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1

I. PART I. POEMS ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE MANNERS AND CUSTOMS, AND OF THE CONDITION AND FEELINGS, OF THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY.

THE HA' BIBLE.

Chief of the Household Gods
Which hallow Scotland's lowly cottage-homes!
While looking on thy signs
That speak, though dumb, deep thought upon me comes;
With glad yet solemn dreams my heart is stirr'd,
Like childhood's when it hears the carol of a bird!
The Mountains old and hoar,
The chainless Winds, the Streams so pure and free,
The God-enamel'd Flowers,
The waving Forest, the eternal Sea,
The Eagle floating o'er the Mountain's brow,—
Are Teachers all; but O! they are not such as Thou!
2

O! I could worship thee!
Thou art a gift a God of Love might give;
For Love and Hope and Joy
In thy Almighty-written pages live!—
The Slave who reads shall never crouch again;
For, mind-inspired by thee, he bursts his feeble chain!
God! unto Thee I kneel,
And thank Thee! Thou unto my native land—
Yea to the outspread Earth—
Hast stretch'd in love Thy Everlasting hand,
And Thou hast given Earth, and Sea, and Air—
Yea all that heart can ask of Good, and Pure, and Fair!
And, Father, Thou hast spread
Before Men's eyes this Charter of the Free,
That all Thy Book might read,
And Justice love, and Truth and Liberty.
The Gift was unto Men—the Giver God!
Thou Slave! it stamps thee Man—go spurn thy weary load!
Thou doubly-precious Book!
Unto thy light what doth not Scotland owe?—
Thou teachest Age to die,
And Youth in Truth unsullied up to grow!
In lowly homes a Comforter art thou—
A Sunbeam sent from God—an Everlasting bow!
O'er thy broad, ample page
How many dim and aged eyes have pored?
3

How many hearts o'er thee
In silence deep and holy have adored?
How many Mothers, by their Infants' bed,
Thy Holy, Blessed, Pure, Child-loving words have read!
And o'er thee soft young hands
Have oft in truthful plighted Love been join'd;
And thou to wedded hearts
Hast been a bond—an altar of the mind!—
Above all kingly power or kingly law
May Scotland reverence aye—the Bible of the Ha'!

THE TOUN WHERE I WAS BORN.

The loch where first the stream doth rise
Is bonniest to my e'e;
An' yon auld-warld hame o' youth
Is dearest aye to me.
My heart wi' Joy may up be heez'd,
Or down wi' Sorrow worn:
But, O! it never can forget
The toun where I was born!
The lowly hames beside the burn,
Where happy hearts were growin',
The peasant huts where, purely bright,
The light o' love was flowin',
4

The wee bit glebes, where honest men
Were toilin' e'en an' morn,
Are a' before me, when I mind
The toun where I was born.
O! there were bonnie faces there,
An' hearts baith hie an' warm,
That neebors loved, an' strain'd fu' sair
To keep a friend frae harm.
Nae wealth had they; but something still
They spared when ane forlorn,
The puir auld beggar bodie, ca'd
The toun where I was born.
The gray auld man was honour'd there,
The matron's words were cherished;
An' honesty in youthfu' hearts
By Age's words was nourish'd.
An' though e'en there we coudna get
The rose without the thorn,
It was a happy, happy place,
The toun where I was born!
Yon heather-theekit hames were blithe,
When winter nights were lang,
Wi' spinnin'-wheels, an' jokin' lads,
An' ilka lassie's sang.
At Handsel-Monday we had mirth,
An' when the hairst was shorn
The Maidens cam',—'twas cheerfu' aye,
The toun where I was born.
5

I maist could greet, I am sae wae—
The very wa's are gane—
The autumn-shilfa sits an' chirps
Upon ilk cauld hearthstane;
Ae auld aik-tree, or maybe twa,
Amang the wavin' corn,
Is a' the mark that Time has left
O' the toun where I was born.

YOUTH'S DREAMS.

A pleasant thing it is to mind
O' youthfu' thoughts an' things,—
To pu' the fruit that on the tree
Of Memory ripely hings,—
To live again the happiest hours
Of happy days gane by,—
To dream again as I ha'e dreamed
When I was herdin' kye!
Thae days I thought that far awa',
Where hill an' sky seem met,
The bounds o' this maist glorious earth
On mountain-taps were set,—
That sun an' moon, an' blinkin' stars
Shone down frae Heaven high
To light earth's garden: sae I dream'd
When I was herdin' kye!
6

I thought the little burnies ran,
An' sang the while to me!
To glad me, flowers cam' on the earth
And leaves upon the tree,—
An' heather on the muirland grew,
An' tarns in glens did lie:
Of beauteous things like these I dream'd
When I was herdin' kye!
Sae weel I lo'ed a' things of earth!—
The trees—the buds—the flowers—
The sun—the moon—the lochs an' glens—
The spring's an' summer's hours!
A wither'd woodland twig would bring
The tears into my eye:—
Laugh on! but there are souls of love
In laddies herdin' kye!
O! weel I mind how I would muse,
An' think, had I the power,
How happy, happy I would make
Ilk heart the warld o'er!
The gift, unendin' happiness—
The joyful giver I!—
So pure an' holy were my dreams
When I was herdin' kye!
A silver stream o' purest love
Ran through my bosom then;
It yearn'd to bless all human things—
To love all living men!
7

Yet scornfully the thoughtless fool
Would pass the laddie by:
But, O! I bless the happy time
When I was herdin' kye!

ORDÉ BRAES.

There's nae hame like the hame o' youth—
Nae ither spot sae fair:
Nae ither faces look sae kind
As the smilin' faces there.
An' I ha'e sat by monie streams—
Ha'e travell'd monie ways;
But the fairest spot on the earth to me
Is on bonnie Ordé Braes.
An ell-lang wee thing there I ran
Wi' the ither neebor bairns,
To pu' the hazel's shinin' nuts,
An' to wander 'mang the ferns;
An' to feast on the bramble-berries brown,
An' gather the glossy slaes
By the burnie's side; an' aye sinsyne
I ha'e lov'd sweet Ordé Braes.
8

The memories o' my father's hame,
An' its kindly dwellers a',
O' the friends I lov'd wi' a young heart's love,
Ere Care that heart cou'd thraw,
Are twined wi' the stanes o' the silver burn,
An' its fairy creeks an' bays,
That onward sang 'neath the gowden broom
Upon bonnie Ordé Braes.
Aince in a day there were happy hames
By the bonnie Ordé's side:—
Nane ken how meikle peace an' love
In a straw-roof'd cot can bide.
But thae hames are gane, an' the hand o' Time
The roofless wa's doth raze:—
Laneness an' Sweetness hand in hand
Gang o'er the Ordé Braes.
O! an' the sun were shinin' now,
An' O! an' I were there,
Wi' twa three friends o' auld langsyne
My wanderin' joy to share!
For, though on the hearth o' my bairnhood's hame
The flock o' the hills doth graze,
Some kind hearts live to love me yet
Upon bonnie Ordé Braes.
9

THE PLACE THAT I LOVE BEST.

Where the purple heather blooms
Among the rocks sae gray—
Where the moor-cock's whirring flight
Is heard at break of day—
Where Scotland's bagpipes ring
Alang the mountain's breast—
Where laverocks lilting sing,
Is the place that I love best!
Where the lanely shepherd tends
His bleating hill-side flock—
Where the raven bigs its nest
In the crevice of the rock—
Where a guardian beacon tower
Seems ilk rugged mountain's crest,
To watch aboon auld Scotland's glens,
Is the place that I love best!
Where the shepherd's reeking cot
Peeps from the broomy glen—
Where the aik-tree throws it leaves
O'er the lowly but and ben—
Where the stanch auld-warld honesty
Is in the puir man's breast,
And truth a guest within his hame,
Is the place that I love best!
10

Where the gray-haired peasant tells
The deeds his sires have done,
Of martyrs slain on Scotland's muirs,
Of battles lost and won,—
Wherever prayer and praise arise
Ere toil-worn men can rest,
From each humble cottage fane,
Is the place that I love best!
Where my ain auld mither dwells,
And longs ilk day for me,—
While my father strokes his reverend head,
Whilk gray eneuch maun be,—
Where the hearts in kirk-yards rest
That were mine when youth was blest
As we rowed amang the gowans,
Is the place that I love best!
Where the plover frae the sky
Can send its wailing song,
Sweet mingled wi' the burnie's gush,
That saftly steals along—
Where heaven taught to Robert Burns
Its hymns in language drest—
The land of Doon—its banks and braes—
Is the place that I love best!
Where the straths are fair and green,
And the forests waving deep—
Where the hill-top seeks the clouds—
Where the caller tempests sweep—
11

Where thoughts of freedom come
To me a welcome guest—
Where the free of soul were nursed,
Is the place that I love best!

THE FOLK O' OCHTERGAEN.

Happy, happy be their dwallin's,
By the burn an' in the glen—
Cheerie lasses, cantie callans,
Are they a' in Ochtergaen.
Happy was my youth amang them—
Rantin' was my boyhood's hour;
A' the winsome ways about them,
Now, when gane, I number o'er.

Chorus—

Happy, happy be their dwallin's, &c.
Weel I mind ilk wood an' burnie,
Couthie hame an' muirland fauld,—
Ilka sonsie, cheerfu' mither,
An' ilk father douce an' auld!

Chorus—

Happy, happy be their dwallin's, &c.
12

Weel I mind the ploys an' jokin's
Lads and lasses used to ha'e—
Moonlight trysts an' Sabbath wanders
O'er the haughs an' on the brae.

Chorus—

Happy, happy be their dwallin's, &c.
Truer lads an' bonnier lasses
Never danced beneath the moon;—
Love an' Friendship dwelt amang them,
An' their daffin' ne'er was done.

Chorus—

Happy, happy be their dwallin's, &c.
I ha'e left them now for ever;
But, to greet, would bairnly be:
Better sing, an' wish kind Heaven
Frae a' dool may keep them free.

Chorus—

Happy, happy be their dwallin's, &c.
Where'er the path o' life may lead me,
Ae thing sure—I winna mane
If I meet wi' hands an' hearts
Like those o' cantie Ochtergaen.

Chorus—

Happy, happy be their dwallin's,
By the burn an' in the glen—
Cheerie lasses, cantie callans,
Are they a' in Ochtergaen.
 

Ochtergaen, so provincially named, is Auchtergaven, a village midway between Perth and Dunkeld; and the nearest kirk-town to Nicoll's birth-place.

13

THE SPINNING-WHEEL.

I winna sing o' bluidy deeds an' waefu' war's alarms;
For glancin' swords an' prancin' steeds, for me possess nae charms;
But I will sing o' happiness which fireside bosoms feel,
While listenin' to the birrin' soun' o' Scotland's Spinnin'-wheel.
The Spinnin'-wheel! the Spinnin'-wheel! the very name is dear;
It minds me o' the winter nichts, the blithest o' the year;
O' cozie hours in hamely ha's, while frozen was the wiel
In ilka burn,—while lasses sang by Scotland's Spinnin'-wheel.
It minds me o' the happy time, when, in our boyish glee,
At barley-bracks, we laughin' chased ilk kimmer we could see,
Or danced, while loud the bagpipes rang, the Highland foursum reel:—
There's naething dowie brought to mind by Scotland's Spinnin'-wheel.
The auld wife by the ingle sits, an' draws her cannie thread:
It hauds her baith in milk an' meal, an' a' thing she can need:
14

An' gleesome scenes o' early days upo' her spirit steal,
Brought back to warm her wither'd heart by Scotland's Spinnin'-wheel!
O! there is gladsome happiness, while round the fire are set
The younkers,—when ahint the backs a happy pair are met,
Wha wi' a silent kiss o' love their blessed paction seal,
While sittin' in their truth beside auld Scotland's Spinnin'-wheel!
O! weel I lo'e the blackbird's sang in spring-time o' the year;
O! weel I lo'e the cushat's croon, in merry May to hear;
But o' the sounds o' love and joy, there's nane I lo'e sae weel—
There's nane sae pleasant as the birr o' Scotland's Spinnin'-wheel.

OUR AULD HEARTHSTANE.

Where ance the cosie fire was bien,
The winter rain-drap owrie fa's;
My father's floor wi' grass is green,
And roofless are the crumblin' wa's.
Auld thochts, auld times, upo' my heart
Are backward rowin' ane by ane:
15

We'll bow our houghs and hae a crack
About them on our auld hearthstane!
Our laigh cot-house I mind fu' weel:
On ae side mither spinning sat,
Droning auld sonnets to her wheel,—
And purring by her side the cat.
Anent was sair-toil'd father's chair,
Wha tauld us stories, sad and lane,
O' puir folk's waes, until we wished
Them a' beside our cosh hearthstane
And when the supper-time was o'er,
The Beuk was tane as it should be,
And heaven had its trysted hour
Aneath that sooty auld roof-tree:
Syne ilka wean was sung to sleep
Wi' sangs o' deeds and ages gane;
And rest was there until the sun
Cam' blinkin' on our auld hearthstane.
Auld stane, had ye a heart to feel,
Ye wad been blithe as ony kitten,
To hear o' ilka sang and reel,
And prank made up while round ye sittin'.
How days o' feastin' cam' wi' speed,
When dubs were hard as ony bane,
How Pace, and Yule, and Halloween
Were keepit round our auld hearthstane.
16

When winter nights grew white and lang,
The lads and lasses cam wi' spinning,
And mony a joke and mony a sang
Gaed round while wheels were busy rinning.
And syne whan ten cam' round about,
Ilk lassie's joe her wheel has ta'en,
And courting o'er the rigs they gang,
And leave us and our auld hearthstane!
And meikle mair I could unfauld,
How yearly we gat rantin' kirns;
And how the minister himsel'
Cam' duly carritchin' the bairns:
Vow, sic a face! I tremble yet!
Gosh guide's! it was an awfu' ane;
It gart our hearts come to our mouths,
While cowrin' round our auld hearthstane!
Weel, weel, the wheels are broken now,
The lads and lasses auld or dead,
The green grass o'er their graves doth grow,
Or gray hairs theek their aged head.
My parents baith are far awa',
My brithers fechtin', toilin' men,
It warms my heart unto them a',
The sight o' this our auld hearthstane!
When I forget this wee auld house,
When I forget what here was taught,
17

My head will be o' little use,
My heart be rotten, worse than naught.
Sin' birds could sing upo' thae wa's,
I've been in chaumers mony ane;
But ne'er saw I a hearth like this,
No, naething like our auld hearthstane.
Hearthstane! though wae, I needna greet,
What gude on earth wad whingeing do?
The earth has fouth o' trusty hearts,
Let him wha doubts it speir at you.
Ae wish hae I—that brither man,
The warld o'er, were, bluid and bane,
Sic truthfu', honest, trusty chields,
As ance sat round our auld hearthstane.

WE'LL A' GO PU' THE HEATHER.

We'll a' go pu' the heather—
Our byres are a' to theek:
Unless the peat-stack get a hap,
We'll a' be smoored wi' reek.
Wi' rantin' sang, awa we'll gang,
“While summer skies are blue;”
To fend against the Winter cauld
The heather we will pu'.
18

I like to pu' the heather,
We're aye sae mirthfu' where
The sunshine creeps atour the crags,
Like ravelled golden hair.
Where on the hill tap we can stand,
Wi' joyfu' heart I trow,
And mark ilk grassy bank and holm,
As we the heather pu'.
I like to pu' the heather—
Where harmless lambkins run,
Or lay them down beside the burn,
Like gowans in the sun;
Where ilka foot can tread upon
The heath-flower wat wi' dew,
When comes the starnie ower the hill,
While we the heather pu'.
I like to pu' the heather,
For ane can gang awa,
But no before a glint o' love
On some anes e'e doth fa'.
Sweet words we dare to whisper there,
“My hinny and my doo,”
Till maistly we wi' joy could greet
As we the heather pu'.
We'll a' go pu' the heather—
For at yon mountain fit
19

There stands a broom bush by a burn,
Where twa young folk can sit:
He meets me there at morning's rise,
My beautiful and true.
My father's said the word—the morn
The heather we will pu'.

MY HAME.

O! I ha'e loved the heather hills,
Where summer breezes blaw;
An' I ha'e loved the glades that gang
Through yonder greenwood-shaw!
But now the spot maist dear to me
Is where the moon doth beam
Down through the sleepin' leaves, to watch
My ain wee cantie hame.
My cantie hame! its roof o' straw,
Aneath yon thorn I see—
Yon cosie bush that couthie keeps
My wife an' bairnies three.
There's green grass round my cottage sma',
An' by it rins a stream,
Whilk ever sings a bonnie sang
To glad my cantie hame.
20

When delvin' in the sheugh at e'en,
Its curlin' reek I see;
I ken the precious things at hame
Are thinkin' upon me.
I ken my restin' chair is set,
Where comes the warmest gleam—
I ken there's langin' hearts in thee,
My ain wee cantie hame.
O! can I do but love it weel,
When a' thing's lovesome there?
My cheerfu' wife—my laughin' weans—
The morn an' e'enin' prayer.
The Sabbath's wander in the woods,
An' by the saut-sea faem—
The warst o' hearts might learn to love,
My ain wee cantie hame.
The blessin's o' a hame-blessed heart—
Be warm upon it a'—
On wife an' bairns may love an' peace
Like sunbeams joyous fa'!
Blithe thoughts are rinnin' through my heart,
O! thoughts I canna name—
Sae glad are they—while thinkin' o'
My ain wee cantie hame.
21

MY GRANDFATHER.

Hale be thy honest trusty heart,
And hale thy beld and snawy pow,
The hand of eld ne'er furrowed o'er
A baulder or a manlier brow.
The laddie wha was ance thy pet,
Has been in places far awa',
But he thy marrow hasna met
Amang the great nor yet the sma'.
Ance proud eneuch was I to sit
Beside thee in the muirland kirk,
A ruling elder—ane o' weight,
Nae wonder though your oe did smirk:
And braw eneuch was I to find
My head the preacher's hand upon,
While by the kirkyard stile he cracked
Of holy things wi' Elder John!
And syne as hame alang the muir
I prattling by your side did rin,
Ye mind how ye rebuked thae thochts—
And ca'd them vanity and sin.
22

But pennies frae your auld breek pouch
Wi' dauds o' counsel ye would gie,
The last war gude—but aye the first
I liket best, I winna lee!
Thy daily fireside worship dwalls
Within this inmost soul of mine:
Thy earnest prayer—sae prophet-like—
For a' on earth I wadna' tyne.
And you and granny sang the Psalms
In holy rapt sincerity;—
My granny!—dinna greet, auld man—
She's looking down on you and me.
Can I forget how lang and weel
The carritches ye made me read?
Or yet the apples—rosie anes—
I gat to gar me mend my speed?
Can I forget affection's words,
That frae your lips like pearls ran?
Can I forget the heart that prayed
To see me aye an honest man?
And mind ye how we gat us beuks,
And read wi' meikle care and skill,
Until ye thocht this head wad wag
The poopit's haly place intil?
For mony an idle whim of mine
Wad my auld father journeys gang;
His auld heart danced when I did right,
And sair it grieved when I did wrang.
23

But mair than a'—frae beuks sae auld—
Frae mony treasured earnest page,
Thou traced for me the march of Truth,
The path of Right from age to age:
A peasant, auld, and puir, and deaf,
Bequeathed this legacy to me,
I was his bairn—he filled my soul
With love for Liberty!
Be blessings on thy reverend head,
I dinna need for thee to pray;
The path is narrow, but nae een
E'er saw thee from it stray.
God bears his ancient servants up—
He's borne thee since thy life began—
I'm noble by descent:—thy grave
Will hold an honest man.
 

This patriarch of Auchtergaven, the maternal grandfather of Nicoll, still survives, at the venerable age of eighty-seven, in the full possession of his mental faculties, and of remarkable bodily strength and activity. He was a respectable farmer of the Old School, but has long been retired. He is, probably, the very last wearer of the broad, blue Lowland bonnet. With “Elder John”—or Mr. John Fennick—his grandson, Robert, was a very great favourite. To those who read the above poem it is superfluous to say that the affection was mutual and fervent.

OUR AULD GUDEMAN.

He was a carle in his day,
And siccar bargains he could mak,
When o'er a bicker he was set,
And deep in a twa-handed crack.
He fought horse-coupers at the tryst,
The smith and miller aft did ban;
For, whether be it at wark or play,
The gree was wi' our auld gudeman!
24

At kirk and preachin's duly he
The sermons sleepit—drank his gill—
He cured disease in man and beast—
And had o' Brown and Erskine skill.
The trysts and markets kent him weel,—
In quarrel, bargain, cog or can,
He took and paid an equal share
Wi' friend and faes—our auld gudeman.
Three wives he had, and bairns sax,
And, 'tween the scripture and the taws,
He gart them a' behave and work,
And mak nae mony hums and haws.
Now wi' a staff, about the dykes,
He stoiters, auld, and beld, and wan;
And what he's been he'll ever be—
A ranting, dainty, auld gudeman!

JANET DUNBAR.

A sonsy auld carline is Janet Dunbar—
A donsy auld carline is Janet Dunbar;
For a gash skilly body, weel kent near and far,
Through the hale kintra side, cantie Janet Dunbar.
Folk speer her advice, baith the greatest and least,
For she cures a' diseases o' man and o' beast;
She has words that will keep awa' witches and deils—
She has syrups in bottles, and herbs in auld creels;
25

To caulds and rheumatics she proves sic a fae,
They canna get rest in the parish a day.
In this queer kind o' warld there's mony a waur
Than our cheery auld carline, gash Janet Dunbar!
A sonsy, &c.
Her hame is a howf to the bairnies at school,
And she dauts them and hauds them fu' couthie and weel,
Till in her auld lug a' their sorrows they tell—
For she'll scauld for their sakes e'en the Dominie's sell.
But Janet's high time is when night settles doun,
And a' the auld wives gather in through the town;
To tell what they are na, and what ithers are,
Is meat, drink, and claithing to Janet Dunbar!
A sonsy, &c.
And Janet's auld house has a but and a ben,
Where twa folk can meet and let naebody ken;
For Janet thinks true love nane e'er should restrain,
Having had, thretty years syne, a lad o' her ain;
And then, when the whispering and courting is done,
For some lee-like story is Janet in tune,
About some bluidy doings in some Highland scaur,—
You're a queer ane!—'deed are you, now, Janet Dunbar!
A sonsy, &c.
But when some o' her kimmers hae kirsened a wean,
Then Janet, sae braid, in her glory is seen:
She winks to the neebours, and jokes the gudeman,
Till his face grows sae red that he maistly could ban;
26

Syne she turns to the mither, and taks the wean's loof,
And tells that he'll neither be laggard nor coof!
You're an auld happy body—sae, bright be your star,
And lang may you stump about, Janet Dunbar!
A sonsie auld carline is Janet Dunbar—
A donsy auld carline is Janet Dunbar;
For a gash skilly body, weel kent near and far,
Through the hale kintra side, cantie Janet Dunbar.

JANET MACBEAN.

Janet Macbean a public keeps,
An' a merry auld wife is she;
An' she sells her ale wi' a jaunty air,
That would please your heart to see.
Her drink's o' the best—she's hearty aye,
An' her house is cosh an' clean,—
There's no an auld wife in the public line
Can match wi' Janet Macbean.
She has aye a curtsy for the laird
When he comes to drink his can,
An' a laugh for the farmer an' his wife,
An' a joke for the farmer's man.
She toddles but, and she toddles ben,
Like ony wee bit queen—
There's no an auld wife in the public line
Can match wi' Janet Macbean.
27

The beggar wives gang a' to her,
An' she sairs them wi' bread an' cheese;—
Her bread in bannocks, an' cheese in whangs,
Wi' a blithe gude will she gi'es.
Vow, the kintra-side will miss her sair
When she's laid aneath the green,—
There's no an auld wife in the public line
Can match wi' Janet Macbean.
Among ale-house wives she rules the roast;
For upo' the Sabbath days
She puts on her weel-hain'd tartan plaid
An' the rest o' her Sabbath claes;
An' she sits, nae less! in the minister's seat:
Ilk psalm she lilts, I ween,—
There's no an auld wife in the public line
Can match wi' Janet Macbean.

MINISTER TAM.

A wee raggit laddie he cam' to our toun,
Wi' his hair for a bannet—his taes through his shoon:
An' aye when we gart him rise up in the morn,
The ne'er-do-weel herdit the kye 'mang the corn:
We sent him to gather the sheep on the hill,—
No for wark, but to keep him frae mischief an' ill;—
But he huntit the ewes, an' he rade on the ram!
Sic a hellicat deevil was Minister Tam!
28

My auld Auntie sent him for sugar an' tea,—
She kent na, douce woman! how toothsome was he:—
As hamewith he cam' wi't he paikit a bairn,
An' harried a nest doun amang the lang fern;
Then, while he was restin' within the green shaw,
My auld Auntie's sugar he lickit it a':—
Syne a drubbin' to miss, he sair sickness did sham:
Sic a slee tricksy shangie was Minister Tam!
But a Carritch he took, when his ain deevil bade,—
An' wi' learnin' the laddie had maistly gaen mad;
Nae apples he pu'ed now, nae bee-bikes he smored,
The bonnie wee trouties gat rest in the ford,—
Wi' the lasses at e'enin' nae mair he would fight—
He was learnin' and spellin' frae mornin' to night:
He grew mim as a puddock an' quiet as a lamb,—
Gudesakes! sic a change was on Minister Tam?
His breeks they were torn an' his coat it was bare;
But he gaed to the school, an' he took to the lear:
He fought wi' a masterfu' heart up the brae,
Till to see him aye toilin' I maistly was wae:
But his wark now is endit,—our Tammie has grown
To a kirk wi' a steeple—a black silken gown,—
Sic a change frae our laddie wha barefooted cam',—
Wi' his wig white wi' pouther, is Minister Tam!
29

THE DOMINIE.

Cam' ye e'er by our toun?
Danced ye e'er upon its green?
The smeeky hames o' our toun
Sae blithesome, ha'e ye ever seen?
There's rantin' chields in our toun—
The wabster, smith, an' monie mae;
But 'mang the lads o' our toun
The foremost is the Dominie!
'Bout a' auld-farrant things he kens—
The Greeks an' bluidy Romans too;
An' ithers wi' auld-warld names
That sairly crook a body's mou'.
He kens the places far awa'
Where black folk dwall ayont the sea;
An' how an' why the starnies shine
Is weel kent to the Dominie!
Wi' meikle words an' wisdom nods
The fleggit fearfu' bairns he rules;
An' he can tell the Hebrew names
O' aumries an' three-leggit stools!
A dead man's skull wi' girnin' teeth
Frae out the auld kirkyard has he:
For droll an' gey an' fearsome things
There's nane can match the Dominie.
30

O' beuks a warld he has read,
An' wi' his tongue can fight like mad,
Till ither folk he sometimes mak's
That they will neither bind nor haud:
And if they're dour and winna ding,
Their settlin' soon he does them gi'e
Wi' words o' queer lang-nebbit speech—
Sae learned is the Dominie!
There's yon auld soger, wha has been
Where oranges like brambles hing,—
There's ne'er a ane the clachan o'er
Can crack like him 'bout onie thing:
They say that wi' the deil he deals!—
It may be sae; but even he
Maun steek his gab when clinkin' ben
At e'enin' comes the Dominie!
An' sic a face he does put on
On Sabbath when he sings the Psalm!
The auld wives of the parochin
Are thinkin' him a gospel lamb.
At weddin's, when the lave are blithe,
Wi' auld folk doucely sitteth he
Till Minister an' Elders gang;—
But syne—up bangs the Dominie!
Frae cheek to chin—frae lug to lug—
The lasses round he kisses a',
An' loups an' dances, cracks his thoums,
Nor hamewith steers till mornin' daw;
31

An' whiles at e'en to our door cheek
He comes, an' sleelie winks on me,—
Yestreen, ayont the kailyard dyke,
I 'greed to wed the Dominie!

THE SMITH.

Our Burn-the-wind was stout and strang,
His stature mounted ellwands twa,
His grip was like a smiddy vice,
And he could gie a fearfu' thraw.
At hammerin' airn he was gude,
A' kinds o' tackle—pot or pan—
Or gun, or sword—be't mak or mend—
Clink, clink—our smith he was the man.
A' things o' airn kind he made
As weel as hand o' man could do;
And he could court a bonnie lass,
And drink a reaming coggie too.
Frae side to side, the clachan o'er
Ilk gudewife's bottle he had pried,
And ilka lass had touzled weel—
The smith at wooin' aye cam speed!
Be't late or soon—or auld or new—
The smith the feck o' a' things kend,
And if a story wasna right,
A story he could mak or mend!
32

He was a perfect knowledge-box—
An oracle to great and sma'—
And fifty law-pleas he had lost,
He was sae weel acquaint wi' law!
He naigs could shoe, and sangs could sing,
And say a grace upon a pinch;
Could lick a loon at tryst or fair—
A man was trusty every inch!
He ruled the roast—our Burn-the-wind—
Be he at home, be he a-field—
In love, or drink, or lear, or wark,
Vow, but he was a famous chield!

AULD DONALD.

Donald fought in France and Spain,
Donald mony men hath killed,
And frae the pouches o' the slain
Aft has he his spleuchan filled.
Donald was a soldier good,
Though whiles the bicker made him fa',
He meikle fought, and plundered mair,
Where might was right, and force was law!
Donald's pow grew white as lint,
Donald langer wou'dna do—
Hame he cam wi' coppers six
Ilk day, to melt in mountain-dew.
33

Donald tells his fearfu' tales,
Donald drinks like ony sow,
And monie battles does he fecht,
Wi' bourtree bushes, when he's fou.
Donald, a' the laddies' heads
Has filled wi' thoughts o' sword and gun;
He gars them fecht like sparrow-cocks,
And thinks it nocht but famous fun.
Now dinna crook your saintly mou'
At Donald's sin and Donald's shame:
Ye ken, by Donald and his like
We've gotten—such a glorious name!

BONNIE BESSIE LEE.

SONG.

Bonnie Bessie Lee had a face fu' o' smiles,
And mirth round her ripe lip was aye dancing slee;
And light was the footfa', and winsome the wiles,
O' the flower o' the parochin—our ain Bessie Lee!
Wi' the bairns she would rin, and the school laddies paik,
And o'er the broomy braes like a fairy would flee,
Till auld hearts grew young again wi' love for her sake:—
There was life in the blithe blink o' Bonnie Bessie Lee!
34

She grat wi' the waefu', and laughed wi' the glad,
And light as the wind 'mang the dancers was she;
And a tongue that could jeer, too, the little limmer had,
Whilk keepit aye her ain side for Bonnie Bessie Lee!
And she whiles had a sweetheart, and sometimes had twa—
A limmer o' a lassie!—but, atween you and me,
Her warm wee bit heartie she ne'er threw awa',
Though mony a ane had sought it frae Bonnie Bessie Lee!
But ten years had gane since I gazed on her last,—
For ten years had parted my auld hame and me;
And I said to mysel' as her mither's door I pass'd,
“Will I ever get anither kiss frae Bonnie Bessie Lee?”
But Time changes a' thing—the ill-natured loon!
Were it ever sae rightly he'll no let it be;
But I rubbit at my een, and I thought I would swoon,
How the carle had come roun' about our ain Bessie Lee!
The wee laughing lassie was a gudewife growing auld—
Twa weans at her apron and ane on her knee;
She was douce, too, and wiselike—and wisdom's sae cauld:—
I would rather ha'e the ither ane than this Bessie Lee!
35

FIDDLER JOHNNY.

SONG.

Alang by yon burn-side
I saw him gang yestreen,—
His fiddle upon his back
Was row'd in claith o' green.
His wifie led her Johnny:—
O' een she had but ane;
While he, for a' his mirth,
Puir bodie! has gat nane.
He canna see a blink,
Yet doesna greet an' grane;
An' ither folk he hauds
Fu' cheerfu' but an' ben.
A cantie spring he plays—
A cantie sang he sings:
The Fiddler weel is kent,—
For mirth wi' him he brings.
Monie a merry nicht
The auld blind man has been
Wi' great folk in the ha'—
Wi' sma' folk on the green.
He's aye a welcome guest
Wherever he does gang,—
They gi'e him meat an' claes,
An' he gi'es them a sang.
36

The fient a hair cares he
For onie mortal bodie,—
He'll geck e'en at the Minister,
An' joke wi' laird an' lady!
The duddie plaid Pretence,
He, laughin', rives in twa,—
A fool an' knave the Fiddler
A fool and knave doth ca'!
O! leeze me on the Fiddler:
If we had monie mae
As blithe in heart as he,
We wouldna be sae wae!
An' gif, like him, the truth
To tell, we a' would 'gree,
The world where we live
Would meikle better be!

THE PROVOST.

A bare-leggit callant came out o' the north,
And set himself down in our borough,
The loon had a dour and a miserly look,
Folk said he'll no leave in a hurry.
He was twenty-first cousin to some Highland laird,
His tartan was o' the chief's colour;
But nae sort o' wark came a-jee to the Celt
If ye made him but sure o' the siller!
37

He was toiling and earning baith early and late,
Though lazy folk tried to deride him;
He was a' body's servant and a' body's jest—
Fient cared he, if a' body paid him.
His kilt he exchanged for a braw pair o' breeks,
The Gaelic nae langer did snivel;
He began to be likit—had Satan been rich,
To Satan he would ha'e been civil.
He gat him a carritch, and set him to spell—
The clans are but so-so at reading;
He soon was a clerk, and a clerk o' the best—
Dour devil! he a' thing came speed in!
He bowed and he becket, till by a bit desk
He had come to a safe kind o' anchor;
And ere lang our slee callant was aff to the kirk
Wi' the dochter o' Guineas the banker!
He could lie like an apple-wife—cheat like the deil,
He was surely created for rising:
Although he had died in a baronet's chair
It wadna been naething surprising.
Our Provost was old—he was dotard and blind,
And death took him aff in a hurry:
Syne Banker MacTurk, wi' his pouchfu's o' gowd,
Was exalted to rule o'er the borough.
The Provost had power, and the Provost had sense;
Great folk ga'e him places by dozens,—
He sold them his vote, and they quartered a score
Of his lang-leggit, bare Highland cousins.
38

He ruled a' the council—the bailies an' a'—
To the land-loupers acted like Nero;
The Provost was siccar—wha lost or wha wan,
Number ane was aye taken gude care o'.
But Death leuket ben wi' a grim angry leuk,
And the wily auld Provost was ended:
Twa opinions divided the feck o' the toun
As to whilk way his spirit had wended.
An auld doited weaver misca'd him fu sair,
And said he deserved the wae woodie:
He said that o' a Provost!—I'm sure you'll agree,
He maun been but a kae-witted bodie!

THE BAILIE.

Down the street the Bailie comes—
Faith he keeps the causey-crown,
He bans the sergeants black and blue,
The bellman gets the name o' loun.
He can speak in monie tongues,
Gude braid Scots and hieland Erse;
The king o' Bailies is our ain,
Sic men I fear are unco scarce!
At feasting-time the powers aboon
At cramming try their utmost skill;
But faith the Bailie dings them a'
At spice and wine, or whisky gill.
39

The honest man can sit and drink,
And never ha'e his purse to draw;
He helps to rule this sinfu' town,
And as it should—it pays for a'.
And then to see him in the kirk,
Wi' gowden chain about his neck!
He's like a king upon a throne—
I say it wi' a' meet respect.
And to the folk who fill the lafts,
Fu' monie a fearsome look he gi'es,
To see that a' are duly filled
Wi' terror of the dignities!
A pickle here—a pickle there,
Of borough siller Bailie gets,
And he would need—it's no a joke,
To fitly fill a Bailie's seat!
The Bailie likes the gude auld ways,
And yet he langs for something new;
He thinks twal corporation feasts
Within the year are unco few!

THE HOPES OF AGE.

We maun wear awa', Robbie, we needna repine,
This head lang has lain in that bosom of thine;
40

We are auld, we are frail, we are lanely and a',
Nae mane will we mak' though we're wearin' awa'!
Frae our auld cottar-house, it winna be lang
Ere to the cauld kirk-yard thegether we gang;
Though nae bonnie bairnie to love us ha'e we,
Yet some will be wae for my Robbie and me!
Nae mair will our ingle blink when it is mirk,
Our twa auld white pows will be missed in the kirk,
And the auld beggar bodie will thowless gang by,
And for the gudewife and our awmous will sigh!
To the hillock that wraps us aneath its green sod,
The feet o' our neebours will soon mak' a road,
And the bairnies will greet 'cause the auld folk are gane,
Who cuddled them aft till o' griefs they had nane.
When youngsters come hameward frae lands far awa',
'Bout me and my Robbie they'll speer and they'll ca',
They'll think o' the day when youth's simmer was fine,
And they'll mourn for us gane, wi' the hours o' langsyne.
We maun wear awa', Robbie—we need fearna to gae,
Did we e'er fail a friend—did we e'er wrang a fae?
Our life has been lowly, as lowly can be,
And death winna part my auld gudeman and me.
41

HOME THOUGHTS.

Though Scotland's hills be far awa',
And her glens, where the clear silver burnies row,
I see them, and hear her wild breezes blaw,
O'er the moors where the blue-bells and heather grow.
Oh, hame is sweet!—but thae hames o' thine
Are the kindliest far that the sun doth see;
And, though far awa' I have biggit mine,
As my mother's name they are dear to me!
I love the tale o' thy glories auld,
Which thy shepherds tell on the mountain side,
Of thy Martyrs true, and thy Warriors bauld,
Who for thee and for Freedom lived and died!
Land of my youth! though my heart doth move,
And sea-like my blood rises high at thy name,
'Boon a' thing there's ae thing in thee I love—
The virtue and truth o' thy Poor Man's Hame.
The Poor Man's Hame! where I first did ken
That the soul alone makes the good and great—
That glitter and glare are false and vain,
And Deceit upon Glory's slave doth wait.
42

Thy Poor Man's Hame! wi' its roof o' strae,
A hut as lowly as lowly can be—
Through it the blast sae cauldrife does gae;
Yet, Hame o' the Lowly, I'm proud o' thee!
Scotland! to thee thy sons afar
Send blessings on thy rocks, thy flood and faem—
On mountain and muir, on glen and scaur—
But deeper blessings still on thy Poor Man's Hame!

THE BATTLE WORD.

In Scotland's cause—for Scotland's gude,
We'll blithely shed our dearest bluid,
An' stand or fa' as freeman should,
As we hae done before.
Now proudly come the foemen on,
Against auld Scotland's mountain throne;
The sun its last on them hath shone,—
Claymore!
We're freemen, an' maun ne'er be slaves—
We fight for heather-cover'd graves—
To tell yon comin' warrior-waves
That men our mothers bore;
43

For maidens loved—for parents dear,
Fourscore would battle were it here,
An' stand like us, nor think o' fear—
Claymore!
They break—they halt—they form again—
We well have borne the battle-strain:
The grass that clothes the reeking plain
Is wet wi' stranger gore.
Remember! for our native soil,
That a' we love at hame may smile;
Nerve ilka arm for bloody toil—
Claymore!
We've conquered! wives an' bairns a',
We've conquered! baith for grit and sma'—
For maid and matron—puir and braw—
The bluidy darg is o'er.
Our fathers' weapon and our ain,
Thou'lt be our sons' we brawly ken—
By foughten fields! by foemen slain!
Claymore!
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