Annie Weir and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

ANNIE WEIR.

A TALE.

By a burn, that dimpling crept,
'Neath the leaves that o'er it slept
In the balmy breezeless eve, sat an old man, thin and grey,
And two children at his side,
Sunny-faced and merry-eyed,
Aweary with their sport, on the green sward lay:

And while from the poplar tall
Fell the blackbird's madrigal,
While the wagtail on the boulders chirruped near,
And the thrush sang down the dell,
In the thorn above the well,
The story of his youth they sought to hear.

“Uncle Reuben, long ago,
When the fields were white with snow,
And the glen with gleaming icicles was gay,
Well we mind that even then
You went daily from the glen
To sit among the tombs on yonder brae.

“And when the spring had come,
And the bees began to hum,
And morn came with her chalice filled with dew,
Still the graveyard had its charm—
Long you sat, when days were warm,
But why you went at all we never knew.

“Once we asked you why you went,
And what your lingering meant,
Oh! ‘Not to-night,’ you answered—‘not to-night.’
Would it pain you now to tell,
While yon labour-closing bell
Sounds sweetly, and the sky is golden bright?

“We'll be silent as the thrush
That is listening in yon bush,
The while her mate with rapture cheers the dale:
Uncle Reuben, will you not?”
And the old man, so besought,
Assenting, thus began the promised tale:—

“And sae ye wish to ken
Why I daily leave the glen
To spend a lonely hour in the auld kirkyaird,
That nestles 'neath the limes
That, since the olden times,
Hae a solemn shadow flung owre its billowy swaird.

“Be still, and ye shall hear;
But if ye hae nae tear
To drop owre sorrow's tale, or sigh to heave,
Then to your play begone,
And leave me here alone
To paint anew my heaven—my old dream-web to weave.

“Owre bye, near yonder bank,
Where the coltsfoot's growing rank,
And the binweed thrives where the bere should be;
Where the rigs are hower

Hower—Where the strata and soil above the workings of the pit had subsided.

yet,
Langsyne there was a pit,
And auld anes owre ayont it were twa or three.

“'Twere owre lang a tale to tell,
How, in thae times, aft it fell
That sic pits, wi' bounds unmarked, and of water brimming fou,
Were but traps for maids and men;
The pent flood now and then,
Wi' ruin in its roar, bursting through.

“In the pit near yonder bank,
Where the coltsfoot grows sae rank,
And the binweed thrives sae weel, 'twas mine to toil;
And there earth's dearest maid,
Like a glow-worm in the shade,
Made an Eden o' the gloom wi' her smile.

“Oh! she was fairer far
Than the gowan or the star,
In the green glades o' earth or the blue o' heaven,
And gentler than the dove;
And her heart's first love,
In its freshness and its faith, to me was given.

“She wasnae seventeen,
But at work she lang had been,
And up the weary stairs wi' her coal-creel laden,

Where the pits were shallow the coals used to be carried by girls and women to the surface. They had a “creel” slung over their shoulders. The road from the bottom to the mouth of the shaft was a series of short stairs. This must have been very hard work.

Day by day, wi' trembling limb,
In the twilight dim,

Even when the sun shone it would be twilight in the shaft, owing to the interception of the light by the woodwork of the stairs.

For her frail old father's sake, clamb the peerless maiden.

“That her silken auburn hair,
Snawy hauns, and face so fair,
Should be daily soiled sae sair I aye was mourning;
But my Annie at her wark,
Aye as lichtsome as the lark,
Gaed singing to the stair, and sang returning.

“Oh! sweet's the laverock's trill
In the cloud that crowns the hill,
And the hidden blackbird's sang in the hazel bush at e'en;
But ne'er sae sweet nor dear
As the sang o' Annie Weir,
In the darkness o' the pit heard—hersel' unseen.

“Ae morn—ae summer morn—
When white was every thorn—
When the barley braird was silvered wi' the dew,
Sweet was every scene and soun',
And but few I mind gaed doun,
But I and Annie Weir were o' the few.

“Frae the ithers far awa'
We toiled our ainsels twa—
Strange fears that day came owre me now and then;
Aften down my pick I flang,
Listening eerie for her sang,
And thinking she was lang o' coming ben.

Towards the faces is “ben,” or “in;” towards the pit bottom from the faces is “but,” or “out.”

“Tak' yoursels in fancy doun,
And frae the waste

Waste—The wrought-out workings of the mine.

aroun'
Let this sudden cry o' terror strike the ear—
‘Oh! the water's broken in!
To the stair for safety rin!’
And fancy a' the fears o' Annie Weir.

“She heard the awesome din,
And she saw the others rin—
She saw them to the stair for safety flee;
She heard the distant rush
O' the water's coming gush,
Looked upward, and the sunshine filled her e'e.
Her foot was on the stair,
But, oh! I wasnae there;
Sae, flinging aff her creel, she flew for me.

“In the shearing

Shearing—The most advanced part of a working face.

I was thrang
Crooning Annie's fav'rite sang
(A lay of humble love and its reward),
When from the silent waste
Cam' the voice o' ane in haste,
And ‘Reuben, Reuben, rin!’ I wondering heard.

“‘Oh, Reuben, Reuben, rin!
For the water's broken in!—
They a' cam' to the bottom but yoursel'.
Oh! Reuben, haste ye fast,
For it's coming like a blast,

Coming like the blast caused by an explosion of fire-damp. “She's blastet” is still a common way of saying there has been an explosion in a pit.

And how we're to win oot I canna tell.’

“Though I trusted she was wrang,
Yet I didna tarry lang,
But hurried out my frichted burd to meet,
And we ran to win the stair,
Oh! but lang ere we were there,
The black and stoury flood

Bearing on its surface the light coal-dust of the mine.

was at our feet.

“Turning roun' wi' frantic speed
O' nae danger taking heed,
Through the waste for safety's path we sought in vain,
Then eerie, bruised and sair,
Haun' in haun' and in despair,
To the road that best we kent we came again.

“We didna tear our hair,
But it surely was despair,
That made us ither's hauns sae wildly tak';
For our heavy hearts aye sunk,
As wi' hollow, dismal, clunk,
The water slowly rose and drove us back.

“For hope there was nae room,
There we saw and kent our doom,
Nae skill, nor faith, nor prayer could scaur't awa,
It would creep up pace by pace,
And to reach the farthest face
It could but tak' a day, or may be twa.

“‘Come, Annie, let's gae ben,
A' our sorrows soon will en',
For us nae earthly morn can hae a breakin',
We'll our watch in patience keep—
Oh! that we could but sleep,
Ere owre us creeps the flood, and never waken.’

“‘Oh! Reuben, Reuben Shaw,
I' the' nae way out ava?
Wi' this ae feeble light on our white faces streaming,
Maun we our hopes resign
And our dear lives tyne?
Oh! waefu' waefu' end o' a' our gouden dreaming!’

“Sae in the first wild hour
Did we our wailing pour,
Nor thought how e'en the feeble light would fail us;
Nor that the flood might stay,
Far frae us on the brae,
And yet a sterner foe ere lang assail us.

“Let your fancy, if it can,
Paint us sitting worn and wan,
Watching owre our last bit candle as it flared its dying flare;
Fled our guardian Angel seemed,
And till then we had not dreamed,
That ony darker shade could fa' on our despair.

“Like parents owre a child,
That its hindmost smile hath smiled,
Owre the glowing loweless wick low we leaned wi' fondling care,
And gently blowing strave
The lowe alive to save,
And chase away the gloom for ae brief moment mair.

“But we gently blew in vain,
So we raised our een again
At ance, I kenna why nor what we wished to see;
But I saw—and see it noo—
Beaming memory's mazes through,
The old sweet look o' love and trust in Annie's ee.

“But the wick a faint dull red
In its ain white ase half hid,
Lang glowed and seemed a soul that the Fates were loath to sever;
Then it dwindled to a spark,
That a star seemed in the dark—
A star that sudden set to rise no more for ever.

“And then no more was seen,
Save as we strained our een,
To bless our longing hearts wi' anither look o' ither,
Ae flash we thought we saw,
But it could be nocht ava',
Save the ee o' frenzied Hope as she left us a'thegither.

“Oh! ne'er before since Light
Half his kingdom won frae Night,
Had the darkness of the pit haen a dreariness sae drear;
For the shadow seemed to clasp
With a stifling, chilling grasp,
While uncannie feet we heard on the water drawing near.

“How the laneness grew mair lane,
When a' note o' time was gane;
How our hearts sank now and then, and to die we laid us doun;
How the hours crept into days;
How we prayed and warbled praise,
That wakened in the waste a sadly solemn soun';

“How the hunger pang we bare
When the water was our fare;
How we tried to be contented with our cheer;
How the flood rose to our feet;
How it stood, and durstnae weet
The garments o' the Angel, Annie Weir;

“How we heard sweet music swell,
If asleep we briefly fell,
And, waking, heard what seemed the hum o' bees;

In reality the hum of innumerable small flies which the rising flood had driven to that part of the mine.

How we closer crept in awe
When the phosphor-light

Phosphor-light —Sometimes over certain kinds of wood-props used in mines there creeps a network of a brown weed, pointed with white. In the absence of lamp or candle light it emits a faint phosphoric gleam, which when first seen is alarming even to a man of ordinary courage.

we saw,
That seemed a spirit sitting 'mong the trees;

“How the old folks were our thought—
How to want they might be brought;
How the God aboon would surely guide them through;
What we would hae done ava,
Had our number no been twa,
And how a solace aye from that we drew;

“How the fearfu' thought that death
Mightnae come at ance to baith,
Made the sore-tried reason reel, and the blood with horror chill,—
A' this, and mickle mair,
Ye the telling o' maun spare,
For the memory o't awakens horror still.

“But the end at last drew near:
At my side lay Annie Weir,
And murmured lowly, `Reuben, part maun we.
Oh! how wearied I hae grown,
Like a hunted bird that's flown,
Despairing, lang, across a biel'less lea.

“‘Oh! sweet it was to dream
We at ance should cross the stream
Whase shores are Earth and Heaven, but 'twinna be;
A' my dreaming's been in vain;
I the stream maun cross alane,
And ye your weary doom alane maun dree.’

“Then she seemed asleep to fa',
And I thought she was awa',
When, hark! 'twas surely voices in the waste
(It sae like a fancy seemed,
That I thought I had but dreamed),—
'Twas the searchers coming cautious in their haste.

“Frae another, ebber

Ebber—Near the cropout of the seam.

pit—
I can tell ye where it's yet—
Three weary days they, hour aboot, had redd;

Redd—To remove the fallen roof-stones in the mine.

Like giants had they toiled,
And success had on them smiled,
For safely to the sunshine were we led.

“Annie Weir and I were wed,
But her bloom for aye was fled;
Ae year she lived, and ere she was a mither,
She was laid in yon kirkyaird,
'Neath the greenest o' its swaird,
And oh! that we were ance again thegither.”

A DAY AMANG THE HAWS.

When the beech-nuts fast are drappin',
And the days are creepin' in,
When ilk carefu' mither's thinkin'
O' the winter's hose and shoon;
When the mornin' bells loud ringin'
To the Fast-day worship ca's,
Out comes the city callan'
For his day amang the haws.
O' the dangers that await him
Ne'er a troublous thought has he,
Nought cares he for the tearin'
He his claes is sure to gie;
But the light o' comin' pleasure
On his heart like sunshine fa's,
For dear as stolen waters
Is a day amang the haws.

Frae the mill where stourie “jennies”
Round him aye are whirrin' thrang;
Or the forge where ponderous “Condies”
Dunt and dirl the hale day lang;
Or the press-room's inky regions,
And the gaffer's cuff and ire;
Or the needle, or the lingle,
On he plods through mud and mire.
Frae the lane where Vice holds revel,
Where beneath fair Virtue's shield,
Like birds escaped the snarer,
Aye a gratefu' few find bield;
Frae the stench that kens nae sweetenin',
And the din that has nae pause,
To the freshness and the freedom
O' a day amang the haws.

Think ye thus?—“The graceless callan'
To the kirk should rather gang;
Does his mither never warn him
That sic Fast-day traikin's wrang?

If her heart is for him pleadin',
Kennin' weel how sair he's wrought,
For the customs o' her faithers
Has she ne'er a reverend thought?”
Oh, rather thus excuse her:
“She was born amang the hills,
And she minds the autumn grandeur
O' the thorns beside the rills;
There are memories fresh frae girlhood
Crowdin' fast to plead his cause,
And she canna keep the callan'
Frae his day amang the haws.”

Like a flood the rain's been pourin',
But the sun beams through at last,
As amang a host o' ithers
Frae the town he hastens fast;
On the whinny slopes o' Cathkin,
Or on Pollock's woody knowes,
He already roams in fancy
Where he kens the haw-tree grows.

On the bitter blast that's brewin'
He looks west wi' hopefu' ee,
For he kens the woods frae keepers
In sic weather will be free.
If the bells around him ringin'
Whisper whiles o' broken laws,
“Oh!” he thinks, “there's surely pardon
For ae day amang the haws.”

Fu' boldly has he ventured,
And in darin' weel has thriven,
He the ripest, richest branches
Frae the sweetest trees has riven.
See his jacket hangs in tatters,
Owre his hands the bluid-draps steal;
But his mither mends fu' neatly,
And his scarts again will heal.
Frae his hair the rain is dreepin',
But he never thinks o' harm,
For Pleasure, wanderin' wi' him,
Wi' her mantle keeps him warm.

How his heart wi' pride is swellin',
As he near the city draws,
For he kens he comes joy-laden
Frae his day amang the haws.

Wha thinks he frae his ramble
Winna better come, but worse,
Wi' its memory hangin' owre him
Like an angry father's curse?
In Nature's face what is there
That a city bairn should fear?
In the woodland's autumn whisper
Is there ought he shouldna hear?
Wha kens what heavenly music
May be stirred his breast within,
As the sapless leaf's faint rustlin'
Turns the sparklin' ee aboon,
While his fancy paints the Painter
O' the million-tinted shaws,
And the poet-spark is kindled
In his soul, amang the haws?

Oh! keepers, spare the callan'—
And sweet dreams ye shall not lack—
For the wee things' sake that weary
Wait the wanderer's coming back;
They hae shared the city's hardships,
And o' plenty little ken—
Let them taste in rich abundance
O' the spoils o' hill and glen.
Owre the priceless feast they'll linger,
Till their lips and teeth grow brown;
Or wi' the ruddy treasure
In their bosoms cuddle down.
Oh, there's nane the joy can measure,
That a boon sae sma' may cause!
Tears are dried and sorrow's lightened
Wi' a day amang the haws.

And ye whase lot is coosten
Aye amang the caller air,
Wha on a gift sae common
May a thought but seldom wair,

Oh! think if Heaven had placed ye
Far frae glen and mountain stream,
Where the woods are things o' fancy,
And the yorlin's sang a dream—
Oh! think how ye would weary
But to hear ae laverock sing,
And to watch the matron peesweep
Chase the hawk wi' daring wing—
How wild would be your longin'
For the breeze on hills that blaws!
How muckle would ye venture
For ae day amang the haws!

SONG—LONELY STREAM.

When the ice that hangs adorning
Yon grey rocks that o'er thee frown,
Loosened in the blaze of morning,
Gaily glancing, topples down;
While thy brown flood's foaming free,
Lonely stream, I'll come to thee.

When the wintery tempest, fluting
'Mong the beeches, o'er thee blows,
Or, the ivied ash uprooting,
Bridges thee with broken boughs;
In thy boulder nooks to dream,
Then I'll seek thee, lonely stream.

When the coltsfoot flower is thrusting
All aside its way that barred;

When the hawthorn bud is bursting,
When thy banks are primrose-starred,
While thy linnets chant their glee,
Then be sure I'll come to thee.

A DEATHLESS LOVE.

Oh, sing that plaintive sang, dear May!
Ance mair ere life I tyne;
There's no in all the world, dear bairn,
A voice sae sweet as thine.
Alang life's path I've tottered lang,
The broken arch is near;
And when I fa' I fain would hae
Thy warbling in my ear.

Oh, sing again that plaintive sang!—
It waukens memories sweet,
That slumbered in the past afar,
Whare youth and bairn-time meet.

I roam through woods wi' berries rich,
Or owre the breezy hills—
Unwearied, wander far to dream
Beside love-hallowed rills.

Sit owre beside me, winsome bairn,
And let me kiss thy brow;
Wi' baith thy warm wee hauns press mine—
Oh, would the end come now!
Or would—but 'tis a sinfu' wish,
As sinfu' as it's vain;
We could not sit for ever thus,
Nor thou a child remain.

There's nane I love like thee, dear bairn—
Thou ken'st nae why, I ween:
Thou only hast thy grannie's smile,
Thou only her blue een;
Thou only wilt the village maids
Like her in sang excel;
Thou only hast her brow and cheek,
Wi' rosy dimple dell.

It's mony a weary year since she
Was 'neath the gowans laid,
Yet aft I hear her on the brae,
And see her waving plaid:
And aften yet, in lanely hours,
Returns the thrill o' pride
I felt when first we mutual love
Confessed on Lavern side.

They say there's music in the storm
That tower and tree o'erturns,
And beauty in the smooring drift
That hides the glens and burns;
And mercy in the fate that from
Our fond embraces tears
The angel o' a happy hame—
The love o' early years:

But he whase house the storm has wrecked,
No music hears it breathe.
Wha e'er saw beauty in the drift
That happed a frien' wi' death?

Or wha, when Fate wi' ruthless haun',
His life's ae flower lays low,
Can breathe a grateful prayer, and feel
There's mercy in the blow?

Sae thought I when her een I closed;
And, though the thought was wrang,
It haunted me when to the fields
My meals nae mair she brang.
And aften by the lone dyke-side
A tearfu' grace was sain;
And aft, alas! wi' bitter heart,
The books at e'en I taen.

Nane think how sadly owre my head
The lang, lang years hae passed—
Nane ken how near its end has crept
The langest and the last;
But I fu' brawly ken, for, May,
Your grannie came yestreen,
And joy and hope were in her smile,
And welcome in her een.

Sit near me, May—sit nearer yet—
My heart at times stauns still:
'Tis sweet to fa' asleep for aye
By sic a blithesome rill—
My thoughts are wanderin', bairn. The veil
O' heaven aside seems drawn;
The deepenin' autumn gloamin's turned
To summer's brightest dawn.

My een grow heavy, May, and dim—
What unco sounds I hear!
It seems a sweeter voice than thine
That's croonin' in my ear.
Lean owre me wi' thy grannie's face,
And waefu' glistenin' ee;
Lean kindly owre me, bairn, for nane
Maun close my een but thee.

THE FIRST GUID DAY.

It is the showery April;—
The spring-time has begun,
And o' the comin' summer
There's a promise in the wun'.
The hawthorn buds are burstin',
The birds in chorus gay
A hymn o' thanks are warblin',
For the first guid day.
The breeze is warm and westlin',
The firs sae saftly rustlin',
To doves among them nestlin',
Say, “Winter's passed away;”
While clouds o' downy lightness
Float on in snowy whiteness,
As if to aid the brightness
O' the first guid day.

It is the herald April;—
The farmer looks abroad,
And thinks how such a sunshine
Will dry the wettest clod.
Stour-cluds he sees in fancy
Ahint his harrows play,
While dreams o' wealth are whispered
By the first guid day.
And see by yonder plantin',
Athort the lea-rigs rantin',
Wi' tails in air tossed, wanton,
His stirks leap jauntily.
And why are they sae canty
While grass is yet sae scanty?
They feel the coming plenty
In the first guid day.

It is the buddy April;—
The roads wi' bairns are thrang,
Whase fairy glee is bursting
In rude and rapturous sang:

Ilk little face, but lately
Sae joyless and sae blae,
Is wreathed wi' smiles and roses
On the first guid day.
And hark! that gentle hummin',
Frae yonder cottage comin',
Is it the careless thrummin'
O' fingers skilled to play?
Oh, no! it is the singin'
O' bees around it wingin',
The gladsome tidings bringin'
O' the first guid day.

It is the joyous April;—
We feel—we kenna hoo—
As if the world were better,
And our lease o' life were new.
Our hearts are beating lightly,
And on life's brambly brae
The upward path seems smoother,
On the first guid day.

The lark on wings untirin',
To reach the lift aspirin',
The bard below is firin',
To sing a crowning lay.
All nature says, “Be cheery,
O' gladness never weary,
But banish all things eerie
Frae the first guid day.”

GRATITUDE.

O Thou that rul'st the storm, and wisely rein'st
The war-steed Desolation, rescuing
From his raised hoof the poor,
Who marked with life our door,
And saved us, God of every good,
Let us before Thee pour our gratitude.

Forgive, O God! the discontent which rose
Within our sinking hearts, when we had seen
The idle plough fast bound
In the snow-mantled ground
From weary week to week, and saw
No sign that told us of the coming thaw.

Forgive our lack of faith—the thoughts which oft,
In murmuring speech expressed, told all who heard
That we had ceased to see
Omniscience in Thee,
And dared to turn our eyes above
And doubt Thy goodness and preserving love.

We saw a happier race speed daily forth
To pleasure on the lakes, returning thence
With feasting, cups, and song,
The evening to prolong;—
That made our little nothing less,
But all our thoughts were thoughts of bitterness.

The robin sat upon our sill and sang,
Like one that hoped, though hungry; but in us
His heaven-taught melody
No hope inspired, for we,
The while we listened to his strain,
Thought of our wants, and of the snow-hid drain.

But suddenly Thou bad'st the warm winds blow,
And down the flood came sweeping. Tiny streams
The storm-chained plough unbound,
And coltsfoot flowers were found,
And larks the showery mornings hailed,
And all the hills appeared again unveiled;

And the green fields were softened, and our spades
Were labour-polished; glowed with toil our hands,
And plenteous, though poor,
The morning meal came sure;
Our children answered to our call,
A little thinner each, but living all.

THE STREAMLET.

Lately in the songless gloaming
Of a sunny winter day,
Strolled I by a stream that, nameless—
Free from finny tribes, and fameless—
Wandered on its Clydeward way.

Vacantly its windings tracing,
From its freshness nought I sought—
Nothing wished in verse to treasure;
Love, or hate, or care, or pleasure,
Won or craved no passing thought.

Like a lullaby its music
Rose beside me, and my soul,
To resist its spell unarmoured,
Scarcely hearing that it murmured,
Yielded to its soft control.

Like a dreamless midnight slumber,
Fruitless, passed the flying hour;
Memory kept her lamp extinguished,
Fancy, for the hour, relinquished
All its world-creating power.

Nought I of the young moon's presence
Nor the first star's rising knew,
Till a robin, like a spirit—
I could less observe than hear it—
Close before me flitting flew.

Suddenly the darkness deepened,
Presence to the moon was given,
Night's first star was twinkling o'er me,
Burning mine-heaps glared before me
On the knowes, like Mars in heaven.

Trees that slept as erst I passed them,
Now to graceful wavings stirred,
For my reverie was broken—
Some all-potent charm was spoken
In the flitting of that bird.

And the stream itself, how altered!
Full of life it onward dashed,
Music mingled with its wimple,
Moons and stars in every dimple
Broke and shimmered, danced and flashed.

“In its babble there's a sermon,”
Muttered I, and straight began,
Nothing of my folly weening,
Something of its hidden meaning
To interpret, as it ran.

Pausing oft, intently listening,
All my wits to work were thrown;
But the language of its streaming,
Though of most familiar seeming,
Was to me a thing unknown.

Yet the low and dreamy murmur
Of its dimly rippling flow,
And the whisper of its laving,
Round the last year's rushes waving
In the shadow, to and fro,

Would not from my thoughts be driven—
Would like human sayings seem,
Though the language of its streaming
Did not seem so much the dreaming
As the reading of a dream.

“Yes,” I said, “there is a sermon
Uttered in its gentle roll;
But I must interpret poorly,
For the strange-tongued talker surely
Speaks the promptings of my soul.”

Then away my memory wandered
Slowly, far along the past;
Boyhood ventures and achievements,
Manhood's troubles and bereavements,
Came before me crowding fast.

And the while my memory travelled
Early love and joys among,
Lo! the stream a lyric quoted—
Syllables and rhymes I noted—
And I knew the song it sung.

Never was there such a preacher!
Now my soul was filled with glee;
Smitten now with fear and wonder,
When aloud it seemed to thunder
Things but known to Heaven and me.

Now 'tis an accusing spirit,
Torturing while it holds in thrall—
Like an angry eye it glistens,
No delightful reminiscence
Suffering memory to recall;

Now a flattering nymph, my merits
Telling o'er with Siren art—
Could a meed so sweetly numbered
Leave asleep the pride that slumbered
Cloaked and hidden in my heart?

Now while round its boulders rushing,
Witch-like, in my ears it dinned
Thoughts of suicide once uttered,
Curses deep in madness muttered,
Tales of sins in secret sinned;

Feelings nourished in the struggle
For existence, o'er it conned;
“Mine's a care that has no waning,
Sin is not in my complaining,”
Like a weary slave it groaned.

Then, while with an almost voiceless
Motion gliding underneath,
Budless brambles o'er it bending,
From its breast there seemed ascending
Wailings of decay and death.

Lispings of long-silent voices
Thrilled me; and four names most dear
(Whispered low in anguished falter),
Agnes, Mary, Catherine, Walter,
In its murmur I could hear.

Then where rounded pebbles glistened,
Scarcely covered in the stream,
All its sweetly murmured story
Was of love, and hope, and glory,
Brighter than the brightest dream.

Musing as I homeward hasted
Through Garscadden's flowerless vales,
This appeared a truth the surest—
They whose hearts and lives are purest,
Hear from streams the sweetest tales.

GIBBIE'S LAMENT.

Dear Bessie, owre my dreary cell
Again has gloomed the night;
The sulky jailer has been roun'
And ta'en away my light.
Baith heaven and earth seem fled, and through
The winnock at my side
I vainly gaze—the verra stars
Frae me their faces hide.

The hale day lang I've pingled owre
That heap o' tautit tow,
And thought my burning finger-nebs
Wad sotten't in a low.
And oh I'm sure I wish they had—
The thought may weel be wrang,
But patience comes but seldom here,
And never tarries lang.

Oh, Bessie, could you through thae wa's
Your faithfu' Gibbie see,
I'm sure your heart wad burst in sabs,
Your tears would blear your e'e;
To think that I sae cauld should lie,
My bed as hard's a stane,
Wi' no a living thing except
The cloks to hear my mane.

Were I a swindler or a thief
This cell would be my pride,
There canna be a better place
Frae a' the world to hide;
But I've nae skill to steal or cheat,
Yet here I'm forced to stay:
I've thought on't, Bessie, till I fear
My thoughts are gaun agley.

My head is turnin', Bessie dear;
I ken I'm wauken wide,
And yet I see ye wi' the bairns
Here stannin' at my side.

Your breath is on my cheek, your haun'
Upon my face I fin'—
It's passin' owre my shirpet chafts,
And een sae far faun in.

But yesterday I waled me out
A tuft o' tow sae fine,
And sat me doun, wi' mournfu' pride,
To plait a fishin'-line;
And had I haen but ae wee swirl
O' thy saft gouden hair,
I would hae bow't a preen, and tied
A yellow flee fu' rare.

And, Bessie, on my bed I sat
And thought the floor a stream,
And siller grilse and gouden trout
Were soomin' through my dream,
When in the prowlin' jailer cam'—
The fiend was in his e'e;
And, Bessie, with the supper-hour
Nae supper cam' to me.

Oh, Bessie, to the water side
At dewy gloamin' steal,
And in your faithfu' Gibbie's name
Bid a' the streams fareweel.
For me, I'll never see them mair;
I hear a voice that says—
“Life's pirn's unwinding fast; ye'll ne'er
Wun through thae sixty days.”

VERSES TO A (SUPPOSED) FOSSIL FISH.

[_]

[The following verses were suggested by a ball of ironstone, of a very fish-like shape, which was brought into the School of Mines, Glasgow, and which it was thought would prove one of the family of coal saurians, two of which have been found in the coal-measures of the carboniferous system. It proved to be no fish, however.]

And didst thou once frequent the sea
A living creature—could it be?
Let me wi' reverence lean owre thee
And view ilk part;
A wonder in the first degree
Thou surely art.

Oh, what a graceless form is thine!
Was that contorted ridge thy spine?
Did bony plates thy flesh confine,
Or wrinkled scale?
Did at that fracture smooth once join
A lang lithe tail?

Thy venturous path how didst thou guide
Throughout the wonder-peopled tide?
No trace of fin at back or side
Dost thou display:
Did gills the needfu' air provide,
Or nostrils, pray?

Strange creature of the auld-world brine,
Was this thy living form's outline?
Did at that oval mark once shine
A lashless e'e?
And didst thou other parts combine
Than those we see?

Thou syllable in truth's narration,
Were sedgy shores thy habitation?
In life's unmeasured roll thy station
We fain would know.
Say, in the morning of creation
What part played thou?

Wert thou a thing of blood, to whom
The weaker tribes gave ample room?
That stony wame their living tomb—
Preserve us a'!
What thousands may have met their doom
Within that maw!

Perhaps thou never saw the sea,
And lived from blood and murder free;
Thy home some tideless pool might be,
Deep fringed with heath,
Which, drying, 'mang its weeds left thee
In deathless death.

How came it that thou wert encased
Langsyne within the weedy paste,
Where calamites and tree-ferns chaste
Luxuriant waved?
What pickle strange from utter waste
Thy being saved?

When sound could penetrate thy ear
What awful voices thou wouldst hear,
As o'er the estuary drear
The storm would roar,
While huge amphibians sought in fear
The hutless shore.

When life was thine, no human wile
Could to destruction thee beguile;
The fisher's art and hunter's toil
Were yet to be;
And maybe aft since then our isle
'S been 'neath the sea.

I need not ask thee if thou e'er
The wild bird's morning song didst hear,
Around thee swelling far and near;
For though their glee
The loneliest human heart would cheer,
'Twas nought to thee.

Besides, 'tis maybe true that then
No wild birds warbled in the glen,
And morn unhailed rose o'er the fen
From year to year;
For music shunned the world till men
Her voice could hear.

And yet, half-shocked, the fancy says,
'Tis strange if even those far days—
While rarest flowers adorned the braes
And ferns the plain—
The earth should have no birds to raise
The praiseful strain.

Say, do they madly theorise
Who say our form from thine doth rise?
Art thou our father in disguise?
It may be true,
There yet a faint resemblance lies
About the mou'.

Thou etching of a wondrous plan,
What are our wizzen'd mummies gran'
Compared to thee, whose life-stream ran,
Syne ceased to flow,
Long cycles ere there was a man
To mak' ane o'.

But I may guess till doomsday bell
Shall ring the world's departing knell,
And aye return frae truth's deep well
With empty pail,
Unless thou deign'st to rise thysel'
And tell thy tale.

THE MARIGOLD.

I ken a sweet spot where the marigold blooms,
And pinkies breathe balm in their season,
Where the rambler may roam frae the dawn to the gloam,
And no churlish laird ask the reason.
There the lark a' day lang trills his lady-love's praise,
And wagtails their mates seek to gladden,
While the burn wimples doun wi' a saft singin' soun'
Through the gowany howes o' Garscadden.

Weel kent is the spot where the marigold blooms,
The peesweep's wild pæan sounds o'er it;
The goldie secure 'mang the whins has her nest,
The wren 'neath the bracken before it.

Dear, dear is it aye to the bright bonny burn,
Sae blithely its seaward way haudin',
And dear to the shilfa aboon it that broods
In the balmy haw-bloom o' Garscadden.

Oh, bleak was the spot where the marigold blooms
When the March winds were blustering around it;
And bleak when the burn ceased to wimple and sing
In the grasp o' the ice-king that bound it.
'Twas nae place to gang wi' a fou heavy heart,
For care there the mair seemed to madden;
But spring wi' a bound comes to brighten and soothe
The homes and the hearts o' Garscadden.

To the sweet modest pinkie lang faithfu' I've been,
O' singin' its praise never weary,
And seeking at gloaming its home on the fen,
As ane seeks the home o' his dearie.
And now in my eild I've grown fickle, I ween,
Transferring my warmest applaudin';
But nowhere on earth is sic marigold bloom
As among the green howes o' Garscadden.

JOHN FROST.

SUGGESTED BY THE PRATTLE OF A CHILD.

Oh, mither, John Frost cam' yestreen,
And owre a' the garden he's been;
He's on the kail-stocks,
And my twa printit frocks
That Mary left out on the green,
Yestreen,
John Frost foun' them out on the green.

And he's been on the trees, the auld loon,
And heaps o' brown leaves shooken doun;
He's been fleein' a' nicht,
Frae the dark to the licht,
And missed nae a house in the toun,
The auld loun—
He's missed nae a house in the toun.

And, mither, he's killed every flee—
Noo ane on the wa's ye'll no see;
On the windows there's nane,
For the last leevin' ane
Fell doun frae the rape in oor tea,
Puir thing!—
Just drappit doun dead in oor tea.

And, mither, the path's frostit a';
If ye gang the least fast ye jist fa'.
Oh, ye ne'er saw sic fun!
I got ae curran'-bun,
And wee Annie Kenzie got twa,
Daft wee thing;
She jist slade a wee bit and got twa.

And my auntie her een couldnae close,
For she said her auld bluid he just froze.
He cam' in below the claes,
And he nippit oor taes—
And he maist taen awa' Bobby's nose,
Puir wee man;
Sure, he couldnae dae wantin' his nose.

And my uncle was chitterin' to death,
And John Frost wadna let him get breath;
And the fire wadna heat
Uncle's twa starvin' feet,
Till the soles o' his socks were burned baith,
Birslet brown,
And the reek comin' oot o' them baith.

But what brings John Frost here ava,
Wi' his frost and his cranreugh and snaw?
It's a bonny-like thing!
He just waff't his lang wing,
And a' oor wee flowers flew awa',
Every ane;
And Ross's red dawlies and a'.

And, mither, he gangs through the street,
Just looking for weans wi' bare feet;
And he nips at their heels,
And the skin aff them peels,
And thinks it's fine fun when they greet,
The auld loon;
He nips them the mair when they greet.

Wi' his capers the folk shouldna thole.
D'ye ken?—He breathed in through a bole
Whare a wee lassie lay,
And she dee't the next day,
And they laid her doun in the kirk-hole,
Puir wee lamb—
And covered her in the kirk-hole.

But guess what my auntie tell't me?
She says the wee weans, when they dee,
Flee awa' owre the moon,
And need nae claes nor shoon,
To a place whare John Frost they'll ne'er see,
Far awa'—
To a place whare John Frost daurna be.

And she says our wee Katie gaed there,
And she'll never be hoastin' nae mair.
Sure, we'll gang there ana'—
We'll flee up an' no fa'—
And we'll see her jist in her wee chair—
And she'll lauch
In her bonny wee red-cushioned chair.

AULD ARCHIE BELL.

Auld Archie Bell has his hame in Rockneuk,
He's honest, and douce, and a wabster o' pluck;
And, born a' the rest o' the world to excel,
Unmatched wi' his shuttle was auld Archie Bell.

But Archie, wha has in the parish a name,
To weavin' alone wasnae bound for his fame;
No ae thing, nor twa things, could Archie do weel,
For a' bodies owned him a gey clever chiel.
And mony a braw lassie, though ne'er ownin' why,
For Archie would sigh, and her supper lay by—
Na, ladies, 'twas said, frae the Duke's and Dalziel,
Glanced love frae their carriage on auld Archie Bell.

There wasnae a loon in the hale country roun',
But in a lang race Archie Bell could rin doun;

And if he at sports ne'er a prize could display,
'Twas only because he was pleased to hae't sae—
On's fours he could rin wi' the speed o' a grew,
Owre hurdles, yard high, like a lintie he flew:
And whether restricted to gallop or trot,
'Twas a' ane to Archie, he cared nae a grot.

When Reynard was roused frae the glen o' Dalziel,
Wi' the barkin' o' hounds and a wild human yell,
Where'er the chase led them, be't foul day or fair,
Wi' his shoon in his oxter auld Archie was there—
The chief dread o' Reynard, the soul o' the hunt,
Owre hedges and ditches he spankit in front:
The horses might fag—dogs lie doun oot o' breath—
But Archie ne'er failed to be in at the death.

In Archie's lithe bouk there was nae needless length,
And the bend at his knees was a token o' strength;
He could spin like a peerie through lang Highland reels,
And dump like a black on the floor wi' his heels.

Wi' Archie's wild “hooch!” and his still wilder screigh,
E'en bridegrooms at weddings ne'er thought the hours dreigh;
And the fiercest o' waps wi' ae cry he could quell,
For the lungs o' a lion had auld Archie Bell.

But wha a' the feats o' his youth could rehearse?—
E'en the meed o' his eild soars aboon my poor verse:
How he wooed, how he won, though the battle was hard,
The bonniest lass in the whole Middle Ward;
How in hard times he turned owre the green orchard sod;
How he wrocht wi' the masons and carried the hod;
How the mortar he mixed, spite o' frosts and wet thaws,
Will bind and haud fast till the last trumpet blaws.

Nae mortal wi' Archie can fettle bee-skeps,
And wide is the fame o' his windlestrae caps;
The bees as he shears them wi' music him cheer,
And the bee-farmers after them come far and near.
There ne'er was a tinkler that e'er wandered by,
Wi' him heather-besoms or house-brooms could tie;

And Dalziel's famous curlers to own think nae shame
That Archie's braw cowes are the half o' their game.

Ae fondness has Archie:—In sunshine and mirk
He longs to be bedral o's ain parish-kirk.
To him that's sae honoured he wishes nae ill,
But just he would like sic a station to fill.
To ken every bane in the mools o' Dalziel,
And every Lord's mornin' to ring the kirk-bell,
And bear the Guid Books up the auld pu'pit stair—
Ye powers! grant him that, and he'll fash ye nae mair!

He every heigh grave would smooth down by degrees,
And plant a' the borders wi' flowers and wee trees;
And wi' an e'e hameward—there's nae sin in that—
Hae cabbage and kail here and there for the pat.
A pattern to a' future bedrals 'twould be:
Auld folk to be laid in't would weary to dee;
And the saunts that frae't rise at the great day o' grace,
Would swither ere wanderin' frae sic a braw place.

Lang life to ye, Archie! may sorrow nor care
Ne'er alter the tint o' your ever snod hair:
Secure may ye sit, 'mid the world's din and strife,
Wi' a pension to brighten the gloamin' o' life.
If, ere ye're a bedral, ye're laid in your grave,
For guidsake lie still till ye're roused wi' the lave;
And dinna, wi' openin' auld graves in the nicht,
Or ringin' the bell, kill the parish wi' fricht.

Greyhound.

A CANDLEMAS RHYME.

FIRST.

It was the eve of Candlemas, and in her easy-chair
Sweet Mrs Cameron knitting sat with thrifty zeal and care;
And silent sat, in slippered ease, her lord, of portly frame,
And sturdy Cameronian faith, and stainless local fame.

And on that eve of Candlemas, if memory reckoned fair,
'Twas sixteen years since they were wed, a humble hopeful pair,
Rich only in a love that ne'er by coldness had been crossed,
And theirs was now the beinest house that Lavernshaw could boast.

Full blithe was Mrs Cameron—and wherefore should not she?
For where were six such blithesome bairns to keep a house in glee?
'Twas true there should another been, but Heaven had deemed it best
To make their first an angel, and the guardian of the rest.

And as the children played, she let her happy fancy roam,
And saw in summer loveliness her childhood's moorland home;
And memory brought its store of joys, and garrulous she grew,
And talked of pleasant times that were ere Lavernshaw she knew.

“Ah! bairns,” she said, “this was an eve that, thirty years ago,
To every one at school aye passed full wearily and slow,

Because to-morrow was a day when all went blithe to school—
A day on which the master stooped to laugh and play the fool.

“Oh! dear, dear gala-time! There were no dreary tasks that day,
No grim ferule upon the desk in leathern terror lay,
But trays with sweeties richly heaped to fill its place were seen,
With pyramids of oranges in order ranged between.

“And, oh! how graciously our gifts the happy master took,
And smiled as if its wonted frown his face no more could brook.
Nor less the widow's child received, who laid her penny down,
Than she, the daughter of the Laird, who gave her silver crown.

“And, oh! what glorious liberty that day conferred on all!
Ours seemed the mirth of slaves relieved from long and hopeless thrall;
The watch-dog barked, and spiders from their nooks crept out to hear
That laughter which shook down the dust no more than once a-year.

“And well I mind how every year the master spoke a speech,
The same one still—his voice seems yet my startled ear to reach;
How I with terror quaking sat, as with a madlike pace
He stamped about the floor, and still waxed redder in the face.

“I knew not then what speech he spoke, nor why he spoke so loud,
And waxed so fiery in the face, and seemed so fierce and proud,

But wondered aye why such a storm should follow such a calm,
And the ferule in fancy felt once more upon my palm.

“And sweet was the relief when he had through his passion toiled,
And panting stood, and wiped his brow, and on his audience smiled.
And, doubtless, when we cheered he thought our judgment sage and good,
And was convinced his “Norval” for our minds was proper food.

“And then he told us who was king, and told us who was queen—
And queen and king were always those whose gifts had greatest been;
I ne'er was queen, nor hoped to be, for father's folks were poor,
And silver crowns were scant among the cottars on the moor.

“Then on the shoulders of the boys their happy king was seen,
And homeward singing as we went, we bore our blushing queen;
And Jealousy among us walked, and Envy told her tale,
And so, although we knew it not, we bowed the knee to Baal.”

So garruled Mrs Cameron, but still her portly lord,
As if the past had charmed him, sat, nor cheered her with a word.
To-morrow and its vast affairs had on him laid their yoke,
And hard he smoked, and much he thought, and thus at length he spoke.

SECOND.

“Rebecca, seek my gouden studs and newest velvet vest,
To-morrow's nomination-day, and I must wear my best;

To-morrow's nomination-day, the battle will be keen,
But ye shall be the Provost's wife before to-morrow's e'en.

“And ye shall be the Provost's wife—Rebecca, hear ye that?
And ye shall hae a Paisley plaid, the best that e'er ye gat,
And ye'll a velvet bonnet wear, with feathers waving braw,
And ye shall wear the grandest gown in bonny Lavernshaw.”

“John Cameron, John Cameron, my heart to hear ye's sair,
On worldly honours vain and vile a thought why should ye wair?
Let him wha likes be provost, John, since they sic things maun hae,
A Cameronian can but smile at all their vain display.”

“And wherefore should I change, gudewife? come honours as they will,
In faith, as in affection, I will be John Cameron still;
But I'll be in the provost's chair before to-morrow's e'en,
And we in bonny Laverhshaw shall reign a king and queen.”

“John Cameron, John Cameron, the Tempter's with ye been,
And ye hae yielded to his wiles with little strife, I ween;
Gang to your closet, John—oh! gang, and grace seek frae aboon,
Ye maunna let the morning sun salute you in your sin.

“Why mind ye their elections, John—would ye dispense their law?
The Council or the Provost's chair is no for you ava;
The oath of loyalty and love ye could not dare to swear,
And at the table of the Lord's communion syne appear.”

“Rebecca, hear ye me. The town has business to be done,
And maun hae men to rule, or things would a' to ruin rin;
My duty in the kirk I've done, and so I hope will do,
But surely one may serve the Lord, and serve his country too.”

“Look out, John Cameron! Behold! God's smile is on the earth,
The laverock and the blackbird join to hail the snow-drop's birth.
We've seen another spring—let us be thankful for the boon,
Nor dare with black apostasy to woo His vengeance doon.”

“With black apostasy, gudewife, what can ye mean ava?
Our faith is in the synod's care—'tis theirs to give us law;

The testimony of our sires they to the winds have thrown,
And that they well and wisely did, have well and wisely shown.

“Now to the Queen my loyalty and love I'm free to swear,
And I amang the Volunteers a captain's coat may wear.
That testimony was a dyke that cowards hid behind,
No coward I'm, and blithe am I 'twas thrown unto the wind.”

“But, John, among the Synod, though it seems o' grace bereft,
E'en there, like Lot in Sodom, is a faithfu' remnant left;
Let them be our example, let us link our lot with theirs,
And ye shall be a captain in a band that fight wi' prayers.

“Or if the worldly weapon's raised, as in the days of yore,
John Cameron, there's the good broadsword your faithful fathers wore;
Would they to thrones of sin an oath more sinfu' still have sworn?
For them wha scorn the Covenant would they a sword have borne?”

“The Covenant and household swords were weel in times awa',
When martyrs won their crowns, and kings had no respect for law;
But every heart is loyal now, and some maun provosts be,
Or Britain wouldnae lang be found the country o' the free.”

“John Cameron, John Cameron, our angel bairn I see,
And there is sorrow on her face that was not wont to be;

Oh, wherefore, owre a bairn in heaven, should hang that cloud o' care?
Can one so innocent as she be ought but happy there?

“Oh! maybe on the book of life a moment she has gazed,
And maybe she has seen the name o' ane she loves erased.
Some sin o' mine, or thine, gudeman, her peace has frae her riven,
And oh! how foul maun be the sin that taints the joys o' heaven.”

“It may be sae, wha kens?—but I my gouden studs maun wear;
And I maun think about a speech to please the public ear.
Our angel bairn will smile belyve—Rebecca, so shall ye,
And be as proud and happy as a Provost's wife should be.”

SEQUEL.

It is the eve of Candlemas, the laverock has been up,
And from the garden-borders peeps the golden crocus cup;
Bright clouds, that seem of summer, from the west creep o'er the moon,
And the weather-prophets mutter, “We have spring a month too soon.”

It is the eve of Candlemas, and in her easy-chair,
Sweet Mrs Cameron knitting sits, unscathed by time or care;
The hours have passed on fairy feet, the chapter has been read,
And all the Word suggested has in homely phrase been said.

Unchanged the household seems, save that a sweeter rose has blown
Upon their eldest's cheek, and save that John has greyer grown.
'Tis true he straighter sits, and has a more important air,
And there's a military frizz about his beard and hair.

And well may he important seem—he's Provost Cameron now,
And “sitteth in the judgment-seat,” with wisdom-laden brow;
And yon's a captain's sword that hangs beside the rusty blade,
That for the Covenant was drawn at Rullion's bloody raid.

And is there then no hidden change, no hardening of the heart?
No grudging of the minutes to devotion set apart?
Sprung up around their honours is there not a waste of cares,
In which the angels read again the story of the tares?

Oh, no!—the yoke of riches has by them been lightly borne,
The roses of their honours have no peace-destroying thorn:
They from the war of creeds to live apart have nobly striven,
And in a grander company they climb the hill of heaven.

A MOTHER'S WAIL.

Oh, Jamie, Jamie, let me greet,
Your kindness cheers nae mair;
I canna dry my tears at will,
Nor frae me fling my care.
I ken your ain heart's sad, for she
Was sunshine in your e'e;
But yours is but a father's love,
And ye maun bear wi' me.

Oh, Jamie, let me greet—my heart
Is sad as sorrow's sel';
It seems but yesterday our tears
On Willie's cauld face fell.

We thocht our lot was hard when Death
Ae bairn had taen awa';
But, oh! it's muckle harder noo,
When we hae nane ava.

Had Heaven been pleased to warn us
O' the blow that was to fa',
And, lichtly leanin', let her dwine,
As Willie dwined awa',
We micht hae schooled our hearts to bide
The fate we couldna flee,
And waited, wi' a patient grief,
To close our darling's e'e:

But, oh! without a gloamin',
Fell bereavement's gloom at last—
Wi' scarce a rustle o' its wings
Awa' her spirit passed.
Though hopefu' seemed her cheek's new bloom
And hale her e'e's blithe licht,
'Twas but the clearness o' the sky
When fa's the April blicht.

She wasna like anither bairn,
Whase prattlin's nocht but din;
For there was wisdom in her words,
Far, far her years aboon.
And whiles sic startlin' things she speired,
That in my heart I've sain,—
An angel, watchin' owre our souls,
Is speakin' in my wean.

And ance wi' sparklin' een she sat,
And at the lift gazed lang,
And speired, when I nae sang could hear,
“Wha sings that bonny sang?”
And yet, alas! we saw nae sign;
For hard were we to learn
That a' our love would fail to shield
Frae death our only bairn.

She aye was at my foot, Jamie,
And whiles I fashed awee,
When, maybe at my thrangest time,
She grat to get my knee.

And butt and ben, and oot and in,
To toddle was her pride—
The dear wee lamb! she couldna bear
To leave her mither's side.

Oh, Jamie, twa lang days I've watched
Her wee white face in vain;
My longing brings nae warmth—her smile
Will ne'er return again.
'Twas some sad solace on her brow
At times to lay my hauns;
But bleak will be the morning,
On a bairnless hearth that dawns.

She'll lie in Willie's grave, Jamie:
Oh! come nae soon awa',
But wait and smooth the turf, and drap
A tear aboon the twa;
For if, as weel they may, they should
Unseen be lingering near,
'Twill cheer them even in heaven to mind
Their father's parting tear.

TO A LARK,

ON HEARING ONE SING EARLY IN FEBRUARY.

Up in the sky, sweet lark! Up! up!
The sun Kilpatrick braes doth brighten,
The care-draught brimming in my cup
Thou sweetenest, and my heart doth lighten.
Up, and thy first spring-lay prolong;
The labour-ache flies from thy song.

A little higher, lark! No eye
On earth should see thine eye's joy-glisten;
Hide in yon blue spot of the sky,
And I'll beneath thee watch and listen;
For if thy voice but reach my ear,
Sweet bird, no other sound I'll hear.

From yonder busy mine but now
Emerging, I was murmurs muttering;
In vain the sunshine touched my brow,
Till from the grass I saw thee fluttering,
And heard thy “Hail, Spring!” o'er me burst,
Sweet as the water-spring to thirst.

I foolishly and faithless deemed
These knowes had nought my heart to gladden;
And nursing discontent, but dreamed
Of toil and trouble in Garscadden;
Till, like the sun a cloud dispelling,
Thy song came better things foretelling.

What was it called thee up to sing?
The merle and thrush thy song hear mutely;
Yon frozen uplands feel no Spring;
The winds with chilling breath salute me.
Say, wherefore didst thou soar so proudly,
And trill thy ecstasy so loudly?

Didst thou perceive the care-cloud spread
Upon my face, and, sympathising,
Spring from the grey turf, kindness-led,
And on thy angel-mission rising,
Above me hovered trilling, trilling,
My soul with peace and gladness filling?

Or wert thou only love-inspired,
Of thy own pleasure thinking only?
Nor looked where I so vexed and tired,
Among the pit-wood sat so lonely?
And had the song, so sung and heard,
A sensual source alone, dear bird?

'Tis said thou hast no joys of thought—
That raptureless from earth thou springest;
And thus melodious toiling, nought
For sunshine car'st, and aimless singest;
And art at most a feathered creature—
A whistle in the mouth of nature.

But thou, sweet bird, art of the seers,
To whom a wondrous foresight's given,
And when to men no sign appears,
Thou, in the calendar of Heaven,
Spring's advent read'st, and with weird skill
Her footprint not'st on holm and hill.

And whatsoever else thou art—
Where'er celestial sages rank thee—
The tribute of one grateful heart
Thou hast; with all my soul I thank thee.
Where spring ne'er comes, where none can hear thee,
The memory of thy song shall cheer me.

THE CROWS' CHORUS.

Caw! caw! the frost's awa';
The river is full of the melted snaw;
The burn foams in flood through the blithseome shaw,
And pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!

Nae mair we're weak-winged wi' our scanty fare;
The clown wi' his gun to get near us we'll dare;
We'll scent his vile powder a field-breadth awa',
And soar oot o' danger—caw-caw, caw-caw!

Caw! caw! the soft winds blaw,
And melt in the valleys the drifted snaw;
The boulders appear on the heathery law,
And pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!

And who are yon strangers that feasting roam
At the water's edge on the flood-filled holm,
Wi' their green-tinted feathers and crests so braw?
The spring-bringing peesweeps—caw-caw, caw-caw!

Caw! caw! let's cheerily caw;
The children are shouting, “Your nest's awa'!”
The horse through the stubble the plough can draw,
And pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!

The sheep on the meadows beheld with delight
The hastening awa' o' the blinding white;
Nae mair they stand scraping wi' weary paw,
But nibble 'mang plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!

Caw! caw! in concert caw;
The starling shall join us—the laverock, the daw;
And the snipes in the marshes their whistles shall blaw,
For pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!

And see the white buds on yon lown willow twig;
Our mates are to woo and their nests are to big;
But that's a sweet toil that fa's lightly on twa,
When pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!

SONG—LET US DREAM TOGETHER.

Come, let us dream thegither, May,
There's nought so sweet as dreaming;
The joys that purest are on earth
Are those that live in seeming.
On yonder bank twa hawthorns spread,
Whose buds are kissing ither;
The burn we'll wade, and in their shade
We'll sit and dream thegither.

To weave a wreath ye'll gowans pu',
And while the stems ye're plaitin',
Delights owre pure for ither een
We'll see before us waiting:

And while wi' fragrant rustling down
The boughs shall lean to screen us,
We, cheek to cheek, owre blithe to speak,
Shall dream ae dream between us.

ROBIN O' RAPLOCH.

A BALLAD.

PART I.

Young Robin o' Raploch gaed south to the muir,
Wi' his faither's auld gun, and his dog so rare—
A leave or a licence he hadna, I wat,
But Robin o' Raploch cared naething for that.

“What deil wi' a licence want I?” quoth he—
“The hills and the heather to all are free;
Nae leave will I beg for, yet whare is the loon
Daur claim the muir-hen that my gun shall bring down?”

Young Robin o' Raploch had roamed a' day,
And keeper or watcher had crossed nae his way;

He ne'er frae the muir had sae laden gane hame,
For his dog had been keen, and unerring his aim.

By a wee merry burnie he sat down to dine,
Nae roast could he boast o', nor sparkling wine;
Some cakes and a flask frae his pouches brang he,
And Robin was proud as a king could be.

His table he spread on the bent sae lang,
His grace was a stave o' a hunting sang,
Nae guest had he but his dog sae rare,
But Robin o' Raploch dined cheerily there.

But feastin' and happy they hadna been lang,
Till up frae his green couch the auld dog sprang,
And a growl deep and low let his master ken
That foes were approaching, both dogs and men.

Robin o' Raploch sprang fast to his feet,
But he thocht nae o' fleein', though nane were sae fleet;
He grasped his gun when their four foes he spied,
And whispered to Hero—“Keep close to my side.”

But vain was his caution, for e'en as he spoke
There burst from the foemen one puff o' white smoke,
And Hero leapt up wi' a sharp howl o' pain,
And dropt ne'er to rise from the green bent again.

But once at poor Hero paused Robin to look;
All fettering emotion he from his heart shook,
And quickly a ball in each barrel he thrust,
While deeply by everything evil he cursed;

And then at the mongrels, that, fierce for the fray,
Tore straining the leash a few paces away,
An instant aimed grimly, then, hit in the head,
The brutes at the feet of the keepers fell dead.

But careless o' that, on the keepers came fast:
“Ah, Robin!” they cried, “we hae found ye at last.
Come, march to the Sheriff, but first to the Ha'—
Yield, Robin o' Raploch, ye're but ane to twa.”

Robin o' Raploch was six feet three,
His answer was only a glance o' his e'e;

His gun on the bent by his Hero he flang,
And slowly he faulded his arms so lang.

But white were his cheek and his lips, I trow,
And wild was the flash o' his een sae blue:
“Gin ye were twenty—and ye are but twa—
Robin o' Raploch would scorn ye a'.”

Wi' a fearsome shout, at the twa he sprang,
And his heavy nieves on their breasts he brang—
Twa dreadfu' thuds, and a deathlike mane,
And Robin o' Raploch stood up alane.

Then steevely he bound them back to back,
And syne in a tauntin' tone he spak'—
“Robin o' Raploch's a rare prize to win,
Strike boldly, and tak' him—ye're twa to ane.

“But why should I spare ye, ye cowards,” he cried,
“That spared nae the faithfu' auld dog at my side?”
Wi' his een flashin' madly aboon them he stood,
For the Tempter was whispering—“Blood for blood.”

“Na, na!” murmured Robin, “a taunt or a blow
Till now I ne'er had for a conquered foe;
But nane human blood at my door e'er shall lay;”
And he turned to the bank where his Hero lay.

Sadly he down by his faithfu' freen knelt,
And fondly the pulseless breast he felt:
He strokit its head o' the silken jet,
And his rough brown cheek wi' a tear was wet.

He taen oot his knife, aye sae bright and keen,
And cut out a sod o' the bent sae green;
In the soft damp moss he a little grave made,
And soon owre his Hero the green turf laid.

And aye as he thought o' the dog sae dear,
The Tempter was whispering revenge in his ear:
And oft his brow darkened, his cheek grew mair wan,
And oft the keen edge o' his knife he fan'.

But “Vengeance!” still “Vengeance!” the Tempter cried:
See! Robin bounds owre to his helpless foes' side,

His foot on them presses, his knife gleams in air,
When the cry of a maiden is heard on the muir.

Half bent o'er his victims stood Robin, and gazed,
His foot on the nearest, his hand o'er them raised,
He stood like a statue, grim, awful, and grand,
The “Vengeance Arrested” of some master-hand.

And then looking round him, uncertain he seemed
If all that had passed was not fancied or dreamed,
Till the maiden's soft hand on his shoulder was laid,
And “Robin! oh, Robin!” she gently said.

Feebly and skaithless his arm fell down,
And the shame-flush spread owre his face sae brown,
And, blending wi' pity, love shone in her e'e,
As “Robin,” she murmured, “oh, what's this I see?”

He pressed and he kissed her wee haun' sae white,
And his blue een filled wi' a safter light,
His knife through the bonds o' the keepers he drew,
Then gleaming afar frae his hand it flew.

100

His gun owre an auld oak root he bent,
In pieces asunder his game-bag he rent,
His powder-flask 'neath his heel crushed he,
And smiled on the ruin so mournfully;

And then turning round wi' a smileless despair,
“Sweet May, o' thy love I need never dream mair;
I'm ta'en, and my future a bairn may divine,
But, May, I would rather been prisoner o' thine.

“A prison, a trial, a trip owre the sea,
Or maybe the gallows, sweet May, waits on me,
For but for thy comin' my haun' would been red,
And the heather been tinted wi' murdered men's bluid.

“As life dear was freedom ae short hour sin syne,
Now life I wi' freedom would careless resign.
Lead on to the Sheriff, since sae it maun be;
Dear May, never mair shall I wander wi' thee.”

“Lead on to the Sheriff?” the keepers replied;
“Na, Robin, we'll lea' ye at bonny May's side,

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We'll dare the laird's wrath, and ill-luck may he hae
That seeks a rude haun' on your shouther to lay.”

Then frae the stained heather their dead lifted they,
And slowly and silent and sad marched away,
And by Hero's green grave lingered Robin and May,
Till the thin gloamin' mist o'er the muir gathered grey.

PART II.

Whare Clyde like a crescent gleamed round a green haugh,
Wi' dark woodlands skirted, and bounded wi' saugh,
Whare a rill through the haugh ran wi' saft ceaseless sang,
And the grass, green and plenty, thrave a' the year lang,

There close by the wood a trig cottage was seen,
Its roof thatched wi' heather, its wa's ivied green,
And there wi' her grannie 'bade bonny May Lee—
Her grey reverend grannie o' sixty-and-three.

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And near the Haugh cottage stood Robin and May:
“Fareweel, May,” said Robin, “and maybe for aye;
The laird will be wild when he hears I'm yet free,
And I for my madness maun answer or flee:

“Thy love is the ae sunny spot in my fate,
But how for my comin' can I bid ye wait?
Fareweel, May, my angel, sin sae it maun be,
I'll face nae the scorn o' your grannie's grey e'e.”

“Come in wi' me, Robin; my grannie is kin',
And never says nay to a wise wish o' mine;
I'll tell how you're changed, ye shall plead at my side,
And, Robin, we little ken what may betide.”

They reached the Haugh cottage and softly stepped ben.
“Wha's this wi' ye, lassie? I surely should ken.”
“It's Robin,” said May; “he was owre on the muir,
And cam' at my seekin' to see how you fare.”

Up rose the grey grannie o' sixty-and-three,
And stood like a queen wi' command in her e'e.

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“Come owre to my side, thoughtless hizzie,” said she;
“What wants Poacher Robin wi' auld Grannie Lee?”

“I've come, Grannie Lee, e'en to plead my ain cause,
And tell ye I'm weary o' breakin' the laws;
The Robin ye kent has departed for aye,
Unworthy was he o' yer ain peerless May.

“But I, Grannie Lee, hae nae dog and nae gun,
And the angel he lo'ed I hae courted and won.
Forget him, he'll ne'er cross your hallan again,
And tell me ye'll gie me your May for my ain.”

“The Robin I kent had your face and your e'e,
A braw buirdly chiel, but a worthless, was he;
Wi' ane that's sae like him my bairn ill would fare—
Let that be your answer, and fash me nae mair.”

“Oh, Grannie,” pled May, “when the lang nichts hae come,
And the storm, loud and eerie, roars down the spence lum,

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If Robin were wi' us nae bogles we'd fear,
And the black-maskit thieves would nae mair venture here.”

“Alack! pleads the lamb for the vile reivin' tod!
'Twere better, my bairn, to be laid 'neath the sod.
The lark wi' the starling may mate on the lea,
But Robin o' Raploch is nae mate for thee.

“Fie, Robin! nae wonder your cheek blushing burns:
Nae wonder your e'e frae an auld woman's turns!
O' a' but my Marian's ae bairn I'm bereft,
Why seek ye to blight the ae flower I hae left?”

“I seek nae to blight your ae flower, Grannie Lee,
But would to her aye as the summer sun be.
Lang, lang I hae lo'ed her—oh, Grannie, be kin',
Fu' little ye wist o' the sorrow that's mine.

“My Hero lies cauld 'neath the bent on the muir,
My gun and my flask bow'd and broken lie there;

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I'm nae mair a poacher—I've sworn't, and I swear—
And peacefu' and thrifty I fain would bide here.”

“This house, Robin Raploch, yon cow and kail-yard,
Yon green rentless haugh, are the gift o' the laird;
But frae me a' this would his angry haun' sweep,
Should Robin o' Raploch ance 'neath my roof sleep.

“And, Robin, ye ken I am feeble and auld,
And canna weel warstle wi' hunger and cauld,
And sae, if ye hae nae a heart o' the airn,
Ye'll lea' me in peace wi' my bairn's only bairn.”

Sad Robin o' Raploch turned roun' on his heel:
“Fareweel, May, my angel—and, Grannie, fareweel;
I'll steal away saftly, the laird ne'er shall ken”—
When wha but the laird, wi' a smile, steppit ben?

“The laird kens already, bold Robin,” quoth he,
“But fear nae. I'll plead for him too, Grannie Lee.
He shall work at the ha'—I've a cow yet to spare,
And May will be surety he'll never poach mair.”

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INNOVATION.

A DREAM.

When violets were on the hills,
And meadow-queen beside the rills,
While foxgloves decked the moorland dykes,
And bees were busy wi' their bykes,
And lassies thrang amang the hay,
I wandered out one summer day.
And musing—as became a bard—
Like one that neither saw nor heard,
I reached at length the Hyndog Glen,
It little matters how or when.
There nature revels in the grand,
And welcome on her face I fand;

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She seemed to say, “Come, take a seat,
The flowers shall bloom among your feet,
And ye shall sit on flowers, and flowers
Above ye in their bosky bowers
Shall on you breathe, and birds shall sing,
And butterflies, on rainbow wing,
Shall flit about and seem to say,
‘Be cheerful: life is but a day.’

“And if ye sit till tunefu' even,
The glen shall hae the hue of heaven;
The setting sun frae Beadland braes,
Shall fill the glen with golden haze.
The Rye shall seem a golden stream,
Each sunward leaf with gold shall gleam,
And sweetly indistinct the hum
Of voices from yon bank shall come,
Where bairns in many-coloured duds,
Out-tinting e'en the autumn woods,
The strawberries among are seen,
The straggling rows of briers between,

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With cheeks that rival in their hue,
The peerless wildings that they pu'.”

I sat not, but, my aimless dream
Resuming, left the glen and stream,
And upward clamb till, ere I kent,
I waded deep 'mang Beadland's bent,
And heard the plover piping loud,
And gazed on Goatfell's cap of cloud,
And marked wi' fancy-glamoured e'e
The heaving of the distant sea.

And to my fancy-quickened ear
The plash at Ailsa's foot seemed near;
I saw, with awe, the mystic line,
Where in the sky the sea we tyne,
And, dimly, Carrick's classic coast,
And Ayr, of Coila's Burns the boast;
And turned with pride a look to steal,
At Swinderidge Muir, where gallant Neil
Roamed often, dreaming of the strife
And glory of the soldier's life,

109

And haply prescient of the fame
That now endears his honoured name.

Grown drowsy, down myself I laid,
And o'er my face my napkin spread,
And soon in careless slumber fell,
And dreamed, as I shall shortly tell.

Across the moor twa dames I saw,
Wi' stately step together draw;
The youngest frae the eastward prest,
The eldest frae the gleaming west.

The last appeared a matron, sage,
And weel aboon the middle age;
Her face was pale and something long,
Sonorous was her voice, and strong.
Severely reverend was her air,
And grey her een and grey her hair;
Her robe o' black behind her trailed,
And she was unco lingle-tailed.

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The ither was a dame, I ween,
Who five-and-thirty years had seen;
Her garments had a modern air,
A velvet net confined her hair;
Her shapely head had that upon it,
Which modern fashion names a bonnet.
A hoop she wore whose gracefu' swell
Became her sonsy shoulders well;
Her gown was of the wincey, grey,
And trimmed with velvet gravely gay;
A silver thistle brooch she wore,
And owre her arm a plaid she bore.

Her een were of the speedwell's hue,
And something sparkling in their blue
Of strength in noble purpose spoke,
And scorn of superstitious yoke;
And eke a spark of humour keen,
But genial, in their glance was seen.
Whene'er a pleasant thing she said,
About her cheeks two dimples played,

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As if uncertain where to stay,
Then passed, when silence came, away.
Unmoved she had an air of sadness,
But laughed the very soul of gladness.

She smiled and spoke. “Weel met,” quoth she
“Our judge and jury ye shall be;
We here hae come wi' solemn ettle,
A question great and grave to settle.”

“Wi' pride,” quoth I; “but may I speir
What unco matter brings ye here?”
When spoke the eldest, “Wait a wee;”
Then wi' a measuring stare at me,
“Read ye the papers, sir?” quoth she.
I answered, “Antrin anes I see.”
“The Scotsman?” “Yes.” “The Saturday?”
Quoth I, “Whene'er it comes my way.”
Again she pierced me wi' her een,
Until it seemed my thoughts were seen,
Then muttered, “Sinfu' human natur':”
And something like, “An Innovator;”

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Then added bravely, “Be it sae,
For right is sure to win the day.”

“The question that disturbs the nation,”
She then resumed, “is Innovation;
And, sir, it's best the truth to tell
At ance—the question's ‘Heaven or Hell.’
And ye'll, I beg, keep that before ye
The while ye listen to my story.

“Since ye the ribald ‘Scotsman’ read,
And if ‘The Saturday’ ye heed,
I e'en maun tell ye to your face,
I fear ye hae prejudged my case.
But ye at least this truth maun ken,
That, lately, erring sons of men
Their fathers' decent ways forsakin',
And after modern notions traikin',
In spite of fleechin', threatenin', threepin',
By them that hae their souls in keepin',
Like silly sheep are gaun astray,
Nor see that ruin's in their way.

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Already, sir, they're at the brink o't,
I'm cauld wi' horror when I think o't.

“O Scotland! hae I seen the day
When ye in kirks can sit and pray,
And there, irreverend, on yer feet
Wi' psalms your Lord and Master greet,
And calmly on a pastor look
Wha reads his prayer frae a book?
And mair and waur—oh, fifty waurs,
To think o't wha wi' patience daurs?—
Within the House o' God they've brought
(There's desecration in the thought!)
A whistle-kist, that, gaily gilt,
And near the holy pu'pit built,
Hauds up its head wi' shameless front,
Defyin' righteous axe and lunt;
And when the psalm for praise is gi'en,
A fiddler chiel, that sits unseen,
Weel hidden wi' a board or screen,
Wi' feet and fingers fuglin' plays
Some rant that modern saints ca' praise;

114

While a' the congregation staun',
The Book of Books in every haun',
Yet, to the ongaun listenin' mute,
God's praise to gilded pipes depute,
And think their duty done. My plea
Is that it's sinfu'—what say ye?”

I summoned reverence to my aid,
And thought, but nought in answer said.

The younger smiled; “That cuckoo sang,”
Quoth she, “has been her owre-word lang.
She thinks our good and zealous sires
Hae a' escaped the infernal fires,
And chant in heaven's blest dominion,
And that, Sir, is my ain opinion.
But she insists the sons maun ape
Their fathers if they would escape;
In short, her system of salvation
Consists of reverend imitation,
And proof of virtue lies alone
In gesture, attitude, and tone;

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And here sae widely differ we,
I doubt if we shall e'er agree.

“Deliver standing your petition,
She cries, or your reward's perdition.
To repetitions dreech and dreary
Attend till every leg is weary—
Till strong men shift frae foot to foot,
And inly wish 'twas right to sit:
Or groan, impatient in their pain,
‘Lord will he never reach Amen?’
And some ae desperate step advance,
And sit them down and tak' their chance,
Until a gladsome rustling drowns
The lang-drawn prayer's closin' sounds:
'Twas so our fathers did, and so
Maun we, or wail and gnash below.
“And so in all things else, salvation
Is won alone by imitation.
Our worthy fathers sat and sang
God's praise, and therefore stannin's wrang.

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Nae organ, touched wi' faultless skill,
Wi' holy sounds the kirk might fill;
And so the hymn—I mean nae jest—
Was but a medley at the best.
They sang, 'tis true, wi' zeal thegither,
But didna wait on ane anither;
The echoes of the holy places,
Ashamed to hear them, hid their faces;
Or screamin' to the riggin' flew
As soon's the opening line was through.

“The learned precentor vainly led,
Wi' sic a choir his skill fell dead,
And every ither verse the tune
He closed himsel', a bar behin';
Or, sweatin', noted as he sang
That half the kirk were singing wrang—
The ‘Martyrs’ some, and some the ‘Bangor.’
What then—was that a cause of anger?
If half the kirk but kent ae tune,
'Twas surely wise to sing that ane.

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Sic things to ony modern ear
Would seem, to say the least o't, queer;
But so our fathers did, and we,
Like them, maun murder melody,
Assured we praise the Lord, in danger
If jarring discord's kept a stranger.

“I say the growin' innovation
Will be a credit to the nation.”

“'Tis ever thus,” the elder cried;
“I'm answered aye wi' sneers and pride.
It's wrang to answer fools wi' folly,
And chiefly sae in matters holy,
Else I might answer jeer for jeer—
But what would that avail us here?

“Let it be granted that to sit
At prayers proves amended wit;
And granted, on the other haun',
That at our praises we should staun';

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What follows then? Shall it be said
God maist approves the praise that's played?
If harmony our worship hallows,
What then? Need it be blawn by bellows?

“Oh! for an angel's arm to sweep
The pests into the mighty deep,
And to simplicity restore
Our worship as it was of yore,
When psalmody was void of art,
Except the warbling frae the heart,
And angels pleased came half-way down
Frae heaven to meet the gratefu' soun'.

“But pleasant are the paths o' sinnin':
Observe how small was the beginnin',
And note how rapid was the gain of
The ills that I sae sair complain of:—
A pastor troubled wi' the ailin'
Of eild, and findin' memory failin',
And these as good excuses pleadin',
Instead of preachin' takes to readin';

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The thing, like Popery's sel', is hated,
But for his sake is tolerated.
A younger pastor hears o't syne,
And thinks he might in readin' shine—
So reads: the people grumble sair,
But then he's placed, they hardly dare
For sic a trifle to disgrace him,
Or ask the synod to displace him.
Another, on some vain pretence,
Of which the root is indolence,
Wi' written screeds his hearers doses,
And turns the leaves before their noses.
And so the innovation grew,
Till now our preachers are but few,
And affhaun' pu'pit declamation
Will soon be lost unto the nation.

“And so in singin'; ane first brang
A music-fork, and made it twang
Aloud before the astonished people,
Wha could hae hung him frae the steeple—

120

But, waes me! didna: then ane saw
That if he had a voice or twa
To help alang a kittle air,
'Twad ease him o' a load o' care.
Still swelled the gathering evil higher,
Till each precentor had his choir;
The choir established firm and sure,
The canker then was past a' cure;
And noo our souls the organ vexes,
And what is comin' next perplexes.
What's next? It's easy guessed. Alas!
Alang the laft a band o' brass,
Wi' tinklin' thingumbobs o' steel,
Will help alang the service weel,
And, waes me! nane will in them see
The damning toys of Mammonrie.

“The spate at first but swells the rills,
And then the river-banks it fills,
And then, o'erwhelmin' fast the strath,
It roars wi' ruin in its path.

121

“Say, then, if foolish are my fears,
And say, should I be soothed wi' sneers?”

The ither laughed: “That band of brass
Is good,” she said, “and weel may pass
For argument, but I would fain
Convince you that your fears are vain.

“The organ's roll and swell ascending,
Wi' human voices sweetly blending,
In sacred song, ne'er fails to fill
Wi' such emotions as should fill
The soul that worships; but the blare
Of brazen bands were coarser fare,
And few will entertain the notion
Of sic assistants to devotion.
Confess your fears were mere pretence,
Unworthy of a douce defence,
And only in your kindness mooted
That it wi' ease might be refuted.
The ither phases of the ‘canker’
(The term is yours), I canna hanker

122

Wi' merry haun' to brush awa',
Convinced that whare ye thocht ye saw
A festerin' and a deadly wound,
The part is healthy, hale, and sound;
There's naething in the choir to fear—
And say, which would ye rather hear?
A pastor hankerin' owre his text,
By treacherous memory sair perplexed,
Wi' stammerin', stutterin', and repeatin',
Affronted, and wi' torture sweatin',
Yet flounderin' on wi' zeal profound,
Tae fill the alloted hour wi' sound:
Or ane that brings his ‘written screed,’
As ye would ca't, affhaun' to read—
Why should the turnin' o' a leaf
Be cause of anger or of grief?
Since frae the harvest of his meanin'
The flock may carry hame a gleanin'.

“Shall none but those whose angel tongues
Frae far can charm delighted throngs—

123

Like Guthrie, or Macleod, or Caird,
Or Candlish—be wi' patience heard?
Would ye the nation's pu'pit close
To all but those and such as those?
The river of majestic thought
That flows upon their tongues unsought,
Delights us only here and there,
And's not expected everywhere.

“And why should printed prayers distress?
Think you their influence is less?
If they to memory were committed,
The scrup'lous conscience might be suited;
But where the difference would be,
I frankly own I fail to see.

“Oh! wherefore should we walls erect
To keep asunder sect from sect?
Why should I think my narrow road
The only path that leads to God?
And, looking proudly o'er my wall,
Think all but me in Satan's thrall?

124

And, like the Pharisee of old,
All virtue in myself behold?
And speak as if the entrance-fee
To heaven were Christian liberty?
Oh! sister, we the walls must raze
That hem us in our narrow ways;
And less exclusive texts employ,
Whose use-in-chief is to annoy;
And practise less our lair and wit,
On hairs of doctrine trebly split;
Nor ire provoke, with keen contention,
On things above our comprehension.
And charity our rule maun be,
Till Christian intercourse is free.
One aim we have, one faith, one God;
Oh! sister, let us walk one road!
Be this our task—‘One Christian Union;’
And this our motto—‘One Communion;’
And when the nickname ‘sect’ 's deleted,
We'll rest and think our work completed.
Oh! let our senseless bickering cease,
And let us jog to heaven in peace.”

125

Then smiling, and with hand extended,
Quoth she, “I trust our quarrel's ended.”

The elder curtsied, and with pride
Replied, “The umpire shall decide.”

How I got up wi' solemn hem!
And ca'd my hearers “Miss” and “Mem,”
And wi' confounding eloquence,
And deep-convincing common sense,
Confuted this, and that admitted,
And this ane praised, and that ane twitted,
Until the elder's sel' began
To say “There's something in the man,”
Some ither pen than mine maun tell—
It's doubtfu' praise that praises sel';
But thus I ended—“Sisters, ye
Maun gi'e the kiss of peace, and 'gree;”
And, haith, nae sooner had I said it,
Than, smiling, they advanced and did it.
I saw their een wi' joy were gleaming,
And then I woke, and had been dreaming.

A beautiful and romantic glen in the hills above Dalry, free to all wanderers.

126

ASPIRATION.

“Oh! father, we read in the schoolroom to-day
Some lines that from memory will not pass away;
And they've caused in my heart such a pleasing sing-song,
I've done nothing but think of them all the day long:
No sum would come right, and how stupid I felt
When the master had marked all the words I misspelt.
I was forced with my long-cherished medal to part;
But less than the ode my disgrace fills my heart.
And yet there seems nought to make any one sing,
For the verses were all about cuckoos and spring.
What's poetry, father? (for, doubtless, you know),
And whence the strange power of its jingle and flow?”

127

“Ah! boy, you your father's poor wisdom o'ertask—
No mortal can answer the questions you ask;
Some say, ‘'Tis the sweetest words happily waled;’
And some, ‘'Tis where rhyme has o'er reason prevailed.’
In grammar you find it reduced to a rule,
But it is not a thing to be learned at the school:
The source of its power long a mystery has been,
And, here, it will aye be a mystery, I ween.
Great minds full of learning to solve it have striven,
But it baffles them still, like the star blaze of heaven.”

“And where did it come from?”
“Some say from above,
The first gift to man from the Father of Love.
The one deathless pleasure that flits o'er the earth—
In human emotions it daily has birth:
'Tis it that gives sadness to sorrow's wild wail;
'Tis it that gives gladness to mirth's happy hail.
To thrill a pleased world it from peace emanates;
It shouts on the war-fields of mad human hates.
On the flower-hills of heaven to revel it soars,
And regions where stars have not ventured explores.

128

Now a bird calls it forth, now a bud, now a flower;
Now gloaming awakes it—now dawns holy hour;
Now it hangs o'er a dewdrop, now floats on a river,
And all that it touches is sacred for ever.”

“What wonder this wakens! but surely I've heard
That poetry's only the voice of a bard,
Or the tones of a harp.—Is it so, father? Well,
In what happy land do the harper-bards dwell?”

“In all lands, my son. In the city they're found,
And out in the country; on hills; under ground.
They croon in the hut by the wild souching sea,
And in the old cot 'neath the lone moorland tree.
Some live by their song, while the world wonders how;
Some pine at the shuttle, some follow the plough;
Some sweat at the forge, and some bend o'er the awl—
They dream in the palace, the manse, and the hall:
For the spirit that whispers, ‘Thy lot is to sing,’
Now speaks to a peasant, and now to a king.”

129

“Oh! father, how much I am longing to sing
But one ode like that of the cuckoo and spring;
I long 'mong the singers of earth to be heard,
And when I am old to be hailed as a bard;
For, doubtless, on everything pleasant they fare,
And are of their countries the pride and the care.”

“Ah, no! silly boy, they are nobody's care,
And they must, as they can, on life's pleasant things fare.
A few have with Fortune tript on as they sung,
But many have wandered life's sorrows among;
Yet singing so well that the world oft declared
Their song grew the grander the harder they fared.
They spring, like the coltsfoot, where men least expect,
And seldom droop chilled by the blight of neglect.
In the hardest of lots they find something that's sweet;
They stoop and lift beauties at common men's feet.
With hope in the future, and joy in the past,
They sing, as the lark warbles, facing the blast.”

130

“And what good do they do?”
“You may ask me as well
What good does the blackbird that sings in the dell,
Or the violet that blooms on the brow of the hill,
Or the music that lives in the linn-leaping rill:
They brighten our lives, and they lighten our cares,
But the bard has a mission far nobler than theirs.
To him human language its beauty all owes—
The graces of virtue 'tis his to disclose;
And Liberty's stay on the earth he prolongs,
For tyranny fears less the sword than his songs.
Let bards and their poetry bid us farewell,
And men would be demons, and earth would be hell.”

“Are they happy and wise, father?”
“Tuts! how you ask!
Why should you the wit of your father o'ertask?
There are people who say—but perhaps say amiss—
‘The bard's but a finger-post pointing to bliss.’
‘Poor fellow,’ say others, ‘his wit's taken wing;
But his business is not to be wise, but to sing.
His sayings with sound are so sweetly relieved,

131

Their lack of sound wisdom is little perceived.
He's not very stable, but prone to do wrong,
But we pardon him much for the sake of his song—
And singing, you know, is a simple affair,
He has only to think of some old happy air,
And look at the sky with his chin lifted—so,
And his words of themselves in sweet measure will flow.
If e'er he goes fishing for thoughts, he's at fault,
For the thought that is angled for's never worth salt.’
So lightly, my son, of his wisdom talk men,
And he justifies all that they say now and then.

“Myself have seen one standing still, like a fool,
In the rain, at the brink of a little road-pool,
There weaving the first happy lines of a strain,
Whose burden (to be) was ‘The beautiful rain;’
What music its low measured pattering awoke,
And to those who would listen how wisely it spoke!
How it scorned in the clouds to be longer confined,
And to reach the dull earth made a steed of the wind;
How it paused in its flight the bare hedge to adorn,
By hanging a pearl on the point of each thorn;

132

How it trickled down trees in the tiniest rills,
Or gathered in torrents to rush from the hills;
How it came when it chose, not at any one's call,
And meant no offence in its falling at all.

“But the wise ones of earth might have envied the fool,
Who stood so entranced by the little road-pool—
Not fearing the storm nor complaining of fate,
He smiled like an angler on Garnock in spate.
He was craving an alms at the threshold of thought,
And took with delight the poor pittance he sought.

“The rain-drops were mortals, the little pool earth,
And the bubble each drop made at falling was birth,
And the circle that spread round each drop when it fell,
To the mark a man makes in the world answered well;
And the meeting and breaking of circles the strife
Of men jostling men in the battle of life;
Though the bubbles and circles to some might reveal
The bob and the whirl of a blithe Scottish reel,

133

That memory would waken, and make the cheeks glow
With the music and dancing of long years ago.

“In the brattling of burns, and the glistening of leaves,
The Bard more than others aye hears and perceives;
The mountain afar, through the mist peering dim,
Is more than a vapour-veiled mountain to him.
Dear, dear is the glen where the green ivy creeps,
And the beech-bough the face of the mossy crag sweeps;
And, oh! how delicious the vague gloaming dream,
Where the fern-royal's dipping her fronds in the stream—
How dear the delight when he stealthily roams
In the wood's sacred shade where the great river foams;
For inanimate things, that to others are mute,
For him have a voice and a cheerful salute.”

“How grandly your words on my wondering ears fall!
But, father, their meaning comes not at my call:
That bards should hear ought in the voice of the stream,
Beyond a sweet murmur, a marvel doth seem;

134

Why flowers in their presence should cease to be dumb,
And mountains ought else than great mountains become,
Seems more than a wonder—but why it is so,
I fear is not meant that a schoolboy should know.
Sometimes as I walk from the school all alone,
I smile when I think what a dreamer I've grown;
And once—more than once, father, many a time—
I've wondered to find myself thinking in rhyme,
And wondered still more when a thought, ere I wist,
Would start into view like a ship in the mist,
And startle me strangely, and then, ere I knew,
Like a ship in the mist it would flit from my view;
And often I've found my tears ready to fall,
When the phantom thought would not return at my call.
And now I've but one wish, and that is, to sing
Just one ode like that of the cuckoo and spring.”

135

A STRUGGLE.

Oh! wherefore tempt me thus, sweet Muse?
Why on me smile so kind and fainly?
Though ever dear as summer dews,
Alas! I dare not entertain thee;
I'm captive in the realms of lair,
And have for thee no fitting fare.

Oh! wherefore tempt me thus? Thou art
No more a solace nor a pleasure;
With thee, once mistress of my heart,
For dalliance now there comes no leisure;
To rhyme, that once such pleasure gave,
I am no more a willing slave.

With book and rocks surrounded, see
My drooping fancy, wae and wingless,

136

Sits fondling with dejected air
The harp she fears will soon be stringless;
While Hope, of sunny dreamland queen,
Sits in the shadows of the scene.

Still dost thou smile? What wouldst thou sing
If I with wonted warmth should press thee?
Of love, or care, or odorous spring,
Whose zephyrs all, unthanked, caress thee?
Ourselves? Poor Muse! can it be so;
Art thou reduced to themes so low?

Nay, nay, I know thou canst not brook
The heart that yields a half devotion,
Nor swells, if thou but deign'st to look,
Up in a spring-tide of emotion.
What canst thou have for him but hate,
Who, e'er he sings, must calculate?

Farewell, farewell! I dare not trust
My longing hand in thine, sweet charmer;

137

Fools only warfare wage with must—
I dare not, if I would be warmer;
Nor stop to ask if we do wrong
To part, who have been friends so long.

I must not pause to ask if, when
The crawbell from the grass is peeping,
And in the flowery stream-thrilled glen
The blackbird's heart to love is leaping,
There shall be power in human art,
Sweet Muse, to keep us then apart.

When from the thorn the first fair spray
Of bursting blossom-buds I'm pu'ing,
Must I still wish thee far away,
The gathering swell of song subduing,
And hear the rapture of the lark,
Without a note my joy to mark?

Shall I the early primrose see,
So sweetly with its leaves contrasting,

138

And round the sloe-bloom hear the bee,
While yet the breeze that bloom seems blasting,
And pass as if I cared not, lest
My thought in song should be expressed?

Oh! why is it so sweet to sing?
Oh! Muse, why dost thou smile so brightly,
And meanly stoop thy pearls to fling
Before a fool that rates them lightly?
With thee a drag in learning's race,
My only prize must be disgrace.

139

ELEGY ON TAM, A NOTORIOUS POACHER.

And are ye dead, my braw black cat,
That was sae sleekit aye and fat!
Your fur was aye like John's new hat
When brushed fu' tentie,
And muckle praise your beauty gat
Frae a' that kent ye.

May ne'er guid-luck be near the gamie
That aimed your hurt, my gleg kin' Tammie,
And made your skin sae cauld and clammy,
Wi's cursèd slugs;
For ye were gentle as a lammie,
And worth ten dowgs.

140

What though he met ye in the wud,
Whare scores o' feckless rabbits whud?
He needna grudged ye ae puir fud
O' lawfu' prey.
Oh, may his gun, wi' thriftless thud,
Shoot aye agley!

Puir Tam! I'm sure we'll miss ye sair;
It's just sax years come Glasgow Fair
Since ye brang in your first young hare—
A fat wee thing;
For ye were ane that aye took care
The best to bring.

Ye ne'er would learn to fetch and carry,
Nor e'er to jump owre hauns would tarry,
But weel ye lo'ed to hunt and harry
When nicht had lowered;
Then, licht o' foot as ony fairy,
The woods ye scoured.

141

Nae hidden stamp e'er hurt your paw,
Nae deadly bait e'er crossed your maw,
But wi' a snuff o' scorn ye saw
Their poisoned flesh;
For, lion-like, ye likit a'
Your feasts ta'en fresh.

Nae mice alive your nose e'er passed,
And when ye had them hard and fast,
Up in the air ye would them cast,
And kep benignly;
And though ye swallowed them at last,
'Twas aye done kindly.

That winter when the lang frost lay,
When John gaed idle mony a day,
Ye were amaist our only stay—
The Lord was wi' ye;
Though John wad never let me say
He held ocht to ye.

142

Ye mony a dainty hare brang in,
Some warm, and wi' nae broken skin:
The heads, it's true, o' mair than ane
We never saw,
But wi' a gratefu' look aboon
We used them a'.

Ae nicht—I'll min't for evermore—
(Grim want cam' in the nicht before,
And to refill our empty store
Nae south wind cam')—
A something scartit at the door;
Quo' I, “That's Tam.”

And to the door in haste I flew;
And when ye in your burden drew,
I fand my heart come to my mou'
Wi' gratefu' swell;
And dearer frae that hour ye grew,
Than's wise to tell.

143

We read hoo, by a lonely brook,
Weel hidden in some rocky nook,
A prophet frae twa ravens took
His Heaven-sent fare,
While they their glossy plumage shook
And flew for mair.

But mony a time, when ye brang in
Your prizes wi' sae little din,
I thocht (it was a fearfu' sin,
And showed my havins)
Ye had the angel 'neath your skin
That led thae ravens.

Sic sense as thine is rare, I trow;
Ye kent, I kenna why or hoo,
Whare safety frae your claws was due
To bird or beast;
For though ye o' a stranger doo
Hae made a feast,

144

Yet when oor hens wi' chickens gaun
Were temptin' ye on every haun',
Ye on your paws would let them staun',
And sangs has sung them,
When ony ither cat wad fa'en
Like fire among them.

Oh! muckle are we in your debt!
For friens like you are rarely met;
Death never says, “If ye'll regret
I will not strike,”
But flings his dart, and lets us fret
As lang's we like.

Ye were a brute o' noblest kind—
I had amaist said “noblest mind”—
For in ye I could naething find
To meanness swerved.
Some are the human rank assigned
That less deserve't.

145

The happy glimmer o' your e'e,
Auld Tam, I never mair shall see,
As when your wee drap ream and tea
Ye daily gat;
Nae venison to you could be
Sae sweet as that.

The sang o' birds the woods within,
The poet's praise ne'er fails to win
(It lifts his soul the world aboon,
And sweetens thocht),
But to the music o' your croon
Their sang was nocht.

You, sleepin' soundly on my lap,
My apron never mair shall hap—
To sweeten your bit morning nap
Was aye my care;
Nae kindly word or kindly clap
Can cheer ye mair.

146

But, Tammie, ye shall live in sonnet;
John o' your skin would mak' a bonnet,
Your snout and paws he would hae on it,
A show to see!
But I will wad a groat, and won it,
That ne'er shall be.

In honouring ye we baith shall vie,
And we a braw glass case will buy,
Whare your trig form, fu' warm and dry
And clean, we'll keep,
And ye upon my drawers shall lie,
And seem asleep.

147

JEAN TAMSON'S DREAM.

Yestreen I dreamed a dream, John—a kirk I thought mysel',
Wi' lichened wa's and dumpy tower, and old familiar bell;
And raws o' flowering trees—the thorn, the chestnut, plane, and lime—
Kept bees aboot me bummin' aye through a' the summer-time.

And high upon a hill I stood, whare a' the parish saw—
My very station seemed to prove my right to read the law;
And there was nae excuse for them that by me dared to steer,
For I had but to wag my tongue to let the parish hear.

148

But though a kirk I seemed, John, o' sturdy lime and stane,
I thought the power that wrought the change had little frae me ta'en;
For I could hear, and see, and smile, and shake a friendly haun',
And, thumpin' strongly in my breast, I fand my heart aye gaun.

Nae mortal e'er had sic a dream; for as I gazed aroun',
And let my e'e frae fragrant dells pass owre the busy toun,
I saw amang the slaty waste, as sure as sure could be,
Yoursel', that nae disguise could hide, a kirk as weel as me.

And wi' your old ambition, John, that nae misluck e'er tired,
E'en to my height upon the hill I thought ye had aspired;
Aboon the highest lums I saw your vane had mounted far,
And in the moonbeams faintly shone beside the laighmost star.

149

But, John, I thought ye seemed sae trim, sae freshly scoured and gay,
Sae lacked the douce decorum that a kirk should ever hae,
That sorrow gathered in my heart, and wandered to my e'e,
And we, I thought, were pairted, John, together ne'er to be.

I kenna how it cam' aboot, but, someway, as I gazed,
The veil that hid your secret thoughts by some fell haun' was raised,
And sic a sight! They were nae thoughts that in a kirk should dwell,
And that which seemed the thought-in-chief was how to help yersel'.

I couldnae trust my senses, and I seemed aboot to drap
Wi' loathing, and I hid my een and farther frae ye crap;
And when again I lookit, as my heart wi' pity glowed,
A river broad and ferryless I thought between us rowed.

150

I gazed upon the foamin' flood in wonderment and awe,
And, oh! the angry words I heard were waur than a' I saw;
Your curses, clothed in saintly terms, cam' surgin' owre the stream—
It maun hae been the Fiend himsel' that banned me in my dream.

And as I gazed frae hill and dale, frae hamlet, ha', and toun,
A great unreckoned multitude was gathering fast aroun';
And had ye been an angel, o' the joys o' heaven wha sung,
Nae louder shouts o' triumph could amang the hills hae rung.

And aye as ye misca'd me, John (oh, this was warst ava!)
Amang the mad applauding crowd my ain dear bairns I saw;
They forward wi' the foremost pressed, and yelled, and hissed, and groaned,
And would, had Heaven permitted, me, their reverend mother, stoned.

151

And aye ye patronage denounced, and raved o' martyrs' blood,
And like a prophet reamin' fou o' inspiration stood:
Sae glib your gab, sae hard your cheek, your power o' prayer sae great,
It seemed as if ye had a voice in the affairs of Fate.

Oh, surely ne'er were spitefu' words to human ears sae sweet!
For muckle was the treasure they were pourin' at your feet;
I couldnae keep frae thinkin' o' the fools o' ancient days,
Wha brang their wealth, a gouden calf, at Horeb's feet to raise.

'Twas pitifu' to hear ye whiles my comin' doom bewail,
And fearfu' was your thunder when the funds began to fail;
But chief your wheedling powers excelled, sae sweet your coaxing smile,
Ye frae the craw wad wiled the egg, had it been worth your while.

152

Ah! John, it was a fearfu' dream—I far mysel' forgat,
And when ye “kettle” cried, sometimes would weakly answer “pat.”
I thought nae o' the fatted calf, and wished ye care and skaith,
And claimed and revelled in the glebe that might hae sair'd us baith.

It was a weary facht we focht, and far we baith gaed wrang—
We cared nae how we soiled oursels if dirt we only flang;
And aye in ither's cares we saw the haun' o' angry Fate—
It's humbling to believe twa kirks could hate wi' sic a hate.

It's true I fand the tears at times cam' drappin' frae my een,
When for the needfu's sake your plans were mair than ord'nar' mean—

153

Forgettin' that nae cottar thrives wha scorns to use the rake,
And them that by their wits maun live, maun keep their wits awake.

But, John, before I wauken't a sweet change cam' owre my dream—
We baith forgot to rail, and then less darkly flowed the stream
That rowed between us, and I gazed and saw it narrowing, till
It murmured at our feet a bright and gently murmuring rill.

And better far than that, I thought my hand ye kindly ta'en,
And blessed me wi' the kiss o' peace that made us ane again;
And just when angels hovering near wi' harps and palms I saw,
I wauken't wi' a start, and fand we ne'er were kirks ava.

154

TO MRS H. WILSON.

Dec. 20.

Dear Madam,—
I hae been your debtor
In that important thing—a letter.
How lang? 'Twill be a month gin Monday;
I thocht to write ye every Sunday.
(Hae patience; here we're in the mirk,
And hardly think aboot the kirk.)
But by the nichts and weeks aye slippit,
And my resolves in bud were nippit;
But noo a canty screed I'll gi'e ye,
And surely patience will be wi' ye.
Between my lugs I hear a hummin',
Nae human skill can guess what's comin';
And just as little could it guess,
If 'twill be common sense, or less;

155

But you, I trust, o' this are sure,
It can at best be naething mair.

Dec. 21.

Dear Madam, I had weel intended
My letter should yestreen been ended;
But when wi' muckle toil I got
My Hobby spurred into a trot,
As fate would hae't, the youngest wean,
Seized sudden wi' some inward pain,
Began to greet, and grat sae lang
And sair, that by my pen I flang.
For though my muse, when in the mood,
Can in a Fair find solitude,
And to the close would croon her strain,
She canna bear a greetin' wean.
So to the promise that was gi'en,
Anent a canty screed yestreen,
Ye maunna haud me, else I fear
A sorry strain ye're like to hear,

156

For the puir bee within my head
Is either stiff wi' cauld, or dead;
If it should prove to be the latter,
There's nocht, I think, would please me better,
For mony a weary tramp it's cost me,
And mony a bonny penny lost me.
Oh, Jove! in anger ye decreed it—
Why should a collier be bee-headed?
Oh, keep that madness 'mang the gentry,
Wha cash and leisure hae in plenty,
And far frae ane whase toils and groans
Maun keep his weans in duds and scones.

Some speak about the boundless pleasure
O' croonin' sonnets at your leisure,
Or croonin' when wi' heavy wark
The sweat is steamin' frae the sark.
Alas! the pleasure's but a flash—
True pleasure bides wi' nae sic trash.
It's true, that when to new-spun rhyme
The ringin' pick is keepin' time,

157

The weary shearin's sooner shorn,
And labour's burden lichtly borne;
But hardly hae we sung our sang,
Till wi' our worldly cares we're thrang—
For, sneer about it as we will,
The world's our lord and master still.

He only has on earth a heaven,
To whom the gift divine is given
Of livin' only for the hour;
He never sees misfortune lower.
Does want draw near? He hears nae tell o't.
Despair? He ne'er endures the hell o't.
Though penniless, he's never puir
(True wealth is only want o' care).
But ane sae highly blest, I fear,
Can hardly hae existence here;
If ane there were, vile human nature
Would scorn to trust the happy creature.

Alas! that we should be sae fear't
For ills that end, and aye sae sweer't

158

To think that, though a cloud hangs o'er us,
A happy sunshine waits before us.
Why nurse despair, the serpent guest
That stings the hospitable breast?
They say the bairn that's ance been brunt
Has aye a fear o' fire and lunt.
Is this, when we are auld, the reason,
That hope's sae aften oot o' season?
Oh, sweet is faith! but still the fact is
We fear the bitter pill o' practice,
And fail to mark the “silver linin”'
O' clouds that keep the sun frae shinin'!

What think ye? Write and say. Adieu!
Ye'll gi'e my best respects to Hugh,
And say 'twill be my pride and pleasure
To ca' as soon as I hae leisure.
Yours,
D. W.

159

ABRAHAM.

What is the cry that comes
O'er the blue main,
Wrathfully, wailingly?—
“Abraham's slain!”
Abraham, the honest, slain!
Can it be true?
Has he been venturing
Where battle-balls flew?
Aiding a circle
To close round the foe,
And urging the soldier
To strike the last blow,
And there, as a soldier would,
Sudden laid low?

Ah! not as soldiers would
Draw the last breath;

160

Ah! not as citizens
Fain would meet death;
Not on the rutted plain,
Cresting a mound of slain,
Straining his dying ear
Victory's voice to hear,
Pleased if he hears it
Swell faintly afar;
Not in a weeping home,
Waiting till doom would come,
Cheered by Love's presence
And Hope's bright'ning star.
While in the house of glee,
Founding a jubilee,
Smiling and happy he
Loyal eyes fed:
E'en while a grinning clown
Wooed noisy plaudits down,
Sudden a hidden hand
Death's message sped—
Sudden the martyr's crown
Dropped on his head.

161

What will men say of him?
What dare they say,
But that an honest soul's
Hurried away?

Hearken!—Some after him
Shouting, thus cry—
“Spirit of Abraham,
Where wouldst thou fly?
Wouldst thou to heaven ascend?
Dar'st thou to grace pretend?—
Hitherward, spirit, wend;
Leave not the land,
Till of a nation's blood
Washed is thy hand.
Pass o'er each battle-scene;
Float where the torch has been;
Pause where the widows sigh;
Look in the orphan's eye:
Then of the saints on high
Join the bright band;

162

Dare 'mong the chosen then,
Spirit, to stand.”
What do men say of him?
Thus they dare say—

“Earth had no tyrant
Like him that's away:
Heartless and gaunt and grim,
Why should we weep for him?

“Was he not loathingly
Friend of the slave?
Was it not grudgingly
Freedom he gave—
Never beholding
Their chains till pressed hard,
Then using their sinews
As sharpers a card?

“What for their scourgings
And groanings cared he?
What on his ribald lips
Meant liberty?

163

Not a deliverance
From long-suffered ill,
But only permission
To plunder and kill.

“He, when he cried to them,
‘Lo, ye are free!
No longer black cattle
But citizens ye,’
But meant his sweet sayings
And smiles broad and bland
Would ruin and rapine
Spread o'er a fair land.
Weep for him? Weep for a
Tyrant that's gone?
May every tear shed for him
Burn to the bone!”—
Thus of the soul away
Ruined men dare to say.

Wail, lyres, your saddest tones;
Mourn, Afric's sable sons—

164

That which he did for you
Was not his all.
Had he been spared to you,
More had he dared for you;
Hard has he fared for you,
Mourn for his fall.
Europe, speak well of him,
All the good tell of him,
Letting his short-fallings
With his heart rest.
He in a tangled web
Wove with a knotted thread,
Doing what mortal
Could do for the best.

Abram the Honest's gone,
Struck from the people's throne;
Well may they sigh and moan,
'Bating their glee,
Sounding a note of woe,
E'en while the conquered foe,

165

Yielding, unwilling, low
Bends the proud knee—
For where hath Columbia
Better than he?

166

THE BIRDIE.

I met a wee bird in the early dawn,
When the morning star was shining,
That hovering aboon me said, “Whare are ye gaun,
Your morning slumber tyneing?”

“I'm gaun to yon cliff wi' the broomy brow,
With the linn beyond it leaping,
To sit and gaze on the pool below,
With peace in its bosom sleeping.

“I'm gaun to gaze on the tranquil pool,
While the star-decked east is brightening,
To dream of the ending of sorrow's rule,
And labour's burden lightening.”

167

“What sorrows hae ye?” said the little bird,
Its dark e'e kindly beaming,
“And what is the labour that leans so hard,
And tints wi' grief your dreaming?

“Why come ye on tempting cliffs to mope,
In the dark pool's peace believing?
I fear you've been listening to flattering Hope,
And bear like a bairn her deceiving.”

“Oh! little ye ken, bonnie bird,” I said,
“The strength of a human longing,
When sleep-reiving cares on a ruthless raid
Are round his pillow thronging;

“And little ye ken how he longs for peace,
When the future gives no token
That the bark of life will from heaving cease
Till the anchor-chain is broken.

“Ye hae nae been fretting 'neath sorrow's rule,
Nor vigils with care been keeping,

168

And ken nae how sweet is the tranquil pool,
Wi' peace in its bosom sleeping.”

“Gang hame to your bairns,” said the little bird,
“And the wife that waits and wearies,
And blush if nae sweeter thoughts are stirred
By the glee o' your lisping dearies.

“Gang hame to your bairns,” said the scornful bird,
“And as you're hameward faring,
Observe the poor in yon rows that herd,
Your lot with theirs comparing.

“There children in squalid rags you'll meet,
The breath of Boreas scorning,
While leaving the print of their naked feet
In the snow of the winter morning;

“And Hope with their fathers and mothers has been,
With tales of bliss deceiving;
But none on yon tempting cliff are seen,
In the dark pool's peace believing.”

169

“And what are their troubles, O bird! to me,
But danger-beacons burning?
I fear them as landsmen fear at sea
The weathered gale's returning.

“I saw in the starlight a shadow gaunt,
And as the day grows clearer,
I fear 'tis the form of the giant Want
That's slowly drawing nearer:

“I knew him of old, and I fear his rule—
How grandly the linn is leaping!—
Sweet bird, let me pass to the tranquil pool,
With peace in its bosom sleeping.”

So on to the cliff with the brow of broom,
The tortuous path I wended,
And me far up in the “scattering gloom”
The little bird attended.

But the linn now fell with a sullen roar,
That seemed of the angry ocean,

170

And the once still pool was trembling o'er
With an eerily-glimmering motion.

There Peace, no more like a spirit bright,
Me down to her breast seemed wooing;
But a writing in fire was the ripple-light,
And the written word was “Ruin.”

171

THE SIN O' SANG.

I've come, sweet Jean, while owre the hills
The evening shadows steal—
I've come to give thee back thy love,
And say for aye, fareweel:
It is nae that my love's grown cauld—
For that can never be;
But I hae sinned the sin o' sang,
And daurnae wed with thee.

I thought my dreams were “beams frae heaven,”
And hailed them aye wi' glee;
For aft they showed a happy home,
Whare thou the queen should be.

172

And Hope was ever at my side,
New pleasures to reveal;
And so I sinned the sin o' sang,
And I maun say fareweel.

Oh! dinna look sae waefu', Jean;
Nae heartless loon am I,
To win a bonny lassie's love,
Then careless bid good-bye.
Oh! fondly, fondly I hae wished
To win thee for my ain;
But I hae sinned the sin o' sang,
And now maun wed wi' nane.

To him who sins that deadly sin,
And canna frae't refrain,
Thrift's sure to be the rainbow's base,
Pursued for aye in vain.
Oh! seldom will they drink o' joy,
Who life's cup wi' him pree,
And, Jeannie, I hae sinned that sin,
And daurnae wed wi' thee.

173

Oh! had I but in secret sung,
And won nae praise but thine,
A lot that angels might hae grudged,
Dear Jeannie, would been mine.
But, far and near, the're some that ken,
And my reward is sure—
A loveless and a lonely home,
And eke a life o' care.

Oh! if there had been but one hope
To shimmer in the van
Of labour's battle, I for thee
Would fouchten like a man;
And like a man I'll fight, although
Success will smile nae mair;
For I hae sinned the sin o' sang,
And maun for aye be puir.

Thou kens that in the hive o' life
No idler I hae been,
But aye wi' glowing hands amang
The toilers hae been seen;

174

But “This is he that murdered Time”
Is written on my brow,
And wha in a' the busy world
Will dare to trust me now?

175

TO COUNCILLOR WILSON,

GLASGOW.

February 23, 1863.

Dear Sir,—
Thanks for the printed speech ye sent me.
In ryme I fain would compliment ye,
But faith my muse has grown so lame
O' ryme, I scarce can mind the name,
And wi' a blush I e'en maun tell't,
I've clean forgot the way to spell't.
I ken an “h” should be in ryme,
For I hae written't mony a time,
But whether it should follow “y”
Or “r,” uncertain now am I.

176

But owre the thing I didna swither.
Quo' I, “I'll out wi't athegither—
What matter when I hae the soun'?”
And sae the “h”-less ryme gaed down.
When next I use't I'll make it right,
But I maun be excused to-night.

But yet, sir, I maun compliment ye:
It is a charmin' Bab ye've sent me;
Sae tastefully it's tied thegither,
But few could tie me sic anither.
On sic a Bab, and sic a string,
What muse could gaze wi' faulded wing?
For months I hae nae felt sic pleasure.
Oh! for an hour o' quiet leisure,
That I micht sit and let the fire
O' Burns's muse my soul inspire
Until (as aft before) I'd feel
As if I at his feet did kneel,
And felt his haun' upon my head,
And saw his mantle owre me spread—

177

His dark e'e kindly on me beam,
The star o' an eternal dream.

But, while I write, frae roof tae hallan's
Like bedlam wi' thae noisy callans:
O' a' the Deils wi' which we're curst,
The Printer's Deil's by far the worst;
But his allotted place he fills,
Like other necessary ills.
(Be't understood, dear sir, whate'er
I say o' him he maunna hear.
He needs be neither dumb nor blate
Wha meddles wi' the Fourth Estate,
And soon or late he'll sure sink under
Some weel-aimed bolt o' morning thunder.
Sae wi' the inky imp my plan
Is aye to praise him when I can.)
At times, when fancy lacks employment,
His din's a source o' true enjoyment;
But though he aften plagues me sair,
To wish him ill were hardly fair.

178

There is a kind o' fellow-feelin'
That owre my heart at times comes stealin':
I mind how I in youth was cuffed
Like him, when I my maister huffed,
And how, the less I would oppose,
The thicker cam' the ungenerous blows;
I sabbed, 'tis true, in piteous mood,
But he! it seems to dae him guid.

There's no 'tween coal and printer's ink
Sae muckle odds as ane wad think;
Indeed, we may the difference split
Between the pressroom and the pit:
They hae the din, I had the damp;
They hae their gas, I had my lamp;
My toil the sunlicht never saw,
And theirs the sunlicht sleeps awa';
And though they're aye the earth aboon,
I had the Country, they the Toun.

I said we micht the difference split
Between the pressroom and the pit,

179

But as I on comparin' gang,
In sooth! I think the sayin' wrang;
A bairn o' mine, however dear,
I'd rather see him there than here.
O' “Life” he aiblins less micht learn,
But he wad langer be a bairn,
Micht leeve a life a thocht mair sainted,
His tongue wi' filthy slang less tainted.
Alas! to hear them ane wad think
The verra earth ashamed wad sink;
O' vilest deeds they tak' the credit,
And say wi' shameless front, “I did it;”
Remarks that they think only smart,
On wrinkled cheeks gar blushes start.
Sae learned in the affairs o' woman,
God help us! they appear scarce human.
The beardless rakes! O death! be kin',
And keep frae that ilk bairn o' mine.

And sae, sir (though I've far digressed),
What wi' their rampin' and unrest,

180

Their rattling, clattering, deaving din
(The devils a' wear wooden shoon),
A guid new thought that's worth rehearsin'
Can ne'er be putten decent verse in,
And ane in prose his say maun sum,
Or listen fretfu' and be dumb.

There was a time, it's no lang gane,
And owre't 'twere hardly wise to mane,
When I had but to say, I'll sing,
And straight my ready muse took wing.
Stiff was the theme! she rose the prouder!
Loud was the noise! she sang the louder!
Like prisoned laverock in the town,
That strives the causeway din to drown;
But now the Dame is grown sae taupit,
She maun be coaxed, and praised, and clappit,
And maunna be disturbed, or she
Will mute as winter blackbird be,
Else I in Burns's praise wad join
And tie a Bab to eke to thine.

181

And yet, dear sir, what can we say
That would be new? For mony a day
Enthusiasts in his praise hae sung,
And commentators sage hae wrung,
Frae every line its subtlest meaning:—
There's little left for future gleaning.

Ca' we him Scotland's ain—her best!
It is a truth by a' confest.
Great master o' the Doric reed!
It is a praise that's stale indeed.
The pride o' every honest man!
For sixty years the strain's sae ran:
Though sonnet follows sonnet fast,
Yet each but counterfeits the last,
And that which tells his praises best
Seems mair an echo than the rest.

His memory lang within my heart
Has been a star that “dwelt apart;”
But of its ever-growing beams
To sing, to me irreverend seems.

182

I dare not to a theme aspire,
That seems too grand for human lyre.

Again, sir, let me compliment ye
On the rich paper ye hae sent me.
This random rhyme ('tis weel spelt noo)
Is but a puir return, 'tis true,
And doubtless it wad been far better
That I had still remained your debtor,
Than sic vile payment sent—but then,
As soon as I had ta'en my pen,
My thoughts in measured form cam' clinkin',
Wi' every thought a rhyme cam' linkin',
And sae I wrote awa, ne'er heedin'
If what I wrote was worth the readin',
Till decency I far owrestep't it,
But, sir, in lieu o' thanks accept it;
You see in rhyme I'm prone to sin yet,
Good-bye,
Your Servant,
David Wingate.

Referring to a speech of which he sent me a copy.

W. Wilson, Esq.

183

OCTOBER—THE GREEN HILLSIDE.

A song for dun October,
That tints the woods wi' broon,
And fills wi' pensive rustling
The wooded dells aroun',
While lintie, merle, and mavis
Nae langer pipe wi' pride,
Nor larks wi' song salute us
On the green hillside.
Auld nests are noo beginning
To peep frae woods fast thinning,
And, wi' nae thocht o' sinning,
Lairds death are scatterin' wide;
While some are grumblin' sairly,
O' fields that yield but sparely;
But nature yet looks rarely
On the green hillside.

184

What though our posie borders
In waefu' plight are seen—
Though stocks and staring dahlias
Hae tint their summer sheen?
Thy hoary dawns, October,
They ne'er were meant to bide,
Unlike the halesome clover
On the green hillside.
Though Robin's town-notes swelling,
O' summer's flight are telling,
A sober thought compelling,
That nane would seek to hide;
Shall we at hame sit chaunnering,
O' frost and famine maundering,
While wiser folks are wandering
On the green hillside?

We'll see the souchin' peesweeps,
In gatherin' flocks prepared
To leave the glen and meadows,
Whare love's delights they shared;

185

Their cheerfu' cries we hear nae,
As owre our heads they glide.
Poor birds! they part in silence
Wi' the green hillside.
And though nae lambkin's gambols
May cheer us on our rambles,
O' hips, and haws, and brambles,
Ilk brake we'll reive wi' pride,
And pu' the lingering gowan,
Whare, late, the clustered rowan,
In scarlet grandeur glowin',
Graced the green hillside.

When streams the gouden sunset
Frae 'tween the hills and cl'uds,
While hangs the double rainbow
Aboon the sparkling woods,
In the herald lull that tells us
The storm-king by will ride,
Oh! wha would haste in terror
Frae the green hillside?

186

What though the clouds close o'er us,
And glens grow dark before us,
Some bush frae blustering Boreas,
Will ample beil' provide,
While thoughts we lang shall treasure,
The bairns o' purest pleasure,
Shall leap in canty measure
On the green hillside.

Oh ye wha life are wearin'
Amid the city's smeek,
It's no in noisy taverns
Ye pleasure's face should seek.
'Mang “social tankards foamin',”
She cares nae lang to bide,
But weel she lo'es the freshness
O' the green hillside.
For summer's flight she cares nae,
And winter's frown she fears nae;
To slight poor toil she dares nae,
Nor frae him seeks to hide.

187

By burnies murmuring sweetly,
At morn or e'en she'll meet ye,
And wi' a smile will greet ye,
On the green hillside.

Hips, haws, and brambles—wild berries.

188

THE CHIELD OOT O' WARK.

Some tell hoo the turtle-doo mourns for its mate,
Some tell hoo puir Peggy laments faithless Pate,
Some muses mak' wan hopeless widows their mark;
But wha cares a snuff for the chield oot o' wark?
We hear o' the sodgers in battle that fa',
We hear o' the sailors that waves wash awa',
In ballads they'll sing o' their lost bonny bark;
But wha mak's a sang o' the chield oot o' wark?

The chield oot o' wark disappointment maun bear,
Maun suffer wealth's frown and its cauld heartless sneer;
Ilk sumph o' a gaffer may mak' a wit-mark—
A butt for his scorn o' the chield oot o' wark.
He wanders aboot frae dull morn to grey e'en;
Where'er Hope invites him, he's sure to be seen;

189

But aften Hope's star dwindles doon to a spark,
And hides frae the e'e o' the chield oot o' wark.

The chield oot o' wark, see! his guttas are dune,
His breeks are threadbare, an' his coat's wearin' thin;
And though he can brag yet o' mair than ae sark,
How long will't be sae wi' the chield oot o' wark?
His wardrobe maun gang to the sharks o' the pawn,
For backs maun be bared at the belly's commaun':
He'll soon hae sma' need to be learned like a clark,
Wha values the gear o' the chield oot o' wark.

His wee things at hame—but o' them speir nae mair—
Their weal is his comfort, their misery his care;
Their wants wauken thochts unco sinfu' an' dark,
That whisper relief to the chield oot o' wark.
Nae honour for him, let him tramp as he may—
He mauna aspire to the laurel or bay;
And nae smiling Queen prins a bright hero-mark,
To shine on the breast o' the chield oot o' wark.

190

The chield oot o' wark mauna beg—daurna steal,
An' pride bids him struggle his grief to conceal:
Believe me, my friends, since the days o' the Ark
The dreif wretch on earth was the chield oot o' wark.
Ye wealthy, on whom wit and wisdom descend,
Oh! be it your care him frae want to defend;
On Fame's deathless page he may scribble his mark,
Wha plans a relief for the chield oot o' wark.

191

A RAMBLE.

While gloaming grey on dell and brae
Wi' dripping wing is settling doun,
Beside the flowers o' yesterday
I set me doon a sang to croon.
Wi' happy friends I climb again
The whinny knowes sae blithely ranged,
And wi' them pu', wi' heart fu' fain,
Thae floral gems sae sadly changed.

Frae hazel bower to steal that flower
Wi' emerald leaf and gouden cup,
Through scroggy gill, by tricklin' rill,
Wi' boyhood's glee we scramble up.
Our feet are on the hallowed hills,
Whare bards hae strayed and heroes striven;

192

The hymn o' streams and laverocks seems
An echo o' the hymn o' heaven.

What joy to hear the tit-larks near,
In slae-thorn brake whare nane we see,
Whare linties chant, and goldies haunt,
And hermit foxgloves feast the bee;
Though blossomed hawthorns are nae seen,
Nor trees festooned wi' woodbine sweet,
Here's lady's-mantle gouden-green,
And balmy thyme blooms 'mang our feet.

Wi' gratefu' e'e mouse-peas we see
Adorn the dykes wi' tufts o' blue;
Wi' mosses rare, and speedwells fair,
And gracefu' ferns, our hauns are fu'.
Wha says that we're wi' slavery cursed?
It is nae true—it ne'er was true;
When flowers sae fair auld Nature nursed,
They ne'er were meant for slaves to pu'.

193

And noo our downward course we wend—
The loch's in view! the loch's in view!
The waters gleam! the heron's scream
Comes harsh the hazy distance through.
Amang yon knowes, through mazy links,
The Lavern glides wi' dimpling smile,
Syne owre the braes, wi' hasty jinks,
Trips blithely wimpling doun to toil.

See Raggit Robin owre the bent,
His bonnet waves in rosy pride;
Has Flora for our pleasure sprent
The balmy, breezy, cool loch-side?
See, as the ripple shoreward streams,
And moves the reeds wi' gentle lave,
Each distant wave a sea-bird seems,
Each distant floating bird a wave!

194

THE 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.

“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;

195

I seldom fash wi't noo—indeed, I swore I ne'er wad pree,
But Jeanie whiles insists, and draps a cinder in my tea.

“And so, till she comes 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.”

“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.

196

“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.

“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'.’

“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.

197

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?

“When roun' me whiles I look and see the plenishin' we hae—
A meal for every mornin', and a hap for every day—
And think ‘Whase guidin's this?’ man, Will, a mist comes owre my e'e;
There never was a better wife, sin' wives began to be.

“She minds it yet. Teth! ay, she minds't, and mentions't noo and then,
When neebor wives come in to bann their idle, drunken men.
But oven then wi' kindly clasp she tak's my pithless haun',
And whispers, ‘Gude be thankit, ye were ne'er a lazy man.’

198

“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.

“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.

“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.

199

“I likit it! but, Will, thae days are frae us ever gane;
The wark we had to do is done, and a' our say is sain;
We noo maun turn our een to things that ance were reckoned nocht,
And mair about ‘the Better Land’ maun think than ance we thocht.

“Our Missioner, an honest man, wha jokes a harmless joke,
And has a humble heart, and likes a hamely crack and smoke,
And has a hope for a', and has nae fearsome tale to tell
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.

200

“Nae asthma's there, wi' weary wheeze, to wear the life awa',
Nor rheumatism, Will, for there there are nae banes to gnaw;
Bereavement comes nae there to clip Affection's cord in twain,
And Discord's voice is never heard in a' the wide domain.

“We'll soom about on wings, like doos, and blithesome hymns will chant,
Wi' which compared, earth's sweetest airs are 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;

201

And surely, Will, if hearts we hae, they'll warm wi' gratefu' glow,
When we the life in heaven compare wi' collier-life below.

“And, Will, we hae nae lang to wait—Death soon will draw the screen,
And prove the land we dream o' has nae human fancy been;
And what we'll dae, or what we'll say, a wonder needna be—
That there's a Better Land ava's enough for you and me.”