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THE BETTER LAND.
WILL AND GEORDIE.
“Come ben and tak' the muckle chair, the wife's at Wishaw toun;
Fu' blithe she'll be to see ye, and the 'bus will bring her doun.
Sit doun and warm your feet, and thowe the cranreugh frae your hair;
I fear ye shouldnae venture out in sic a frosty air.
Fu' blithe she'll be to see ye, and the 'bus will bring her doun.
Sit doun and warm your feet, and thowe the cranreugh frae your hair;
I fear ye shouldnae venture out in sic a frosty air.
“The bottle's toom; but, Geordie, Jean has ta'en the jar awa',
And, to gi'e you the hans'ling o't, the cork she'll blithely draw;
I seldom fash wi't noo—indeed, I swore I ne'er wad pree,
But Jeanie whiles insists, and draps a cinder in my tea.
And, to gi'e you the hans'ling o't, the cork she'll blithely draw;
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But Jeanie whiles insists, and draps a cinder in my tea.
“And so, till she comes hame, we'll fill our pipes and tak' our smoke,
And crack o' times awa,' when we bore lichtly labour's yoke—
When hearts were light and bluid was warm, and short the blithesome year—
When mist and frost, and rain and win', were faced without a fear.”
And crack o' times awa,' when we bore lichtly labour's yoke—
When hearts were light and bluid was warm, and short the blithesome year—
When mist and frost, and rain and win', were faced without a fear.”
“Ay, Willie, we are turnin' auld and frail; for me, I'm done,
My picks beneath the bed ha'e lain unused sin' sixtyane;
My auld pit-breeks this mornin' wi' the ragman gaed on tramp,
And Peggy for a scourin' thing's hung up my auld pit-lamp.
My picks beneath the bed ha'e lain unused sin' sixtyane;
My auld pit-breeks this mornin' wi' the ragman gaed on tramp,
And Peggy for a scourin' thing's hung up my auld pit-lamp.
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“I'm sure I neednae keep my picks nae mair than keep my claes—
An auld and weel-worn collier, Will, I maun be a' my days;
Sweert's, sweert's my breath to come and gang, and whiles it seems to swither,
And wonder if it were nae best to leave me a'thegither.
An auld and weel-worn collier, Will, I maun be a' my days;
Sweert's, sweert's my breath to come and gang, and whiles it seems to swither,
And wonder if it were nae best to leave me a'thegither.
“Whiles, Will, I dover in my chair, and muse on days awa',
When Peg and me were young, and had nae backs to cleed but twa—
How hard I wrocht, what sprees I had (for I was foolish then),
And thocht (if e'er I thocht) the aim o' life was ‘won and spen'.’
When Peg and me were young, and had nae backs to cleed but twa—
How hard I wrocht, what sprees I had (for I was foolish then),
And thocht (if e'er I thocht) the aim o' life was ‘won and spen'.’
“My Peggy hain't as well's she could, and wrocht whene'er she micht,
And muckle flate, and weel advised, and strave to keep me richt.
I ne'er would own't, but weel I kent 'twas wrang—and unco wrang:
But what's the guid o' frettin' owre a thing that's by sae lang?
And muckle flate, and weel advised, and strave to keep me richt.
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But what's the guid o' frettin' owre a thing that's by sae lang?
“When roun' me whiles I look and see the plenishin' we hae—
A meal for every mornin', and a hap for every day—
And think ‘Whase guidin's this?’ man, Will, a mist comes owre my e'e;
There never was a better wife, sin' wives began to be.
A meal for every mornin', and a hap for every day—
And think ‘Whase guidin's this?’ man, Will, a mist comes owre my e'e;
There never was a better wife, sin' wives began to be.
“She minds it yet. Teth! ay, she minds't, and mentions't noo and then,
When neebor wives come in to bann their idle, drunken men.
But oven then wi' kindly clasp she tak's my pithless haun',
And whispers, ‘Gude be thankit, ye were ne'er a lazy man.’
When neebor wives come in to bann their idle, drunken men.
But oven then wi' kindly clasp she tak's my pithless haun',
And whispers, ‘Gude be thankit, ye were ne'er a lazy man.’
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“It's perfit true! I likit wark, and blithely at it sang,
My verra pick was proud o' me, and while I wrocht it rang;
There's joy in drinkin'! even in stauns (if short) there's wealth o' mirth,
But nocht's sae sweet as weel-paid wark amang the joys o' earth.
My verra pick was proud o' me, and while I wrocht it rang;
There's joy in drinkin'! even in stauns (if short) there's wealth o' mirth,
But nocht's sae sweet as weel-paid wark amang the joys o' earth.
“Ah, Will! when stauns tak' place, we sit amang the chiefs nae mair;
Ye never hear them cryin' noo, ‘Put Geordie in the chair!’
But ance I was an oracle, and crowds o' men could charm;
I needed but to lift my voice and wave abreed my arm.
Ye never hear them cryin' noo, ‘Put Geordie in the chair!’
But ance I was an oracle, and crowds o' men could charm;
I needed but to lift my voice and wave abreed my arm.
“Ah, man! It was a triumph aye to see in print my name,
And ken that ‘Geordie's’ words were read a thousand miles frae hame;
And hear the fules o' editors denounce me for a rogue,
A stirrer-up o' strife—a pest—a wanderin' demagogue.
And ken that ‘Geordie's’ words were read a thousand miles frae hame;
And hear the fules o' editors denounce me for a rogue,
A stirrer-up o' strife—a pest—a wanderin' demagogue.
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“I likit it! but, Will, thae days are frae us ever gane;
The wark we had to do is done, and a' our say is sain;
We noo maun turn our een to things that ance were reckoned nocht,
And mair about ‘the Better Land’ maun think than ance we thocht.
The wark we had to do is done, and a' our say is sain;
We noo maun turn our een to things that ance were reckoned nocht,
And mair about ‘the Better Land’ maun think than ance we thocht.
“Our Missioner, an honest man, wha jokes a harmless joke,
And has a humble heart, and likes a hamely crack and smoke,
And has a hope for a', and has nae fearsome tale to tell
O' weepin' and o' wailin' in the lampless pit o' hell—
And has a humble heart, and likes a hamely crack and smoke,
And has a hope for a', and has nae fearsome tale to tell
O' weepin' and o' wailin' in the lampless pit o' hell—
“He says that in ‘the Better Land’ there's food and raiment aye,
And noble drink that rins in burns, and naething for't to pay;
Nor rent, nor stent, nor heavy darg, to cross its borders dare,
And collier, master, lord, and laird, are equal-aqual there.
And noble drink that rins in burns, and naething for't to pay;
Nor rent, nor stent, nor heavy darg, to cross its borders dare,
And collier, master, lord, and laird, are equal-aqual there.
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“Nae asthma's there, wi' weary wheeze, to wear the life awa',
Nor rheumatism, Will, for there there are nae banes to gnaw;
Bereavement comes nae there to clip Affection's cord in twain,
And Discord's voice is never heard in a' the wide domain.
Nor rheumatism, Will, for there there are nae banes to gnaw;
Bereavement comes nae there to clip Affection's cord in twain,
And Discord's voice is never heard in a' the wide domain.
“We'll soom about on wings, like doos, and blithesome hymns will chant,
Wi' which compared, earth's sweetest airs are yillhouse roar and rant,
And join wi' fau'tless skill, untaught, some ‘Hallelujah baun',’
Or dreamin' sit, on gouden harps to thrum wi' tireless haun';
Wi' which compared, earth's sweetest airs are yillhouse roar and rant,
And join wi' fau'tless skill, untaught, some ‘Hallelujah baun',’
Or dreamin' sit, on gouden harps to thrum wi' tireless haun';
“Or wanderin' owre the sunny hills, 'mang flowers that never dee,
We'll crack, and wonder at our lair o' a' we hear and see;
And surely, Will, if hearts we hae, they'll warm wi' gratefu' glow,
When we the life in heaven compare wi' collier-life below.
We'll crack, and wonder at our lair o' a' we hear and see;
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When we the life in heaven compare wi' collier-life below.
“And, Will, we hae nae lang to wait—Death soon will draw the screen,
And prove the land we dream o' has nae human fancy been;
And what we'll dae, or what we'll say, a wonder needna be—
That there's a Better Land ava's enough for you and me.”
And prove the land we dream o' has nae human fancy been;
And what we'll dae, or what we'll say, a wonder needna be—
That there's a Better Land ava's enough for you and me.”
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