Poems of Purpose and Sketches in Prose :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems of Purpose and Sketches in Prose

of Scottish Peasant Life and Character in Auld Langsyne, Sketches of Local Scenes and Characters, With a Glossary. By Janet Hamilton

Hamilton, Janet (1795-1873)

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POEMS OF PURPOSE.

THE LOWLY SONG OF A LOWLY BARD.

A MEMORY.

BELLS.

FAREWELL TO THE OLD YEAR 1863.

A PHASE OF THE WAR IN AMERICA, 1864.

ON THE DEATH OF A HIGHLY GIFTED AND PRECOCIOUS CHILD,

PRAY FOR POLAND.

MYSIE, AN AUL' WARL', BUT OWER TRUE STORY.

THE BLOODY BOUQUET ON THE ROAD TO RICHMOND.

MAY, 1864.

JUNE, 1864.

SPIRIT-RAPPING.

NUTS TO CRACK FOR COUSIN SAM.

LINES ON THE SNOWDROP.

AMERICA.—“PEACE, PEACE, O PEACE!”

POLAND.

NEEBOUR JOHNNIE'S COMPLAINT.

OCTOBER, 1863.

THE VOICE OF BLOOD.

HINTS TO POETS.

LUGGIE, PAST AND PRESENT.

NORTH AMERICA AND HER WAR PARSONS.

GRAN'FAITHER AT CAM'SLANG

COMPARATIVE SLAVERY.

POLAND.

GRANNIE VISITED AT BLACKHILL, SHOTTS, July, 1805.

DECAY.

AULD MITHER SCOTLAND.

MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS AT THE CLOSE OF 1864.

ELEGY.

WINTER.

AULD SCOTLAND'S WELCOME TO GARIBALDI.

STANZAS TO APRIL, AND INVITATION TO GARIBALDI.

TO MOTHER EARTH.

WILLIAM OF PRUSSIA, THE AGGRESSOR.

LINES SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MR JOHN WHITELAW

THE AUL' KIRKYARD.

THE VICTIM OF DRINK.

AMERICA IN 1863: HER “VOICE IS STILL FOR WAR.”

DENMARK AND THE GERMAN DESPOTS.

VERSES,

OUR LOCAL SCENERY.

GARIBALDI IN HIS CONQUERING CAREER IN ITALY.

A PLEA FOR THE DORIC.

TO MEMBERS AND OFFICE-BEARERS OF TEMPERANCE SOCIETIES.

AULD SCOTLAND AT THE ABBEY CRAIG IN NOVEMBER, 1864.

BATTLE OF THE ALMA.

A WHEEN AUL' MEMORIES.

BURNIN' DRINK.

SACRED PIECES.

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POEMS OF PURPOSE.

THE LOWLY SONG OF A LOWLY BARD.

“My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, or rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise:
The child of parents passed into the skies.”—
Cowper.

“We are lowly, very lowly:”
Low the bard, and low the song;
Lowly thou, my own dear village;
Lowly those I dwell among.

From my lowly home of childhood
Low sweet voices fill my ears,
Till my drooping lids grow heavy
With the weight of tender tears.

Low in station, low in labour,
Low in all that worldlings prize,
Till the voice say, “Come up hither,”
To a mansion in the skies.

From that lowly cot the sainted
Rose from earth's low cares and woes;
From that lowly couch, my mother
To her home in heaven arose.

In that cot, so lone and lowly,
(Childhood's hand might reach the thatch),
God was felt, and o'er the dwellers
Angel eyes kept loving watch.

Lowly heart, and lowly bearing,
Heaven and earth will best approve.
Jesus! Thou wert meek and lowly—
Low on earth, but Lord above.

Yet, not low my aspirations:
High and strong my soul's desire
To assist my toiling brothers
Upward, onward to aspire.

Upward to the heaven above us,
Onward in the march of mind,
Upward to the shrine of freedom,
Onward, working for our kind.

This to you, my working brothers,
I inscribe; may nothing low
Dwell in mind, in heart, or habit;
Upward look, and onward go.

A MEMORY.

BANKS OF CALDER AND COUSIN DORA.

Straying, musing, singing, dreaming,
'Neath the leafy banners streaming,
Fleck'd with golden sunbeams gleaming
Through the woodland's dun;
On lone Calder's banks reclining,
Where the brier and hazel, twining,
Screeen me from the fervid shining
Of the noontide sun.

Sweet thy soft melodious gushing,
Sylvan stream! and sweet the hushing
Of the breeze, with soft breath pushing
Wide the opening flowers;
Pendant honeysuckles flinging
Fragrance round; the woodbine clinging
Round the elm; bird-music ringing
In thy birchen bowers.

Through thy waters—rippling, dancing,
Where the minnow shoals are glancing—
Slow I wade, and, still advancing,
Reach the farther shore;

Lightly bounding o'er the shingles,
Through my limbs the warm blood tingles;
With the birds my wild song mingles,
Trilling o'er and o'er.

Up the dell, all panting, glowing,
Where the foxgloves tall are growing,
Where the wild brier-roses, blowing,
Scent the summer air;
Where the weeping willow stoopeth,
Where the silver runnel scoopeth
Out her bed; where hyacinth droopeth,
Slender, meek, and fair.

Where the silver birch is waving,
Where the crystal well-spring laving,
Busy bees their treasures saving,
Stands a lonely cot,
Bower'd in jessamine and roses;
Flora there her wealth discloses,
Freely there her charms exposes,
On that lovely spot.

From the flower-wreathed porch comes winging,
Like a bird, dear Dora, singing,
To my side so fondly clinging—
Ah, how soon to part!

Fair, pale rose! too early blowing!
Child of beauty, bright and glowing!
Sweetest thoughts and fancies flowing
Ever from her heart.

Summers six, with shade and shining,
Passed, when, without plaint or pining,
On her couch of death reclining,
Cousin Dora lay.
Short we had her in possession,
Yet she has fulfill'd her mission;
Called to Heaven, we bow submission—
She has passed away!

BELLS.

Blest Sabbath bells! blest Sabbath bells!
My heart with solemn rapture swells;
I come! I come! how blessed there,
How joyful in the house of prayer
The anthem swells!

'Tis Christmas tide; ring, blessed bells!
The angels' song your anthem swells—
“To us this day a Child is given:
A Saviour born, the Christ from heaven!”
Ring, blessed bells!

Glad marriage bells! glad marriage bells!
Ring out—your joyous music tells
That love and beauty, hand in hand,
Before the holy altar stand
Their vows to tell.

Your merry chimes ring, jocund bells!
A father's heart exulting swells,
A mother's arms embrace her boy,
The heir is born—ring out the joy,
Each chiming bell!

Sad passing bell! sad passing bell!
Sad hearts bereaved will throb and swell;
Ring out a knell, some dear one's dead,
The clay is cold, the spirit fled,
Ring out the knell!

Toll, slowly toll, sad funeral bell!
We bring the dead in earth to dwell—
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
We give till God shall call the just;
Cease, tolling bell!

Peal, peal, ye loud, triumphant bells!
For victory peal—the tumult swells;
The reeling air is stunned and thrilled,
Peal, loudly peal for thousands killed!
Say, is it well?

O pealing bells! O pealing bells!
With pity, grief, and horror swells
My heart, when pealing from afar
I hear the tocsin bell of war,
And carnage fell.

Ring out, ring out! O warning bell!
At morn upon the waters fell
A blinding fog, ring out and tell
Of danger near: they pass; all's well;
Still sailing on.

O warning bell! mute was thy tongue
When o'er the dark waves wildly rung
A crash—a shriek of wild despair;
Two vessels met, but one is there
Alone, alone!

Placed on a rock, a warning bell,
Rung out when ocean winds would swell,
Warning the sailor from the rock,
Where else his ship, with deadly shock,
Would meet her doom.

A warning voice, a warning bell,
O'er life's tumultuous ocean swell,
Peals high above the breakers' roar,
“Turn, turn, or sink for evermore
In guilt and gloom!”

FAREWELL TO THE OLD YEAR 1863.

Farewell, old year, “the bourne” is near,
“Whence traveller ne'er returneth”—
Passing away from time for aye,
Thy life-light faintly burneth.

Farewell, old year, dark shapes of fear,
Grim spectres pale and gory,
Flitting around, with moaning sound,
Tell us thy sad war story.

Farewell, old year, we do not fear
Republic or Imperial —
If war inclined, they both shall find
We're rather tough material.

Farewell, old year, thy past career
Hath given both gloom and gladness;
Thou gave us peace, but no decrease
In human crime and madness.

Farewell, old year, the pall and bier
Thou saw us oft attending,
And heard oft-times the merry chimes
Of birth and wedlock blending.

Farewell, old year, a voice we hear,
How solemnly it falleth—
“All flesh is grass,” prepare to pass,
Ere long the Master calleth!

Farewell, old year, thy knell we hear
Through Time's dark arches sounding;
Wrapt in thy shroud, a dense, dark cloud
Thy solemn bier surrounding.

Farewell, old year, we still have cheer,
Though tinged with doubt and sorrow,
We leave thy urn and gladly turn
To give new year good morrow.

American Republic.

French Emperor.

A PHASE OF THE WAR IN AMERICA, 1864.

ON THE ROAD TO RICHMOND.

Give me angel wing and eye,
Give me arm and strength Herculean;
With the speed of light I'll fly—
Not to yonder bright cerulean.

Westward far my flight should be,
O'er the wide and wild Atlantic;
I the fated land would see
Drunk with blood whose sons are frantic.

Horror, fed on carnage, lowers
O'er corruption rankly steaming;
O'er Virginia's Eden bowers
I the fated land would see
Drunk with blood whose sons are frantic.

Horror, fed on carnage, lowers
O'er corruption rankly steaming;
O'er Virginia's Eden bowers
Thousand vultures hover screaming.

In one gory mass they lie—
Husband, father, son, and lover—
Festering 'neath a burning sky,
Earth no more her slain can cover.

Crippled victims, weak and wan,
Back a ghastly tide are flowing;
Angel eyes will weep to scan
Bootless slaughter onward going.

See, recording angels stand
On each side of death's dark portals,
Noting with unerring hand
Entering hordes of ghastly mortals.

From a cloud-capp'd tower I gaze,
From the battle field arising
Myriad souls, with dread amaze,
I behold—my soul surprising.

Civil War, thou demon fell,
Shall thy bloody hand for ever
Ring the dreadful tocsin bell?
Britain's heart-strings quail and quiver.

War, thou Lernæan hydra dire,
I would strangle and uncoil thee;
Close thy tracks of blood and fire,
Of thy venomed fangs despoil thee.

Through thy Augean stables vile,
With long-horded rank pollution,
(Heaven my help) I'd pour the while
One strong, sweeping, vast ablution.

Father of the waters, flow,
Flow each Transatlantic river
O'er your land of death and woe—
Cleanse her soil of blood for ever.

Time was when we lightly spoke,
Smiled at each defeat and blunder;
Now, alas! the spell is broke—
We can only weep and wonder.

VERSES.

Descriptive of an early morning walk in the latter end of April, 1830.

The blithe voice o' spring through the woodlan's was ringin';
Frae her nest 'mang the gowans the laverock was springin';
The breeze was asleep, but the burnie was singin',
And clear blabs o' dew frae ilk green blade war hingin'.

The hare was juist scuddin' awa' to her lair—
She had munch'd at the corn till she wantit na mair;
The craws war asteer, for the morning was fair,
Like the roar o' the linn cam' their soun' on the air.

The red-lippit gowan had closed her sweet mou',
But the cup o' the primrose was lippin' wi' dew;
An' the hy' cinth had kaim'd oot her ringlets o' blue,
Till the dell, o' their fragrance an' beauty was fu'.

Wi' a half-open e'e the young sun leukit oot
Ower the hill taps, to see what the warl' was aboot;
An' the cock on his bugle fu' loudly did toot,
Warning a' to their “darg,” baith the man an' the brute.

An' the lane star that hings on the e'e-bree o' morn
Grew pale, for young day her bricht tresses had shorn;
An' aye she grew paler, till, dim an' forlorn,
She sank in the red clouds that herald the morn.

Then a rich gowden stream frae the fountain o' licht
Gush'd oot,—an' the mists that had happit the nicht
Row'd up frae the glens, an' war sune oot o' sicht,
An' the green yirth lay smilin' sae lown an' sae bricht.

Up the heather-clad hill to the big boulder-stane,
Whaur aft in my rambles a rest I hae ta'en,
I sat mysel' doon on't to leuk a' my lane
On the lan' whaur frae bairnhood to age I had gane.

O! dear to my heart, an' fu' sweet to my e'en,
My ain Caledonia! aye thou hast been—
Nae lan' I hae read o', or heard o', or seen,
Has thy wit, an' thy worth, an' thy courage, I ween.

Thy peat-fires are luntin',—hoo fragrant the smell
This bab o' the heather an' bonnie blue-bell—
This twig o' green birk—O, I canna weel tell
Hoo the sicht an' the scent gars my fu' bosom swell!

Thy laigh-theekit biggins, whaur aft the sweet psalm
Is heard in the e'enin's sae holy an' calm;
On the leal Scottish heart it fa's like saft balm,
The lown voice o' prayer, the soun' o' the psalm.

Noo, “I'm wearin' awa' to the lan' o' the leal;”
But lang as I dow to the boulder I'll speel,
To see spread afore me the lan' I lo'e weel,
An' will lo'e till I leave't for “the lan' o' the leal.”

“PET MARJORIE.”

Sweet Pet! such pets are far and few—
A flow'ret balmed with spirit dew—
With beauteous tints of heavenly hue—
A lovely soul, bright, fond, and true,
The poet's pet and pearl.
Descending from her native skies,
Alas! how soon again to rise
An angel in an infant's guise,
She stormed all hearts with sweet surprise—
The rarely gifted child!

And Genius, at her childish shrine,
Admiring stood, and traced each line
Of thought that o'er her features fine
Would come and go, like cloud and shine
In smiling April weather.
When fancy's fires were burning low,
And bright ideas mustered slow,
Then Pet's small hand in Scott's would glow—
His plaidie round the lamb he'd throw,
And wrap them close together.

The baby poet—wond'rous child—
Who rhymed, and wrote, and sung, and smiled,
Her sweet conceits and fancies wild
She quaintly strung, and duly filed
In her most unique journal.
Short space was she to earth confined,
For matter was too weak for mind;
No earthly tie her soul could bind;
She soared to mingle with her kind
Beyond our sphere diurnal.

Mysterious questions we might ask—
Was it in human love to bask—
Work out some heaven-commissioned task,
Then lay aside her mortal mask,
The spiritual assuming?
We may not ask, but this we know—
The stings of guilt, the pangs of woe,
The blush of shame, shall never glow
On cheeks where Heaven's own roses blow
For ever fresh and blooming.

“Pet Marjorie,” a little book just brought out by an Edinburgh Publisher.

CALEDONIA.

Thy name, Caledonia! Queen of the North!
On my wild harp is thrilling—I sing of thy worth;
Though simple the melody, lofty thy name,
Thy virtues, thy valour, thy learning, and fame.

Though sterile thy soil and inclement thy clime—
On thy dark hills of mist, in the far olden time—
On thy storm-beaten islets, wild, barren, and lone,
The twin stars of learning and liberty shone.

The badge of the conqueror thou never hast worn;
Thy red lion-banner hath ever been borne
In war by the hand of the free and the brave,
The patriot, the hero, but never the slave.

Like a rock in the ocean, thou often hast braved
High tides of invasion, wild tempests that raved,
And rolled in hoarse thunder the waves on thy form,
Oft drenched by the spray, not o'erthrown in the storm.

When o'er the blue Grampians, majestic and hoar,
The eagles of Rome sought in triumph to soar,
They were struck in their flight by the fierce mountain-erne,
Thy own Caledonians, stalwart and stern.

Of Wallace, the deathless, what need I to tell?
He fought for and saved thee—by traitors he fell;
Of Bruce, who made England's fair daughters to mourn,
For brothers and sires slain at red Bannockburn.

When dark persecution, relentless and stern,
Like water poured out on the heather and fern,
On the hill and the woodland, the glen and the cave,
The blood of thy martyrs, the pious and brave;

Then the sword of the Covenant leaped from its sheath,
And they vowed to contend, even to torture and death,
For truth and for conscience, nor once lay it down,
Till the tyrant was 'reft of his kingdom and crown.

My loved Caledonia! still in the van,
For the faith of the Christian, the rights of the man,
Thy sons have been found, they have blazoned thy name,
And placed it on high in the Temple of Fame.

In the field, in the council, in science and art,
With valour, with wisdom, and genius, thy part

Thou actest; and earth has no kingdom or clime,
Where thy sons do not further the promised good time.

On the glories we gaze that encircle thy name,
But dark clouds, impregnate with sorrow and shame,
Are low'ring above thee, and threaten to shed
A deluge of ruin and woe on thy head.

No foreign invader descends on thy shore;
Dane, Roman, and Saxon oppress thee no more;
The sword of the tyrant now sleeps in the sheath;
Ah! the foe is within that consumes thee to death.

Awake! Caledonia! wake! O awake!
Arm! arm for the combat! thy life is at stake!
At the name of the foe do not falter or shrink—
'Tis the spirit of evil incarnate in drink.

BIRKHILL.

A MEMORY.

O'er thy lone beauty, sweet Birkhill,
Sad, brooding memory hovers still;
Within, without, the sylvan cot,
Ah! long unseen, but ne'er forgot.

The fair-haired father, gentle wife,
True helpmate of his toiling life;
The joyous group of youthful faces
Gone, vanished—lo! their vacant places.

Meek Margaret, with the soft brown eyes,
And Jane, the thoughtful, kind, and wise;
Bright Isa, of the golden hair,
And baby Annie, pale and fair.

And Willie, generous, bold, and free,
The master mind of brothers three;
He, while in manhood's glowing prime,
Drooped, languished, died in Indian clime.

And two, when life's young leaves were green,
And hope's fair blossoms blushed between,
Fell, in the mildew of decay,
Like withered flowers upon the clay.

When summer dressed lone Birkhill's bowers,
And gemmed her garden plots with flowers,
And draped her cottage wall with roses,
Within, on couch of death, reposes

A white-robed form in marble beauty—
Without to pay the last sad duty.
For years we saw the mourners come:
One only waits till summoned home.

And she and I are near the bourne,
From whence no traveller may return;
Soon shall the link that binds us sever,
But faith and hope say, “Not for ever.”

ON THE DEATH OF A HIGHLY GIFTED AND PRECOCIOUS CHILD,

Who died at the age of six years and two months.

Too fair, too pale, too pure and wise
For earth, she early sought the skies;
Her fair broad brow and hazel eyes,
Instinct with genius, ever rise
On Memory's mournful eye.
Oh! gifted child of love and song,
Could prayers and tears thy stay prolong,
How had they flowed! The angel throng
Bore on their wings, with joy and song,
Our darling to the sky.

Fair star! at thy terrestrial birth
I hailed thee—watched thy course on earth;
Grave were thy joys, and quiet thy mirth—
The radiant orb, soon lost to earth,
Is shining high in heaven.
Thy earthly home a rural cot
With roses draped, with many a plot
Of flowers—earth holds no lovelier spot—
All, all remains, but thou art not,
For thou wert lent, not given.

The roses of two summers shed
Their fragrant petals on her head,
When on the green and daisied bed,
With wilding flowers and toys bespread,
The child was set to play.
A silver birch lean'd o'er the ground,
And there dear Dora I have found,
A long soft band her waist enwound,
And to the tender sapling bound,
That so she might not stray.

And there, for hours each summer day,
The hermit babe would sing and play
Alone with Nature, pleased and gay,
For strangers seldom came that way,
And playmates she had none.
Oft to her father's knee she went
When he would read, with ear intent
And speaking eye, where thought was blent
With feeling deep, that found a vent
When she was all alone.

Like warbling linnet's song would flow
Her silver tones, soft, sweet, and low;
All beauteous things she seemed to know—
Her sobs would rise, her tears would flow
At piteous song or tale.
How pale, how spiritual and sweet
The smiling face that wont to greet

Me through the pane, then run to meet,
And fill my hand with cowslips sweet,
And lilies of the vale!

Then to her own dear flow'ry nook,
Beneath the birch, our way we took;
Some favourite poem from the book
She held—would read with sparkling look,
And curious, quaint comment.
Six summers had their roses shed
Upon the infant poet's head,
When on her white and death cold bed
A withered rose lay Dora—dead:
Heaven took what it had lent.

PRAY FOR POLAND.

Oh, not unwept, unsung thy wrongs have been,
Full many a swelling heart hath bled unseen;
Full many a tearful prayer and mournful groan—
Have to the ear of Heaven been breathed alone!

Long have the iron hoofs of power and pride
Trod on thee; long thy panting, bleeding side,
Pierced by the barbëd steel of Russian power—
A fearful reckoning waits the avenging hour!

How long, O Lord, how long! stretch out thy hand,
Cast out the oppressor from the struggling land,
The fetters rend, proclaim to Europe broad—
Among the nations, who is judge but God!

Thy time must come; it will, for God is just:
Arise and sing, thou dweller in the dust;
Thy soiled and bleeding brow shall yet be crowned
By Freedom's hand, and healed each ghastly wound.

No power I wield, no influence can I bring,
To bear upon the heart of Czar or King,
But I can plead thy cause His throne before
Who reigns, and rules, and lives for evermore!

MYSIE, AN AUL' WARL', BUT OWER TRUE STORY.

She wrocht her wark an' never lintit,
Her wrangs to nane she ever mintit;
An' tho' they war baith grit an' sair,
O' them an' him she spake nae mair.

Sair browten't on him was her he'rt,
Folk thocht the twasum' ne'er wad pairt;
But sic is man, an' sic was Rabbie,
He brak' his troth an' marriet Babbie.

A widow woman, sair forfairn,
Was Mysie's mither—for her bairn
That mither pray't, wi' deein' breath,
She micht be biel't frae want an' skaith.

My gutcher sat by her bedside;
Said he, I'se for thy bairn provide;
Amang my ain she'll pick an' mell,
An' sune dae sum'thing for hersel'.

O! Mysie was a pleasant bairn—
Kin', canny, clever, gleg to learn;
An' weel she lo'ed the guid aul' carle,
That biel't her frae the caulrife warl'.

Whan juist saxteen she gat a place;
Her mensefu' gait an' bonnie face—
Her warkrife haun' an' couthie ways,
Sune gat frae a' aboot her praise.

The farmer's son, young Rabbie Steel—
A weel-faur'd, sleekit, pawkie chiel—
Sune wan her he'rt, an' hoo, gude kens,
Gat Mysie on his finger en's.

He swore he lo'ed her mair than life,
An' gif he made na' her his wife,
Wush'd that his richt haun' he micht tine,
Gif he his promise didna' min'.

An' then the upshot sune was seen,
Wi' pykeit chafts an' watery een;
Puir May was packit frae the hoose
By Rabbie's mither, snell an' douce.

An' sic a nicht whan she cam' hame—
Sae muckle greetin', sabbin', shame;
Wi' her nae tongue cou'd flyte a word,
Puir gaspin', tremilen, flutterin' burd.

For owks she grat maist day an' nicht;
Yet ere her bairnie saw the licht,
An' she had been twa months awa'—
Young Rab had weddit Babbie Law.

A towmond they had been thegither,
Whan ae day in cam Babbie's mither;
Said they, We're a' in grit alarm,
An' gutcher man cum' to the farm.

He bou'd to see ye, quo' the wife;
The doctors canna save his life;
Nor a' the skill they can comman'
Can heal the incume in his haun'.

The aul' man pray'd by his bedside;
Then Rabbie said, cou'd less betide
A he'rt sae fause, wi' tongue sae fair,
O! I ha'e wrang't puir Mysie sair.

But ye maun see to unnerstaun',
He rave the bucklin's aff his haun';
Tho' I forgat, Heaven keepit min',
O! my fause aith—leuk, there's the sign.

Sair swall't an' black as ony coal
Was that richt haun', but waur to thole;
His sair remorse for Mysie's wrang.
Fause loons, beware, sae en's my sang.

THE BLOODY BOUQUET ON THE ROAD TO RICHMOND.

Swept the storm of battle by,
'Neath Virginia's glowing sky;
Left alone to bleed and die,
Lay a wounded boy.
From the battle-field he crept—
Found a couch of flowers and slept;
Shall he die alone, unwept,
A widowed mother's joy?

Now the blood had ceased to flow
From the gash that scarred his brow—
Grasping an o'erhanging bough,
Half reclined he lay.
Clotted blood had sealed his eyes:
He wiped it; then, with sweet surprise,
Gazed on flowers whose rainbow dyes
Adorned each pendant spray.

The showering petals off he threw—
Fragrant cups that brimm'd with dew,
To his parched lips he drew—
A life-reviving treasure.

Nature, in her kindly arms,
Held the boy: her simple charms
Soothed his pains, forbade alarms,
And brimm'd his eyes with pleasure.

“Lovely flowers!” he cried, “how sweet!”
Vain he strove to gain his feet;
Shall the mother ever greet,
With fond embrace, her boy!
Help was near: a party found
The youth, and raised him from the ground—
Bathed and dressed each festered wound,
And sent him on with joy.

In his hand a bouquet rare
Held he—Southern violets fair—
Lilies of the vale were there—
He culled them where he lay.
Nature's charms have magic power,
Even in dread and dangerous hour—
Hue, or fragrance of a flower,
May cheer the saddest day.

MAY, 1864.

Now o'er the laughing meadows,
Throned on her dewy car,
Queenly May comes with her train,
From southern climes afar,
To seek her woodland palace,
Where thousand minstrels swell
The choral hymn that hails her
In forest, copse, and dell.

Sweetly tinged with sapphire hue
Is spread a carpet fair;
Down by Luggie's fairy stream,
The hyacinth beds are there,
Golden cups and crimson bells
Wave o'er the margin green,
Blossomed thorn and birch perfume
The palace of the Queen.

Pinky buds on scented brier
Their dewy lips unclose;
Fair sultana of the dell,
The blushing wilding rose;
Mossy cushions swell around,
With sorrel pearls gleaming;

The honeysuckle clasps the rock,
With flowery tendrils streaming.

Meadows sweet, whose golden hair
Sheds out a rich perfume,
Stately foxglove, rearing high
A tower of purple bloom.
Gazing with her soft blue eye
On the dancing waters,
See the sweet forget-me-not,
Beloved of Beauty's daughters.

Hark the blackbird's dulcet notes,
Thrush and linnet singing;
Hark that maiden's melting lay,
Answering echoes ringing;
Waking up the sleeping trees,
Whispering to the flowers,
The breeze salutes, with kisses soft,
The blossoms on the bowers.

Queen of flowers, of love, and song,
How sweet with thee to dwell,
And linger by the fairy stream
In Luggie's lovely dell!
Sweeter, purer bliss was mine
When last the dell I trod,
I looked on Nature, “looking up,
Through her, to Nature's God.”

JUNE, 1864.

Why darkly veiled, like mourning bride,
Com'st thou, sweet June?—Why dost thou hide
Thy glowing charms and lustrous eyes
Beneath a cloudy, cold disguise,
Fair Nature's bosom chilling?
Thy sister, May, gave promise fair
Of golden sunshine, balmy air:
She, rich in thousand floral charms,
Drooped, languished, in thy cruel arms,
Thy cold embraces killing.

Sweet song-birds! ye who watched and sung
Beside the cradle of your young,
In bush or bough, oh! oft unfold
Your wings, to shield from cruel cold
Your downy, callow treasure.
The thorn is white with odorous blossom,
The water-lily on the bosom
Of the lone sleeping lake reposes,
The briery banks are starred with roses—
Why frown'st thou on our pleasure?

The hushing music of the breeze,
That sings to sleep the nodding trees,
On fruit, and flower, with bitter breath,
Sheds nightly down the chills of death,
I mourn, ye things of beauty!
Oh, leafy, flow'ry, balmy June!
The poet's lyre is out of tune,
The strings are sullen, damp, and chill,
The song can neither charm nor thrill,
Till thou fulfill'st thy duty.

Oh! cast aside thy veil of gloom;
Come forth in splendour, beauty, bloom;
Fair bride of summer, blushing, smiling,
With sun-bright eyes our fears beguiling—
Come jewelled, robed and crowned.
Nature, be thou my muse—inspire
My song: and though at times my lyre
Hath thrilled to notes of woe and war,
An inspiration dearer far
In Nature I have found.

SPIRIT-RAPPING.

Lines inscribed to the new Professor of Spiritual Rapology, Glasgow, 1864.

Hast thou abjured the worship of old Mammon,
To offer incense at the shrine of Gammon,
“To call up spirits from the vasty deep,”
And deftly set them playing at bo-peep?
And having learn'd that souls are fond of dancing,
Mak'st tables shake their legs and fall to prancing;
The accordion plays, and dance and music swell,
“And all goes merry as a marriage bell.”
Most sage professor, you do not believe
In what you wish weak mortals to receive;
For did you know that spirits were about,
You would not put the gas or candle out,
And frighten screaming girls out of their wits,
Fainting and struggling in hysteric fits.
That renegade, the titled priest of Natal,
Gives out no dogma to the truth more fatal,
Even Scripture truth, than that you say is true—
The spirits of the dead called back by you?
O impious—nonsensical—absurd
Your spirit-rapping dodge is, 'pon my word;

And then, so weak the questions and replies,
Just silly twaddle or mischievous lies,
Quite unbecoming in a prudent ghost,
Who never tells if he is blest or lost.
Ask some scorch'd female's soul, at my desire,
How many crinolines are yet to fire,
And if Eugenie will reduce her hoops,
In mercy to her suicidal dupes?
Call up the captain's ghost (O tale of pity!)
He of the vanished steamer, Glasgow City;
Ask where she lies who went but never came?
Met she her fate by storm, by ice, or flame?
There's many a ghost that could a tale unfold;
A friendly voice cries out, You'd better hold;
For spirit-rappers can so well dispense
With Scripture, reason, truth, and common sense.
Till “heaven peeps through the blanket of the dark”
That veils their minds, you're sure to lose your mark,
When to the land of souls they really come,
Its stern realities will strike them dumb.
Let this suffice—guard your own spirit well,
The secret soon you'll know you may not tell.

NUTS TO CRACK FOR COUSIN SAM.

Hae ye come to yer senses yet, Sammy, my man?
For ye juist war rid-wud whan the war it began;
Has the bluid ye hae lost, an' the physic ye've ta'en,
No cool't doun yer fever an' sober't yer brain?

What is't ye hae won? is it conquest an' fame?
Is't honour and glory—a conqueror's name?
Is't the South wi' its cotton, its planters, an' slaves?
It's nane o' them a', it's a million o' graves.

What is't ye hae lost? It's the big dollar bags,
An' ye've nocht in yer pouches but dirty green rags;
O' the wale o' yer men nocht is left but their banes,
An' the kintra is fu' o' their widows an' weans.

An' they've gaggit your press, an' they've steekit your mou',
An' they've set the red mark o' auld Cain on yer broo;
An' the bairns o' yer bairns that are yet to be born,
Will be harry't wi' taxes, an' put to the horn.

I've speer't ye some questions, I'll speer ye anither,
What ails ye man, Sammy, at Britain, yer mither?
Mark weel what she says when ye're cursin' an' craikin',
“I'll juist hae to gie that wild laddie a paikin'.”

The hale warl's glowerin' an' wonnerin' what text
Yer bluid-drinkin' parsons will open on next;
To Beecher an' Brownlow I'll juist say the word
Christ said to bauld Peter, 'twas, “Put up thy sword.”

Ay, “put up thy sword,” an' hae dune wi' yer game,
Ye hae lost a' the stakes that ye play'd for, gae hame;
Leuk after yer farm, let yer neebors alane—
Ye hae wark on your han', or I'm muckle mista'en.

LINES ON THE SNOWDROP.

[_]

Written on receiving a Bouquet of these beautiful Flowers from a Lady Friend, March 9, 1865.

Sweet, modest, pensive, tender flower,
Though snow-drifts rise and storm-clouds lower
Above thy gentle drooping head,
And chill thee on thy frozen bed—
Though oft thy pure, pale face appears
Bedewed with cold and freezing tears,
Soon from thy lids the god of day
Shall kiss the chilling drops away,
And crown thy green and slender stems
With stainless wreath of pearly gems.
Chaste, virgin flower, first-born of Spring,
Thou purest, fairest, loveliest thing,
Herald of all the coming flowers
That star the meads and deck the bowers;
Yet when sweet May comes crowned with blossom,
Thou hid'st thee in thy mother's bosom,
And when bright June spreads out her roses,
In earth's maternal lap reposes.
Emblem of innocence, in vain
The howling winds and beating rain
Shall wildly sweep thy wintry bed;
Again thy beauteous, graceful head,
Unsoiled, unsullied, shall arise
In meek devotion to the skies.

LINES

[_]

On the arrival of the S.S. United Kingdom at New York, on February 2, after a protracted and stormy voyage from Greenock, having on board the wife and nine children of the Rev. John James of Canada, who was anxiously awaiting them.

She comes, she comes—all right, all well!
Thank God! thank God! the fearful spell
That chilled our hearts is broke; no more,
On yon dark ocean's stormy shore,
The husband, father, waits and weeps,
And while he mournful vigil keeps,
Conjures up visions from the deep
That rack his soul and “murder sleep;”
For if he sleep, in troubled dreams
He hears his children's drowning screams,
And, sinking 'midst the billowy strife,
He sees his loved and loving wife.
He wakes; and wandering to the pier,
Far seaward gazes. Cheer thee, cheer!
A stately vessel nears the strand;
Upon the deck he sees them stand—
A youthful group. “My own, my own!”
He cries. But they are not alone:
The mother, smiling through her tears,
While in her arms a babe she bears,

Is there—all, all! not one is lost,
Though long detained and tempest-toss'd,
Till hope was waning in despair;
But now, thank God, he clasps them there,
And soon will bear them to a home
Where persecution may not come;
Where he may break, uncheck'd by strife,
To hungry souls the bread of life.
And He who rode upon the storm,
When in its most appalling form
It beat upon the ocean barque
That held thy all—thy treasure ark,
Not ocean's wildest waves could whelm,
For He was pilot at the helm.
Oh may His all-protecting hand
Be o'er thee still, by sea and land;
And, ere thy sun of life go down,
May many souls thy labours crown;
Be thine a home of peace and love
On earth—and heaven thy home above!

A BALLAD OF MEMORIE.

Nae mair, alas! nae mair I'll see
Young mornin's gowden hair
Spread ower the lift—the dawnin' sheen
O' simmer mornin' fair!
Nae mair the heathery knowe I'll speel,
An' see the sunbeams glancin',
Like fire-flauchts ower the loch's lane breast,
Ower whilk the breeze is dancin'!

Nae mair I'll wanner ower the braes,
Or thro' the birken shaw,
An' pu' the wild-wud flowers amang
Thy lanely glens, Roseha'!
How white the haw, how red the rose,
How blue the hy'cinth bell,
Whaur fairy thim'les woo the bees
In Tenach's breken dell?

Nae mair when hinnysuckle hings
Her garlands on the trees,
And hinny breath o' heather bells
Comes glaffin on the breeze;

Nor when the burstin' birken buds,
And sweetly-scented brier,
Gi'e out their sweets, nae power they ha'e
My dowie heart to cheer.

Nae mair I'll hear the cushie-doo,
Wi' voice o' tender wailin',
Pour out her plaint; nor laverock's sang,
Up 'mang the white clouds sailin';
The lappin' waves that kiss the shore,
The music o' the streams,
The roarin' o' the linn nae mair
I'll hear but in my dreams.

When a' the house are gane to sleep
I sit my leefu' lane,
An' muse till Fancy streaks her wing,
An' I am young again.
Again I wanner thro' the wuds,
Again I seem to sing
Some waefu' auld warld ballant strain,
Till a' the echoes ring.

Again the snaw-white howlit's wing
Out ower my heid is flaffin,
Whan frae her nest 'mang Calder Craigs
I fley't her wi' my daffin;
An' keekin in the mavis' nest
O' naked scuddies fu',

I feed wi' moolins out my pouch
Ilk gapin' hungry mou'.

Again I wanner owre the lea,
“An' pu' the gowans fine;
Again I paidle in the burn,”
But, oh! it's lang-sin-syne!
Again your faces blithe I see,
Your gladsome voices hear—
Frien's o' my youth—a' gane, a' gane!
An' I sit blinlins here.

The star o' memory lichts the past;
But there's a licht abune,
To cheer the darkness o' a life
That maun be endit sune.
An' aft I think the gowden morn,
The purple gloamin' fa',
Will shine as bricht, and fa' as saft,
Whan I hae gane awa'.

VERSES.

[_]

Written by my friend, A. W. Buchan of Glasgow, suggested by reading the foregoing Ballad of Memorie in the Glasgow Citizen, March 11 1865.

How sweet the summer morning's blush,
The noontide's ripening glow,
The gloaming's shadows o'er the path
Where happy lovers go,
The lakelet's gleam, the wimpling stream
With childhood sporting nigh,
The towering fell, the cottaged dell,
The sea, the starry sky!

Yes, Nature's face to poet's eye
Is ever pure and fair,
Is ever fresh with new delight,
And rich beyond compare.
The nabob's wealth, the monarch's crown,
Are dust upon the ground
To one who, by the Muses led,
Her treasures vast hath found.

And oh! the sounds that fill the air
From sea, plain, grove, and stream,
Were never such by maiden heard
In love's most ardent dream,—

As rush upon that soul, when, free
From cares of sordid men,
It wanders forth to speak with God
In Nature once again.

In childhood's hour she fills the heart
With rapture undefined;
When press the cares of mid-day life,
She keeps from rust the mind;
And even when years shower on the head
Their never-melting snow,
Through memory's channel she can make
The godlike fancy glow.

Who are the poor, for whom we ought
The pitying tear to give?
Are they not those whom Nature's charms
Have ne'er made truly live;
Who ope their eyes, but do not see
That all is heavenly fair;
Their ears, but never hear the joy
Outgushing everywhere;

Who pine in soul, 'mid boundless stores,
As on through life they tread,
Bewilder'd by the icy fog
Within their cold hearts bred,
Till weary age blunts every sense;
And yet no wail is heard

That they shall never more behold
Sky, ocean, leaf, or bird?

But ah! when age or failing health
The poet's foot restrains
From wandering over wintry wastes
Or summer's flower-starr'd plains,
A yearning want gnaws at the heart,
And bursts in touching moan,
As now comes from thy trembling lyre,
Sweet singer of Langloan.

O favourite of the tuneful Nine!
Thy strains we love to hear,
Albeit, when “Memorie” is the theme
Thy ballad draws the tear—
That sweet Roseha', that Calder Craigs,
And Tenach's bracken dell,
For other eyes than thine must now
Weave their enchanting spell.

That early friends are dead and gone,
And thou left here to sigh,
With Nature's page all but expunged
From thy once kindling eye;—
Though kindly hands are near to aid,
And kindly hearts to feel,
And faith and hope within thy breast
Their heaven-born power reveal;

Yet, lady, 'tis a pleasing thought,
That still, in sweet day-dream,
With soul refreshing rush, old scenes
Upon thy heart will stream,
And thrill thee with a joy, as when
Thou roam'd'st, with footstep free,
The happy earth, beneath “That light
Ne'er seen on land or sea.”

For thou didst look, in life's young years,
So lovingly and deep,
On earth's fair forms, that all their soul
Within thy soul doth sleep—
Awaiting but the magic wand
Thy fancy wields, to rise
And live again, more fair than aught
Beneath material skies.

And now, the beam from God's own face,
Through nature dimly shining,
With the full blaze of Gospel truth
In thy warm heart combining—
Thine ear and eye may gladly close
On earth and its poor story,
Prepared to meet the brighter dawn
Of never-ending glory.

COUSIN AGGIE.

A MEMORY.

The seal of sixty summers now,
Cousin Aggie, marks thy brow,
If beneath Canadian skies
Still thou livest. Mayhap thou lies
Within the forest's shadow dark,
Where never sculptured stone shall mark
Thy last, thy lonely resting-place,
Thou “best and loveliest of thy race!”
Children oft we roamed together
'Mongst the blue-bells and the heather;
Peeping in the moorfowl's nest—
Her wild bright eye and speckled breast,
Quailed not at our presence near—
No living thing of us had fear;—
Happy time, ne'er to return,
“When we twa paidl'd in the burn,
When the simmer days were fine,
In the days o' auld-langsyne.”
Time on stealthy pinions flew—
Cousin Aggie taller grew—
Her form in mould of classic grace
Was cast: and ah! how fair her face!

How soft her eye! how sweet her smile!
And wooers came: not long the while
Young Hamilton bore off the prize:
Her hand, with blushes, tears, and sighs,
She gave to him she loved so well
In yon lone cot in fair Dalziel.
'Twas early morn when they were wed,
Yet ere the noon of day had sped,
With clinging arms, and tender fears,
She from her mother's bosom tears
Herself away—she must not bide,
The ship is waiting wind and tide,
With all her snowy wings unfurl'd,
To bear them to the Western World.
The bridegroom pressed her to his side,
“My own,” he said, “my ocean bride,
Thy all for me thou hast resigned,
And I devote love, life, and mind
To thee; and I, this voyage past,
Shall find a home for thee at last
On free Columbia's virgin soil,
Where we shall love, and live, and toil.”
But fortune, in an evil hour,
Gave them into a villain's power.
The tale I cannot tell aright,
But that they took a hasty flight
Across a frozen lake—their store
Of worldly goods was sent before—
The ice gave way, the loaded wains
Went down. What now for them remains

But love, and hope, that gave them strength:
They had the will, the way at length
They found to the Canadian shore,
Nor dreamed of deeper loss in store.
Upon a chosen spot of land,
Their log-house built; the holy band
Of wedded love more strong and dear
Had grown in danger, loss, and fear.
One day they left their forest home
Along the lake some miles to roam;
Returning looked they for the spot
Where stood at morn their lonely cot;
A thin blue smoke rose on the air,
A pile of smouldering ashes where
Your all consumed lies—hapless pair!—
But love and hope forbade despair.
Dear Cousin Aggie, once, no more,
I heard that thou thy troubles o'er—
A wife beloved, a mother dear,
Adorn'd thy calm domestic sphere;
O! dearest cousin, I would know,
For it is long, so long ago,
And I did love thee passing well
Since I of thee or thine heard tell;—
Thee, yet alive, I dearly greet;
If gone before, we soon shall meet.

SPRING.

Fairy Spring, in kirtle green,
Stealing through the woods, is seen
Gliding o'er the freshening meadow
Bright with sunshine, dim with shadow,
Smiling on the lambkins skipping—
Children through the green lanes tripping.
High o'er head, on quivering wings,
The lark his jubilant anthem sings,
And thousand swelling feather'd throats
Are warbling clear their amorous notes.
Now with gentle hand she raises
From the sod her infant daisies,
Bids her sleeping violets rise,
Kissing fond their dewy eyes;
Scented buds of golden yellow,
Honey sweet adorn the willow,
And the drooping hyacinth bells
Tint with heaven's own blue the dells,
Where the primrose lurks below
Snowy sheets of blossomed sloe.
Treading slow the bramble brake,
Curled and coiled like sleeping snake,

The curious botanist discerns
The dark brown youngling's of the ferns;
From flowers of “Araba,” the blest,
Ne'er were sweeter odours pressed
Than budding birch and sweetbriar shed
On thy radiant youthful head.
Virgin Spring! then come again;
We hail thine advent, bless thy reign;
Come with airs soft, genial, calm,
Shedding flowers and breathing balm:
May human labour, human love,
And gentle peace thy reign approve.

AMERICA.—“PEACE, PEACE, O PEACE!”

“Peace, peace, O peace!” sweet peace, descend,
The cloud of war asunder rend;
Thy gentle reign alone restores
Rest to Columbia's ravaged shores!

Peace, peace! Shall still your brother's blood
Cry from the ground—“the purple flood
Is swelling high, soon to o'erflow
In tides of ruin, shame, and woe?”

Peace, peace! We know your ends and aims,
Your wild, ambitious, monstrous claims;
The States shall reign, the globe a throne,
Your sceptre sway the world alone!

Peace, peace! Wild dreamers, what are ye?
A people now or yet to be?
Or but a rude conglomeration
Of every kindred, tongue, and nation?

Peace, peace! No more of boast or vaunt,
Of false pretence, or lying cant;
Is it, indeed, to free the “niggers”
You lap white blood like thirsty tigers?

Peace, peace! and hold your braggart tongue,
Tall for your years, wild, reckless, young;
We've borne it long, but there's an end,
Beware, my boy, your speech amend!

Peace, peace! O pause, and take a breath;
Your horrid carnival of death
Is so exhausting; credit, gold,
Blood, name, and fame—all, all are sold!

Peace, peace! I've heard the lying mouth
Say all “your sympathies go South,”
'Tis false! aversion, horror, scorn
Is due where slaves are bred and born!

Peace, peace! Let go the South for ever,
United States again? no—never!
The bond is loosed, the die is cast,
The Rubicon of Fate is passed!

POLAND.

“O Heaven, he cried, my bleeding country save;
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?”—
Campbell.

Speak not thus in tones of gladness,
For my soul is steeped in sadness;
Mournful visions haunt my mind—
The wronged, the wrongers of mankind.
Bleeding, bound, and ghastly rise,
The crushed, the wronged, before mine eyes;
The wronger comes, with murderous brand,
Bondsman's chain, and felon hand.
Ah! my spirit burns and bleeds
For thee, O Poland! Ruthless deeds
Of brutal violence, barbarous wrong—
Themes for Campbell's deathless song—
Thou hast borne for sleepless years,
Dyed in blood and steeped in tears.
Now from charnel vault ascending,
From thy form the cerements rending,
From thy limbs the despot's chain—
Righteous Heaven, is this in vain?
When the crown'd unholy alliance
Met for cold ambitious dalliance—
Claims and pleas of right rejecting,
Poland's mangled form dissecting—
A limb was carved for Prussian brother,
Austria coolly grasped another,

While the Russian Bear kept growling
O'er the trunk, his war-wolves howling
In the rear, gaunt, fierce, audacious.
Britain's sympathies were spacious,
But she would do nothing more;
So she signed and sealed and swore.
Still believing she is bound
By that deed of wrong profound,
Still the wronger she will cherish,
Though a noble people perish,
And their country's soil be sodden
With her children's blood down-trodden.
Again will Britain sympathise—
Tears will rain from ladies' eyes
At recital of her wrongs;
Concerts, balls, bazaars, and songs,
Without end, to aid the Poles;
The sympathising current rolls
Strong and deep. 'Tis ever thus
We aid the Poles. With brother Russ
A feeble diplomacy dallies,
Being of the Holy Allies.
Oh! unjust, unwise, and cruel,
Thus to cast such precious jewel
Down before the northern boar—
His horrid tusks, for evermore
Shall they gnash, and grind, and rend?
God of right, the right defend!

NEEBOUR JOHNNIE'S COMPLAINT.

My aul' neebour Johnnie had lang been awa',
Twa towmonds an' mair I kent naething ava
O' what he was daein', or whaur he had been,
Till he juist pappit in to our dwallin' yestreen.

An' couthie an' kin' was oor meetin' I troo,
But the wrunkles were thick an' mair deep on his broo,
An' his heart it grew grit, an' his lip it would quiver,
An' he lookit as donsie an' dowie as ever.

Noo, Johnnie, quo' I, is't the wearifu' drink?
Is that neer-dae-weel callan o' yours on the brink
O' drucken destruction? has sorrow an' shame
Sitten doun on yer heart, yer house, an' yer name?

Weel, Nelly, my woman, it's e'en as ye say,
Like a ghaist I gae wan'erin' aboot a' the day,
At nicht, tho' sair wearit, my sleep I aft tine,
He is lost! O he's lost! an' I mourn an' repine.

An' aye ower my heart a dark feydom is hingin',
In my lug there's a soun' o' dule ever ringin'
For him wha ne'er sleeps till he's droon't his last groat,
An' wha's back is ne'er happit wi' jacket or coat.

To see him reel oot o' some publican's den
Wi' a face like the lum, an' his hair a' on en',
Gaun stoitin' an' sweerin' the hie road alang,
Hoo burnin' the shame, an' hoo bitter the pang.

But that's no the warst o't: he ance had a min'
That was mensefu' an' truthfu', an' honest an' kin',
But it's drink, O it's drink—a' gudeness is gane,
An' his heart is as caul' an' hard as a stane.

My malison on them, baith heavy an' deep,
Wha laid the first bow o' gude barley asteep,
An' wrocht it an' brocht it thro' worm an' thro' stell,
Till oot cam' a deil that the warl' canna quell.

Noo come ye wi' me an' leuk in at thae doors
Whaur barrels an' bottles are bing't up by scores,
It's there whaur the deil o' the stell ever lies,
An' we'll ne'er pit him oot till we stop the supplies.

OCTOBER, 1863.

Month of storm, beat shocks and sheaves,
Withered flowers, and falling leaves,
Sullen clouds that darkly loom
Like the shadows of the tomb;
Looks the sun through murky haze
With a weird and watery gaze,
Lighting up the fields and streams,
Vanishing like lightning gleams.
Brooks that sung through mead and dingle
With a silvery tinkle tingle,
Foaming, turbid, rush along
With a rudely brawling song.
Robin of the noiseless wing
And ruddy vest, begins to sing
His wintry lay, and, flitting by,
Scans me with his bold, bright eye.
Sore, October, thou hast grieved me,
Ah! thine advent hath deceived me,
For thou cam'st with thunder crashing,
Deadly lightnings round thee flashing,
Furious gales, and drenching rains,
Sweeping o'er the ravished plains.
I would welcome thee, October,
Gracious, mild, serene, and sober;
With thy fields of russet hue,
With thy skies of hazy blue,
With thy sun, whose chastened glory
Tells brown Autumn's latest story.

Month of all the circling year,
To my soul's best feelings dear,
Sweet the balm thou oft hast poured
When my heart had quailed and cowered,
And shrunk into its inner cell
To bleed unseen. I may not tell
The bitter woes, the chilling fears,
The grief that lies “too deep for tears,”
The venomed sting, whose burning smart
Thrills o'er the life-strings of my heart.
O then how sweet the soft solace,
To gaze upon thy saintly face,
So dreamy, tender, meek, and calm;
My spirit drank the soothing balm,
The sense of stillness and repose
That round thee like a halo flows.
Dear to you above all others,
You, my toiling, care-worn brothers,
Is the needed, blessed boon
Of your weekly afternoon,
When, with grateful heart and eyes,
'Neath our “Indian summer” skies,
Our own October, forth ye go
Picking berry, nùt, and sloe.
While the woodlands dim and sere,
Their treasure shed to form the bier—
The death-bed of the waning year—
Think of your own so very near:
So learn, so live, that each October
Finds you more wise, more chaste, more sober.

THE VOICE OF BLOOD.

“The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground.”

In the valley, on the mountain,
From the swamp, the lake, the fountain,
From the ocean, from the river,
The voice of blood is sounding ever.

In Columbian forest's shadow,
On the plain, the field, the meadow,
The purple current ceaseth never—
The voice of blood is sounding ever.

China, land misnamed Celestial,
Where they slaughter men like bestial,
Thousand heads at once they sever—
Blood! that voice is sounding ever.

Down Circassia's rocks and hills,
Patriot blood, in crimson rills,
Gusheth on, and ceaseth never—
Blood! still blood! it cries for ever.

Poland, in “the book of time,”
Darker deeds of blood and crime
Wrought on thee, were written never—
Thy blood! thy tears! they cry for ever.

“The weeping blood in woman's heart,”
I give thee, Denmark—ah! thou art
A mark on which the robber's quiver
Is spent.—Must we confer for ever?

Round the dark horizon sweep
With thine eye—stern vigil keep;
Fresh storm-signals flash and quiver,
War and blood foretelling ever.

Why for ever courting France?
When we pipe she will not dance;
Oft I fear our paths will sever—
Follow in her wake!—no, never!

Soon the brazen trump of war,
With startling clangour from afar,
May wake our shores—make Europe broad
One battle-field—forbid it, God!

HINTS TO POETS.

Paint your scenes in rainbow dyes,
Gild with glories of the skies;
Crown the fabric Fancy rears
With diamonds from the starry spheres;
With roseate draperies of the morn
Young Aurora still adorn;
Make your summer suns at even
Ope the golden gates of heaven;
Goddess of the silver bow!
Queen of night! bright Cynthia thou!
Who young Endymion's charms
Clasp within thy shining arms;
Thou who hear'st the tender tale
Of lovers in the moonlit vale,
Call'st the wood sprites from their cells,
Fairies in the midnight dells,
Naiads from the lakes and streams,
Moonstruck poets fed on dreams,
While Reason's taper faintly gleams,
Thee they love, and bless thy beams;—
But no farther, and no faster,
Being but a poetaster,
I can go. I'd clear the way
For those poets of the day

Who, in strong spasmodic throes,
Are writhing downward to the toes,
Scorns the Muse—all common things—
Would Pegasus lend his wings,
Higher still she would aspire;
Snatching Dan Apollo's lyre,
She would charm our ravished ears
With the music of the spheres;
She would bind the morning star
In the traces of her car,
Give the flaming comet chase
Through the vasty realms of space.
This, all this, with no pretence
To nature, truth, or common sense,
These for thee, spasmodic poet,
Mix them well—results will show it.

LUGGIE, PAST AND PRESENT.

I have seen thy crystal waters
Mirror Beauty's sportive daughters;
Seen the village maiden there
Lave her brow and braid her hair—
Wade, till in the limpid pool
Her snowy feet shone pure and cool.
Peering through a clump of rushes,
'Neath the overhanging bushes,
That o'er the stream their shadows flung,
The water-hen led out her young—
The wildest, nimblest things alive—
How they swim, and wheel, and dive,
Slightest stir or whisper near
Quick as light they disappear!

Cleaving swift the mimic tide,
Shoals of minnows dart and glide.
Patient on the pebbly strand
See the watchful urchin stand—
Wand, and string, and crooked pin,
How he hauls the “baggies” in!
Till some imp, his pleasure dashing,
Up the stream comes singing, plashing—

Flies the game, the sport is o'er—
The twain together leave the shore.

Tinkling, gushing, singing stream,
On thy banks I wont to dream;
To thy lulling music listening,
As I strayed my glad eyes glistening
With sweet tears. Then onward still,
Down the stream below the mill,
To the lone and lovely dell
Where the ringing echoes swell;
Where in robes of richest hue,
Pink and purple, gold and blue,
Smiling Flora reigns, and sheds
On her children's jewelled heads
The dewy fragrance, fresh and sweet,
That ever here the senses greet.
Straying through each sylvan nook,
With enraptured gaze I look
On the fair illumined page
Nature paints for youth and age;
Now that page is blurred and soiled—
Nature of her charms despoiled.

Now, ye twittering, warbling things—
All that coos, or chirps, or sings—
Fly, oh fly, ye may not dwell
In the Luggie's lovely dell!
The linnet and the finch again,
Piping blackbird's mellow strain,
We hear not—and the vesper thrush,
His small flirtations in the bush

Revealing, with a gush of song,
May not here his stay prolong.
Nests are gone from brake and bush;
Down the dell with whoop and rush,
Sooty imps from underground
Plunder, trample all around.
Flora mourns her children slain;
For their lives she sued in vain—
Primrose and the sweet blue bell
Lie murdered in the lonely dell;
And ragged robin's pinky hood
Gleams no more within the wood.
Why, you ask, does Nature fail?
Lo! the cause—the rail, the rail!

Luggie, by thy turbid stream
Never more shall poet dream—
Never village maiden there
Lave her brow and braid her hair—
Sportive youth his harmless pranks
Plays not on the cinder banks
That rise around thy fetid stream,
Where fire, and flame, and rushing steam
Burn, and blaze, and scream for aye.
There they know no Sabbath-day,
And the fiery, molten river
Night and day is running ever.

NORTH AMERICA AND HER WAR PARSONS.

“Angels and ministers of grace defend us,”
Not airs from Heaven, quite the reverse you send us,
Your priests who counsel war and vengeance dire,
Their text—extermination, sword, and fire.

Their eloquent appeals, and flowers of speech,
Their loudest platform thunders fail to reach
The British heart; for why? we can't dispense
With human feeling, truth, and common sense.

You say the God of Love, the Prince of Peace,
Approves your cause, that war shall never cease
Till the red demon sweep with gory wing
Your sister land of every living thing.

Your feigned regards, your Heaven-invoking cant,
Do not deceive us; what you really want
Is conquest, vengeance, empire, and the slaves
May bondsmen live and rot in bondsmen's graves.

Birds of ill omen fold your sable pinions,
Cease your gyrations through our Queen's dominions;
Your pecking, screaming, croaking, don't alarm us—
Your frothy declamations do not charm us.

Do no “compunctious visitings” e'er reach you?
Nor sense of duty? Gospel precepts teach you
That not to where the tide of carnage rolls
Your hand should point—yours is the charge of souls.

Between the dead and living take your stand,
Uplift to Heaven the interceding hand
The plague to stay, and peace or separation—
Save your fair land from worse than desolation.

GRAN'FAITHER AT CAM'SLANG

[_]

At the time of the great Revival Work in 1740 or 1742.

He donn'd his bannet braid and blue,
His hame-spun suit o' hodden grey,
His blue boot-hose drew ower his knees,
An' teuk the gate at skreigh o' day.

His Bible had he in his pouch,
O' scones an' cheese a guidly whang;
An' staff in haun', he's aff to see
The godly wark at auld Cam'slang.

“The lingerin' star that greets the morn”
Was twinklin' thro' the misty blue;
The muircock craw'd, the paitrick whirr'd,
An' roun' his head the peesweep flew.

He trampit on ower muir an' moss
For thretty miles an' mair, I ween,
Till to the Kirk o' auld Cam'slang
He cam' on Saturday at e'en.

He lodged him in a hamely hoose,
Syne dauner't oot intil the nicht;
The mune was down, the win's were lown,
But a' the lift wi' stars was bricht.

Nae soun' o' youngsters oot at e'en,
Nae voice o' whisp'ring lovers there;
He heard nae soun' but that o' praise—
He heard nae voice but that o' prayer.

By ilka bush o' whin or broom,
By lown dyke back or braeside green,
Folk greetin', prayin', praisin' there,
A' sittin', kneelin', roun' war seen.

He teuk the bannet aff his heid,
An' liftit up to heaven his e'e;
Wi' solemn awe, an' holy fear,
His heart was fu' as fu' coud be.

He kneel'd ahint a boortree bush,
Whaur but the e'e o' God coud see,
Whaur but the ear o' God coud hear—
An' pray'd baith lang an' fervently.

Neist day, frae a' the kintra roun',
By tens o' hunners folk cam there,
To hear the words o' grace and truth
Frae preachers in the open air.

He thocht to sit within the kirk
He rather wad than sit ootbye,
Sae in he gaed, an' there he sat
Till stars were blinkin' in the sky.

Nae cries he heard, nae fits he saw,
But sabs were rife, an' tearfu' een
That ne'er leuk'd aff the preacher's face,
Was a' that coud be heard or seen.

The dews were fa'in' on the yirth—
On mony a heart the dews o' grace
Had fa'en that day, e'en while they sat
At Jesus' feet, in Mary's place.

At dawnin' o' the morn he rose
On Monday—hame he boud to gang;
And a' his days he ne'er forgat
That Sabbath-day at auld Cam'slang.

Whan years had gane, a printed beuk
Cam' oot, whilk I hae aften seen,
An' it was seal'd, an' it was sign'd,
By ministers a guidly wheen.

It said that mony hunner souls,
What time the wark was at Cam'slang,
War turn'd to God, an' a' their days
Had leev'd an' gane as saints shoud gang.

COMPARATIVE SLAVERY.

“Look on this picture, and on that.”

Tell me not of negro slavery,
Of its shackles, stripes, and woes—
Shackles stronger, stripes more cruel,
Deeper woe the drunkard knows.

Ah! what fetters adamantine
Bind and hold him in their thrall!
Oft the scorpion scourge of horror
On his shrinking soul will fall.

Tell me not of buying, selling,
Like the beasts in field or fold,
Human beings—lo! the drunkard—
Body, soul, and heart hath sold.

Sold! is it to plant the cotton,
Hoe the soil, and pick the pod?
No; to drink the demon tyrant,
Foe to man, accursed of God.

Tell me not the negro mother
Rears her children for the mart,
To be torn, when master wills it,
From her clinging arms and heart.

We have thousand British mothers
Who, in want, neglect, and cold,
See their infant victims pining
To the fiend intemperance sold.

Do we loathe the beastly orgies
Of the negro-breeding pens?
Look within our thousand brothels,
Viler far than negro dens.

Why do we discern so clearly
Beams that dim our brother's eye,
While the motes, that mar our vision,
We so seldom can descry?

Heritage of British freeman
Never can the drunkard claim;
Slave of drink, and thrall of misery,
His the heritage of shame.

Men of temperance, men of action,
Ye who work, and think, and feel
For the cause, Heaven smiles upon you
Labouring for your country's weal.

On the battle-field of temperance
Are no garments rolled in blood,
Nor the sound of shouting warrior
Wading in the purple flood.

Patriotic zeal and pity,
Effort born of brother love,
These your arms, go on and conquer;
Success waits you from above.

POLAND.

“Hope shrieking fled, and mercy bade farewell.”

Words cannot come, tears will not flow,
So fierce the anguish, stern the woe
The Polish patriot feels. In vain
With bursting heart and burning brain,
With high-strung nerves and vengeful hand,
For freedom and his bleeding land,
He madly strikes the barbarous foe—
Chains, bondage, blood, and tears, and woe,
His only meed; and deeper gloom
Broods o'er the dark and bloody tomb
Of Polish freedom. Lo, the bear,
With rending claws and teeth that tear,
And arms that crush out hope and life,
Growls, hideous victor in the strife!

We sympathise but do not hope,
As through thy serpent folds we grope
Dark diplomacy, every fold
Constrictive, cruel, slippery, cold;
The horrid folds still crush and bind,
As round the victim's form they wind—
A shapeless mass, the remnant sole,
When thus prepared, is swallowed whole.

What agonies of hope deferred
Were thine, while neighbouring Powers conferred;
When bootless diplomatic notes
Flew thick as wintry sunbeam motes!
Then came the end, and thou wert left,
Of mercy, hope, and help bereft.

Ah! Garibaldi! we had hope
That now thy strong right arm had scope
To wield the brand uplifted never
But to rescue, defend, deliver
The victims of despotic sway,
And pour the glorious light of day
Through charnel dungeons vile and dark,
Where time had neither hope nor mark,
And laid the Bourbon's crown and throne
Upon the sacred altar stone
Of Freedom. Yet, poor Poland's name,
We breathe it with a blush of shame:
Her language, liberty, and laws
Must die! Just Heaven, avenge her cause!
We cannot, rather will not. None
Will take her by the hand: alone,
Before broad Europe, lost, forlorn,
She lies dismembered, bleeding, torn.

Indignant sorrow swells our breast;
Before high Heaven a stern protest
We make against that barbarous Power
That conquers only to devour.

GRANNIE VISITED AT BLACKHILL, SHOTTS, July, 1805.

It's fifty towmonds since, an' mair,
Wi' lichtsome fit an' richt guid-wull,
Ae simmer day I teuk the gate
Oot ower the muirs to auld Blackhill.
The July sun was in the lift,
The laverock's sang was clear an' shrill.
Nae ither soun' but muirfowls' ca',
An' lammies baain' on the hill.

I birz't oot thro' the jaggy whins,
Aneath whase gowden blooms her nest
The lintie bigs—sweet birdie! thine
O' a' the sangs I lo'e the best.
Nae dyke, nae yett, I had to loup;
Fock teuk the gate that pleas'd themsel's,
An' sae did I wi' kiltit coat,
Knee-deep amang the heather bells.

O! lown an' laigh that lanely cot,
The dwallin' o' my sainted grannie,
Whaur, at the winnock laigh an' wee,
Sat at her wheel my Auntie Nannie.

Wi' velvet fug the thack was green,
That lay abune the aul'-warl' biggin';
An' thick an' strang the fouet grew
A' roun' the divot-happit riggin'.

Twa humil't kye, like moudies sleek,
An' gabblin' ducks an' kecklin' hens;
A green kail-yard, a big peat-stack,
An' mony ither odds an' en's.
A stane-cast doun, the gowany brae,
Ahint the hoose, a trottin' burnie,
Wi' trouts an' mennin's plenish't weel,
Was singin' blithely on its journey.

Nae need had I at grannie's door
To staun an' tirl at the pin,
For couthie tongues an' kin'ly hearts
War there to gi'e me welcome in.
For that was ane o' Scotlan's hames—
Her peasant hames in “auld-langsyne;”
An' never till my heart be caul'
Shall I their precious memories tine.

There sat my granny spinnin' thrang,
Aye cronin' o'er some godly saum,
Tho' wrunkl't sair her face wi' eld,
It brichen't wi' a holy calm.

An' gutcher wi' a neebor sat
Thrang crackin' aboot sheep an' kye;
An' gutcher said he had a beast
That “thretty pund Scots” wouldna buy.

But siccan cracks war nocht to me,
I boud to hear the martyr's story
Frae granny's lips; her ain forbear
Had dee't for Christ, his croon an' glory.
An' whan the gloamin' saftly fell,
My grannie sat ootside the door,
An' drew me kin'ly to her side,
As aften she had dune before.

The kye cam' routin' frae the fiel';
The e'enin' air was rich wi' balm;
Stown frae the bean an' clover blooms,
The dews were fa'in' saft an' calm.
The corncraik chirm't amang the corn,
The mavis on the bourtree bush,
Maist darklin's sang; an' up the brae
Cam' trottin' burnie's siller gush.

“God bless thee, bairn—my Jamie's bairn,”
She said, an' straikit doun my hair;
“O may the martyr's God be thine,
And mak thee his peculiar care.”

I laid my heid intil her lap,
My heart was fu', I couldna speak;
An', leukin up, I saw her dicht
A tear that tremblit on her cheek.

I've seen a length o' days sinsyne,
An' muckle baith o' guid an' ill;
But yet, thro' a', I ne'er forgat
That simmer gloamin' at Blackhill.

DECAY.

THE MAIDEN.

I gazed on a beautiful girl,
How bright were the tints on her cheek!
How brilliant the light in her eyes!—
Her manner soft, pensive, and meek.

So full of sad sweetness her smile,
Her voice like the low breathing flute;
Her fingers long, slender and white,
And soft the light fall of her foot.

But ah! the chill hand of desay
Lay cold on her white, heaving breast;
She faded away with the leaf—
The Autumn winds sung to her rest.

THE YOUTH.

A stripling, fair, slender, and tall,
And pale as the lily of May—
The down yet unmown on his cheek—
Is drooping in early decay.

He strays by the lake and the stream,
Inhaling the health-bringing breeze;
Feeble his step, and panting his breath,
As he lingers beneath the trees.

Gloomy and stern November came,
'Twas cloudy, and stormy, and cold;
The death-cold youth is borne away
In his frozen mantle's fold.

THE AGED.

That stooping and tottering form!
He is wrinkled, hoary, and pale:
Slow decay is sapping his life,
And desire has begun to fail.

The silver cord that bound his life
Is loosened; the aged form
Reposes now on his narrow bed,
With darkness, decay, and the worm.

The human form, each thing that lives,
And grows on this perishing earth—
The trees, the plants, the flowers, the fruits—
Inherit decay from their birth.

The heavens, with the shining stars,
Grow old and must suffer decay,
And, like a worn garment, be changed,
And vanish for ever away.

AULD MITHER SCOTLAND.

“Scotland, the land of all I love,
The land of all that love me;
Land whose green sod my youth hath trod,
Whose sod shall lie above me.”

Auld Scotland! hoo I lo'e the name,
My guid auld-fashion'd mither!
It maunna be thy kin'ly bairns
Should tine thee a' thegither.
O! weel I like ilk thing o' thine—
Thy cozy theekit dwallin's,
Thy bare-fit lassies, tosh an' trig—
Thy canny, clever callans.

Thy misty hills are dear to me—
Ilk glen an' bosky dingle;
The lanely loch, on whilk the lichts
An' dancin' shadows mingle;
The muirlan' burnie, purple-fringed
Wi' hinny-scented heather,
Whaur gowden king-cups blink aneath
The brecken's waving feather.

Nae, mither! nae; we maunna pairt!
E'en tho' they say thou's deein'
That speech is gain, they say thy face
We'll sune nae mair be seein'.
But O! I fear the Doric's gaun,
For, mang baith auld an' young,
There's mony noo that canna read
Their printit mither tongue.

I like the English tongue fu' weel
In writin' an' in readin';
But 'tween the English an' the Scotch
There's lack o' truth an' breedin'.
It's England's meteor flag that burns
Abune oor battle plains;
Oor victories, baith by sea an' lan',
It's England aye that gains.

It's England mak's an' signs the peace
Whan nations tire o' fechtin';
Whan Europe's balance gangs agee,
She trims the scales for wechtin'.
An' England lauchs, as weel she may,
The Wallace touir at Stirlin'
Maun tapless staun, like pillar'd saut,
Until the maiks are birlin'.

An', mither, something's in the win'
Wull gar ye raise yer bristles;
There's some wad plant in a' yer kirks
The big kist fu' o' whistles.
Leuk up frae oot yer bluidy graves,
Ye martyr'd Covenanters,
Wha rais'd the saum in cave and glen,
An' bann'd baith pipes and chanters.

It's no the kittlin' o' the ear,
The thrillin' o' the sense,
The tearfu' e'e, an' upturn'd leuk,
In rapture maist intense;
The holy music Scotlan' craves
Are strains devotion brings
Warm frae the heart, whan God's ain han'
Sweeps ower the dinlin' strings.

MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS AT THE CLOSE OF 1864.

Dark and lone, at midnight sitting,
Not unthinking, not unwitting,
As I muse of my surroundings,
Sorrows deep and spirit woundings—
The anguish keen, the bitter woes,
The pangs a mother only knows—
When e'en the children she has borne
Pour disgrace, reproach, and scorn
On the thin and silv'ry hairs
Whiten'd by a thousand cares
For their weal. That stooping form,
Once their shield in ev'ry storm,
That swept across the battle-field
Of humble life, to age must yield
And weak decay; yet still to Heaven
For them her prayers and tears are given.
Ah! sharper than a serpent's sting
The barbed dart, like words they fling,
That quiver in a mother's heart
With bleeding, rankling, cruel smart.

Be hush'd, sad heart! the midnight bell
Tolls out, old year, thy solemn knell!

Slow down my cheeks sad tears are stealing;
I see the grisly monarch sealing
With his broad signet evermore
Thy lifeless features, “Sixty-four:”
E'en while I gaze thy being fades
Into the dark, mysterious shades
Of dread eternity; and we
Who lived, and moved, and sinned in thee
Stand on the crumbling shores of life,
Where waves of sorrow, guilt, and strife
Come rolling, surging, foaming on—
We look around, our friends are gone!
We wait the destined wave that rolls
To bear us to the “land of souls.”
Oh! when we leave Time's storm-beat shore,
May we be safely wafted o'er
The gulf of death, to yon bright clime
Where there is neither death nor time.

But hark! the bells, with joyous chime,
Welcome the new-born child of time.
We bless thee, babe—may ev'ry mood
Of thine be happy, peaceful, good;
May thy right hand the olive bear
Of peace to all. Hail, infant year!

ELEGY.

“Where are ye, friend of my youth?
And echo answered, ‘Where!’”

Where are ye, dear companions of my youth?
I gaze around and meet no answering eye—
No glance of girlish sympathy and truth,
No bounding, dancing step, no glad reply.

Reflected fair in Memory's magic glass,
I see pale Margaret with the golden hair,
And dark-hair'd Tina, a blithe, romping lass,
And Jane with ringlets brown and sweetly fair;

And blue-eyed Lisa, whose unhappy home
Loomed like a thunder-cloud o'er her young life;
Who oft with tears and sobs would vow to roam
Far from the abode of misery, hate, and strife;

And bright-eyed Jessie, fancy's wayward child,
Yet warm of heart, to girlish friendships true;
To nature still she sung her wood-notes wild
By woods and streams, 'mongst verdure, flowers, and dew.

100

What glorious sunshine on our village lay
On summer days—what lovely moonlight shone
At night on garden plot and cottage grey
In my own lowly village, dear Langloan!

No sound of tramping hoofs, no yelling pack,
No merry winding of the hunter's horn,
Rous'd sleeping echo to fling boldly back
The challenge rude, as if in mocking scorn.

A troop of merry girls, the foremost I,
With naked feet and wildly-streaming hair,
Rush'd through Drumpellier woods with whoop and cry;
Our merry romping game was hound and hare.

But Love and Hymen came with added years,
And dearer bonds entwin'd each youthful heart;
But blue-eyed Lisa sat alone in tears,
As from her side she saw each friend depart.

Now widow'd Margaret's golden hair is white,
And Tina's dark locks moulder in the grave,
And lovely Jane has bid a long good night
To all she loved: not love her life could save.

Long years had pass'd, and nought was heard or seen
Of poor Eliza—she a wandering life
Had led, a mother too, 'twas said, had been—
Yet never bore the sacred name of wife.

101

And bright-eyed Jessie down the vale of years
Hath far descended; soon will she be laid
By kindred hands, with many filial tears,
Beneath sepulchral boughs that wave o'erhead.

Companions of my early youth, adieu!
I saw ye not when ye were called away;
Oh! might I hope in bliss to meet with you,
That hope would gild Life's fast-declining day.

102

WINTER.

Loud blaw the wild an' wintry win's,
Wi' eerie howl an' angry thud,
Wi' blatterin' rain, an' rattlin' hail,
Loud roarin' thro' the naked wud.

The driftin' rack o' laigh-hung clouds
Is drivin' ower the murky lift;
The day is dune ere weel begun,
Syne comes the e'enin's cheerfu' thrift.

Red rows the burn frae bank t' brae;
The dowie banks are screenge't an' bare;
The flow'ris are deid, the birdies dumb—
There's no a cheep in a' the air.

The lea is wallow't, bleach't, an' bare;
The leafless thorn is red wi' haws;
An' on the fiel's o' brairdin' wheat
Comes souffin' doun the hungry craws.

103

Thro' driftin' snaw, an' blashie sleet,
Puir bodies wade, an' grue, an' grane;
Then comes the white-pow'd warlock frost,
An' a' he touches turns to stane.

The curlers ply the “roarin' play,”
An' rinks are made, an' wagers ta'en;
An' loch an' muir are ringin' roun'
Wi' echoes o' the curlin' stane.

At lown dyke backs the cowrin' nowte
Ha'e biel't them frae the sleety blast
That soops frae doun the snaw-tapp't hills—
A hafflins thaw is come at last.

O! waes me for the fock that dree
Cauld poortith, an' her mony waes,
Wha seldom, e'en in winter time,
Are fill't wi' meat, or hap't wi' claes—

Ha'e scarce a spunk o' fire to warm
Their chitterin' bairnies' fingers red;
Ha'e ne'er a shoe to fend their feet,
An' scarce a blanket on the bed;—

A wee drap parritch, naething mair,
But taties an' a pickle saut;
A wee bit bread at orra times,
But nocht that comes o' beef or maut.

104

O! I ha'e ken'd—I ken e'en now—
O' hames to whilk a mither's care
Has brocht contentment wi' sic lot—
For mither's love, an' God's, war there!

O! ye wha ha'e o' warl's gear
Mair than ye need or wish to spen',
Let Winter's cauld juist warm yer hearts,
To help puir, needfu' workin' men.

105

AULD SCOTLAND'S WELCOME TO GARIBALDI.

I wadna bid ye welcome here
In Southern phrase; I wadna speir
What was the erran' brocht ye here;
But soul, and heart, and tongue shall cheer,
And welcome Garibaldi!

The warm bluid's swellin' like the tide
Through my auld heart; the saut tears glide
Adown my cheek, for joy and pride,
To shake yer haun', and, side by side,
Staun' wi' my Garibaldi!

I ca' ye mine, for ye're the brither
O' my ain Wallace; twa sic ither
Ne'er leeved upon the yirth thegither.
Blest amang women was the mither
That bore thee, Garibaldi!

Welcome! oh welcome to our shore!
Nae trumpet blast, nae cannon's roar
Shall welcome gi'e; yet ne'er before
Did guest mair welcome tread our shore—
Sae welcome, Garibaldi!

106

Guid guide thee by the gins and traps
Set by thae wild assassin chaps—
Aye casting bombs amang the Naps;
When ye're in Lunnon, frae their traps
Keep far, guid Garibaldi.

Thy generous heart richt sair maun be
Aye to deny puir Poland's plea—
Nae help the brave Magyars to gi'e—
Nor gallant Denmark, stout but wee;
They a' need Garibaldi.

Oh war the heather in the bell,
I'd guide ye thro' the hills mysel',
Whaur Freedom's standard never fell;
Whaur hill and rock wi' echoing swell,
Wad welcome Garibaldi!

107

STANZAS TO APRIL, AND INVITATION TO GARIBALDI.

April's genial sun is shining,
Vernal clouds with “silver lining,”
Rich and balmy dews distilling,
Flora's opening flower-cups filling
With the pearly treasure;
On her robe of freshest green,
Thousand flow'ry gems are seen
Peeping through the tender grass;
By woodland path and mountain pass
Now we stray with pleasure.

Sweet the tender, tuneful notes
Poured from thousand warbling throats;
Sweet the tale of truth and love,
Softly told by cushat-dove
In his amorous cooing.
Sweet the music of the streams,
Where the poet strays and dreams—
Where the incense he receives,
Of bursting buds and tender leaves,
While the Muses wooing.

Now, sweet Spring, my song must fail;
Other sounds and sights assail—

108

Sounds of cheers that swelling rise
In one vast pæan to the skies—
'Tis the welcome given
To Italia's liberator,
Lion king in heart and feature;
Sight more stirring, more sublime,
Never graced the “march of time;”
Bless, oh bless him, heaven!

Freedom holds high jubilee
In our land, the brave and free;
Freedom's sons, we greet thee well,
Thy glorious name our cheers shall tell—
'Tis Freedom's incarnation.
See, in that stupendous mass,
Britain's sons united pass,
Waiving claims of rank and birth,
Brethren of one blood on earth,
In this sublime ovation.

Garibaldi, Scotia stands
On tip-toe with extended hands,
Glowing heart, and welcome high,
On the wings of April fly—
The land of Wallace calls.
Queen of the West, fair Glasgow's name,
Not last not least in civic fame,
Not last not least upon thy roll
Of friends—she now with heart and soul
Invites thee to her halls.

109

TO MOTHER EARTH.

[_]

Jeremiah xxii. 29.

O earth, earth, earth! where wilt thou hide thy slain?
How cover up the blood thy children pour in vain?
The air is rank with death, and rent with shrieks and groans,
For still the voice of war rolls out in thunder tones.

O earth, earth, earth! there comes an awful day,
When thou and all thy works shall burn and melt away;
When all thy dead shall rise, and the sepulchral sea
Shall render up the dead that in her caverns be.

O earth, earth, earth! thy heart is hard and cold,
More cruel, cruel still when waxing dim and old;
“Thy voice is still for war,” and through the oceans spilt
Of kindred blood—thou still would'st wade to deeper depths of guilt.

O earth, earth, earth! let not poor Poland's name
In mocking sympathy be breathed for very, very shame;
“The boar that from the forest comes doth waste her at his pleasure,”
Much soulless sympathy thou giv'st and savest thy blood and treasure.

110

O earth, earth, earth! was thy maternal breast
E'er so outraged, so foully stained, so reft of peace and rest?
The children of one home, the brothers of one race,
Who flash their fratricidal swords before the mother's face.

O earth, earth, earth! hear'st thou the solemn call?
The voice of Him who speaks, the Father—God of all?
Let tyrants quail, for God is judge, and sets the prisoners free,
The wrath of man but works His will, earth's sovereign judge is He.

111

WILLIAM OF PRUSSIA, THE AGGRESSOR.

“Why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but perceivest not the beam that is in thine own.”— Matt. vii. 3.

What ho! brother Denmark; so now in your eye
A beam—nay, 'tis two—my keen optics descry;
Our “wee German lairdies,” friend Hapsburg and I,
Will pull it out quickly—don't wince, we will try.

I care not for what other monarchs opine,
I have told them before that my right is divine—
To reign as I list, and make war when I please,
Of men and of money my subjects to ease.

Our Grandma of England will find a cat's-paw
She never will make of our daughter-in-law;
Though she has given heirs to the Brandenburg line,
What then? I'm still king by a right that's divine.

The Kaiser aspires to the top of the tree
In the dear Faderland, so we do not agree;
But in this we are one, to deprive the proud Dane
Of rights which he vows he will stoutly maintain.

112

Friend Hapsburg is troubled with dimness of sight,
The beams in his eye we behold with affright;
There is Poland, and Venice, and Hungary too,
Obscuring, distorting each object in view.

A thorn in your side you can never pull out
Is Kossuth; and Poland will soon make a rout;
Italia for Venice her right arm has nerved—
You'll ne'er act the play out of “Venice Preserved.”

When Poland was carved out, a pretty good slice
Was given to you, Brandenburg—not over nice;
You swallowed it whole—that's a beam in your eye.
Pull it out, and be candid—do, brother, try.

Brother Denmark is back'd by Britain and France.
Beware the Imperial, he'll lead you a dance;
Your provinces fair, on the beautiful Rhine,
Might get a new lord, your frontier a new line.

Now, hark ye, Sir Teuton, take care of yourself;
It may not be long till you're laid on the shelf;
You may find the deep Eider a dangerous stream,
And the thunders of war dissolve your fond dream.

113

SEPTEMBER.

Matron fair, ripe, rich and glowing,
Full thy stores, thy vintage flowing;
Golden sunflowers, dahlias blowing,
Deck thy festal board.
With ruddy fruit the boughs are bending,
Heaven and earth in blessing blending;
Nature sings, her song ascending
To her bounteous Lord.

Flora weeps her waning flowers,
While Pomona lavish showers
Her wealth: the field and garden dowers
With fruitage fresh and fair.
Richly crowned with golden sheaves,
Ere October tints the leaves,
Thy full hand each want relieves
Of penury and care.

Scotia's vine—the bramble twining—
Copse-wood bank, and hedge-row lining,
See the jetty clusters shining,
Children, come and gather!
Richer fruits and fairer flowers
Gem the southern fields and bowers;
Dearer to this heart of ours,
Bramble, fern, and heather.

114

Hark! oh hark these dropping shots,
The heath is foul with crimson clots,
The sportsman o'er his victim gloats,
And coolly calls it sport.
Alas! ye sinless, hapless things,
Your blood-stained breasts and broken wings,
My heart with deepest pity wrings,
Slain in each wild resort.

Softly radiant, deeply blue,
Flecked with clouds of snowy hue,
Soft enchantment gilds the view
While I skyward gaze.
Bark of light that sail'st at even
Through the azure depths of heaven,
Dear the boon to Autumn given,
Thy nightly full-orb'd rays.

The woods are still, the warbler's throat
Pours no more the wooing note,
The lark, on mounting wing afloat,
Hath ceased his matin lays:
A softly sweet ethereal calm
Sheds around its soothing balm;
My heart indites a silent psalm
Of joyous, grateful praise.

115

DANE AND GERMAN.

Sadly, deeply grieving, wondering,
At the diplomatic blundering,
Powerless to prevent the thundering,
On Denmark's leaguer'd shore,
Brave Denmark! in her fated hour,
Will not falter, will not cower,
Though a pledged and trusted power
Has failed her evermore.

Leaning on a broken reed,
Hand and heart full sorely bleed;
In this her hour of utmost need
We ever stand aloof.
“Princess,” erst a Danish maiden,
Denmark's wrongs we do not aid in;
The bloody cerements she is laid in,
Are German warp and woof.

For this were our loud pæans sung,
For this the joy-bells loudly rung,
Abroad a thousand banners flung,
In festal welcome waved.

116

From the German Faderland
Hadst thou come—the Teuton brand
On thy fair brow and lily hand,
Thy country had been saved.

Were thy sire of Coburg's line,
Or held his rule by right divine,
The eagles ne'er in land of thine
Had fleshed the murderous beak.
Britain! from thy sullied fame,
The glorious prestige of thy name,
Wipe off the stain, and quench the shame
A Briton may not speak.

117

THE DEMON DRINK!

“I do well to be angry, even unto death.”—
Jonah iv. 9.

“I do well to be angry, even unto death,”
To denounce, to decry with unfaltering breath,
To lift up my voice, cry aloud, and not spare,
A fiend—yea, a legion are with us, beware!

Beware the foul demon, avoid his vile haunts,
For soul-crushing horrors, woes, miseries, and wants
Still follow his steps and attend in his train,
And his path is bestrewn with the bones of his slain!

His wings are outspread, like a dark thunder cloud
O'er thee, my lov'd Scotland; the pall and the shroud,
And the grave of thy glory thine own hands prepare,
While harbouring and serving the demon, beware!

Where are thy Sabbaths? Say how are they spent?
Dost use them as channels whence passion finds vent,
In drinking, blaspheming, in orgies obscene,
In the fields, in the woods, in the filthy shebeen.

118

Where are thy children? At play on the street;
Romping and shouting the varlets I meet;
Ah, my soul it is sad, and my heart it is pained,
For children neglected and Sabbaths profaned!

Where are thy mothers? where are thy wives?
Do they make it the aim and the end of their lives
To be sober and virtuous, not gadding abroad,
But training their children for life and for God!

I do well to be angry; 'tis horror to think
Of mothers possessed by the demon of drink,
Who lay on his altar their all upon earth,
The treasures of childhood, the home, and the hearth.

'Tis sad, on the eve of the Sabbath to hear
The shout of the drunkard—his maudlin cheer,
As out from the shebeen he staggers along,
With oaths and obscenity larding his song!

But sadder to see, and sadder to hear,
A mother—that name should be sacred and dear—
A drunkard, a libel on true womankind;
How chuckles the demon such votaries to find!

“I do well to be angry, even unto death;”
A mother, a drunkard, her poisonous breath
Sweeps over her hearth like the deadly simoom,
Leaving want, woe, and shame, desolation and gloom.

119

PHASES OF GIRLHOOD.

With fondest love and sweetest pleasure
Gaze I on my infant treasure—
My sweetest rose, my purest pearl,
Heaven's latest gift, my baby-girl.
Opening wide her violet eyes
With a wondering, sweet surprise,
Gazing in my smiling face,
Nestled in my soft embrace,
With her rose-tipped fingers straying
O'er my breast, or sportive playing
With my falling tangled hair:
Tender love and anxious care
Ever shield from pain and peril
Mother's pet, her baby-girl.

A babe no more; a lovely child,
With soft blue eyes, and features mild,
With prattling tongue, and nimble feet,
And silvery voice as music sweet.
Nature has been very kind
To my darling; from her mind,
Stored with sparkling gems of thought,
On her lisping tongue are brought

120

To my ears, and she will ask
Questions that will sometimes task
Me to give, as she desired,
Answers such as were required.
Mother's will is still her law,
Bonds of sweet affection draw
To my heart, and hold her there,
With earnest prayer and loving care,
And trust in God, from sin and peril,
To guard and shield my little girl.

Now my girl must go to school,
Be subject to her teacher's rule;
At home were trained the budding beauties
Of her mind—her moral duties.
Well she knows her gentle heart
Is tender, true, and void of art;
On that mind, so pure and good,
May never evil thoughts intrude;
In that loving little heart
May never shame or grief have part;
In that motley congregation—
A common school—contamination
From falsehood, evil words, and strife,
Sully the streams of youthful life—
From every ill that would infect
Her mind, may God my child protect;
And much may she, my darling daughter,
Profit by the knowledge taught her.

121

When school she leaves, be still my pearl,
An innocent and happy girl.

My girl is but a workman's child,
And so not Miss but Maggie styled.
At school four years has been at most,
And now she leaves—not for the cost,
For that is small—at home she's wanted;
A little colony is planted
Upon the hearth and round the table.
There's more to do than mother's able
To perform, and Maggie's clever,
And now is done with school for ever.
She now is set to washing, scrubbing,
Baking, cooking, wringing, rubbing;
Nursing little sis or brother
To relieve poor, weary mother.
Time goes on, now Maggie's tall,
Very pretty, too, withal;
Getting forward with her teens,
Knows not yet what wooing means.
All too soon shall Maggie know
The hopes, the doubts, the bliss, the woe
Of love. Oh! may good angels guard,
And virtue have its full reward.
Thank God, from sin, from shame, and peril,
He still preserves my virtuous girl.

122

LINES SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MR JOHN WHITELAW

[_]

Who died December 3, 1863.

Once dear companion of my early youth,
The heart of feeling and the soul of truth
In thee were joined, and still thy youthful mind
Was given to learning, and could quickly find
Apt illustrations of scholastic terms.
But labour's foot trod rudely on the germs
Of genius, and made thee, through life's turmoil,
Beg of a lordly brother leave to toil;
And toil was thine, and thine was love and song,
And down the vale of life they danced along
Beside thy path, and cheered thee on thy way.
Thy toil is o'er, and they are mute for aye.
Oh, not for aye; we hope thou now dost raise,
In high adoring strains, thy Saviour's praise,
And join'st the heavenly choir's ecstatic song
That rolls the eternal symphonies along.
“Rest, weary one;” upon thy marble brow
No cloud of care or grief is lingering now;
“After life's fitful fever thou sleepest well;”
Peace to thy ashes, peace; dear friend, farewell!

123

THE AUL' KIRKYARD.

The aul' kirkyard!—the aul' kirkyard!—
Its crowdit graves an' mossy stanes;—
I've coft me there a lanely grave,
In whilk I houp to lay my banes.

A rosy brier hings ower the spat,
An' there the mavis bigs her nest:
Ye'll hear her sing at e'en an' morn,
An' see her bonny speckl'd breast.

The shilfa an' the yeldrin there
Mak' simmer haunt, an' hap an' sing
Amang the flow'ry twigs, that ower
The lanely grave their blossoms fling.

The e'e o' Heaven leuks brichtly doun
Oot thro' the brier on simmer days;
At nicht the sweet an' bonny mune
Sheds doun her mildest, holiest rays.

An' there my sainted mither lies—
They laid her 'neath the brier to sleep;
An' I, her wae an' weary bairn,
Maun sune into her bosom creep.

124

An' lang an' soun' my sleep shall be;
I'll never wauken till I hear
The trump o' God, that bids the deid
Arise an' at His bar appear.

My he'rt is fu' an' unco sair
At tales o' wrang, an' wrath, an' guilt;
The flesh is creeping on my banes
To hear of a' the bluid that's spilt:

To think hoo mony sinfu' sauls
Are soopit aff the shores o' life—
Unrepentant, unforgiven—
By burning drink an' bluidy strife.

O aul' kirkyard! O aul' kirkyard!
Hoo aft ha'e I, wi' langin' e'en,
Leuk't ower thy moulderin' wa' to see
The grave aneath the brier sae green.

125

THE VICTIM OF DRINK.

THE EARLY LOST.

The early lost I mourn,
Ah, not the early dead;
The early lost return,
Young hope's fair blossom shed.
Gone up like dust.
Oh, deeper than the wail
That sounds above the dead
It is, when hope must fail,
And love is chill'd and dead;
No hope, no trust.

Oh curse most dread and dire,
Oh thing most black and foul;
Slakeless thirst and quenchless fire
That scorcheth heart and soul!
I can but weep.
Oh most insidious foe,
That, vampire-like, doth cling,
Draining the blood; yet lo,
Soft fanning with its wing
The victim's sleep!

126

Oh sad and anxious mind,
Dost think all goodness gone
And nought but ill behind,
That thus thou makest moan?
Oh calmly think.
Calm, saidst thou? I am calm—
The calm of deep despair;
Say, know'st thou of a balm
To heal (the cure is rare),
That plague-sore drink!

The words, the sounds I hear,
The sights that pass me by,
They smite and wound my ear,
And blast my wakeful eye
By night and day.
Thine are these horrors, drink!
My country's curse and shame;
From them my soul would shrink,
And 'gainst thy power and name
For ever pray.

127

AMERICA IN 1863: HER “VOICE IS STILL FOR WAR.”

Still beyond the wild Atlantic
Weeping Peace, dishevelled, frantic,
Shrieking, flies from shore to shore,
Hearing still the cannons roar—
Seeing through the skies afar
The deadly bomb's red trailing star,
Thundering volleys, sabres gleaming,
Kindred blood in torrents streaming.
Onward still, her white feet plashing
Deep in blood, while fluttering, dashing,
Her snow-white doves with wings outspread,
In terror hover round her head.
Hark! the ear of Heaven assailing,
A mighty voice of woe and wailing,
Through the boundless forest shivering,
O'er the lakes and rivers quivering;
'Tis the orphan's piteous moan;
'Tis the widow's bursting groan;
'Tis the wail of parents 'reft—
No hope, no stay, no succour left.
Louder, louder still it rolls,
That awful voice—the cry of souls
Cast off from life, unfit to die.
Land of blood! Heaven asks thee, why?

128

“Why? we fight the slave to free.”
Fool and blind the man must be,
Who, ignoring truth and sense,
Credence gives to such pretence—
Fool if he admire your acts,
And takes the bosh you give for facts—
Fool who knows not this your aim,
The Union whole—unrivalled claim
To empire, and the subject world
Bowing before your flag unfurled.
Your bloody drama never will
Be well brought out: you want the skill,
The courage, and the desperate daring
The invaded feels when sternly baring
His arm and sword for home and hearth.
Were he the veriest wretch on earth,
We would admire his tact and bravery,
Though from our souls abhorring slavery.
Ah! you have given a white man's life,
And paupers made of child and wife
(A fearful price), for every slave
That you have freed: the thought is grave.

129

DENMARK AND THE GERMAN DESPOTS.

“I see a people scattered like a flock,
Some royal mastiff panting at their heels
With all the savage thirst a tiger feels.”—
Cowper.

O'er the broad Baltic sad I gaze,
While pity deep and stern amaze—
Sorrow, sympathy, and shame
By turns my deepest feelings claim.
Pity for a land down-trodden,
With her children's life-blood sodden,
Offered on the Moloch shrine
Of War. The human form divine,
Beneath the frowning face of Heaven,
Like forest leaves by tempest driven,
Soiled with dust and drenched with gore,
Lies thickly strewn on Denmark's shore.
Amazed I stand; no weakling's tears,
No timid, shrinking, woman's fears
Unnerve my heart. Oh, could I wield
A Titan's power! that slaughter-field,
That Aceldama of the Dane,
No Teuton's foot would tread again.
On Sonderborg's felonious fires,
Her murdered mothers, babes, and sires,

130

I gaze, till sorrow floods my eyes.
Your patriotic sacrifice,
Ye gallant Danes, is made in vain;
Unaided, ye may not sustain
The avalanche that thunders down
On 'leagured fort and 'fenceless town.
The voice of Europe thunders shame
On Brandenburg and Hapsburg's name;
Who, spite of diplomatic notes,
Kept burning towns and cutting throats.
Their eagles now but vultures seem,
That o'er the carnage swoop and scream;
And, hark! their thanks to God they chant,
For victory, in blasphemous cant!

O Alexandra! one short year
Has pass'd since we, with shout and cheer,
With waving flags, with joy and pride,
Our future Queen, our Prince's bride,
Gave loyal welcome. Couldst thou think
Thy sire and country on the brink
Of ruin—Britain standing by,
With cold regard and careless eye?

May she atone for past neglect!
May she, in council, have respect
To faith and freedom, truth and right,
And ever combat lawless might!

131

VERSES,

Inscribed to an unknown Poetical Correspondent.

Where art thou, my leal “auld brither?”
Where, say where, thy lowly home?
I may never wend me thither;
Thou to mine mayhap may'st come.

Who art thou? A busy worker
In the world's great labour mart,
Tired with toil, of grave demeanour,
And a loving, loyal heart.

What art thou? A child of nature,
Truthful, tuneful son of song,
Trilling out thy wood-notes sweetly,
Passing life's low vale along.

Low the vale, yet oft the Muses
Wander there, and we have heard.
Sung in soft Parnassian measure,
Strains that fired the listening bard.

132

I am now an aged worker;
I have toiled, and read, and sung;
Oft my lyre was tuned to gladness—
Ah! more oft by woe unstrung.

Now my task is nearly ended,
And ere long my song shall cease;
Day is waning, shadows falling;
Soon my eyes shall close in peace.

Hast thou kindred thoughts, my brother?
Dost thou muse upon the day,
When the soul, released and ransomed,
Cleaves the shades, and soars away?

From a world of crime and sorrow
Bloody, bootless, wasteful war,
Cruel drink—its woes and horrors—
O! my soul would fly afar.

133

OUR LOCAL SCENERY.

Smoorin' wi' reek an' blacken'd wi' soot,
Lowin' like Etna an' Hecla to boot,
Ought o' our malleables want ye to learn?—
There's chappin' an' clippin' an' sawin' o' airn;
Burnin' an' sotterin', reengin' an' knockin';
Scores o' puir mortals roastin' an' chokin'.
Gizzen'd an' dry ilka thrapple an' mouth,
Like cracks in the yird in a het simmer drouth;
They're prayin', puir chiels, for what dae ye think?
It's no daily bread, it's drink, “Gi'e us drink!”
“Callan,” quo' I, “ye maun rin like a hatter,
Bring up twa pails fou o' clear caller water;
Be aff, noo, ye imp! come back at a canter,
Keep oot o' the store, or I'll fell ye instanter!”
Wae on the store an' the publican's bar,
It's no a haet better—sometimes it's waur;
Men, when they're het, hoo they sweat an' they swear,
Coup up the whisky an' toom doun the beer.
While droonin' their brains an' toomin their purses
The verra air rings wi' oaths an' wi' curses.
It's no just a pay or an orra bit fuddle—
Aft in a day they guzzle an' muddle.

134

The puir wifie says there's little comes till her,
It's the drink, it's the drink that licks up the siller.
Licks up the siller! wha is't that can count,
Reckon an' add up the fearfu' amount
Wasted on drink at ilk airn-makin' station—
Drink, ever drink, the curse o' our nation?
An' O siccan Sabbaths! O siccan weans!
Rantin' an' playin' an' castin' o' stanes.
Hearken, thae toddlin' bit things hoo they swear;
Had I wings like a doo I wadna be here—
I wad flee far awa' an' seek oot a rest
Whaur drinkin' an' swearin' nae mair wad molest.

135

GARIBALDI IN HIS CONQUERING CAREER IN ITALY.

Oh for a blast of the loudest
E'er blown from the trumpet of fame!
Oh for a song of the proudest
E'er sung to the conqueror's name!
Laurels, the freshest and rarest,
By hero and warrior worn,
Virtues, the richest and fairest,
The patriot leader adorn.

Excelsior inscribed on his banner,
'Tis pure as his own Alpine snow;
He gave it true soul of bright honour,
O'er fields of his glory to flow.
The fate of the poet's sad stranger
His was not the summit sublime;
He gained, through dark peril and danger,
The admired and beloved of all time.

Land of song, genius, and beauty,
He came in the hour of thy need,
On the wings of devotion and duty,
A son and a saviour indeed.
The trumpet of Freedom is sounding,
“Awake ye that sleep in the dust,”
From the grave of dark centuries bounding—
Heaven wills it, he wills it, ye must.

136

A PLEA FOR THE DORIC.

Forgi'e, O forgi'e me, auld Scotlan', my mither!
Like an ill-deedie bairn I've ta'en up wi' anither;
And aft thy dear Doric aside I hae flung,
To busk oot my sang wi' the prood Southron tongue.

They say that our auld hamelt tongue, my ain mither,
Is deein', and sune will be dead a'thegither;
Whan thy callants hae ceased to be valiant and free,
And thy maids to be modest, oh juist let it dee!

Shall the tongue that was spoken by Wallace the wicht,
In the sangs o' thy poets sae lo'esum and bricht,
Sae pithy an' pawkie, sae tender an' true,
O' sense and slee humour an' feelin' sae fu';

Shall the tongue that was spoken by leal Scottish men,
Whan they stood for their richts on the hill an' the glen—
Oh sae, maun it dee, when the last words that hung
On the lips o' the martyr war ain mither tongue?

Oh, think ye the tongue that at red Bannockburn
Bade charge to the onset—think ye it maun turn
To a thing o' the past, that our bairns winna ken
To read mither tongue on that mither's fire en'?

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Juist think gif the “Cottar's ain Saturday Nicht”
War stripped o' the Doric, wi' English bedicht—
To the leal Scottish heart it wad ne'er be the same;
Wi' sic truth and sic feeling' it wadna strike hame.

At the saft gloamin' hour, “when the kye's comin' hame,”
And the young heart is loupin' to hear the dear name,
What tongue like the Doric love's saft tale can tell,
'Neath the lang yellow broom, an' the red heather-bell?

I'm wae for Auld Reekie; her big men o' print
To Lunnon ha'e gane, to be nearer the mint;
But the coinage o' brain looks no a'e haet better,
Though Doric is banish'd frae sang, tale, and letter.

But there's a'e thing I'm sure o'—ere lang I maun gang,
Yet aye whan I dow I maun lilt a bit sang;
And sae soun' shall I sleep 'neath the auld mossy stane,
That I'll never hear tell whan the Doric is gane.

138

TO MEMBERS AND OFFICE-BEARERS OF TEMPERANCE SOCIETIES.

I speak to my brothers—to men who have given
A pledge unto man—a pledge unto heaven,
That in deed and in truth they will temperance maintain:
Oh! let not your purpose, your labour be vain.

A place, a position, a prestige, a name,
If your first love is cold, will not save you from blame;
And the foes of the cause will exult when they find
That your spirit and purpose have sadly declined.

Be earnest—how earnest are all things around!—
Be earnest in prayer; in thinking, profound;
Be earnest in working, while yet it is day—
The night cometh swiftly—oh! work while you may.

We must work with a will if we hope to prevail:
Truth's stranger than fiction, and never will fail.
No pen can portray such scenes and such tales
As are found in our private and police details.

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We tickle the ear to insure our success;
The form of intemperance in tinsel we dress;
And think, where our earnest endeavour oft fails,
Our end we attain by sensational tales.

We seem as we knew not—could not realise
That the fire is not quenched, and the worm never dies
In the breast of the drunkard, till blessing from heaven,
In aid of our efforts to save him, is given.

When talent and music dance lightly along,
And trip us a measure in story or song,
We read, or we listen, with soft-bated breath,
While intemperance is leading the wild dance of death.

Be candid, be courteous, admit of reform—
Let friendly advice not engender a storm;
For this ye are leagued, ye are pledged to put down
The vice of intemperance, its customs disown.

140

AULD SCOTLAND AT THE ABBEY CRAIG IN NOVEMBER, 1864.

As white as a ghaist, wi' a tear in her e'e,
Her gray hair doon-hingin' oot-ower her e'ebree,
Gangs auld mither Scotlan', sair mournin' the shame
That's lyin' e'en noo on her bairns an' her name.

That haf-bigget touir they hae raised on the height
O' the auld Craig at Stirlin' to Wallace the wight—
The day it was foundit her auld lyart pow
Fu' heich she was haudin'; its laigh eneuch now.

She daurna leuk up she's sae doon i' the mouth:
Weel kens she the bodies that dwall in the South,
And specially the Cockneys, are lauchin' ilk ane
At her an' her sticket big humplock o' stane.

The wins o' November blaw sleety and chill,
But she's aff through the heather awa' to the hill;
Like a ghaist she gangs wannerin' an' mournin' alane,
An' the auld Abbey echoes her sorrowfu' mane:

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O! shade o' my Wallace! the sainted, the blest,
Frae the mansions abune, frae thy bricht place o' rest,
Dost see thy ain Scotlan' in sorrow and shame
That her son's hae neglected to nourish thy fame?

The Scots are lang gane that “wi' Wallace hae bled,”
The Scots that the Bruce aft to victory led;
They fell, they are sleepin' on Fame's gory bed,
And their name still is ours, but their spirit is fled!

She cried, and the tear-draps were dried on her cheeks,
O listen, my bairns (it's your mither that speaks);
Bring gowd in your gowpens to big up the touir:
Wi' the will there's a way, wi' the means there's a power.

142

BATTLE OF THE ALMA.

Dark lowered the thunder-cloud of death
O'er Alma's height, while far beneath,
In deep and dread array,
Fair France, thy eagle-bannered host,
Her lion bands, Britannia's boast,
Strode on their fateful way.

They sweep the plain, they stem the flood,
Oh, God of battles, just and good,
Sustain, defend the right!
Sweet mercy shield the parting souls,
When high the tide of carnage rolls
Round Alma's bloody height.

Wild bursts the storm through sulphurous flash,
With thundering peal and deadly clash
Of swords. Through murderous hail
Of shot and shell that rend the air,
With levelled bayonets, stern they dare
The bristling heights to scale.

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The mount they gain, the deadly steep,
And drive the foe with onward sweep;
Let Scotia's heart beat high,
For glory culled her fairest wreath
From her blue hills, and twined her heath
With flowers that never die.

Yet glory weeps and memory bleeds,
Though bright their high heroic deeds,
O'er many a hero low.
Brave dwellers of the mountain heath,
Old Scotia long shall mourn your death,
Though victory soothes her woe.

Fly, braggart Russ, for British steel
Has wrought a spell to make you feel
And fear the freeman's arm.
To make your serf-born courage wince;
Fly, bear along your baffled prince,
And shield him well from harm.

Dark Moloch of the barbarous north,
A world in arms thee summons forth
To answer at her bar.
Say, why must hecatombs of slain
Thy horrid altar heap in vain,
To glut thy lust of war?

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So from a million bloody graves,
From lands that groan with myriad slaves,
The witnesses appear.
The widow's shriek, the orphan's wail,
The mother's moan thy soul assail,
And smite upon thy ear.

The thrones are set, thy plea is cast,
Earth's nations have thy sentence passed,
And this shall be for doom—
Banished to that lone ocean isle,
Where found armed Europe's great exile
A prison and a tomb.

145

A WHEEN AUL' MEMORIES.

I.—COATBRIDGE.

Wi' my haun on my haffit I sit by the fire,
An' think that for nocht I hae sic a desire
As to gang my auld gates, and see my auld places,
To hear the auld voices, and see the auld faces.

Whan a gilpy o' nine I was set doon to wark
At the auld spinnin' wheel, an' frae morning till dark
I spun, for my mither was thrifty an' snell,
An' wadna alloo me to jauk or rebel.

O licht was my heart, an' licht were my heels,
Whan, dune wi' the birrin' an' bummin' o' wheels,
I skelpit aff, barefit, the hie road alang,
Wi' a hap, stap, an' loup, an' a lilt o' a sing.

There was Willie the wabster, an' Tammy the douce,
At Merryston Brig they ilk ane had a hoose;
An' there wasna anither 'twixt that an' Coatbrig
But twa theekit dwallins, laigh, cozy, an' trig.

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And syne ower the brig to auld Jamie's we cam,
At the sign o' twa Hielanders takin' a dram;
Then auld cadger Johnnie's, (we ca'd him Saut Jock),
Four mae bits o' dwallins, an' no mony folk.

Noo, min' what I tell ye, its sixty years lang
Since Coatbrig was juist what I said in my sang;
On the south o' the road wasna biggit a stane,
An' the hooses I speak o' they stood a' alane.

Then up the auld road I gaed scamperin' awa,
Weel kent I the gate to John Jamieson's raw,
Whaur in at the winnock the roses war keekin',
An' four bonnie lassies war needlin' an' steekin'.

An' the looms they were rattlin' an' blatterin' awa,
For in that wee shoppie the wabsters war twa—
Jock Tamson an' Jamie, a son o' the house,
An' wow but thae callans war cantie an' crouse.

It was there my young fancy first took to the wing;
It was there I first tasted the Helicon spring;
It was there wi' the poets I wad revel and dream,
For Milton an' Ramsay lay on the breast beam.

At auld auntie's winnock, whaur the hour-glass aye stood,
I aft keekit in e'er I dared to intrude,
For a woman baith gracious an' godly was she,
An' the Bible ye seldom wad miss aff her knee.

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Puir crummie the cow had yae haf o' the smiddy,
In the ither auld John had his bellows an' studdy,
Sae the cow chow't her cud while she glower't ower the hallan
At John, who was rosy an' fresh as a callan.

Ilk mornin' an' e'enin' was heard the sweet psalm
In that laigh hamely dwallin', an' saftly an' calm
Fell the dew o' the Sabbath on labour an' strife,
An' their souls war refreshed at the fountains o' life.

Noo they're a' in the mools, an' there isna a stane
Left o' the auld biggin', son Jamie's his lane;
Wi' the tear in my e'e, an' a pow like the snaw,
I mourn for the days an' the folk that's awa.

II.—DRUMPELLER.

Ye kenna, my cummers, ye never can ken
That my heid an' my he'rt, baith the but an' the ben,
Are fu' o' aul' memories. The ghaists o' the past,
Sum greetin', sum lauchin', cum thrangin' an' fast.

Whan we cam to the clachin', I min't like yestreen,
The hawthorn was white, an' the birk it was green,
An' the wild flouris war blumin' sae sweet to the e'e,
An' the bonnie May gowans war white on the lea.

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An' the wuds o' Drumpeller war ringin' wi' glee,
An' the bairns thro' the plantins ran fearless an' free,
For the laird an' the leddy baith liket to see
A' things roun' them happy o' ilka degree.

An' nurses wi' bairns in white cleedin' wad glint
Thro' the trees, an' the wild, gentle laddies ahint
Wad cum, an' wi' chasin', an' racin', an' sang,
Gar the wild echoes ring the green wudlins amang.

There's nae simmer days like the simmer days then,
Sae bricht an' sae bonny they lay on the glen;
O the wannerin' Luggie, that wimplet sae clear,
Thro' hazle, an' hawthorn, an' rose-busket breer.

An' the notes o' the mavis an' blackbird wad ring,
An' the gowdspink an' lintie fu' sweetly wad sing
In the green braes o' Kirkwud; sic a walth o' wild flouris,
I never saw onie sic bird-haunted bouris.

But it's “sixty years since,” the aul' gentles are gane,
An' o' the wild laddies few left to mak' mane.
Twa dochters, gude sain them, are yet to the fore,
But bonny Drumpeller they've left evermore.

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III.—SIMMERLEE.

Noo, neebors, ance mair, wi' my stick i' my haun,
I'll tak' to the road—to the northward I'm gaun,
For that was the airt I best liket to gang,
Ere the cares o' this wearifu' warl' grew thrang.

Oot-ower the auld brig, up to sweet Simmerlee,
Sweet, said ye?—hech, whaur?—for nae sweetness I see;
Big lums spewin' reek an' red lowe on the air,
Steam snorin', an' squeelin', an' whiles muckle mair?

Explodin', an' smashin', an' crashin', an' then
The wailin' o' women an' groanin' o' men,
A' scowther't, an' mangle't, sae painfu' to see—
The sweetness is gane, noo it's black Simmerlee.

It was sweet Simmerlee in the days o' langsyne,
Whan through the wa' trees the white biggin' wad shine,
An' its weel-tentit yardie was pleasant to see,
An' its bonny green hedges an' gowany lea.

I min' weel the time when a bonny young brlde,
Cam' to sweet Simmerlee mony years there to bide,
An' a flock o' fair bairnies grew up roun' her there:
The dearest was gallant young Donald, the heir.

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O! wha wad hae thocht sic a fate wad betide
Young Donald, wha perish't that nicht on the Clyde,
Whan the knell o' the Comet rang far ower the wave,
An' she sank like a stane—there was nocht that could save!

There was greetin' an' sabbin' in sweet Simmerlee,
An' the dule an' the sorrow war waesome to see,
For Donald he was the a'e son o' his mither,
An' his titties lang mourn't the fate o' their brither.

IV.—GARTSHERRIE.

Noo I'll dauner awa' up by Carlincraft Burn,
An' roun' by auld Hornock I'll tak' a bit turn,
Sae lown an' sae lanely that wee cosie neuk,
To think what they've made o't I canna weel bruck.

The auld warl' dwallin' had a muckle clay brace,
An' a lum whaur the stars glintit doun i' yer face
As ye sat by the fire; to the blue licht abune
Ye micht glower through the reek at the bonny hairst mune.

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There was Carlincraft Jock an' his queer tittie Meg,
Wha caret'na the warl' nor its fashions a feg,
Jock's hoose had nae door but a stane prappit broad,
Roun' whilk wad come snokin' slee Lowrie the tod.

Noo the bodies are gane, an' their dwallin's awa,
An' the place whaur they stood I scarce ken noo ava,
For there's roarin' o' steam, an' there's reengin' o' wheels,
Men workin', an' sweatin', an' swearin' like deils.

An' the flame-tappit furnaces staun' in a raw,
A' bleezin', an' blawin', an' smeekin awa,
Their eerie licht brichtenin' the laigh hingin' cluds,
Gleamin' far ower the loch an' the mirk lanely wuds.

Noo, mark ye, the ashes, the dross, an' the slag,
Wad ye think it was they put the win' i' the bag
O' the big millionaires, that 'mang danners and cinners,
The Co. should ha'e gather't sic millions o' shiners?

Yet sic is the case, an' lang may they bruck
The gear they ha'e won, they've had mair than gude luck,
They've gi'en kirks, they've gi'en schules, an' gude pay to their men,
May Gude gi'e them gumption their wages to spen'.

The Comet, first steamboat on the Clyde.

152

BURNIN' DRINK.

I tell a tale o' burnin' love,
A love they seldom tine
Wha ance ha'e nursed it in their hearts:
It's no a love divine;
It's no a tale o' human love,
Whaur ane may lo'e anither;
It's no a mither's for a bairn,
A sister's for her brither:

Nae love of science or of art,
Or nature's bonny face;
It's no a love o' warl's gear,
Nor a love o' power an' place;
It's no a love o' ocht that's gude,
Or ocht that's fine or fair;
It's no a love o' priest or kirk—
It's unco seldom there.

This burnin' love dries up the sap
Of mony a plant and flower
Of human growth; the levin fires
Ha'e nae sic deadly power.
It drains the life-bluid frae the heart
O' mony a wretched wife,
An' robs the waefu' parent's mind
O' ilka joy in life.

153

It strips the bairnie o' its duds
And robs it o' its bread,
And taks, though it shoud dee wi' cauld,
The blanket aff the bed;
“It sets the mouth against the heavens”
Wi' cursin' and blasphemin',
Sic mixture o' the fiend and brute
There's little hope o' tamin'.

Nae thocht for body or for saul,
Nae care for name or fame—
This burnin' love consumes them a',
And glories in its shame.
O! frae this base and burnin' love
Let man and woman shrink:
This deadly and degrading thing—
The burnin' love o' drink.

The burnin' love o' burnin' drink
Sune burnin' ruin brings,
An' burnin' plagues on every han'
Aroun' the lan' it flings.
O! ye wha thole this burnin' love,
I rede ye o' the fate
That bides ye: tear it frae your heart
Wi' bitter, burnin' hate.