University of Virginia Library

Low on a haugh, by the river side,
The homely Manse in its garden stood,
With a clump of grand old elms to hide
The rough-cast walls, and the paintless wood.
And close to it was the parish kirk,
But what it was there was nought to tell,
Save only a belfry and tinkling bell,
Above its rough-cast rubble-work.
A humble Kirk, and a homely Manse
On the haugh among the trees and rooks;
Where the white-thorn hedges had grown, perchance,
Unpruned for the sake of the ricks and stooks,
For the stooks of corn and hay are more
Than a well-trimmed hedge to a household poor:
But they helped to make more wildly fair
The old Manse-garden, breathing there
Of thyme and every sweet herb that grows,
And the pink and wall-flower, and cabbage rose.
Oh, there the strawberry beds were good,
And the gooseberry bushes had golden fruit,
And the apple-tree boughs were stayed with wood,
They clustered so thick upon every shoot,
And the jargonelles on the gable hung
Sweet as honey the leaves among:
Just a garden for boys and girls,
Ne'er while they lived to be forgot;
And sunny faces and golden curls
Flashed through its trees when the sun was hot—
Eight wild boys, and as many maids,
In homespun dresses, with unkempt hair,
Laughed and sang in the grassy glades,
Or gathered the fruits of the garden fair,
And gladdened the minister's heart, but yet
They burdened it too with a fear of debt.

Easy-natured and kindly he,
Respectable always in everything;
Nothing he did but it had the ring
Of cultured mediocrity;
In talents, in morals, in learned lore
Respectable ever, and nothing more.
No special mission had he to preach;
No special faculty his to teach;
Nor special power of the priestly art
Or to console, or move the heart;
There seemed no reason why he should be
God's servant there in the parish Kirk,
Instead of dealing out tape or tea,
Or driving the plough from morn to mirk,
Save that he read some Latin or Greek,
And wrote good words that were smooth and weak.
Yet he did his task in a patient way,
With doctrine solid, if stiff and cold,
Ready, by day or by night, to pray
With the sick or the poor that were in his fold—
Mostly the farmers and cottar-folk,
To all of whom, as they hung about
After sermon, the minister spoke
Of the weather and crops, and the sheep and nowt,
And their rheumatisms, and their girls and boys,
And all their commonplace griefs and joys.
No high ideal had he to raise
Their souls from the level of common ways,
Nor passion nor power to stir the mind
As with the rush of a heaven-born wind:
But well he knew all their homely lot,
Their joys and sorrows he ne'er forgot,
Could tell what came of the scholar son,
And where had the married daughter gone,
Had ever the fitting word on his lip,
And gripped each hand with the proper grip:
That bound their hearts to him fast and true
As surest cords of love could do.
Little he read, and what he did
Was mostly sermons to “fang his pump,”
When it ran dry, and the weekly need
Rang in his head like a warning trump.
Yet though he made complaint that wealth
Of letters, alas, was not for him,
Being rich in children in hungry health,
I trow he was not a man to dim
His eyes with poring on musty books;
Far better he liked the cawing rooks,
The smell of the hay-field, and the talk
Of farming folk in a sauntering walk;
For what of learning he had was worn
Outside, like clothes of the proper trim,
But it never was truly part of him,
And now it was somewhat rent and torn.
He had not a doubt to trouble him,
And his faiths were only as corks to swim
Through life as easily as he might,
And net whatever might come his way;
And with the world he would not fight,
If he could only get through the day.
Yet he was reasonable, and shed
A sort of light too along his path,
Which not from the heavenly founts was fed,
Nor yet from the baleful fires of wrath:
It was somewhat earthly perhaps and cold,
And led not many into the fold,
But yet it did not lead astray,
If it only lit up half the way.
No lofty purpose in life had he,
No spirit earnest and brave and true
The glory and hope of God to see;
Nor yet a-craving for something new:
But he walked with them in the way they trod,
And talked with them of the things they knew,
And his speech was easy and natural too,
Save when he spoke of the things of God.
A wholesome nature, and fain to please;
Saintship in him had been like disease
Which he was ever upon the watch—
Though he hardly needed it—not to catch;
For to be called Fanatic he
Dreaded like sin and misery.