The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

Row, burnie, row
Through the bracken-glen;
Row, burnie, row
By the haunts of men;
Where the golden cowslips glint,
Through the wild thyme and the mint,
By the barley and the lint;
Row, burnie, row.

Row, burnie, row
Tinkling under heather bells;
Row, burnie, row
Down to where my true love dwells;
Singing songs down to the sea,
Singing of the hill countrie,
Singing to my love from me:
Row, burnie, row.

Row, burnie, row
To him that's far awa,
Row, burnie, row,
And mind him o' us a'.
Say there's naething to regret,
Say I never can forget,
Say I lo'e him dearly yet:
Row, burnie, row.

Row, burnie, row
Through the gowans white,
Row, burnie, row,
Gleaming in the light:
Let ilka ripple bear
Fond kisses to him there;
O my heart it's longing sair,
Row, burnie, row.

Paul.
—There, that's how a girl should sing. I've been forgetting,
While puzzling out notions that nobody heeds,
Stupid owl that I am! not to see you were fretting,
While I sit here all day, neither gaining nor getting,
With the fancies an idle head breeds.
Yet there's something in this one, I think; but it's true,
I always think that while the fancy is new.

Milly.
—Yes, Paul, I'm sure there is,
There's always something in it:
Only leave it for a minute,
For it's worse than loneliness
When you sit beside me silent,
Like some shadowy mountain island
Washed by waves I cannot see,
Hid in canopy of clouds,
Peopled too by shining crowds
That speak to you, but not to me.
It's like waiting—don't you see?—
By some veilèd mystery.

122

Don't go back, now, to your scheming;
It will do you good to rest;
Thought will drift away to dreaming
In a brain too hardly pressed:
And this strike so long has been
That my little purse grows lean.

Paul.

—Ah! the strike!—yes, it's dreadful, I know: it is war
For the wealth of the rich, but the life of the poor:
Our new, modern warfare, and holier far
Than ever was bannered by Cross or star,
Or battled by hero pure:
It is Capital, gathered on credit, that stands
Against Capital, gathered in brains and hands.

I'm a workman, dear, and I mean to be;
I like the sound of the hammer and saw,
And the feel of a file in my hands, and to see
Work neatly done, as it ought to be,
Turned out without fault or flaw,
Nut and rivet and nail and screw
All driven home, dear, right and true.

I hate a fellow that scamps his job,
False work never yet won the day;
I'd sooner footpad it, and steal and rob,
Or go pick-pocketing through a mob,
Than play that dirty play;
It's the pride of our land that the work is good
In its wool and cotton, and iron and wood.
Let us stand by our order, then, fighting it out:
True men they are, in the main, and right;
The quarrel is good, and our hearts are stout,
And every one knows what it's all about,
And our patience is our might:
A fairer wage, and a shorter day,
It is time we had time to think and pray.

Yes, the strike is right: it is war, of course,
And in war we must count upon rubs and blows;
And who may be better, and who may be worse,
Who may be stricken with grief and remorse,
Only the end shall disclose:
But true to each other, our life will be more
And fuller and richer than ever before.

Milly.
—Ah! well, I do not know;
I hope it may be so.
But I judge by what I see,
And my heart is failing me.
Have you heard young Darrel's song
Of the famine of the coal?
Some will have it he is wrong,
Though he sings with all his soul,
Till my blood is tingling hot,
Thinking of the poor man's lot.