds of heaven ; Her heathy moors, a waving background grand Dark forests rolling to her happy strand ! Soft-contour'd hills upspringing from her breast, Where Labour struggles and is lull'd to rest ; Crystalline streams sweet-babbling thro' her vales, Like wandering maidens singing true love tales ! Her fields, her plains, and, smoking far and near, Her freemen's peasant homes to Peace and Virtue dear ! A U L D L A N U S Y N" E. gloomy dool lies heavy on the heart, An' darkens a' the warld to our e : e, How fondly backward do our fancies start An' revel in the realms o' memory ! The golden days o' yore we live again We trace sweet childhood's paths and flowery plain We rin ance mair the raids our boyhood ran We haunt the haunts o' our romantic youth (That yett o' Eden, whaur real life began, An' we war' thrust furth on this world uncouth !) We linger in the scenes, lang years forlorn, Whaur early manhood strode, an' love was born, An' still the mair is loved the mair we tine That glamourie buskit time dear, hallow'd, Auld Langsyne! SELECTED SONGS. THE KNOX MEMORIAL. [SONG WRITTEN FOR, AND SUNG AT, THE PUBLIC CONCERT HELD IN AID OF THE FUNDS OF THE INSTITUTION.] tyjjft YE wha reck our Scottish name *&$!> Fit \vi' the warld's first to ally, Match wi' thy gift this cherish'd fame, An' round our Knox Memorial rally. Our kindly plans, as Scotland scans, Auld memories crowd thick upon her ; Wi' gleamin' e'e, her children free She points out Knox for foremost honour. There Resby, Craw, an' Hamilton, An' seer-like Wishart daunted never ! Were in her glorious cause struck down, An' wear their martyr crowns for ever. But he wha came wi' noblest aim An' crowned their wark wi' highest gloiy, Hath not a stane, for a' our gain, In his loved land to tell his story. But hark ye, Scots ! it shall not be, Scotland's leal in heart, tho' boreal, 216 SELECTED SONGS. Tho' maybe late, we'll surely see A gratefu' country's Knox Memorial ! That day come soon ! his native toun Her Lamp o' Lothian burnin' brighter, May woo Tyneside wi' leesome pride, An' daur the envious warld to wyte her. For weel ye trow his " cairn " shall be Nae feckless monumental ruckle, But ae great schule o' learnin' free To whilk our deftest lads may buckle ; Where ane an' a', baith puir an' braw, May pluck the tree o' ample knowledge, Or at the door, for little store, Plume their young wings for highest college. Then rally, rally round our flag, Nae Scot sae dowie he may rally An' somewhat aid, tho' 's means may lag, Will prove him to the world our ally. Lang life an' power to young Balfour, Honour to Scott, an' years to wear it ; An' eke each name, we proudly claim, Posterity will yet revere it. Then rally, rally ! O ye Scots ! Oh, what is warld's gear to honour ? Come wi' your placks, your crowns, your notes, Throw aff ingratitude wi' scunner ! Was not John Knox ye heedless folks The maker o' the weal ye thrive in 1 And can ye now mair wisely show Your thanks than aid the scheme we strive in THE KNOX MEMORIAL. '217 This ancient burgh, Haddington, Wi' royal charter, rights, an' laws still, That gave us Scotia's wisest son, Maun keep the lead in freedom's cause still. Nae faint turncoat our auld grey Goat, She'll ever to the age conform her ! Sae now her cry " Let faction die, And honoured be our Great Reformer !" "FAR AW A'." [WRITTEN BY REQUEST FOR THE GLASGOW HADDINGTONSHIRE ASSOCIATION, FOR THEIR ANNUAL FESTIVAL.] E banded friends for noble aims, Wha kythe the kindly Loudon face ! Compatriots St Mungo names, The wale o' Scotia's waly race ! Far wander'd frae the native place Atween the sea an' Lainmerlaw, This nicht in fancy we'll retrace The dear calf-ground that's far awa' ! By castled and cathedral'd Tyne In gratefu' thought we'll backward stray, Where Knox immortal sprang lang sync, An' rising Balfour hath his sway. Where erst we sped life's early day, An' pu'd the mellow hip and ha\v, By mony a shaw an' breezy brae, In bonny London far awa'. Oh, Balfour ! honoured, revei-ed name, Where'er a Union Scot prevails ! Wi' growing ardour ward thy fame Romantic, Tyne-trothed, castled Hailes L Around thee cling Queen Mary tales, Like ivy round thy ruin'd wa' " FAR AWA'." 219 Still greener aye as time assails Thy riven ramparts far awa' ! Atween Tantallon on the shore An' far lone Soutra on the muir, To deeds heroic aft of yore Our Scotian fathers kindled there ; And tho' aukl Noll did fool us sair At Hill o' Doori, through Leslie's flaw, At Prestonpans we made it square, Where, like flay'd sheep, they ran awa'. Traprain, the Bass, Pressraennan Loch, The Garletons an' Gullane hie, Frae Wallyford to Auldhamstock, Landmark our matchless aukl countrie 1 And, worthy such a land to be, The Loudon lads and lassies a' In fame an' honour tap the tree, And lead the race, ev'n far awa'. The pearl an' pride o' Scottish shires, We'll roose aukl Loudon till we dee ; The trusty sons of trusty sires, Bright honour shall our device be ! And love fraternal, true an' free, Shall closer still an' closer draw Despite how rank or place decree The London laddies far awa' ! AITHIE GRAEME.* ^^H ! I'm a rovin', gangrel loon, ^Sfe Wi' lichtsome pouch an' hairt ! Frae Berwick Brig to Brig of Dooa I ply my whistlin' airt. At ilka weel-kenned clachan toun I'm never grudged a hame, To screen frae scaith, when nicht sets doun, Or frien's to kett the lyart croon O' puir, auld Athie Graeme ! I've cheer'd the ways o' youth an' e'il Thae thretty years and mair ; An' binna when I tint my Nell, ' I've little pree'd o' care. That gruesome day ! I mind it weel ! In route for Kelso Fair. She teuk the tout, near Galashiel, That fairly nickit winsome Nell, An' snaw'd my raven hair ! The flow'r was on the rowan tree, The blossom on the heath, Beside a spring, aneath a brae, We coor'd to gether breath. A wandering penny-whistle player, who has now joined the majority. AITHIE GRAEME. 221 " Come, Athie, dearie, play," quo' she, " John Anderson, my jo ! I'm maybe wrang o' what's to be ; But something, Athie, loors on me That hechts death's comin' blow ! " She dee'd that vera nicht. Sin' syne I've wandered high an' low, Still dearer to me, an' divine, Grows winsome Nell, my jo ! But rnony a tear, for auld Jang syne, Doth blin 1 auld Athie's e'e ! This human heart mak's sic a shine ! An' downa eithly memory tine, In even a man like me ! THE BROKEN BANK.* *AUR than auld times, when deidly weir Made Caledon blude sairly, This last sad fleg is like, I fear, To break her auld heart fairly ; Ane waesome soun's in a' her touns, An' hill an' dale, wi' bitter wail, Tell that the blow has e'en brought low, The land that prospered rarely ! As on Fa'kirk an' Flodden tiel's She lost thro' treason merely, Sae now she fa's by fause-loon duels, Betrayed dishonour'd clearly ! Throo a' her bounds, this cry resounds : Wae worth their name that wrought such shame, An' aim'd the blow, that brought sae low, The land we lo'e right deaily ! But while thae traitor knaves their meed In durance wait securely, wha the stricken deer will heed The wreck'd an' ruin'd surelv ? * This song was written to be sung at a Public Concert which was to have been held in aid of the sufferers by the collapse of the City of Glasgow Bank, but which, however, like its object, " collapsed " too THE BROKEN BANK. 223 Will nae strong hand, owre a' Scotland, Be sheuken out, and raze the blot That wad defame her matchless name, An' rieve her honour purely 1 Behin ; Fa'kirk cam' Bannockburn ! We paid back Floddeii dearly ! Sae noble plenty may return, Whaur poortith pinches sairly ! Let each true Scot, in ha' an' cot, Grip hand in hand a dauntless band ; Wi' word an' deed, to serve in need, The land they lo'e sincerely ! Then wae an' want, a long fareweel, An' routhie times come early ; Fareweel, deil greed ! for aye, fareweel Leal Scotland fits thee puirly ! All hail ! again thou goodly train Stern worth an' truth, an' love an' ruth, That raised sae high, in days gane by, The land we lo'e sae dearly ! THE PLOUGHMAN. .Jtf RINK a bumper to the ploughman, ESS" Pledge him in a cup profound, Toast him as our strong and true-man With all honours round and round : Here's the brawny, buirdly ploughman ! Here's the world's breadwinner true ! Drink a beaker to the ploughman - To the dregs drink Speed the Plough ! Thro' the bitter clays of winter, Cold and wet he guides the share ; Toiling on till night present her Warm fireside and cottage fare Here's the brawny, etc. In the wakening spring-time speeding, What a priest in power is he ! Striding forth the broad earth seeding That her children filled may be. Here's the brawny, &e. On thro' sweltry scorching summer, Never lagging, late and soon ; Urging Nature heap her garner, Like one gracious, princely boon ! Here's the brawny, &c. THE PLOUGHMAN. 225 Then he grasps the golden harvest, Sweeps the wide fields at a word ; Till from happy east to far west He the world with rowth has stored ! Here's the brawny, buirdly ploughman J Pledge him in a cup profound Toast him as our strong and true-man With all honours round and round 1 LITTLE LAUCHIN' JEAN.* ' stookit fields o' yellow corn wjx I held me to my dearie, But dowie thochts, an' dool forlorn, Made iny heart wae and wearie. I watna hoo this mood had come- Maybe 'twas Autumn's sheen ; But weel I wat wha cleard the gloom My little lauchin' Jean ! The genty, merry, lo'esorne lass Was waitin' by the style, But crooch'd ahint a whinny bus', To tease me wi' her wile. Thocht I, " What's up ? nae lassie here ; She promised, too, yestreen " When skirl on skirl brak' on my ear Frae little lauchin' Jean. Sour dool forsook me then at ance, I stood 'maist gyte wi' joy, An' join'd her mirth as if by chance Proud victim o' her ploy. * The above song has been set to music by Mr G. Henschel, of London, and the composition has been very favourably received. Copies may be had from Mr "Wm. Sinclair, Haddington, and Messrs Stanley Lucas, Weber, Pitt & Hartzfeld, Ltd., 84 New Bond Street, London, W. Price, 2s net. LITTLE LAUGHIN' JEAN. 227 O warld ! what bliss was mine in turn That heaven-like harvest e'en, Amang the stocks o' gowden corn Wi' little lauchin' Jean ! Her wee saft loof enclasped my arm, Her e'e look'd up in mine ; We neither trow'd nor minded harm Leal love is pure an' kin'. An' never mair ae fit o' care That nicht daur'd intervene ; My only smart was wae to part Wi' little lauchin' Jean. RECIPROCITY." ye ne'er heard o' the braw shepherd lad, Wha wons 'wa' doun n'ar the sea, An' has whittled a rung, a' our cares to blaud Ca'd Res-e-pros-e-tee ? " Just " Res-e-pros-e-tee, " Fair " Res-e-pros-e-tee ! He'll cudgel the croons o' the foreign loons Wi' Res-e-pros-e-tee ! This shepherd bold is a discreet lad, And ane cunning carle is he ! Sae he has been kuitlin', sin' times grew bad, At Res-e-pros-e-tee. " Just " Res-e-pros-e-tee, &c. Gin Jonathan tax a' our kirns an' clouts, Why should his wheat come free ? '' Gie him tit for tat," the shepherd he shout?, \Vi' Res-e-pros-e-tee ! "Just" Res-e-pros-e-tee, "Fair" Res-e-pros-e-tee ! We'll blister the croons o' the foreign loons Wi' Res-e-pros-e-tee ! LINTON LYNN. had a wee pownie we had but the ane, An' when that ane crokit O, we had nane ! The siller's sae scarce aye an' hard to win Dear Meg, what gar't thou dee ? We draggit her doon to the banks o' the Tyne, An' wi' oor gleg gillies we skinn'd her fu' fine ; And intil the stream we whammel'd her syne, A feast for troots to be ! But that e'enin' a dreidfu' rain there set in, And the river neist day full spate it did rin Sae aff soom'd oor pownie to Linton Lynn, Aboot the hoor o' three. " Oh, murder ! a murder if there ever was ane ! " The fock they a' cried, when, awantin' the skin, They saw the auld pownie skyte ower the Lynn ; A ghaistly sicht to see. Syne wi' poles an' inuck-hawks they a' then did rin, The " murdered manie " to grab oot o' the Lynn ; But nocht but a pownie wantin' the skin Could thae fule bodies see ! "THE CHARTERIS DYKE S."* [THE AULD DOMINIE'S SANG.] comin' roond about the dykes, Daunerin' roond aboot the dykes, An aingel I foregather'd wi' When comin' roond aboot the dykes ! " Kind sir," she says, " pray tell me true, Is this the gate to auld Blaebraes ?" " Sweet lassie ! I will tell thee true I gang that gate mysel' the day !" When comin', &c. We wandered on oh, she was fair ! My heart frae Nanny she withdrew ; Love revel'd in her gowden hair, His palace was her bonnie mou' ! When comin', &c. At last we reached the auld Blaebraes ; Losh ! Agnes rins to meet my doo " Dear sister, welcome hame ! " she says The " aingel " lauch'd till she was blue ! When comin' roond aboot the dykes, Daunerin' roond aboot the dykes, Nae mair yer aingels foist on me When comin' roond aboot the dykes ! * The high stone wall bounding the Amisfield policies on the south, near Haddington. NOW WILLIE'S AWA.* *OW blythe lilt the birds doun the bonriie Tyne valley, The larks hover hie o'er the green Kippielaw ; How sweet 'twere to roam thro' the springtime wi' Willie, But how weary to wander, now Willie's awa ! The snaw-hoards on Soutra, the saft win's are thawing, The simmer's renew'd to the muirland an' lea ; The swallows come back an' the blossom is blawing A' nature's restored, but na' Willie to me ! The snawdrap an' vi'let, in nooks bield and shady, The primrose an' daisy the fairest o' a' ; The hawthorn blooming, the green-spreading meadow, Wad wyse me to wander but Willie's awa ! Ah ! never again, by the green shaw an' meadow, While Tyne bickers doun sunny-starr'd to the sea, Shall I wander at e'ening, an' hear my dear laddie, Roose nature sae deeply and dearly to me ! The setting sun beats on the braes o' Phantassie, An' deeds in gold haze the green Kippielaw ! The dew freshens nature, sae green an' sae grassy How blest wad I be werena Willie awa ! O thou mellow mavis, the e'ening enchanting, Till th' kindling stars thrill i' the blue lift sae hie ! How sweet was thy sang, in yon gloaming-hushed plantin', When in true love we trysted my Willie an' me ! * Written on the occurrence of a melancholy incident in real life. 232 SELECTED SONGS. O hush ye, blythe birds, doun the bonnie Tyne vallej', hush ye, sweet larks, o'er the green Kippielaw ! What recks how ye sing, an' ye sing na back Willie ! Your woodnotes are waitings noo Willie's awa ! The snawdrift, o'er Soutra, in tempest was blawin, An' bleak was the scene on the day he did dee ! But bleaker an' darker is sorrow's nicht fa'ing This mirk nicht o' death that parts Willie and me ! NORTH BERWICK NELL. fOY, joy, could I but have her, Could I catch this peerless belle ; Only at death's yett I'd leave her Charming, sweet North Berwick Nell ! The Linton lasses wash an' kame, An' ilk ane thinks she 's nae sma' swell ; But they're a' ghaists awa' frae hame, As sune's they meet North Berwick Nell ! Them at Dunbar, an' Ada's toun* Wi' saws an' pents busk up to " tell ; " But when a's dune, hoo dun an' broun They look beside North Berwick Nell ! Jy> jy> &c - Thou'rt in thy nsher graith an' goon, Short coaties to thy knees a belle, That needna fear to shaw thy shoon, Nor thy twa legs, North Berwick Nell ! Joy, joy, &c. What tho' thy minnie flytes an' scalds, An' thy auld dad goes on the " gell ; " Such virtue to thine ainsel' halds, Thy freends seem saunts, North Berwick Nell ! Jy> jy> &c - * Haddington. 234 SELECTED SONGS. Upo' her back the wauchty creels, She thraws as eithly in a spell As yon " half-nabs " do their inanteels Nae dolly jade's North Berwick Nell ! Joy, joy, &c. Her crabs an' haddies ilka rnorn, Owre a' the toun she tak's to sell ; Wi' ne'er a fin' does she return ; Wha could resist North Berwick Nell ? Joy, joy,