University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
Willie Winkie and Other Songs and Poems

By William Miller: Edited, with an Introduction by Robert Ford
Miller, William (1810-1872)

collapse section
[section]
 
AUTHOR'S DEDICATION.
expand section
INTRODUCTION.
expand section
SONGS AND POEMS.

collapse section Collapse All | Expand All expand section
no previous section Willie Winkie and Other Songs and Poems
no next section
xiv

He only sang of home and hearth,
No higher pinion had his song:
His voice was blent with childhood's mirth,
When nights were dim and rich and long.
Yet what a rare reward and sweet
Is his, for, by his lowly art,
The sound of “Willie Winkie's” feet
Is heard in every mother's heart.
Alexander Anderson.

v

AUTHOR'S DEDICATION.

[_]

[Scottish Nursery Songs, 1863.]

To Scottish Mothers, GENTLE AND SEMPLE, These Nursery Songs are Respectfully Dedicated, NOT FEARING THAT, WHILE IN SUCH KEEPING, THEY WILL EVER BE FORGOT. William Miller.
xvi

INTRODUCTION.

SONG,

Sung on the night of the 13th April, 1872, in No. 4 Ark Lane, in the imagined presence of James Ballantine, Edinburgh.

Frien'ship promised months afore,
That some night 'twad hae a splore,
Wi' a sangster to the core,
Y'clept in Edin., Jamie.
Kings hae drank in Embro' toon,
Bottle lords hae slidden doon,
Poets wi' the laurel croon
Hae boozed in Edin., Jamie.
Wha wad sit out owre a mug,
Toom as is a collie's lug;
Lassie, fill a reamin' jug,
Till I drink health to Jamie.
Glass to glass, an' knee to knee,
Heart to heart, an' e'e to e'e;
There's my han', to thine and thee,
Dear Scotia's minstrel, Jamie.
xvii

I maun hae my say, an' I
Will be neither dowf nor dry;
Up my bonnet cock-laft high,
While sittin' wi' you, Jamie.
Seldom meet sic twa as we,
Aged though a thocht we be;
Let the youngsters sing an' lea'
Sic sangs as we'll leave, Jamie.
Weel I mind, in bygane days,
How my heart leaped at thy praise;
Ithers sneer'd “Cock Robin lays,”
Ye roused them, manly Jamie.
Tids o' sang, how sweet ye be!
Chasin' Care wi' canty glee;
While I sing o' thine and thee,
Dear, kindly-hearted Jamie.

TO WILLIE MILLER.

My ain sib sangster, Willie Winkie,
The creonin' gem o' “Whistle-Binkie,”
Whilk to our leal Scotch bosoms link ye,
And mak' ye dear,
To a' wha feel your hamely clinky
Grip heart an' ear.
I've been awa frae hame till now,
Or wadna I gien you a rowe
For raisin' sic a wurriecowe
In Auld Ark Lane,
And me no there, your cakes to chowe,
Your mugs to drain.
xviii

Had I but kenned ye wanted me
To join ye in your social spree,
Losh, man, owre a' the kingdoms three
I wad hae loupit,
To come and pledge to “thine and thee,”
Till owre I coupit.
Sae mind, neist time, mak' nae sic muddle,
But summon me to share your fuddle,
And Scotland wi' me in may toddle
Your maut to pree,
And tell how wives and weanies cuddle
Baith you and me.
James Ballantine. Edinburgh, 6th May, 1872.
1

SONGS AND POEMS.

Willie Winkie.

Wee Willie Winkie
Rins through the toun,
Up stairs and doun stairs
In his nicht-gown,
Tirling at the window,
Crying at the lock,
“Are the weans in their bed,
For it's now ten o'clock?”
Hey, Willie Winkie,
Are ye coming ben?
The cat's singing grey thrums
To the sleeping hen,
The dog's spelder'd on the floor,
And disna gie a cheep,
But here's a waukrife laddie
That winna fa' asleep.
2

Onything but sleep, you rogue!
Glow'ring like the moon,
Rattling in an airn jug
Wi' an airn spoon,
Rumblin', tumblin', round about,
Crawing like a cock,
Skirlin' like a kenna-what,
Wauk'nin' sleeping folk.
Hey, Willie Winkie—
The wean's in a creel!
Wamblin' aff a body's knee
Like a very eel,
Ruggin' at the cat's lug,
Rav'llin' a' her thrums—
Hey, Willie Winkie—
See, there he comes!
Wearied is the mither
That has a stoorie wean,
A wee stumpie stousie,
That canna rin his lane.
That has a battle aye wi' sleep,
Before he'll close an e'e—
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips.
Gies strength anew to me.
3

Gree, Bairnies, Gree.

[_]

Air—“Oh, no, we never mention her.”

The moon has rowed her in a cloud,
Stravaging win's begin
To shuggle and daud the window-brods,
Like loons that wad be in!
Gae whistle a tune in the lum-head,
Or craik in saughen tree!
We're thankfu' for a cozie hame—
Sae gree, my bairnies, gree.
Though gurgling blasts may dourly blaw,
A rousing fire will thow
A straggler's taes, and keep fu' cosh
My tousie taps-o'-tow.
O wha would cule your kail, my bairns,
Or bake your bread like me?
Ye'd get the bit frae out my mouth,
Sae gree, my bairnies, gree.
Oh, never fling the warmsome boon
O' bairnhood's love awa';
Mind how ye sleepit, cheek to cheek,
Between me and the wa';
How ae kind arm was owre ye baith:
But, if ye disagree,
Think on the saft and kindly soun'
O' “Gree, my bairnies, gree.”
4

The Sleepy Laddie.

Are ye no gaun to wauken the day, ye rogue?
Your parritch is ready and cool in the cog,
Auld baudrons sae gaucy, and Tam o' that ilk
Would fain hae a drap o' my wee laddie's milk.
There's a wee birdie singing, get up, get up!
And listen, it says “tak' a whup, tak' a whup;”
But I'll kittle his bosie—a far better plan—
Or pouther his pow wi' a watering can.
There's claes to wash, and the house to redd,
And I canna begin till I mak' the bed;
For I count it nae brag to be clever as some,
Wha while thrang at a bakin', can soop the lum.
It's far i' the day now, and brawly ye ken,
Your faither has scarcely a minute to spen';
But ae blink o' his wife wi' the bairn on her knee,
He says lichtens his toil, though sair it may be.
So up to your parritch, and on wi' your claes;
There's a fire that might warm the cauld Norlan braes;
For a coggie weel fill'd and a clean fire-en'
Should mak' ye jump up, and gae skelping ben.
5

The Wonderfu' Wean.

[_]

Air—“The Campbells are Coming.”

Our wean's the most wonderfu' wean e'er I saw,
It would tak' me a lang summer day to tell a'
His pranks, frae the morning till night shuts his e'e,
When he sleeps like a peerie, 'tween father and me.
For in his quiet turns, siccan questions he'll speir;
How the moon can stick up in the sky that's sae clear?
What gars the wind blaw? and wharfrae comes the rain?
He's a perfect divert: he's a wonderfu' wean!
Or wha was the first body's father? and wha
Made the very first snaw-shower that ever did fa'?
And wha made the first bird that sang on a tree?
And the water that sooms a' the ships on the sea?—
But after I've tell't him as weel as I ken,
Again he begins wi' his “Wha?” and his “When?”
And he looks aye sae watchfu' the while I explain,—
He's as auld as the hills—he's an auld-farrant wean.
And folk wha ha'e skill o' the lumps on the head,
Hint there's mae ways than toiling o' winning ane's bread;
How he'll be a rich man, and hae men to work for him,
Wi' a kyte like a bailie's, shug-shugging afore him,
Wi' a face like the moon, sober, sonsy, and douce,
And a back, for its breadth, like the side o' a house.
'Tweel, I'm unco ta'en up wi't, they mak' a' sae plain;—
He's just a town's talk—he's a by-ord'nar wean!
6

I ne'er can forget sic a laugh as I gat,
When I saw him put on father's waistcoat and hat;
Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sae far owre his knees,
The tap loops wi' his fingers he grippit wi' ease,
Then he march'd thro' the house—he march'd but, he march'd ben,
Sae like mony mae o' our great little men,
That I leugh clean outright, for I couldna contain,
He was sic a conceit—sic an ancient like wean.
But 'mid a' his daffin' sic kindness he shows,
That he's dear to my heart as the dew to the rose;
And the unclouded hinnie-beam aye in his e'e,
Mak's him every day dearer and dearer to me.
Though fortune be saucy, and dorty, and dour,
And glooms through her fingers, like hills through a shower,
When bodies hae got ae bit bairn o' their ain,
How he cheers up their heart,—he's the wonderfu' wean.

Our Ain Fire-End.

[_]

Air—“Kelvin Grove.”

When the frost is on the grun',
Keep your ain fire-end,
For the warmth o' summer's sun
Has our ain fire-end;
7

When there's dubs ye might be lair'd in,
Or snaw-wreaths ye could be smoor'd in,
The best flower in the garden
Is our ain fire-end.
You and father are sic twa!
Roun' our ain fire-end,
He mak's rabbits on the wa',
At our ain fire-end.
Then sic fun as they are mumping,
When to touch them ye gae stumping,
They're set on your tap a-jumping,
At our ain fire-end.
Sic a bustle as ye keep
At our ain fire-end,
When ye on your whistle wheep,
Round our ain fire-end;
Now, the dog maun get a saddle,
Then a cairt's made o' the ladle,
To please ye as ye daidle
Round our ain fire-end.
When your head's lain on my lap,
At our ain fire-end;
Taking childhood's dreamless nap,
At our ain fire-end;
Then frae lug to lug I kiss ye,
An' wi' heart o'erflowing bless ye,
And a' that's gude I wish ye,
At our ain fire-end.
8

When ye're far, far frae the blink
O' our ain fire-end,
Fu' monie a time ye'll think
On our ain fire-end;
On a' your gamesome ploys,
On your whistle and your toys,
And ye'll think ye hear the noise
O' our ain fire-end.

Cockie-leerie-la.

[_]

Air—“John Anderson, my Jo.”

There is a country gentleman,
Wha leads a thrifty life,
Ilk morning scraping orra things
Thegither for his wife—
His coat o' glowing ruddy brown,
And wavelet wi' gold—
A crimson crown upon his head,
Well fitting one so bold.
If ithers pick where he did scrape,
He brings them to disgrace,
For, like a man o' metal, he
Siclike meets face to face;
He gies the loons a lethering,
A crackit croon to claw—
There is nae gaun about the bush
Wi' Cockie-leerie-la!
9

His step is firm and evenly,
His look both sage and grave—
His bearing bold, as if he said,
“I'll never be a slave!”
And tho' he hauds his head fu' high,
He glinteth to the grun',
Nor fyles his silver spurs in dubs
Wi' glowerin' at the sun:
And whiles I've thocht had he a hand
Wharwi' to grip a stickie,
A pair o' spects across his neb,
And round his neck a dickie,
That weans wad laughing haud their sides,
And cry, “Preserve us a'!
Ye're some frien' to Doctor Drawbluid,
Douce Cockie-leerie-la!”
So learn frae him to think nae shame
To work for what ye need,
For he that gapes till he be fed,
May gape till he be dead;
And if ye live in idleness,
Ye'll find unto your cost,
That they wha winna work in heat,
Maun hunger in the frost.
And hain wi' care ilk sair-won plack,
And honest pride will fill
Your purse wi' gear—e'en far-aff frien's
Will bring grist to your mill;
10

And if, when grown to be a man,
Your name's without a flaw,
Then rax your neck, and tune your pipes
To Cockie-leerie-la!

Chuckie.

Saw ye chuckie wi' her chickies,
Scraping for them dainty pickies,
Keeking here and keeking there,
Wi' a mother's anxious care,
For a pick to fill their gebbies,
Or a drap to weet their nebbies?
Heard ye weans cry “teuckie, teuckie!
Here's some moolins, bonnie chuckie?”
When her chickens a' are feather'd,
And the school-weans round her gather'd,
Giein' each the prettiest name,
That their guileless tongues can frame;
Chuckie then will bend her neck!
Scrape wi' pride, and boo and beck!
Cluckin' as they're crying “teuckie!
Here's some moolins, bonnie chuckie!”
Chuckie wi' her wheetle-wheeties
Never grudged a pick o' meat is;
High and low alike will stand
Throwing crumbs wi' kindly hand,
11

While about she'll jink and jouk
Pride and pleasure in her look,
As they're crying “teuckie, teuckie,
Here's some moolins, bonnie chuckie!”
But sic fortune disna favour
Aye the honest man's endeavour;
Mony a ane, wi' thrawart lot,
Pines and dees, and is forgot;
But, my bairn, if ye've the power,
Aye to lessen want be sure—
Fin' your pouch, cry “teuckie, teuckie,
Here's some moolins, chuckie, chuckie!”

Spring.

The Spring comes linking and jinking through the woods,
Opening wi' gentle hand the bonnie green and yellow buds—
There's flowers and showers, and sweet sang o' little bird,
And the gowan wi' his red croon peeping thro' the yird.
The hail comes rattling and brattling snell and keen,
Dauding and blauding, though red set the sun at e'en;
In bonnet and wee loof the weans kep and look for mair,
Dancing thro'ther wi' the white pearls shining in their hair.
We meet wi' blythesome and kythesome cheerie weans,
Daffing and laughing far a-doon the leafy lanes,
Wi' gowans and buttercups busking the thorny wands,
Sweetly singing wi' the flower branch waving in their hands.
12

'Boon a' that's in thee, to win me, sunny Spring!
Bricht cluds and green buds, and sangs that the birdies sing;
Flower-dappled hill-side and dewy beech sae fresh at e'en;
Or the tappie-toorie fir-tree shining a' in green.
Bairnies, bring treasure and pleasure mair to me,
Stealing and speiling up to fondle on my knee!
In spring-time the young things are blooming sae fresh and fair,
That I canna, Spring, but love and bless thee evermair.

Lady Summer.

[_]

Air—“Blythe, Blythe, and Merry are We.”

Birdie, birdie, weet your whistle!
Sing a sang to please the wean;
Let it be o Lady Summer
Walking wi' her gallant train!
Sing him how her gaucy mantle,
Forest green trails ower the lea,
'Broider'd frae the dewy him o't
Wi' the field flowers to the knee!
How her foot's wi' daisies buskit,
Kirtle o' the primrose hue,
And her e'e sae like my laddie's,
Glancing, laughing, loving blue!
13

How we meet on hill and valley,
Children sweet as fairest flowers,
Buds and blossoms o' affection,
Rosy wi' the sunny hours.
Sing him sic a sang, sweet birdie!
Sing it ower and ower again;
Gar the notes fa' pitter patter,
Like a shower o' summer rain.
“Hoot, toot, toot!” the birdie's saying,
“Wha can shear the rigg that's shorn?
Ye've sung brawlie simmer's ferlies,
I'll toot on anither horn.”

Hairst.

Tho' weel I lo'e the budding Spring,
I'll no misca' John Frost,
Nor will I roose the Summer days
At gowden Autumn's cost;
Por a' the seasons in their turn
Some wished-for pleasures bring,
And hand in hand they jink aboot,
Like weans at jingo-ring.
Fu' weel I mind how aft ye said,
When Winter nights were lang,
“I weary for the Summer woods,
The lintie's tittering sang;”
14

But when the woods grew gay and green,
And birds sang sweet and clear,
It then was, “When will hairst-time come,
The gloamin' o' the year?”
Oh! hairst-time's like a lipping cup
That's gi'en wi' furthy glee!
The fields are fu' o' yellow corn,
Red apples bend the tree;
The genty air, sae ladylike!
Has on a scented gown,
And wi' an airy string she leads
The thistle-seed balloon.
The yellow corn will porridge mak',
The apples taste your mou',
And ower the stibble riggs I'll chase
The thistle-down wi' you;
I'll pu' the haw frae aff the thorn,
The red hip frae the brier—
For wealth hangs in each tangled nook
In the gloaming o' the year.
Sweet Hope! ye biggit ha'e a nest
Within my bairnie's breast—
Oh! may his trusting heart ne'er trow
That whiles ye sing in jest;
Some coming joys are dancing aye
Before his langing een,—
He sees the flower that isna blawn,
And birds that ne'er were seen;—
15

The stibble rigg is aye ahin'!
The gowden grain afore,
And apples drop into his lap,
Or row in at the door!
Come, hairst-time, then, unto my bairn,
Drest in your gayest gear,
Wi' saft and winnowing win's to cool
The gloaming o' the year!

Ye maun Gang to the Schule.

[_]

Air—“As Jenny sat down wi' her wheel by the fire.”

Ye maun gang to the schule again' summer, my bairn,
It's no near sae ill as ye're thinking to learn;
For learning's a' worldly riches aboon—
It's easy to carry, and never gaes done.
Ye'll read o' the land, and ye'll read o' the sea!
O' the high and the low, o' the bound and the free—
And maybe a tear will the wee bookie stain,
When ye read o' the widow and fatherless wean.
And when 'tis a story of storms on the sea,
Where sailors are lost, who have bairnies like thee,
And your heart, growing grit for the fatherless wean,
Gars the tearies hap, hap o'er your cheekies like rain;
16

I'll then think on the dew that comes frae aboon,
Like draps frae the stars or the silvery moon,
To freshen the flowers: but the tears frae your e'e
For the woes of anither, are dearer to me.
So ye'll gae to the schule again' summer, my bairn—
Ye're sae gleg o' the uptak' ye soon will learn;—
And I'm sure ere the dark nights o' winter keek ben,
Ye'll can read William Wallace frae en' to en'.

John Frost.

[_]

Air—“The Campbells are Coming.”

You've come early to see us this year, John Frost,
Wi' your crispin' an' poutherin' gear, John Frost,
For hedge, tower, an' tree,
As far as I see,
Are as white as the bloom o' the pear, John Frost.
You're very preceese wi' your wark, John Frost!
Altho' ye hae wrought in the dark, John Frost,
For ilka fit-stap,
Frae the door to the slap,
Is braw as a new linen sark, John Frost.
There are some things about ye I like, John Frost,
And ithers that aft gar me fyke, John Frost;
For the weans, wi' cauld taes,
Crying “shoon, stockings, claes,”
Keep us busy as bees in the byke, John Frost.
17

And gae 'wa' wi' your lang slides, I beg, John Frost!
Bairn's banes are as bruckle's an egg, John Frost;
For a cloit o' a fa'
Gars them hirple awa',
Like a hen wi' a happity leg, John Frost.
Ye ha'e fine goings on in the north, John Frost!
Wi' your houses o' ice, and so forth, John Frost!
Tho' their kirn's on the fire,
They may kirn till they tire,
Yet their butter—pray what is it worth, John Frost?
Now, your breath would be greatly improven, John Frost,
By a scone pipin'-het frae the oven, John Frost;
And your blae, frosty nose
Nae beauty wad lose,
Kent ye mair baith o' boilin' and stovin', John Frost.

The Queen o' Bonny Scotland's a Mither like Mysel'.

There's walth o' themes in Scotland,
That ham'art tongue might sing
Wi' glee sae canty, that wad mak'
Its laneliest valleys ring;
But there is ane I dearly lo'e
In wimpling sang to swell—
The Queen o' bonny Scotland's
A mither like mysel'.
18

Her wee bit rum'lin' roguie,
When rowin' on her knee,
Or cuddlin' in her bosie,
Will gladden heart an' e'e,
Wi' kissin' owre an' owre again,
His rosy cheeks will tell—
The Queen o' bonny Scotland's
A mither like mysel'.
She kens fu' weel how tenderly
A mither dauts her wean,
Aud a' the hinnied words that fa'
Atween them when alane.
Oh! if I were but near her,
O' breadless bairns to tell,
She'd listen, for our bonny Queen's
A mither like mysel'.
Then come to bonny Scotland,
There's no a neuk in't a',
Frae hill to haugh, that disna bear
Baith buirdly men and braw;
They'll welcome you to Scotland—
The thistle and blue-bell—
And ye'se be blessed by women-folk,
And mithers like yoursel'.
19

Lines to Victor Hugo

On reading of his great grief for the death of his grandson, Victor Hugo.
Aged 1 Year — Months.

Has kindly Time made doon thy grief?
The soun's de'ed out that wailed sae wearie;
The deein' moans o' hopes that lay
Like wither'd leaves roun' thy wee dearie.
Fresh from his rosy sleep, I ween,
How fondly cuddlin' ye wad bless him;
But Oh! I dinna, canna ken,
When stretch'd in death how ye wad kiss him.
The agony of life to live,
Reft o' the pride with which ye view'd him;
To feel the thought torn frae your breist,
“How proud he'll be to think I lo'ed him.”
I ken the ploys that ye had plann'd,
The summer days' sweet lingering journeys,
To pu' the gowans, or to sit
By thymey brim o' moorlan' burnies.
Or sing him sangs that he wad ken
The meanin' o' when he grew older;
And as thy voice rose wi' the strain
Note that his braid brent brow look'd bolder.
20

I hae an oe, a lassie wean,—
A wee ma'msel' as ye wad ca' her,
I look at her, then think o' thee:—
What wad I do did ought befa' her!
Your grief has griev'd me, and I feel
Man's closely link'd wi' ane anither;
Thy darlin' grandchild's made me know
His grandpa's but my bigger brither.
A mother bending owre an urn,
We inly feel for what she's greetin';
Or see that Hope, wi' upturned ee,
But calmly waits a promised meetin'.
Go, Mossman! shape me deeper woe,
With all the power of Poet-Sculptor;
An old bard with bewillow'd harp,—
Great Victor wailing little Victor.

Irish Love Song.

To sing of human happiness, when all is peace and piping,
Or laugh at love and handkerchiefs, when eyelids need no wiping,
Is but to mock the cruel pangs that now my heart is tearing,
And smuder up the hearty groans that's rowling for a hearing:
Och! if I had my paice of mind, that cruel piece of plunder,
I'd let the jades die wrinkled maids, and then they'd see their blunder.
21

The lovely craturs, every one, are jewels of perfection,
And mighty need they have, indeed, of comfort and protection.
But I, who'd be their guardian through each future generation;
Am treated like the blackguard scamps that roam about the nation.
Oh paice, throughout the wholesome day, and I, have long been strangers,
And all the night, in woful plight, I dream of fearful dangers.
Where'er I turn my aching eyes for paice or consolation,
Some cheek, or eye, or lip, or brow, works further tribulation—
Och, murther, but it seems my fate that some one will tormint me—
Whene'er I turn me round from one, another is fornint me;
The saucy flirts, if but a word I'd speak of adoration,
With “Sur!” as sharp's a sword they'd cut the thread of conversation.
No wonder that the married wives are happy and contented,
Sure, of her vows no decent spouse has ever yet repented;
Whate'er they want their husbands grant, that's fitting for their station,
While naught they do, 'tween me and you, but raising botheration.
Then let the female sex now learn to know what now they're needing,
Nor screw they're pretty mouths to No, when Yes would show their breeding.
22

The Homes and Hearts behind us.

Dedicated to the Scottish Volunteers.
Who would not fight for such a land?—
The land our fathers bled on
For liberty, with men as bold
As ever Wallace led on.
Though dear enough our mountain land,
In serried ranks to bind us
Against all foes;—yet dearer still
The homes and hearts behind us.
Though dear enough our mountain land,
In serried ranks to bind us
Against all foes;—yet dearer still
The homes and hearts behind us.
Say not that men of other climes
Have stronger arms, or braver,
Or that the land that Freemen own
Hired hordes can e'er enslave her.
Should e'er they touch our dear lov'd shores,
A wall of steel they'll find us;
For Gallic sword shall never reach
The homes and hearts behind us.
Should e'er they touch our dear lov'd shores, etc.
23

Though men of peace, if war should come,
In friendship's lap while lying,
The lamb will then a lion turn,
The Eagle's brood defying,
And shake in wrath his shaggy mane:
Then foremost you shall find us,
The Volunteers, to shield from harm
The homes and hearts behind us.
And shake in wrath his shaggy mane, etc.

November.

Infant Winter, young November.
Nursling of the glowing woods,
Lo! the sleep is burst that bound thee—
Lift thine eyes above, around thee,
Infant sire of storm and floods.
Through the tangled green and golden
Curtains of thy valley bed,
See the trees hath vied to woo thee,
And with homage to subdue thee—
Show'ring bright leaves o'er thy head.
Let, oh! let their fading glories
Grace the earth while still they may,
For the poplar's-orange, gleaming,
And the beech's ruddy beaming,
Warmer seems to make the day.
24

Now the massy plane-leaf's twirling,
Down the misty morning light,
And the saugh-tree's tinted treasure
Seems to seek the earth with pleasure—
Show'ring down from morn till night.
Through the seasons, ever varying,
Rapture fills the human soul;
Blessed dower! to mankind given,
All is perfect under heaven,
In the part as in the whole.
Hush'd the golden flute of mavis,
Silver pipe of little wren,
But the redbreast's notes are ringing,
And its “weel-kent” breast is bringing
Storied boyhood back again.
Woodland splendour of November,
Did departing Autumn dye
All thy foliage, that when roamin'
We might pictur'd—see her gloamin'
In thy woods as in her sky.

The Poet's Last Song.

Heart—heart be still,
Thy fond aspirings cease,
Thy cup of misery soon shall fill—
So be at peace.
25

Life! fleeting life!
Thy sunniest hours are past,
Why seek thee to prolong the dark'ning strife
With it to last.
Bring me my lyre,
I yet may sweep its strings,
'Twill aid the visions that life's flickering fire
In rapture brings.
Earth! sea! and sky!
I see thy hallowed spots—
My soul, even now, is treading daringly
Where beauty floats.
Round sunny hill—
Now in leafy grove,
Where birds make music that the soul doth fill
With thoughts of love.
And thou, dread sea!
My youthful days return,
Pictured in vision, in my soul, I see
Thee, and do mourn:
That I may ne'er
Again lie on thy breast,
Pillow my cheek upon thy waves, nor e'er
Break thy foam crest.
26

God of the sky—
How oft at eventide,
When thou to rest were sinking gloriously,
Have I beside
Some ruin gray,
Knelt down and worshipped thee!
'Tis broke—'tis broke—
The chain is snapt—the link
Of being sever'd—man living—death may mock
Not on the brink
Where life meets death.
My song is done—away!
Open the lattice that the summer's breath
May coolly play
Upon my brow.
Life now throbs—fitfully—
By starts 'tis calm, as if it linger'd—now
On wings I fly
To love and home—
I see them vividly—
Now let me die.
27

A Sister's Love.

My sister's tones—how sweetly they
Are mingled in my midnight dreams;
Like silv'ry sounds from golden harps,
Attun'd to love's delicious themes.
Oh! I have felt a lover's love,
With all its dear and painful thrilling;
And I have heard a lov'd one's voice,
When flowery sweets the air were filling,
Breathing the vow with downcast eye,
Of never-failing constancy.
A mother's voice I've heard arise
In grief-fraught tones, in boding sighs;
While throbbing beat each pulse and vein,
As if they ne'er would beat again.
A father's prayers—they, too, have shed
Their sacred influence round my bed;
While deep and holy rose the lays
Of heartfelt gratitude and praise.
But when sleep, o'er my weary eyes,
Would hover near with all its bliss,
With stealthy step my sister came—
Imprinted on my brow her kiss;
Sat by my couch the while I slumber'd,
Nor weary hours of watching number'd—
28

Breathed her pure love—when none were near—
And dropp'd upon my cheek her tear;
And when I woke, her voice and eye
Were sweet as bow'rs of Araby—
A mother's sigh, a lov'd one's kiss,
A father's prayer seemed nought to this.

On J. W. falling Heir to Considerable Property.

So Johnny he's an heir!
An' if you observe it,
Seldom sic gude luck
Fa's where they deserve it.
Sic a hearty cheer
Frae his trusty cronies,
Weel might warm a heart
Caulder far than Johnny's.
When we're growin' auld,
To provide a mouthfu'
Is a weary faught,—
No to say a toothfu'.
Then when Fortune comes
Like a show'r in summer,
Scattering riches roun',
Welcome is the kimmer.
29

He's got bills an' bonds,
Three per cents, and real stock,
An' as meikle gowd
As will fill a meal-pock.
Will it drive him gyte—
Will he turn deleerit—
Will he aff to France—
Or to some place near it?
Puddocks eat, an' learn
Capering an' booin',
Tyne his mither-tongue,
An' tak to parley-vooin'.
Will he treat his gab
To their ham sae reekie,
Sup oysters wi' a spoon,
Yet bock at cockie-leekie?
Will subscription sheets
Handsomely be arl'd,
That his name may be
Foremost in the Herald?
Will he buy a wig
Shinin' like a fiddle,
Specs without e'en shanks
On his nose to stiddle?
30

Rin an' ring the bell,—
Tell each worthy cronie,
Siller mak's nae change
For the waur on Johnnie.
Aye the hearty laugh,
Aye the langsyne story,
Aye the tither tot,
An' Johnnie's in his glory!

Cowe the Nettle early.

[_]

Air—“Whistle o'er the Lave o't.”

Wandering through the woods in Spring,
Thus a weel kent voice did sing,
“Wither'd age nae joys can bring,
I'll cowe the nettle early.
“Wha for walth wad ane that's auld
In their youthfu' arms enfauld?
O they're gruesome, rough, an' cauld.
I'll cowe the nettle early.
“When in love we're mim an' meek,
Unco shy an' laith to speak,
But the blush that tints our cheek,
Says—cowe the nettle early.”
31

Thus my lassie to hersel'
Liltin', made my bosom swell;
Rin' an' ring the parish bell,
We'll cowe the nettle early.
I've been warmed with ruddy wine—
Dreamt of calling riches mine,
There's a pleasure more divine,
I'll cowe the nettle early.

On the Marriage of Robert K---n, Esq.

To Henry Heany, Esq.

Sir,

On this interesting epoch in the life of Robert K---n, viz., his union with the amiable and accomplished Miss Glass, he will receive the congratulations of his numerous friends.

I have presumed to imagine that which you jocularly but sincerely might say—and in a postscript, what I, without any joke at all, and, I am certain, as sincerely, would say.

Yours truly, WILLIAM MILLER.
Let social friends and all good men
Rejoice, nor cry alas!
Though K---n, such a sober youth,
Has vowed to take a Glass.
Let no weak fears molest our minds,
That poverty and strife
Will be his lot, though he has sworn
To take a Glass through life.
32

But let us hope with fervency
(Our love for him is such)
That at the close of life he'll say,
I ne'er took one too much.
And may he find when troubles come,
And all looks dark and drear,
His Glass more potent then than now
To strengthen and to cheer.
P.S.—
But this I hope he won't forget,
Amid his marriage fuss,
Tho' he has got a Glass himself,
To order one for us.
For gentlemen who win a race—
And love a race is found—
Although they take but one themselves,
Do order glasses round.
And so he did, and so we got
All brimful glasses each;
But such a Glass as he has got
There's none of us can reach.
The sequel is, all of us got
Full glasses every one—
The Glass which he has got we wish
He never will see done.
33

Ane an' be Dune Wi't.

If folk wad be cautious when takin' a drappy,
And mind they maun eat as weel's drink to be happy,
They'd be better acquaint wi' the grocer and dealer,
Nor be shouther-for-shouther wi' beagle or jailor:—
They micht blaw their ain whistle, and play a gude tune wi't,
If they had but the sense to tak' ane an' be dune wi't;
Ane an' be dune wi't, ane an' be dune wi't—
An' no to be daidlin' frae Tintock to Troon wi't,
An' wastin' their time,—but tak' ane an' be dune wi't.
A dram wi' an auld frien', I ne'er saw the harm in't;
In gi'en an' takin', there's something sae warm in't,
Ane sits rather langer than maybe he should do,
An' spends somethin' mair than he otherwise would do—
The night has its pleasures, but morning this croon wi't—
Aye tak' my advice, just tak' ane an' be dune wi't;
Ane an' be dune wi't, ane an' be dune wi't—
An' dinna be sochrin' frae July to June wi't,
An' wastin' your time, but tak' ane an' be dune wi't.
A cheerie gudewife, wi' a smile where a frown was,
That helpit ye up, aye, in a' your bit downfa's;
A cup o' gude tea, then, instead o' your drummock;
A groat in your pouch, for a gill in your stomach;
A guid coat on your back, and a pair o' new shoon wi't—
O these are the comforts o' ane an' be dune wi't—
Ane an' be dune wi't, ane an' be dune wi't;
For folk wha are tipplin' a hale winter's moon wi't
Are laughed at for fools—so tak' ane an' be dune wi't.
34

O Listen to Me, Love.

O listen to me, love, an' mark what I say—
Thinkna my love's like a fause April day,
Kything in sunshine, an' setting in show'r,
Leaving in ruin the noon-cherish'd flow'r.
No, lassie, no: thou hast seen the lark rise,
Warbling and soaring his way to the skies,
Farther frae a' he loves, warmer his lay,
So will my true heart be—mark what I say.
I ken that you lo'e me, by that tear let fa'
On my han' that's a fondlin' thy jimp waist sae sma'
An' young love a-stealing the rose frae thy cheek,
For fear that in blushes the truth it wad speak.
The night gathers round us, I scarcely can see
The ane that is mair than the warld to me,
But her wee han's soft pressure like kind words did say,
I'm yours, Willie, only, yours only, for aye.

I Had a Dream.

I had o' ither days,
A sinless dream o' joy;
It came like sunshine o'er a clud,
Life's dark spots to destroy.
35

It came when I was sick at heart,
And sleepless was mine e'e,
When luve was fause, and wily tongue
Turn'd frien' to enemie.
I thought a saft han' lay in mine,
A sma' waist in my arm,
A wee heart beating, throbbing fast,
Wi' luve an' life bluid-warm.
A dreamy spell lay on our lips,
A luve-band round our heart;
But, as by magic, her blue e'en
Tauld ilk thocht that did start.
In quiet streams I've seen fair flow'rs,
Hid 'neath the bank they grew;
Sae in her deep blue e'en I read
Flow'r-thochts o' various hue.
“O dinna luik sae kind, Willie,
Or else wi' joy I'll dee,
An' dinna read my heart, Willie,
Wi' thae lang luiks o' your eye.
“A maiden's heart should be, Willie,
A sacred thing to men.
Its workin's in an hour o' joy
Man-body ne'er can ken.
36

“The flow'r that in the shade wad leeve,
Will wither in the sun—
An' joy may work on maiden heart
What grief wad ne'er ha'e dune.”
“The marrin' o' a melody,
The stopping o' a stream,
A sudden lapse in sunny licht,
The burstin' o' a dream!”
I woke—and on my glassy e'en
The paley morn-beams shone,—
“Speak on,” I cried, “speak on,” but lo!
The weel-kent voice was gone.

Tell Her Mither.

When the wind is in the north,
Keep the house, says her mither;
When the wind is in the north,
Keep the house;
For the winds are over bauld,
And ye're sure to catch the cauld—
Ye'll be croighlin twa-fauld,
Says her mither, says her mither—
Ye'll be croighlin twa-fauld, says her mither.
37

When the wind is in the east,
Keep the house, says her mither.
When the wind is in the east,
Keep the house—
Gaun stravagin' in the dark,
By the dykeside or the park,
Is nae silly body's wark,
Says her mither, says her mither,
Is nae silly body's wark, says her mither.
But the lassie's heart's my ain,
Tell her mither, tell her mither;
But the lassie's heart's my ain,
Tell her mither.
And ae fauld o' Willie's arm,
Tho' it hae nae ither charm,
Can keep a' within it warm—
Tell her mither, tell her mither,
Can keep a' within it warm, tell her mither.

To a Bat.

Methinks 'tis strange to see thee in the city,
Fluttering above the busy haunts of men
As if bewilder'd with its ceaseless noise,
Seeking thy ruin'd tow'rs and woods again;
38

Where shadowy oaks their giant arms are flinging,
Guarding some remnant of departed glory;
Where wall-flower, fern, and lichen-gray are singing,
Breeze-touched, to the pale moon, a dirge-like story.
Thou labour'st in thy flight, as if thy spirit,
Sick with its wanderings, sought a resting spot—
Ah! who may tell the feverish fears that stir it,
Panting, desponding, for its native grot.
Thou hast forsook the loaning, cool and quiet,
Soft whispering aspen, dewy beechen tree,
Old castle tower and myrtle haunt, for riot
That lifts its voice in loud, unhallow'd glee.
Thus, voiceless wanderer, may thy untold woe
Teach me aright this lesson in my youth—
If passion leads me virtue to forego,
Yearning again to seek the paths of truth.

The Peasant Bard.

A peasant bard, with song went forth
To woo the maid he loved;
He sung, and won the maid—but lo!
All other hearts he moved.
His warm appeal did fondly steal
Through bosoms far and near,
And distant hearts confessed the art
Of him, their minstrel dear.
39

The planets, in their wondrous course,
Shall bear his fame along;
The “lingering star” still drops a tear
To grief's seraphic song.
The “unclouded moon” that shines aboon,
In pure refulgent light,
From pole to pole shall stir the soul
On every Lammas night.
The peasant's brow no more shall low'r
Beneath a lordling's scorn—
Their hearts enshrine the noble thoughts
Of him, the cottage-born.

Ilk Ane Kens their ain Ken.

Ilk ane kens their ain ken,
Tho' sair to thole an' hide it O,
But blessin's on our auld Scotch pride,
There's nane daur e'er deride it, O.
Ilk ane kens, etc.
There's mony bear the frowns o' life
As blythe as love new married, O,
An' hides't in a proud heart's nook,
As if 'twere smiles they carried, O.
Ilk ane kens, etc.
40

He that on fortune's toorie sits
May fa' an' fin' the hap o't, O,
An' him that's bendin' to the brae
May ride yet on the tap o't, O.
Ilk ane kens, etc.
Gi'e me the warm an' furthy heart,
A han' that ne'er was steekit, O,
To lift the woe frae that strong breast
That wad rather brust than speak it, O.
Ilk ane kens, etc.

To the New Year.

O, come awa', thou hopefu' year!
A welcome sicht are ye;
Ye're punctual to a minute, but
I've weari't sair for thee,—
Ye'll ken I had a craw to pook
Wi' her that's gane, yet nae
Back-spangs at parting e'er should mar
The mirth o' Hogmanay,
I mind when first she stepped owre
The threshold o' my door,
That Joy led ben the blythesome queen,
And Hope stept on before;
41

And thick-an'-threefauld in the trance,
Bright forms strain'd to be near
The glowing hearth, where Hope and Joy
Stood wi' the New-Year.
The scourin'-things aboon the brace
Were bright as han's could mak',
And mony an hour stown frae her sleep,
My wifie they did tak';
The fire, the floor, the whiten'd wa's,
The bowls upon the dresser,
Blythe faces, too, and happy hearts
Had welcomes warm to bless her.
My callant then had gat new claes,
So ripe his gather'd glee,
That Joy bow'd doon to kiss his lip,
His lip an' loupin' e'e;
Atween the breenges o' his mouth,
Hope tauld him mony a story,
An' pointed forth to simmer days
And a' their gowan glory.
Aye, youth! loup up an' kiss the mou'
O' rosy lipped Joy!
Believe in Hope's most wondrous tales
Whilst thou art yet a boy—
Thy present always be as now,
A merry Hogmanay;
Thy future in ilk' comin' morn
A Happy New-year's-day!
42

To Jessica.

The noon's fleecy brightness, the evening's gray calm,
May pour o'er my spirit their gladness or balm;
The hoary oak bend 'neath the blast of the north,
When like a stern giant the storm rideth forth—
But thy beauty is brighter than noon in its power,
Thy mildness more balmy than evening's calm hour,
And thy voice o'er my spirit sweeps stronger by far
Than the blast fiercely rushing from tempest's dark car.
When the flowers of the earth into odours arise,
And their guardian sprites bear their bloom to the skies,
Then a rainbow is bound like a garland round earth,
As maidens do garnish loved ones in their mirth;
But when from thy lips I a love-token seek,
The love of thy heart blushes red on thy eheek—
Then a rainbow-like halo is bound round my heart,
A garland of gladness that ne'er can depart.

Ye Cowe a'.

[_]

Air—“Comin' through the Rye.”

I wiled my lass wi' loving words to Kelvin's leafy shade,
And a' that fondest heart can feel, or tongue can tell I said;
But nae reply my lassie gi'ed—I blam'd the waterfa',
Its deavin' soun' my voice did drown—O this cowes a'!
O this cowes a', quo' I, O this cowes a'!
I wonder how the birds can woo—O this cowes a'!
43

I wiled my lass wi' loving words to Kelvin's solemn grove,
Where silence, in her dewy bowers, hush'd a' sounds but o' love;
Still frae my earnest looks and vows, she turned her head awa',
Nae cheering word the silence heard—O this cowes a'!
O this cowes a', quo' I, O this cowes a'!
To woo I'll try anither way, for this cowes a'!
I wiled my lass wi' loving words to where the moonlight fell,
Upon a bank of blooming flowers, beside the pear-tree well;
Say, modest moon, did I do wrang to clasp her waist sae sma'
An' steal ae kiss o' honey'd bliss?—O ye cowe a'!
O ye cowe a', quo' she, O ye cowe a'!
Ye micht ha'e speir'd a body's leave—but ye cowe a'!
I'll to the clerk, quo' I, sweet lass, on Sunday we'll be cried,
And frae your father's house, next day, ye'll gang a dear lo'ed bride—
Quo' she, I'd need anither week to mak' a gown mair braw—
The gown ye ha'e we'll mak' it do—O ye cowe a'!
O ye cowe a', quo' she, O ye cowe a',
But wilfu' folk maun ha'e their way—O ye ca' a'!
44

Hogmanay.

This is the last night o' this year, lads,
Let come in the next whate'er may;
He that's eydent and honest can welcome
The mornin' o' ilk New-year's-day.
'Tis only the knave needs be gloomy,
When thinking on what he has done;
But we blythely will sing in the morning,
And dance by the light o' the moon.
There's muckle in this world to grieve us—
I dootna we've a' had our share—
But to warsle an' win is a pleasure,
And what can a mortal do mair?
The mile-stanes o' life, as we journey,
Are lang weary twalmonths atween;
Let us rest an' look back, an' mak' merry,
When we meet wi' an honest auld frien'.
Then, Johnnie, come fill us a jorum,
And Gib he will sing us a sang,
That will keep frien'ship warm in our bosoms
To anither mile-stane, as we gang.
 

Mr. John Watson and Mr. Gilbert Watson, Parkhead.

45

Be Kind to Grandfather.

Be kind to grandfather,—a proud man was he
When rosy in childhood ye sat on his knee;
Thy name is his name, when his head is laid low,
May his virtues be link'd wi' the name o' his oe.
He led thy young feet where the buttercups grew
An' gowans were thickest, an' pu'd them for you;
But wad glint, lest the neebors or ony might see,
And say that the auld fule was ower proud o' thee.
By Parkhead's nameless burnie, where rashes did grow,
A cap he wad weave for thy fair curly pow,
An' a boat wi' a string—when you led it alane
In your glee, the auld man was a bairn ance again.
I ha'e seen the big tear, when he thocht nae ane saw,
Heard the lang thochtfu' sigh, that the auld heart can draw,
An' I'm sure that he prayed, and its burthen wad be
That the e'e o' the Watchfu' wad watch over thee.
When tott'rin wi' age, now, an' bent owre a rung,
The peace he inherits he wrought for when young;
An' when ye were a wean, as he chirm'd ye asleep,
He wad sing—Willie, mind, as ye sow ye will reap.
46

Lightburn Glen.

[_]

Air—“There was a Lass, and she was fair.”

There is a spot I dearly lo'ed,
When I was summers nine or ten,
Where slender blue-bells wav'd and woo'd
Young barefoot wanderers to that glen.
So shy the wagtail bobb'd and bow'd—
A mystery was the little wren—
And purple berries there were pu'd
By laughin' bands in Lightburn Glen.
When gloamin' breath'd upon thy stream,
And hush'd the song of roaming bee,
Ere yet the moon had lent her beam
To make thee lovelier, if might be;
Then still the lark proclaimed thy praise,
And challeng'd in his song divine
Those glorious two, whose mellow lays
Charm'd the dark woods of Carntyne.
Another beauty met my gaze
In riper years, with all to join—
That lark might ne'er attempt to praise,
Nor all the choir of Carntyne.
If ye ha'e woo'd and hae'na won,
By dewy loan or leafy den;
There's no a place below the sun
I'd sooner try than Lightburn Glen.
 

Those glorious two—the blackbird and mavis.

47

To my Coat.

[_]

Translated from Beranger.

Though hardly worth one paltry groat,
Thou'rt dear to me, my poor old coat,
For full ten years my friend thou'st been,
For full ten years I've brush'd thee clean;
And now, like me, thou'rt old and wan,
With both the glow of youth is gone—
But, worn and shabby as thou art,
Thou and the poet shall not part.
Poor coat.
I've not forgot the birth-day eve,
When first I donned thy glossy sleeve,
When jovial friends, in mantling wine,
Drank joy and health to me and mine.
Our indigence let some despise,
We're dear as ever in their eyes;
And for their sakes, old as thou art,
Thou and the poet shall not part,
Poor coat.
One evening, I remember yet,
I, romping, feigned to fly Lisette—
She strove her lover to retain,
And thy frail skirt was rent in twain—
Dear girl, she did her best endeavour,
And patched thee up as well as ever;
For her sweet sake, old as thou art,
Thou and the poet shall not part,
Poor coat.
48

Never, my coat, hast thou been found
Bending thy shoulders to the ground,
From any upstart, “Lord” or “Grace,”
To beg a pension or a place.
Wild forest flowers—no monarch's dole
Adorn thy modest button-hole;
If, but for that, old as thou art,
Thou and the poet shall not part,
Poor coat.
Poor though we be, my good old friend,
No gold shall bribe our backs to bend;
Honest amid temptations past,
We will be honest to the last—
For more I prize thy virtuous rags
Than all the lace a courtier brags;
And while I live, and have a heart,
Thou and the poet shall not part,
My coat.

A Pretty Idea.

Cupid, near a cradle creeping,
Saw an infant gently sleeping,
The rose that blush'd upon its cheek
Seem'd a birth divine to speak:
To ascertain if earth or heaven
To mortals this fair form had given,
He, the little urchin simple,
Touched its cheek, and left a dimple.
49

To Peter M'D---.

Respectfully Inscribed to Peter M`Donald, Esq.
“Aye follow your calling wi' steady endeavour,
In firmness o' purpose, that naething can waver;
And you'll find in your youth, that your fortune is mending,
If you manage to mak' daily mair than you're spending;
And, believe me, the auld proverb's true to the letter—
‘The less that you need, your friends like you the better,’
‘And, the publican's fireside's the dearest, you'll see,’”
Siclike were the sayings o' Peter M`d---.
O the worth o' that parent, whose precepts he treasured,
And the love o' that mither's heart!—ne'er to be measured—
Wha morning and e'en, saft as simmer's wind moanest,
Sang, “Bairnie, ha'e pride, though you're poor aye be honest,
Keep back frae the cheatrie, nor do to anither
What wad bring a tear to the e'e o' your mither—
That the red flash o' shame on her cheek ne'er may be,
By the sayings or doings o' Peter M`d---.”
So he grew up a man, wi' a fortified heart
'Gainst a' kinds o' roguery, in airt or in pairt;
Though he's often been trick'd by the smooth-lipped knave,
And wrong'd by the ane he assisted to save—
He ne'er stoop'd to the meanness o' fraud and deceit,
To mak' up his losses, although they were great;
And Providence pour'd, like a spate o'er the lea,
Baith business and wealth upon Peter M`d---.
50

As a master, though gleg—yet o'erlooking a faut
In the shape o' a dram, nor lets on that he saw't;
And the ne'er-do-weel loon, be it said to his shame,
When there's nought but the bare wa's to look on at hame,
Comes to him wi' his plaint, a sma' pittance to spare
To keep wife an' weans frae the sheugh o' despair—
Like the bite an' the buffet a mither does gi'e,
Came the crown an' the counsel, frae Peter M`d---.
Though no a bred scholar, his judgment is such,
He staps to conclusions ere logic can touch;
At a twa-handed crack o'er some kittle laid plan,
Ye'll find ye ha'e met wi' a sensible man;
Wha the fop'ries o' speech can afford to disdain,
And in guid hamely Scotch, a' he thinks can explain;
Nae chains round his neck, nor glass stuck on his e'e,
Nor rings on his fingers, needs Peter M`d---.
Lang may you be spared! now the haffets are gray
I've seen black as the raven, in life's early day;
Though hearty thy laugh, and thy joke cheerfu' still
The e'enin' will come, the sun sink o'er the hill.
While the sands o' thy days are permitted to run,
May you hear your gear spoke o' as gear honest won;
At lang an'-the-last then, when life tak's the gee,
May we shake han's, to meet again, Peter M`d---.
51

Song.

[O where, and O where, has my bonnie lassie gone?]

[_]

Air—“O where, and O where.”

O where, and O where, has my bonnie lassie gone?
The lark is raining music frae aff his aery throne,
O'er holm and haugh, where wandering, your ain dear lassie's gone—
She's gane to pu' the flow'ries that lo'e the shady dell,
And 'boon them a' their queen shall be, our bonnie Scotch blue-bell.
O where, and O where, has my bonnie lassie gone?
Gae seek her in the woodlands, where wandering alone,
She sings “Where and O where has my Highland laddie gone,”
Gae bid the tide to wait awee, a lassie no to tell,
Her love when ne'er a ane is near, when pu'in' the blue-bell.
O where, and O where, should my ain dear lassie stray,
But 'mang the scented blossoms, though sweeter far than they?
She walks the wild wood like a song upon a broomy brae!—
O if I could but win her, her artless love to tell,
To me the fairest flower would be the bonnie Scotch bluebell.
52

When Jamie Comes Hame.

Ye breezes, blaw saft as the coo o' the dove,
Waft gently the ship hame, that brings me my love,
The joy o' my heart brings the tear to my e'e,
For I trust ye'll bring safely my laddie to me.
We'll hae crackin' o' thum's when young Jamie comes hame—
Some eatin' sour plums, when Jamie comes hame—
An' seats will be shiftin', an' bonnets be liftin',
When up the Clyde driftin' my Jamie comes hame.
An' hoo's my jo, Janet? I ken what he'll say,
An' syne tak' my han' in his ain kindly way—
Sae douce aye afore folk—nae ane will can tell
The touslin' I'll get when we're left by oursel'.
I ken wha'll get married when Jamie comes hame—
Folk say my head's carried at his comin' hame—
'Tween out-in and in-in, and here and there rinnin',
It really is spinnin' at his comin' hame.
The parish is ringin' wi' what I will wear,
An' spite has an answer to a' that do speir,
“Some cheap trash o' muslin at saxpence the ell,
An' if a thocht yellow, the liker hersel'.”
A pose I've a-hidin' till Jamie comes hame—
My time I'm a-biding till Jamie comes hame—
Then a silk gown o' green, wi' a skinklin' sheen,
Will dazzle their een when my Jamie comes hame.
53

The Bards o' Scotland.

(To James Ballantine, Esq.)
We lo'e the bards o' Scotland a'
Whose genius glorifies our hames,
An' lifts our heart its cares aboon,
Where'er they bide, whate'er their names;
The genial or the gleefu' sang,
Wi' sense and pith in ilka line,
Comes easy, as frae aff a clew,
Frae bards 'tween Burns and Ballantine.
They cheer our board, they sing our waes,
And nerve us in our honest toil,
An' wi' their lilts hae sic a way
That Care itself is forced to smile.
Nae lan' but ours can brag a pipe
Whose notes sic various moods combine.
When blawn by chiel's, the 'live and gane,
The bards 'tween Burns and Ballantine.
The Ettrick braes are wondrous sweet
When summer reigns, an' bees are thrang
Amang the broom, an' seem to sing
Some sweet love-lay that Hogg ance sang;
An' weel the han' that bure the crook
The flowers o' forest sang could twine
To fill the heart or weet the e'e,
Like bards 'tween Burns and Ballantine.
54

To a' a sweet an' tender strain
Comes hame, an' manly hearts can thrill;
An' aft when daunnerin' by mysel',
I croon the sangs o' Tannahill.
The lav'rock o'er the Newton woods,
Wi' speckled breast, will ever shine
To fancy's e'e, sic power ha'e a'
The bards 'tween Burns and Ballantine.
Our wee bit bairns wha rampin' rin
To clasp our knees when we get hame,
Hae fand a voice their ways to sing,
Though humble be the maker's name.
While Scotland's bards sing as they feel,
Scotch sangs can neither dee nor tyne:
Then cheer, my lads, wi' hearts fu' leal,
Our bards frae Burns to Ballantine.

O What and O What.

O what, and O what did your ain laddie say
To cheer thy tim'rous trembling heart, the day he went away?
He said, “I go to sunny lands, where gold is easy won—
And the hours will chase each other, love, like wavelets in the sun.”
55

O what, and O what, if your ain lad should see
A lassie wi' mair gowden locks, jimp waist, and witchin' e'e.
O no; the love I bear for him tells me his heart is true—
“For the love I bear my lass,” he said, “will bring me back to you.”
O what, and O what, when your ain dear lad comes hame?
He said that he would marry me, and then I'll bear his name.
He said he'd bigg a bonnie house, beside a wimplin' burn;
Sae shouldna that cheer up my heart to wait my lad's return?
But what will befa' when your ain dear lad is thine?
Aye, what will befa' when my ain dear lad is mine?
Some folks are owre inqueesitive; live, kind sir, and you'll see.
Oh! I wish frae my heart he was safely back to me.

Song.

[Ae night a wee bird in my ear]

Ae night a wee bird in my ear
Sang “Jamie's faithless to ye?”
I half believ'd the bird was right,
I was so feared he'd lea' me.
I took a seam, to try to sew,
My e'e grew dim an' tearie;
A lassie's lightlied by the lave
When she has lost her dearie.
56

I rose to do a turn o' wark,
Frae thought just to divert me;
The wee bird sang, “The summer win'
Anither lad will airt ye.”
O fause wee bird! O faithless heart
O' mine, to doubt or swither;
He said the burn wad backward turn
Ere he wad lo'e anither.
June's dewy gloamin's heard his vows,
The blossom'd hawthorn squander'd
Its lovelike sweetness on the air
As lad and lass we wander'd.
Wi' lo'esome words he won my heart,
Wi' gentle dautin's bound it;
He is a sun within my breast,
Wi' worlds o' love around it.

The Haw-Blossom.

Think on the time when thy heart beat a measure,
All tuneful as woods with the music of love;
Then say if thy breast can forget e'er the pleasure
Gave by flowers at thy feet or the haw-bloom above.
Tell, then, the lover to woo in the e'ening,
Down where the haw-blossom's flourishing seen,
Sweeter shade never two young hearts was screenin'
Than the thorn with its snaw-crown and mantle o' green.
57

If with such sweetness around them when roamin',
The heart o' the lassie sae guileless is won,
For ever the haw-bloom, the richness o' gloamin',
And the blush o' his dearie shall mingle in one.
Bloom with the lily breath, everywhere growing,
Down in the deep glen thy white crown is seen,
High 'mid the dark firs alike art thou blowing,
Thou'rt the banner o'love, and the summer's fair queen.

The Blue Bell.

The blue bell! the blue bell! I'll try to sing thy praise,
For thou hast been to me a joy in many lonely ways;
When listening to the skylark, it puzzled me to tell
Which were the most beloved—his notes, or thou, the Scottish bell.
The blue bell! the blue bell! nae wonder that I lo'e
The dewy shimmerin' gloamin', for ever linked wi' you—
A band o' rosy rovers then, we rifled copse an' dell
For meadow-queen to bind wi' thee, thou bonnie, gracefu' bell.
The blue bell! the blue bell! where'er we wandering go,
By highway, or byeway, or where tiny streamlets flow;
By hedgerow, or in leafy lane, or by the wayside well,
We meet in nook, or marge o' brook, thy bonnie droopin' bell.
58

The blue bell! the blue bell! does Afric's traveller dream
O' slender, wavin' flow'rets, that grow by Clutha's stream;
O' being once again a boy, with blue bells in his hand,
An' wake to bless the dream that gave to him his native land?
The sang o' the mavis, frae aff the holly-tree,
The lintie in the whin-bush that sings sae merrilie,
The hum o' rural murmurs, like sound o' ocean shell,
Are ever thine, for glaumorie is round the sweet blue bell.

The Maid that I Adore.

O Love hath many a transport,
And love hath many a pain,
They chase each other duly
Like sunny hours and rain:
Now my heart with hope is glowing,
Then my eyes with tears run o'er,
Such a lovely, teasing girl is she,
The maid whom I adore.
The Kelvin stream a secret heard
That I will tell to you—
I vow'd that for her own dear sake
The world I'd wander through.
59

Said she, “You're fond of travelling,
Pray call when you give o'er.”
Such a teasing, lovely girl is she,
The maid whom I adore.
I woo'd her on a summer eve—
As we sat in the grove,
I swore I ne'er would rise till she
Would pledge to me her love.
Said she, “I doubt you'll sit awhile,
I've heard all that before.”
Such a teasing, charming girl is she,
The maid that I adore.
For me that summer had no flow'rs,
Its birds for me no song,
I thought the days would never end,
Nor sleepless nights so long.
The pangs of unrequited love
Did pain my heart full sore,
Such a teasing, cruel girl is she,
The maid that I adore.
When wintry storms obscured the sky,
One night we sat alone—
“I'll wed thee yet,” I said, “my love,
Before the year is gone.”
She kindly turned her pretty cheek,
“Could you not say that before?”
Such a lovely, kind, and teasing girl
Is she whom I adore.
60

Oor Gude Dochter.

O Love, thou'rt a queer ane, thou gi'est each maid
A waff o' the bright robe in which thou'rt arrayed.
The common, the comely, the big, an' the wee,
Wi' black, brown, or red hair, it's a' ane to thee.
Thou mak'st her wha's to be a wild randy through life,
As mim's a May-puddock, afore she's a wife;
They're made a' bewitchin', the good an' the bad anes—
It's like chance, if we're blest men or sad anes.
A well-to-do-chiel, wi' mair on him than in him,
A tawpie drest up like a peacock may win him;
He'll fin' to his cost what his een had been shut on—
He's tied to a drab, canna sew on a button.
Our son, wi' mair sense, wal'd a wise lookin' hizzie,
He scarce cud get courtin', she aye was sae busy.
'Tween this gude toon o' ours an' the Kingdom o' Fife,
Where she comes frae, I'm bounden there's no sic a wife.
She can back-spley and fore-spley; can white seam and sew,
Mak' stockin's an' mittens, an' nick-nacks that you
Nor I ken the name o', she whiles mak's a mat,
A braw leddy's plaidie, or veil for a hat.
But her han' is aye eydent, for better or worse,
In her husseycap oft'ner by far than her purse.
An' when your son gets marriet ye'll think as I think,
A thrifty wife's better than ane owre perjink.
61

At meal times, when “Stephen” so saftly is said,
“Twa words, if you please,” then a loot o' the head,
Then the han' that is lifted to shade her sweet face
Is such that a painter would linger to trace.
Flow'rs blawin', burns wimplin', or song o' a bird,
Is nought to a sweet voice that wiles to the Lord;
So a' put thegither, come weal or come wae,
I opine that's the wife that a young man should hae.
And they've got a wee bairn that I lo'e as mysel'—
At the fire a'e nicht sittin', says my wifie, Bell,
“Now, William, be honest and tell unto me
What's your real opinion o' little Bessie,”
An' we think, an' confab, what she will be or may,
An' she's just a wee darling is a' we can say.
Twa wither'd han's lockit an' furrow'd cheeks wet,
But Hope dried them kindly, for sake o' our pet.

A Fool's Wishes.

[_]

A Song with the Chorus (absurdly) at the beginning of the Verse, instead of being (as usual), at the end of it.

May be sung by Anybody for the benefit of Everybody.
I wish I was a burdie, a bonny, bonny burdie,
I wish I was a Gentleman, I do upon my wordie,
I wish I had the sense to send to Pat, the strong Potation,
The only one who knew the right, and did wrong in the nation.
62

I wish I was a burdie, a bonny, bonny burdie,
I wish I was a Gentleman, I do upon my wordie,
I wish I found the way to make, what all are looking after,
Although 'tis known a monied fool, excites all wise men's laughter.
I wish I was a burdie, a bonny, bonny burdie,
I wish I was a Gentleman, I do upon my wordie,
I wish all men would see with me, and hold in detestation,
The over-paid and under-wrought whatever be their station.
I wish I was a burdie, a bonny, bonny burdie,
I wish I was a Gentleman, I do upon my wordie,
I wish my head was shaped to shape, some scheme of Education,
Whereby our youth might learn when men to practice Toleration.
I wish—but wishes are as vain as Vanity—aye vainer,
Without the will to try to do, you ne'er can be the gainer.
I'll try to men' my foolish ways—let other's follies slumber,
That will be something for myself—one fool less of the number.
63

To Wilhelmine.

Wilhe—you know not Grandpapa,
Were never fondled in his arms, or
Had kisses as thy sister's got,
Though thou hast all the little charms for.
And wilt thou ponder, if I loved
Thee as I loved thy sister Bessie,
Or father-eyed sweet Isobel,
Or grandpa's other pet, wee Jessie.
When thou can climb on Grandpa's knee,
Claiming the right to sit serenely,
Thy cherry lips and cheeks will show
How Grandpa loved his Wilhelmine.
64

Lines to Miss Margaret Ballantine.

Thy hand is on the plough—look ye not back;
Thy hand is on the harp—strike ye the string:
A youthful poetess may courage lack,
But Heaven deserts not whom it taught to sing.
If, 'mid the pageant of thy fancy's throng,
Passing before thy mind in musing hour,
Fair Blantyre riseth—beautiful as song!
And thou should note some sweet neglected flow'r,
The gift is thine—the poet's power to fling
A witch'ry round it, that all eyes shall see.
Another—not the modest cow'ring thing
That's fed by dew and sunshine on the lea,
But glorified to grace a festival!
A gowan made a gem—meet for a coronal!
65

Fragment.

The princely homes of merchant-land are noble to behold,
And gorgeous as the palaces that proud Greece owned of old.
To beautify thy tow'ring piles, the morning loves to break,
And evening lingers in the west and dallies for thy sake.
The dwellers in those costly homes are happy as may be,
Like lilies of the field they live, from toil and labour free;
Their hearts like flow'rs are blossoming and shedding odorous mirth,
From golden bowls they deign to sip the dainties of the earth.
Fair Charity their handmaid is, the poor help who cry,
And meekly, daily change their robes that workmen may not die.
Mysterious are the ways of heaven, obedient to its will
The sun shines not on land or wynd as on that palaced hill.
And here we see a stately grove, and there a barren heath,
And yonder wealth and happiness, here poverty and death.
66

Letter of Thanks to James Young, Esq., Kelly.

More gladd'ning 'tis for me to know,
Than all the gifts you can bestow,
Such men exist, and dare be good,
Even in this moral solitude,
And augurs of a better day.
When heart, not wealth, will bear the sway.

Dear Sir,

I almost ca'd ye Jamie,
For which I hope ye will forgie me.
Mem'ries o' bygane days cam' o'er me,
And you a laddie stood afore me;
And then a youth, and I the same,
Hope painting each some fav'rite scheme
Haflins fulfill'd to me, to you
A reputation but your due;
Then men—of genius, let me say—
But mark the difference of to-day:
I gat my wish, an' am a rhymist,
An' you gat yours, an' are a chymist.
I sang, made poor an' rich to smile,
But still the bard is doom'd to toil;
You, wealth, besides a world wide fame,
Only to fade when fades thy name.
67

If e'er o' death ye gat a preein',
An' then assur'd ye're no yet deeing,
That a new tack o' life is lent ye—
Sic feelin' raised the word ye sent me.
To ken, till I am lyin' streekit,
I'm certain-sure my head is theekit.
An' yours the heart that kindly thocht o'
He whom the warl' seems to think nocht o'.
Sic news to hear did sae astoun' me,
I thocht the house was rinnin' roun' me!
My hamely muse is no a gawkie,
A gigglin', glaikit, senseless taupie,
Wha vainly apes the tongue o' ithers,
Disdainin' her auld Scottish mither's,
But speaks our native language queenly,
On wha misca' her smiles serenely;
Draped in her short-gown an' her coatie,
Delighted e'es each lovely spottie
That Scotland owns; lo'es weans, an' flow'rs,
An' hearts that's warm an' kind as yours.
Unskill'd in words, to thank you duly
She only say,
Believe me truly,
As lang as I can wag a tongue,
'Twill be to laud an' sing James Young.
68

To my dear Friend, James Ballantine, Esq.

Expecting a letter each morning and night
From you, my dear friend, I am really now quite
Perplexed and amazed,
Half-crazed and bombazed
What to think; for your silence all reasons have raised
That the season suggests. Are ye off to the hills
And the thyme-scented brims of the musical rills,
Where the gold-speck'led trout
Holds piscatory rout,
And in midsummer glee, leaps the water right out?
Where the wavelets are dancing,
And ripplets are glancing,
And whin, broom, and heather each other enhancing,
And the moss all bespotted with flowers, as if showers
Of bloom had new fallen from morn's rosy bowers.
If the rod and the line
Be a hobby of thine,
I can easy divine
Why I whimper and pine.
Could you not fleech the Nine
Your excursions to join?
And, mayhap, where some castle is crumbling and gray
By the stream bank, where genius will musingly stray,
Thee, beloved of the Muses! would sing such a lay
That the ruin for ever enshrined in thy song;
69

Its loop-holes and tall towers,
Its lichens and wall-flowers,
To us a song-picture would ever belong.
But, perhaps, you don't fish,
Nor I, but I wish
I was where the streams and the trout are,
Mid the pure mountain air,
To hope, I might dare,
Of returning both fresher and stouter.

To Peter Orr, Esq.

What would I not give if my Muse,
Would furnish me richly in metre,
For who more deserving of praise,
For goodness of heart, than thee, Peter.
Or(r) what language fit grandeur can boast,
Save the union of measure and metre;
To tell when you're down at the coast,
What us Glasgow folks lose in thee, Peter.
However majestic the prose
I might use, it is nothing to metre,
For fine rolling numbers must praise
Such a musical soul, as thee, Peter.
70

So now, though I finish my rhyme,
Don't think I have run short of metre;
I'll yet sketch you full length in a chime
More worthy of thee and me, Peter.
There are two Poets(?) of the same name,
Each think, other less, he the greater;
They think each other open to blame,
Did you e'er hear the “Gowan Lea” Peter?
If the greater would deign thee to praise,
He might do it much better and neater;
But one thing he wants—that's the way
That I write my poetry Poetry Peter.
I know you are fond of a joke—
As they'll laugh at my replicate metre;
I thought I would take the first stroke,
Will that make us quits, think you, Peter?
71

An Epistle to William Miller
[_]

Author of “Willie Winkie,” and many other beautiful Nursery Songs, reminding him of a promised visit to Paisley.

By Hugh Macdonald.

Dear Sir,
Or shall I ca' you, frien'?
I scrimply daur, sae short we've been
Acquaint wi' ither; yet, I ween
There's unco few
Upon my list, I'd be mair keen
To ha'e than you.
Lang ere I'd seen your pensive face,
Or marked your modest winning grace,
Deep in my heart ye had a place,
For lang I'd lo'ed
The witchin' strains ye weel can trace
Wi' love imbued.
They bring me glints o' happy years,
Ere hope's bright rainbow drapt in tears,
Or worldly troubles, toils, and fears
Had worn away
The freshness that the spirit wears
In life's young day.
72

Ilk couthie word, ilk hamely phrase,
My mither spak' in early days,
I find inwoven through thy lays
Wi' sic an airt,
That ilka nervelet prinklin' plays,
And thrills the heart.
Baith hereabouts and far awa',
Thy strains are heard in cot and ha',
Round ingle sides where bairnies sma'
Rejoice the e'e,
And heart to heart they kindly draw
Wi' winning glee.
Full monie a Scottish mither learns
Thy cannie words, to soothe the bairns,
To win the waukrife to the arms
O' downie sleep—
Wee fractious brats, ower whom she yearns
Wi' passion deep.
Shakespeare the soul's far depths may move,
Milton through realms of fancy rove,
Burns chaunt the burning strains of love
Wi' matchless skill,
'Tis thine alane, a' bards above,
Wee hearts to thrill.
73

Ye mauna think I mean to flatter,
They ne'er think sae wha ken me better;
I'm apter far to fling cauld water
On meteor names,
Than oily draps o' praise to scatter
On sterling flames.
But leavin' that flee on the wa',
I hope ye'se no forget the ca'
Ye promised last time that I saw
Your frien' and you;
Come sune, for wood and field are a'
Busk't fair e-noo.
The wild rose wears her sweetest blush,
Her tassels fair ilk broomy bush,
Wi' bated voice wee burnies gush
Frae den to den,
While streams of joy the merry thrush
Pours o'er each glen.
Cleek't haund in haund, a bick'rin' train
O' bairnies haunt ilk leafy lane,
Linkin' the dandelion chain
Round necks o' snaw,
Or plaitin' on the rashy plain
Green caps fu' braw.
74

Ye'se see Gleniffer's fir-crowned brae,
Auld Stanley Castle's ruins grey,
Whaur Paisley's minstrel wont to stray
When fell the dew,
Enraptured weaving some sweet lay
To nature true.
Unblest wi' Fortune's sunny smile,
His was a life of care and toil;
Yet, happy hours were his the while;
At closing day
He left the busy town's turmoil,
Alane to stray.
Yet though unblest wi' Fortune's shower,
His was in truth a nobler dower—
A heart of love, a soul of power,
That deeper joy
Could win from wilding bird or flower
Than wealth could buy.
Sound sleeps he now 'neath death's cauld wing;
But lang as woodland birds shall sing,
Or wild birds rise to welcome Spring
'Side gushing rills,
His mem'ry shall a halo fling
Around these hills.
75

Syne we'se gae visit Ellerslie,
Whaur stands the famous Wallace tree,
In which our hero shunned the e'e
Of ruthless foes,
Nae Scottish heart but warms to see
Its hallowed boughs.
Then there's yon auld grim Abbey Kirk,
Biggit langsyne in ages mirk,
When man was led aye like a stirk,
In priestly tethers,
Wi' nocht to do but fecht and work,
And worship blethers.
Ay, lad, thae were the guid auld times!
'Bout which ilk priest and lordling rhymes,
When 'twas accountit warst o' crimes,
Akin to treason,
For a' save priests, to seek the climes
Of truth and reason.
Dark ages, haply passed away,
We're thankfu' for a better day,
When Knowledge sheds her glad'ning ray
O'er poortith's vale,
And mental clouds are passing aye
On reason's gale.
76

Syne when o' sichts ye've had your fill,
We'se no cast oot about a gill,
Or aiblins twa three glass o' yill,
Or whisky toddy,
Mere poetry ye ken but ill
Supports the body.
Twa days before ye come ye'll min'
To send me word when ye design
To scour alang the speedy line
Wi' rattlin' hurry,
Name to a point the nick o' time,
And I'll wait for ye.
Now, sir, I'll close my ramblin' letter,
Lang may ye baulk misfortune's fetter,
And ilka warstle get the better
Of warldly skaith;
And lang, lang may ye be the debtor
Of auld King Death.
77

Address to Mr. William Miller.
[_]

Author of “Willie Winkie,” etc

By Wm. Air Foster.

Thae bonny sangs ye sing, Willie,
Wi' sic a touching art,
Round a' our feelings seem to cling,
And thrill the very heart.
A mither's love ye've seen, Willie;
A faither's joy ye've felt;
Or else thae simple strains, I ween,
Our feelings wadna melt.
The sweet and gladsome lay that's sung,
Wi' sic a fervent power,
Is like the hinny blab that's wrung
Frae out the modest flower.
There's magic in that simple lay—
Sic music in its strain,
That thoughts, receding, bring the day
O' bairn-time back again.
78

We feel the freshness o' the spring,
In Willie Winkie's glee:
Or whan we hear a mither sing
Your “Gree, bairnies, gree.”
The bees that 'mang the blossoms flit
Wi' laden limbs, may rove;
The mellow fruit is only fit
To tempt the hornet's love.
Then paint me nature's burstin' bud—
Man in his artless time,
Ere vice's taint has flush'd his blood,
Or stained his form wi' crime.
And raise frae virtue's simple style,
A halo round thy name
That ithers tyne, wha fight and toil
To gain a brighter fame.
79

EPILOGUE. Willie Winkie's Visit to Heaven.

By Wm. Freeland.
A sad Man and a cheery Boy
Toiled up a lonely way
That surely led, all good folk said,
To lands abloom with May,
And blythe with many a joy
And glory of everlasting day.
“Turn, Willie, dear, the way is long,
Where wild beasts roar and race;”
But that gay child looked up and smiled
Upon the wrinkled face,
And trilled a merry song,
Strong with a young heroic grace.
A new light touched the old man's eyes
That curious tune to hear,
For it did seem an early theme
That cheered him many a year
When clouded were the skies
And life was all unkind and drear.
80

Now came they to a lion's den
Alive with growl and glare;
But they were charmed in heart, and armed
In soul against despair;
For the Boy sang again
And stilled the loud and angry air.
The Youngling at a bubbling spring
Bathed the old pilgrim's feet;
And far on high they heard a cry—
A lamblike voice and sweet,
That made their pulses sing
A happy psalm in every beat.
Then stood they up and climbed the height,
Less weary every mile;
Led by a star that gleamed afar,
And cheered them with its smile,
Pouring divine delight
Ever upon their skyward toil.
Ah, then a lovely form upsprang,
And wiled their hearts to rest;
But bravely they held on their way,
Keen on their starry quest:
And as the Youngster sang
Vanished the phantom-fiend unblest.
81

At length they won the welcome gate
Where sat an ancient Wight—
Saint Peter, he who keeps the key,
And watches day and night;
True warder of the state,
Bars out the wrong, takes in the right.
Sharply he queried, “Who are you,
Gray Man and rosy Boy?
Speak, let me hear; do you appear
To please or to annoy?
Bold wanderers, are you true?
Come you in sorrow or in joy?”
Both answered, and the Saint, heart-driven—
“Wee Winkie! Poet Sire!
Come, by my hood, but this is good!
Welcome from Lanarkshire,—
Welcome by Heaven to Heaven,—
Sing all ye angels till you tire!”
He called, and quick there came along,
A host of girls and boys,
Who rushed without with dance and shout,
Remembering earthly ploys
And one heart-shaking song,
That made them even in Heaven rejoice.
82

They took wee Willie to their heart
And kissed him o'er and o'er;
How kind! how sweet! it made him greet
As ne'er he grat before;
For tears were not his art,
But freak and fun at every door.
They led the winsome Willies in,
And set them by the hearth:
A clean fireside, both warm and wide,
Of wholesome food no dearth;
Such joy, but without din,
Was surely never seen on earth!
For many minstrels, crowding round,
Sang, O how sweet and clear!
And in a style made Willie smile,
And Father Willie cheer,—
In spite of holy ground,
Undaunted by a doubt or fear.
Then Peter, with a tender face,
Called Winkie forth in rhyme,
And said, “My dear, your joyance here
Is ended for the time:
Heaven's love is yours, and grace
Who brought your Song-Sire to our clime.”
83

The good Saint led him by the hand,
While came a rosy choir,
To see him wend, their darling friend,
Back to his Heart's Desire,—
His dear old Fatherland:
The sang him out with souls of fire!
“Winkie, farewell,” said Sire to Son;
“Farewell, but not for long;
The time is nigh when you and I
Shall mingle in one throng;
The Saint says we have won
Salvation by our single song.
So Willie Winkie wandered down,
Eager his home to find;
And when day broke, and he awoke,
Right glad to see his kind,
Light was to him a crown,
For lo, all Heaven was in his mind!
THE END.
no previous section Willie Winkie and Other Songs and Poems
no next section