Poems by Robert Nicoll Second edition: with numerous additions, and a memoir of the author |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | III. | PART III. POEMS, CHIEFLY IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT, ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE FEELINGS OF THE INTELLIGENT AND RELIGIOUS AMONG THE WORKING-CLASSES OF SCOTLAND. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | Poems by Robert Nicoll |  |
107
III. PART III. POEMS, CHIEFLY IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT, ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE FEELINGS OF THE INTELLIGENT AND RELIGIOUS AMONG THE WORKING-CLASSES OF SCOTLAND.
STANZAS ON THE BIRTHDAY OF BURNS.
This is the natal day of him
Who, born in want and poverty,
Burst from his fetters, and arose
The freest of the free,—
Who, born in want and poverty,
Burst from his fetters, and arose
The freest of the free,—
Arose to tell the watching earth
What lowly men could feel and do,—
To show that mighty, Heaven-like souls
In cottage hamlets grew.
What lowly men could feel and do,—
To show that mighty, Heaven-like souls
In cottage hamlets grew.
Burns! thou hast given us a name
To shield us from the taunts of scorn;—
The plant that creeps amid the soil
A glorious flower hath borne.
To shield us from the taunts of scorn;—
The plant that creeps amid the soil
A glorious flower hath borne.
108
Before the proudest of the earth
We stand with an uplifted brow;
Like us, thou wast a toil-worn man,
And we are noble now!
We stand with an uplifted brow;
Like us, thou wast a toil-worn man,
And we are noble now!
Inspir'd by thee the lowly hind
All soul-degrading meanness spurns;
Our teacher, saviour, saint, art thou,
Immortal Robert Burns!
All soul-degrading meanness spurns;
Our teacher, saviour, saint, art thou,
Immortal Robert Burns!
WE ARE LOWLY.
We are lowly—very lowly,
Misfortune is our crime;
We have been trodden under foot
From all recorded time.
A yoke upon our necks is laid,
A burden to endure;
To suffer is our legacy,
The portion of the poor!
Misfortune is our crime;
We have been trodden under foot
From all recorded time.
A yoke upon our necks is laid,
A burden to endure;
To suffer is our legacy,
The portion of the poor!
We are lowly—very lowly,
And scorned from day to day;
Yet we have something of our own
Power cannot take away.
By tyrants we are toiled to death—
By cold and hunger killed;
But peace is in our hearts, it speaks
Of duties all fulfilled!
And scorned from day to day;
Yet we have something of our own
Power cannot take away.
109
By cold and hunger killed;
But peace is in our hearts, it speaks
Of duties all fulfilled!
We are lowly—very lowly,
Nor house nor land have we;
But there's a heritage for us
While we have eyes to see.
They cannot hide the lovely stars,
Words in creation's book,
Although they hold their fields and lanes
Corrupted by our look!
Nor house nor land have we;
But there's a heritage for us
While we have eyes to see.
They cannot hide the lovely stars,
Words in creation's book,
Although they hold their fields and lanes
Corrupted by our look!
We are lowly—very lowly,
And yet the fairest flowers
That by the wayside raise their eyes,—
Thank God they still are ours!
Ours is the streamlet's mellow voice,
And ours the common dew;
We still dare gaze on hill and plain,
And field and meadow too!
And yet the fairest flowers
That by the wayside raise their eyes,—
Thank God they still are ours!
Ours is the streamlet's mellow voice,
And ours the common dew;
We still dare gaze on hill and plain,
And field and meadow too!
We are lowly—very lowly,—
But when the cheerful Spring
Comes forth with flowers upon her feet
To hear the throstle sing,
Although we dare not seek the shade
Where haunt the forest deer—
The waving leaves we still can see,
The hymning birds can hear!
But when the cheerful Spring
Comes forth with flowers upon her feet
To hear the throstle sing,
Although we dare not seek the shade
Where haunt the forest deer—
The waving leaves we still can see,
The hymning birds can hear!
110
We are lowly—very lowly,
Our hedgerow paths are gone
Where woodbines laid their fairy hands
The hawthorn's breast upon.
Yet slender mercies still are left,—
And heaven doth endure,
And hears the prayers that upward rise
From the afflicted poor!
Our hedgerow paths are gone
Where woodbines laid their fairy hands
The hawthorn's breast upon.
Yet slender mercies still are left,—
And heaven doth endure,
And hears the prayers that upward rise
From the afflicted poor!
WE'LL MAKE THE WORLD BETTER YET.
The braw folk crush the poor folk down,
An' blood an' tears are rinnin' het;
An' meikle ill and meikle wae,
We a' upon the earth ha'e met.
An' Falsehood aft comes boldly forth,
And on the throne o' Truth doth sit;
But true hearts a'—gae work awa'—
We'll mak the Warld better yet!
An' blood an' tears are rinnin' het;
An' meikle ill and meikle wae,
We a' upon the earth ha'e met.
An' Falsehood aft comes boldly forth,
And on the throne o' Truth doth sit;
But true hearts a'—gae work awa'—
We'll mak the Warld better yet!
Though Superstition, hand in hand,
Wi' Prejudice—that gruesome hag—
Gangs linkin' still—though Misers make
Their heaven o' a siller bag:
Though Ignorance, wi' bloody hand,
Is tryin' Slavery's bonds to knit—
Put knee to knee, ye bold an' free,
We'll mak the Warld better yet!
Wi' Prejudice—that gruesome hag—
Gangs linkin' still—though Misers make
Their heaven o' a siller bag:
Though Ignorance, wi' bloody hand,
Is tryin' Slavery's bonds to knit—
Put knee to knee, ye bold an' free,
We'll mak the Warld better yet!
111
See yonder coof wha becks an' bows
To yonder fool wha's ca'd a lord:
See yonder gowd-bedizzen'd wight—
Yon fopling o' the bloodless sword.
Baith slave, an' lord, an' soldier too,
Maun honest grow, or quickly flit—
For freemen a', baith grit an' sma',—
We'll mak the Warld better yet!
To yonder fool wha's ca'd a lord:
See yonder gowd-bedizzen'd wight—
Yon fopling o' the bloodless sword.
Baith slave, an' lord, an' soldier too,
Maun honest grow, or quickly flit—
For freemen a', baith grit an' sma',—
We'll mak the Warld better yet!
Yon dreamer tells us o' a land
He frae his airy brain hath made—
A land where Truth and Honesty
Have crushed the serpent Falsehood's head.
But by the names o' Love and Joy,
An' Common-sense, an' Lear, an' Wit,
Put back to back,—and in a crack
We'll mak our Warld better yet!
He frae his airy brain hath made—
A land where Truth and Honesty
Have crushed the serpent Falsehood's head.
But by the names o' Love and Joy,
An' Common-sense, an' Lear, an' Wit,
Put back to back,—and in a crack
We'll mak our Warld better yet!
The Knaves an' Fools may rage an' storm,
The growling Bigot may deride—
The trembling Slave away may rin,
And in his Tyrant's dungeon hide;
But Free and Bold, and True and Good,
Unto this oath their seal have set—
“Frae pole to pole we'll free ilk soul,
The Warld shall be better yet!”
The growling Bigot may deride—
The trembling Slave away may rin,
And in his Tyrant's dungeon hide;
But Free and Bold, and True and Good,
Unto this oath their seal have set—
“Frae pole to pole we'll free ilk soul,
The Warld shall be better yet!”
112
THE HERO.
My Hero is na deck'd wi' gowd—
He has nae glittering state;
Renown upon a field o' blood
In war he hasna met!
He has nae siller in his pouch,
Nae menials at his ca';
The Proud o' earth frae him would turn,
And bid him stand awa'!
He has nae glittering state;
Renown upon a field o' blood
In war he hasna met!
He has nae siller in his pouch,
Nae menials at his ca';
The Proud o' earth frae him would turn,
And bid him stand awa'!
His coat is hame-spun hodden-gray—
His shoon are clouted sair—
His garments, maist unhero-like,
Are a' the waur o' wear:
His limbs are strong—his shoulders broad—
His hands were made to plough—
He's rough without, but sound within—
His heart is bauldly true!
His shoon are clouted sair—
His garments, maist unhero-like,
Are a' the waur o' wear:
His limbs are strong—his shoulders broad—
His hands were made to plough—
He's rough without, but sound within—
His heart is bauldly true!
He toils at e'en, he toils at morn—
His wark is never through;
A coming life o' weary toil
Is ever in his view!
But on he trudges, keeping aye
A stout heart to the brae,—
And proud to be an honest man
Until his dying day.
His wark is never through;
A coming life o' weary toil
Is ever in his view!
But on he trudges, keeping aye
A stout heart to the brae,—
And proud to be an honest man
Until his dying day.
113
His hame a hame o' happiness
And kindly love may be;
And monie a nameless dwelling-place
Like his we still may see.
His happy altar-hearth so bright
Is ever bleezing there;
And cheerfu' faces round it set
Are an unending prayer!
And kindly love may be;
And monie a nameless dwelling-place
Like his we still may see.
His happy altar-hearth so bright
Is ever bleezing there;
And cheerfu' faces round it set
Are an unending prayer!
The poor man, in his humble hame,
Like God, who dwells aboon,
Makes happy hearts around him there—
Sae joyfu' late and soon!
His toil is sair, his toil is lang;
But weary nights and days,
Hame—happiness akin to his—
A hunder-fauld repays!
Like God, who dwells aboon,
Makes happy hearts around him there—
Sae joyfu' late and soon!
His toil is sair, his toil is lang;
But weary nights and days,
Hame—happiness akin to his—
A hunder-fauld repays!
Go, mock at Conquerors and Kings!
What happiness give they?
Go, tell the painted butterflies
To kneel them down and pray!
Go, stand erect in manhood's pride—
Be what a man should be—
Then come, and to my Hero bend
Upon the grass your knee!
What happiness give they?
Go, tell the painted butterflies
To kneel them down and pray!
Go, stand erect in manhood's pride—
Be what a man should be—
Then come, and to my Hero bend
Upon the grass your knee!
114
OUR KING.
We ha'e great folk—what for no?—
In our Lowland clachan;
Our Tailor's an anointed King—
We carena for your laughin'.
Kings rare do gude,—but he's done some;
And for the rest, I'm thinking—
To tell the truth and shame the deil—
There's nae king like our ain King!
In our Lowland clachan;
Our Tailor's an anointed King—
We carena for your laughin'.
Kings rare do gude,—but he's done some;
And for the rest, I'm thinking—
To tell the truth and shame the deil—
There's nae king like our ain King!
He has nae power to head or hang—
'Mang tyrants ne'er was rankit;
Deil ane o' soldier kind has he—
For that the Lord be thankit!
Nae courtiers bend around his knees,
Wha fast to Nick are sinking,
Wi' rotten hearts and leein' tongues—
There's nae king like our ain King!
'Mang tyrants ne'er was rankit;
Deil ane o' soldier kind has he—
For that the Lord be thankit!
Nae courtiers bend around his knees,
Wha fast to Nick are sinking,
Wi' rotten hearts and leein' tongues—
There's nae king like our ain King!
The cash he spends is a' his ain,
He taks nae poor man's siller;
Ae douce gudewife's enough for him,—
He's kind and couthie till her.
The deil a penny debt has he—
Nor scarlet madams blinking—
He ne'er was by that slavery cursed—
There's nae king like our ain King!
He taks nae poor man's siller;
Ae douce gudewife's enough for him,—
He's kind and couthie till her.
The deil a penny debt has he—
Nor scarlet madams blinking—
He ne'er was by that slavery cursed—
There's nae king like our ain King!
115
Frae bloody wars and ill-faur'd strife
His kingdom aye reposes,
Except when whiles the weans fa' out,
And make some bloody noses.
And syne the Tailor takes his taws
And paiks them round like winking:
Our King redeems the bloody pack—
There's nae king like our ain King!
His kingdom aye reposes,
Except when whiles the weans fa' out,
And make some bloody noses.
And syne the Tailor takes his taws
And paiks them round like winking:
Our King redeems the bloody pack—
There's nae king like our ain King!
His palace-roof is made o' strae—
His crown is a blue bannet—
His sceptre is a pair o' sheers—
His queen is christen'd Janet.
He's nae oppressor—tears o' wae
He ne'er delights in drinking;
The first o' honest kings is he—
There's nae king like our ain King!
His crown is a blue bannet—
His sceptre is a pair o' sheers—
His queen is christen'd Janet.
He's nae oppressor—tears o' wae
He ne'er delights in drinking;
The first o' honest kings is he—
There's nae king like our ain King!
THE PUIR FOLK.
A SONG.
Some grow fu' proud o'er bags o' gowd,
And some are proud o' learning:
An honest poor man's worthy name
I take delight in earning.
Slaves needna try to run us down—
To knaves we're unco dour folk;
We're aften wrang'd, but, deil may care!
We're honest folk, though puir folk!
And some are proud o' learning:
An honest poor man's worthy name
I take delight in earning.
116
To knaves we're unco dour folk;
We're aften wrang'd, but, deil may care!
We're honest folk, though puir folk!
Wi' Wallace wight we fought fu' weel,
When lairds and lords were jinking;
They knelt before the tyrant loun—
We brak his crown I'm thinking.
The muckle men he bought wi' gowd—
Syne he began to jeer folk;
But neither swords, nor gowd, nor guile,
Could turn the sturdy puir folk!
When lairds and lords were jinking;
They knelt before the tyrant loun—
We brak his crown I'm thinking.
The muckle men he bought wi' gowd—
Syne he began to jeer folk;
But neither swords, nor gowd, nor guile,
Could turn the sturdy puir folk!
When auld King Charlie tried to bind
Wi' airn saul and conscience,
In virtue o' his right divine,
An' ither daft-like nonsense—
Wha raised at Marston such a stour,
And made the tyrants fear folk?
Wha prayed and fought wi' Pym and Noll?
The trusty, truthfu' puir folk!
Wi' airn saul and conscience,
In virtue o' his right divine,
An' ither daft-like nonsense—
Wha raised at Marston such a stour,
And made the tyrants fear folk?
Wha prayed and fought wi' Pym and Noll?
The trusty, truthfu' puir folk!
Wha ance upon auld Scotland's hills
Were hunted like the paitrick,
And hack'd wi' swords, and shot wi' guns,
Frae Tummel's bank to Ettrick,—
Because they wouldna' let the priest
About their conscience steer folk?
The lairds were bloodhounds to the clan—
The Martyrs were the puir folk!
Were hunted like the paitrick,
And hack'd wi' swords, and shot wi' guns,
Frae Tummel's bank to Ettrick,—
Because they wouldna' let the priest
About their conscience steer folk?
The lairds were bloodhounds to the clan—
The Martyrs were the puir folk!
117
When Boston boys at Bunker's hill
Gart Slavery's minions falter;
While ilka hearth in a' the bay
Was made fair Freedom's altar;
Wha fought the fight, and gained the day?
Gae wa', ye knaves! 'twas our folk:
The beaten great men served a king—
The victors a' were puir folk!
Gart Slavery's minions falter;
While ilka hearth in a' the bay
Was made fair Freedom's altar;
Wha fought the fight, and gained the day?
Gae wa', ye knaves! 'twas our folk:
The beaten great men served a king—
The victors a' were puir folk!
We saw the corn and haud the plough—
We a' work for our living;
We gather nought but what we've sawn—
A' else we reckon thieving:—
And for the loun wha fears to say
He comes o' lowly, sma' folk,
A wizen'd saul the creature has—
Disown him will the puir folk!
We a' work for our living;
We gather nought but what we've sawn—
A' else we reckon thieving:—
And for the loun wha fears to say
He comes o' lowly, sma' folk,
A wizen'd saul the creature has—
Disown him will the puir folk!
Great sirs, and mighty men o' earth,
Ye aften sair misca' us;
And hunger, cauld, and poverty
Come after ye to thraw us.
Yet up our hearts we strive to heeze,
In spite o' you and your folk;
But mind, enough's as gude's a feast,
Although we be but puir folk!
Ye aften sair misca' us;
And hunger, cauld, and poverty
Come after ye to thraw us.
Yet up our hearts we strive to heeze,
In spite o' you and your folk;
But mind, enough's as gude's a feast,
Although we be but puir folk!
We thank the Powers for gude and ill,
As gratefu' folk should do, man;
But maist o' a' because our sires
Were tailors, smiths, and ploughmen.
Good men they were as stanch as steel;
They didna wrack and screw folk
Wi' empty pouches—honest hearts—
Thank God, we come o' poor folk!
As gratefu' folk should do, man;
But maist o' a' because our sires
Were tailors, smiths, and ploughmen.
118
They didna wrack and screw folk
Wi' empty pouches—honest hearts—
Thank God, we come o' poor folk!
THE BURSTING OF THE CHAIN.
AN ANTHEM FOR THE THIRD CENTENARY OF THE REFORMATION.
(INSCRIBED TO THE REVEREND H. CLARKE.)
An offering to the shrine of Power
Our hands shall never bring—
A garland on the car of Pomp
Our hands shall never fling—
Applauding in the Conqueror's path
Our voices ne'er shall be;
But we have hearts to honour those
Who bade the world go free!
Our hands shall never bring—
A garland on the car of Pomp
Our hands shall never fling—
Applauding in the Conqueror's path
Our voices ne'er shall be;
But we have hearts to honour those
Who bade the world go free!
Stern Ignorance man's soul had bound
In fetters, rusted o'er
With tears—with scalding human tears—
And red with human gore;
But men arose—the Men to whom
We bend the freeman's knee—
Who, God-encouraged, burst the chain,
And made our fathers free!
In fetters, rusted o'er
With tears—with scalding human tears—
And red with human gore;
But men arose—the Men to whom
We bend the freeman's knee—
Who, God-encouraged, burst the chain,
And made our fathers free!
119
Light dwelt where Darkness erst had been—
The morn of Mind arose—
The dawning of that Day of Love
Which never more shall close:
Joy grew more joyful, and more green
The valley and the lea,—
The glorious sun from Heaven look'd down,
And smiled upon the Free!
The morn of Mind arose—
The dawning of that Day of Love
Which never more shall close:
Joy grew more joyful, and more green
The valley and the lea,—
The glorious sun from Heaven look'd down,
And smiled upon the Free!
Truth came, and made its home below;
And Universal Love,
And Brotherhood, and Peace, and Joy,
Are following from above:
And happy ages on the earth
Humanity shall see;
And happy lips shall bless their names
Who made our children free!
And Universal Love,
And Brotherhood, and Peace, and Joy,
Are following from above:
And happy ages on the earth
Humanity shall see;
And happy lips shall bless their names
Who made our children free!
Praise to the Good—the Pure—the Great—
Who made us what we are!—
Who lit the flame which yet shall glow
With radiance brighter far:—
Glory to them in coming time,
And through Eternity!
They burst the Captive's galling chain,
And bade the world go free!
Who made us what we are!—
Who lit the flame which yet shall glow
With radiance brighter far:—
Glory to them in coming time,
And through Eternity!
They burst the Captive's galling chain,
And bade the world go free!
120
WE ARE FREE.
Like lightning's flash,
Upon the foe
We burst, and laid
Their glories low!
Like mountain-floods
We on them came—
Like withering blast
Of scorching flame,
Like hurricane
Upon the sea,—
Shout—shout again—
Shout, We are Free!
Upon the foe
We burst, and laid
Their glories low!
Like mountain-floods
We on them came—
Like withering blast
Of scorching flame,
Like hurricane
Upon the sea,—
Shout—shout again—
Shout, We are Free!
We struck for God—
We struck for life—
We struck for sire—
We struck for wife—
We struck for home—
We struck for all
That man doth lose
By bearing thrall!
We struck 'gainst chains,
For liberty!
Now, for our pains,
Shout, We are Free!
We struck for life—
We struck for sire—
We struck for wife—
We struck for home—
We struck for all
That man doth lose
By bearing thrall!
We struck 'gainst chains,
For liberty!
Now, for our pains,
Shout, We are Free!
121
Give to the slain
A sigh—a tear;—
A curse to those
Who spoke of fear!
Then eat your bread
In peace; for now
The Tyrant's pride
Is lying low!
His strength is broken—
His minions flee—
The Voice hath spoken—
Shout, We are Free!
A sigh—a tear;—
A curse to those
Who spoke of fear!
Then eat your bread
In peace; for now
The Tyrant's pride
Is lying low!
His strength is broken—
His minions flee—
The Voice hath spoken—
Shout, We are Free!
ENDURANCE.
If you have borne the bitter taunts
Which proud poor men must bear;
If you have felt the upstart's sneer
Your heart like iron sear;
If you have heard yourself belied,
Nor answer'd word nor blow—
You have endured as I have done—
And poverty you know!
Which proud poor men must bear;
If you have felt the upstart's sneer
Your heart like iron sear;
If you have heard yourself belied,
Nor answer'd word nor blow—
You have endured as I have done—
And poverty you know!
If you have heard old Mammon's laugh,
And borne of wealth the frown;
If you have felt your very soul
Destroyed and casten down,—
And been compell'd to bear it all
For sake of daily bread—
Then have you suffered what is laid
Upon the poor man's head!
And borne of wealth the frown;
122
Destroyed and casten down,—
And been compell'd to bear it all
For sake of daily bread—
Then have you suffered what is laid
Upon the poor man's head!
If you have seen your children starved,
And wish'd to bow and die,
Crush'd by a load of bitterness,
Scorn, and contumely;
If misery has gnaw'd your soul
Until its food grew pain—
Then you have shed the bloody tears
That cheeks of poor men stain!
And wish'd to bow and die,
Crush'd by a load of bitterness,
Scorn, and contumely;
If misery has gnaw'd your soul
Until its food grew pain—
Then you have shed the bloody tears
That cheeks of poor men stain!
There is a Book, and hypocrites
Say they believe it true,
Which tells us men are equal all!
Do they believe and do?
No, vampires! Christ they crucify
In men of low degree:
Could souls decay—the poor man's soul
A mortal thing would be!
Say they believe it true,
Which tells us men are equal all!
Do they believe and do?
No, vampires! Christ they crucify
In men of low degree:
Could souls decay—the poor man's soul
A mortal thing would be!
123
THE BACCHANALIAN.
They make their feasts, and fill their cups—
They drink the rosy wine—
They seek for pleasure in the bowl:—
Their search is not like mine.
From misery I freedom seek—
I crave relief from pain;
From hunger, poverty, and cold—
I'll go get drunk again!
They drink the rosy wine—
They seek for pleasure in the bowl:—
Their search is not like mine.
From misery I freedom seek—
I crave relief from pain;
From hunger, poverty, and cold—
I'll go get drunk again!
The wind doth through my garments run—
I'm naked to the blast;
Two days have flutter'd o'er my head
Since last I broke my fast.
But I'll go drink, and straightway clad
In purple I shall be;
And I shall feast at tables spread
With rich men's luxury!
I'm naked to the blast;
Two days have flutter'd o'er my head
Since last I broke my fast.
But I'll go drink, and straightway clad
In purple I shall be;
And I shall feast at tables spread
With rich men's luxury!
My wife is naked,—and she begs
Her bread from door to door;
She sleeps on clay each night beside
Her hungry children four!
She drinks—I drink—for why? it drives
All poverty away;
And starving babies grow again
Like happy children gay!
Her bread from door to door;
She sleeps on clay each night beside
Her hungry children four!
She drinks—I drink—for why? it drives
All poverty away;
And starving babies grow again
Like happy children gay!
124
In broad-cloth clad, with belly full,
A sermon you can preach;
But hunger, cold, and nakedness,
Another song would teach.
I'm bad and vile—what matters that
To outcasts such as we?
Bread is denied—come, wife, we'll drink
Again, and happy be!
A sermon you can preach;
But hunger, cold, and nakedness,
Another song would teach.
I'm bad and vile—what matters that
To outcasts such as we?
Bread is denied—come, wife, we'll drink
Again, and happy be!
THE POOR MAN'S DEATH-BED.
The Winter floods frae bank to brae
Gaed roaring to the sea,
When a weary man of toil cam' hame,
And laid him down to dee.
And lowly was his bed of strae,
And humble was his fare,
But high and strong his honest heart—
Nor wish'd he to ha'e mair!
Gaed roaring to the sea,
When a weary man of toil cam' hame,
And laid him down to dee.
And lowly was his bed of strae,
And humble was his fare,
But high and strong his honest heart—
Nor wish'd he to ha'e mair!
His bonnie bairns, sae fair and young,
Around his bed they sat,
And their wae mother held his head,
And lang and sair she grat.
“Why greet ye, wife?” said that poor man—
“Why greet ye, bairns, for me?
If frae this toilsome world I win,
Rejoicing ye should be.
Around his bed they sat,
And their wae mother held his head,
And lang and sair she grat.
“Why greet ye, wife?” said that poor man—
“Why greet ye, bairns, for me?
If frae this toilsome world I win,
Rejoicing ye should be.
125
“I've kept a house aboon my head
This thirty years and mair,
And tried to haud the honest way
By toils and struggles sair.
And God look'd down, and God did see
The waes the poor maun dree,
And sent an angel frae aboon
To come and ca' for me!
This thirty years and mair,
And tried to haud the honest way
By toils and struggles sair.
And God look'd down, and God did see
The waes the poor maun dree,
And sent an angel frae aboon
To come and ca' for me!
“O greet na, wife, though lang we've been
As twa fond hearts should be;
For though I gang to Heaven first,
Ye soon will follow me.
And God, who minds the lintie young,
And gars the lily grow,
Will care for you and our wee bairns,
And gi'e ye love enow.
As twa fond hearts should be;
For though I gang to Heaven first,
Ye soon will follow me.
And God, who minds the lintie young,
And gars the lily grow,
Will care for you and our wee bairns,
And gi'e ye love enow.
“Lang toil is coming on my bairns—
Toil sair and sad, like mine;
But keep a high and sturdy heart,
And never weakly pine.
Your father had an honest name,
And be ye honest too;
What's fause ne'er say for living man—
What's evil dinna do!
Toil sair and sad, like mine;
But keep a high and sturdy heart,
And never weakly pine.
Your father had an honest name,
And be ye honest too;
What's fause ne'er say for living man—
What's evil dinna do!
“My toil, and cauld, and hunger sair,
Are wellnigh past and done;
Your toil, and cauld, and hunger, dears,
Are barely yet begun.
But live, like brothers, lovingly,
And honest-hearted dee;
And syne, where I am gaun to dwell,
My bairns will come to me.
Are wellnigh past and done;
126
Are barely yet begun.
But live, like brothers, lovingly,
And honest-hearted dee;
And syne, where I am gaun to dwell,
My bairns will come to me.
“The blast blaws chill—I'm waxing faint—
And when I'm ta'en awa,
Be to your mother, comforts, hopes,
And joys and loves an' a'.
Your father's dying counsels from
Your bosoms never tine;
And if you live as he has lived,
Your deaths will be like mine!”
And when I'm ta'en awa,
Be to your mother, comforts, hopes,
And joys and loves an' a'.
Your father's dying counsels from
Your bosoms never tine;
And if you live as he has lived,
Your deaths will be like mine!”
The pious poor man sleeps at length,
Where pains and toils are o'er;
The bitter wind—the hunger fiend—
Can torture him no more.
That land hath something to amend,
And much to prize and bless,
Where poor men suffer and endure,
Whose death-beds are like this.
Where pains and toils are o'er;
The bitter wind—the hunger fiend—
Can torture him no more.
That land hath something to amend,
And much to prize and bless,
Where poor men suffer and endure,
Whose death-beds are like this.
127
THE CAIRN.
No chieftain of the olden time
Beneath this cairn doth lie,
And yet it hath a legend sad—
A fireside tragedy.
Beneath this cairn doth lie,
And yet it hath a legend sad—
A fireside tragedy.
A Highland mother and her child,
Upon a winter day,
Went forth, to beg their needful food
A long and weary way!
Upon a winter day,
Went forth, to beg their needful food
A long and weary way!
The bitter wind blew stormily,
And frozen was each rill;
And all the glens with drifted snow
Were filled from hill to hill!
And frozen was each rill;
And all the glens with drifted snow
Were filled from hill to hill!
The day went past, the night came down,
And in her hut was mourning,
And sad, young eyes look'd from the door—
But she was not returning.
And in her hut was mourning,
And sad, young eyes look'd from the door—
But she was not returning.
“And where is she?” her children said:
“Why lingers she away?”
The snow-storm's howl did answer make
Upon the muirland gray!
“Why lingers she away?”
The snow-storm's howl did answer make
Upon the muirland gray!
128
They sought her east—they sought her west—
They sought her everywhere;
They search'd the folds and shielings lone
Among the hills so bare.
They sought her everywhere;
They search'd the folds and shielings lone
Among the hills so bare.
The Highland mother was not found,
Nor yet her fair-hair'd child;
And superstition whisper'd low,
Of spirits in the wild!
Nor yet her fair-hair'd child;
And superstition whisper'd low,
Of spirits in the wild!
The breath of Spring came on the hills,
And dyed their mantle blue;
And greenness came upon the grass,
And scarlet heath-flowers too!
And dyed their mantle blue;
And greenness came upon the grass,
And scarlet heath-flowers too!
The shepherds wandering o'er the hills,
And in this valley wild,
Calm, as in softest sleep, they found
The mother and her child!
And in this valley wild,
Calm, as in softest sleep, they found
The mother and her child!
There lay the babe upon the breast
That had the infant nurs'd;
A mother's love that bosom fill'd
When death that bosom burst.
That had the infant nurs'd;
A mother's love that bosom fill'd
When death that bosom burst.
The daisies sweet, and lone, and pure,
Were growing round the pair;
And shepherds o'er the victims rear'd
This mossy cairn there!
Were growing round the pair;
And shepherds o'er the victims rear'd
This mossy cairn there!
129
A humble tale, and unadorn'd,
It is of humble woe;
But he who heeds not such may turn,
And, if it likes him, go!
It is of humble woe;
But he who heeds not such may turn,
And, if it likes him, go!
I DARE NOT SCORN.
I may not scorn the meanest thing
That on the earth doth crawl,
The slave who dares not burst his chain,
The tyrant in his hall.
That on the earth doth crawl,
The slave who dares not burst his chain,
The tyrant in his hall.
The vile oppressor who hath made
The widow'd mother mourn,
Though worthless, soulless, he may stand—
I cannot, dare not scorn.
The widow'd mother mourn,
Though worthless, soulless, he may stand—
I cannot, dare not scorn.
The darkest night that shrouds the sky
Of beauty hath a share;
The blackest heart hath signs to tell
That God still lingers there.
Of beauty hath a share;
The blackest heart hath signs to tell
That God still lingers there.
I pity all that evil are—
I pity and I mourn;
But the Supreme hath fashion'd all,
And, oh! I dare not scorn.
I pity and I mourn;
But the Supreme hath fashion'd all,
And, oh! I dare not scorn.
130
THE PEOPLE'S ANTHEM.
Lord, from thy blessed throne,
Sorrow look down upon!
God save the Poor!
Teach them true Liberty—
Make them from tyrants free—
Let their homes happy be!
God save the Poor!
Sorrow look down upon!
God save the Poor!
Teach them true Liberty—
Make them from tyrants free—
Let their homes happy be!
God save the Poor!
The arms of wicked men
Do Thou with might restrain—
God save the Poor!
Raise Thou their lowliness—
Succour Thou their distress—
Thou whom the meanest bless!
God save the Poor!
Do Thou with might restrain—
God save the Poor!
Raise Thou their lowliness—
Succour Thou their distress—
Thou whom the meanest bless!
God save the Poor!
Give them stanch honesty—
Let their pride manly be—
God save the Poor!
Help them to hold the right;
Give them both truth and might,
Lord of all Life and Light!
God save the Poor!
Let their pride manly be—
God save the Poor!
Help them to hold the right;
Give them both truth and might,
Lord of all Life and Light!
God save the Poor!
131
VISIONS.
“My hand is strong, my heart is bold,
My purpose stern,” I said;
“And shall I rest till I have wreath'd
Fame's garland round my head?
No! men shall point to me, and say,
‘See what the bold can do!’”
“You dream!” a chilling Whisper said;
And quick the vision flew.
My purpose stern,” I said;
“And shall I rest till I have wreath'd
Fame's garland round my head?
No! men shall point to me, and say,
‘See what the bold can do!’”
“You dream!” a chilling Whisper said;
And quick the vision flew.
“Yes, I will gain,” I musing thought,
“Power, pomp, and potency;
Whate'er the proudest may have been,
That straightway will I be.
I'll write my name on human hearts
So deep, 't will ne'er decay!”
“You dream!” and as the Whisper spoke,
My vision fled away.
“Power, pomp, and potency;
Whate'er the proudest may have been,
That straightway will I be.
I'll write my name on human hearts
So deep, 't will ne'er decay!”
“You dream!” and as the Whisper spoke,
My vision fled away.
“I'm poor,” I said; “but I will toil
And gather store of gold;
And in my purse the fate of kings
And nations I will hold:
I'll follow Fortune, till my path
With wealth untold she strew!”
Again, “You dream!” the Whisper said,
And straight my vision flew.
And gather store of gold;
And in my purse the fate of kings
And nations I will hold:
I'll follow Fortune, till my path
With wealth untold she strew!”
Again, “You dream!” the Whisper said,
And straight my vision flew.
132
“I'll breathe to men,” I proudly thought,
“A strain of poesy,
Like the angelic songs of old,
In fire and energy.
My thoughts the thoughts of many lands,
Of many men shall grow;”
“You dream!” the Whisper scorning said—
I dared not answer, No.
“A strain of poesy,
Like the angelic songs of old,
In fire and energy.
My thoughts the thoughts of many lands,
Of many men shall grow;”
“You dream!” the Whisper scorning said—
I dared not answer, No.
If I can gain nor name nor power,
Nor gold, by high emprise,
Bread to the hungry I will give,
And dry the orphan's eyes:
Through me the Sun of Joy shall find
Its way to Sorrow's door:
“The wildest dream of all,” then said
The Whisper—“You are poor!”
Nor gold, by high emprise,
Bread to the hungry I will give,
And dry the orphan's eyes:
Through me the Sun of Joy shall find
Its way to Sorrow's door:
“The wildest dream of all,” then said
The Whisper—“You are poor!”
“I'm poor, unheeded; but I'll be
An honest man,” I said;
“Truth I shall worship, yea, and feel
For all whom God hath made:—
The Poor and Honest Man can stand,
With an unblenching brow,
Before Earth's highest,—such I'll be:”—
The Whisper spoke not now!
An honest man,” I said;
“Truth I shall worship, yea, and feel
For all whom God hath made:—
The Poor and Honest Man can stand,
With an unblenching brow,
Before Earth's highest,—such I'll be:”—
The Whisper spoke not now!
133
THE QUESTIONER.
A CHANT.
I ask not for his lineage,
I ask not for his name—
If manliness be in his heart,
He noble birth may claim.
I care not though of world's wealth
But slender be his part,
If Yes you answer, when I ask—
Hath he a true man's heart?
I ask not for his name—
If manliness be in his heart,
He noble birth may claim.
I care not though of world's wealth
But slender be his part,
If Yes you answer, when I ask—
Hath he a true man's heart?
I ask not from what land he came,
Nor where his youth was nurs'd—
If pure the stream, it matters not
The spot from whence it burst.
The palace or the hovel,
Where first his life began,
I seek not of; but answer this—
Is he an honest man?
Nor where his youth was nurs'd—
If pure the stream, it matters not
The spot from whence it burst.
The palace or the hovel,
Where first his life began,
I seek not of; but answer this—
Is he an honest man?
Nay, blush not now—what matters it
Where first he drew his breath?
A manger was the cradle-bed
Of Him of Nazareth!
Be nought, be any, every thing—
I care not what you be—
If Yes you answer, when I ask—
Art thou pure, true, and free?
Where first he drew his breath?
A manger was the cradle-bed
Of Him of Nazareth!
Be nought, be any, every thing—
I care not what you be—
If Yes you answer, when I ask—
Art thou pure, true, and free?
| Poems by Robert Nicoll | |