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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
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INGLESIDE RHAIMS 
 
 VERSES IN THE 
 
 DIALECT OF BURNS 
 
 (Copyright 1^7.) 
 
 By J. e/raNKIN 
 
 ** There was ae mng, amang the rest, 
 
 Aboon then «' it j^lea^ed 7m best. 
 
 That smne kind husband had addrest 
 
 To some sweet wife. 
 
 It thirled the heartstrings thro'' my breast^ 
 
 A' to the life.'* 
 
 —Burns. 
 
 HOWARD UNIVERSITY PRINT 
 WASHINGTON, D. C. 
 
b^ 
 
 IS-i^ 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 This neiu edition of studies in the Scottish dialect, 
 is hy his kind permission, dedicated to 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman, 
 
 whose criticis7ns in English and American literature 
 admit him among the best interpreters of literary 
 genius the ivorld has ever produced. 
 
LETTER FROM MR. STEDMAN. 
 
 137 West 78th St., New York, Feb. 14, 1893. 
 
 Rey. J. E. Rankin, D.D., LL.D. 
 
 President Howard University: 
 
 My Dear Sir : — I often have seen my name upon a 
 dedication-page of a book; but, it is not often that 
 an author— though his work is held of more account 
 than my own— receives a letter and request like yours, 
 from a fellow-writer of your scholarship and dignity. 
 When this man of letters is a poet as well, his atten- 
 tion is of more worth to me. Certainly, I consider 
 your wish as an honor conferred upon me, and shall 
 accept the dedication of your book with thanks, 
 which are still more sincere as I read the language in 
 which your request is conveyed; 
 
 » , . . Words of so sweet breath composed, 
 As made the thing more rich." 
 
 Pray believe me, with cordial appreciation. 
 Very sincerely yours, 
 
 Edmund C. Stedman, 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Auld Scotch Mithee 
 
 The Lost Guid-Man, 
 
 The Burdie, 
 
 Ganging to the Wars, 
 
 Nae Wark o' my a in, 
 
 Ae Simmer Sabbath Morn 
 
 Forsaken, 
 
 Auld Adam Adair, 
 
 Nae Knee-bairn, 
 
 My Ain Fireside, . 
 
 Lanely Agnes Murray, 
 
 In Dumfries Kirkyard, 
 
 The Ayrshire Pleughman 
 
 RoBiE Burns, 
 
 The Wee-bit Bairn, . 
 
 Enough for Twa, . 
 
 Forebodings, 
 
 Mitherhood, 
 
 Babie Greetin', 
 
 Ae Man Beyont That, 
 
 Waitin' Supper, 
 
 Auld Age, 
 
 The Gudewife, 
 
 Ither Days, . 
 
 My Ain Gudewife, 
 
 The Babie, . 
 
 The Little Mither, , 
 
 Learnin' to Gang, 
 
 The Chris'nin o' the Babie, 
 
 Jean Anderson, my Joy, 
 
 Babie's First Shoon, 
 
 The Scotch Elder's Sunday 
 
 Nae Gudewife, . 
 
 Mirk Monday, 
 
 Ride, 
 
 PAOE. 
 9 
 
 20 
 30 
 31 
 33 
 35 
 
POEMS. 
 
 THE AULD SCOTCH MITHER, 
 AND HOW SHE WELCOMED HER MALCOLM. 
 
 There was great bustle at a Highland inn, 
 One summer afternoon, without, within ; 
 For Malcolm Anderson, — who, years before, 
 Had left his mother's cottage young and poor, 
 His fortune in his little sailor's chest, 
 And in the blessing that his mother blest, — 
 With wife and children, servants, baggage, all. 
 Had landed from the mail-coach in the hall. 
 
 It was a hamlet 'neath Ben Nevis' head. 
 That looked up smiling from the valley's bed : 
 Some dozen houses with the old gray kirk, 
 A few poor acres, but enriched by work, 
 By honest Highland toil, by sweat of brow. 
 Where men and women delved with spade and plow ; 
 
 9 
 
lO POEMS. 
 
 Or where, indoors, the gu id- wives wove and spun, 
 And brought up children, as their dames had done. 
 A brook went tumbling, headlong, boisterous, down, 
 And ground the oatmeal for the little town ; 
 A bridge the sundered street re-bound in one, 
 From which you saw the yeasty waters run. 
 Ben Nevis, with his head wrapped in a cloud, 
 Like some old grandsire, o'er the landscape bowed : 
 He saw the village children as they played ; 
 He saw the lover trysting with the maid ; 
 Down on these smoking chimneys, year by year, 
 He looked and smiled, and blessed their humble 
 
 cheer ; 
 He looked and smiled, like some old idol grim, 
 As though they offered incense up to him ; 
 He heard the millstones grinding at his foot, 
 Down o'er the rocks the dashing waters shoot ; 
 And merry to his ears rang up the note 
 The blacksmith from his ringing anvil smote ; 
 And when the doors were open to the air, 
 He heard the guid-man in his praise and prayer. 
 And here, among the heather and the rocks. 
 The hamlet kept its ill-assorted flocks ; 
 Climbed up his brow a cosset lamb, a goat. 
 Each step proclaiming with a tinkling note ; 
 And lower down, above the garden's line. 
 Contented, grazed the grateful, great-eyed kine. 
 
THE AULD SCOTCH MITHER. H 
 
 Who Malcolm was, of course no mortal knew ; 
 His name he'd given the landlord, it is true ; 
 But twenty years had slowly come and gone, 
 And twenty years had built up bone and brawn. 
 And care and toil had in his wavy chestnut hair 
 Woven a thread of silver here and there ; 
 The little sapling, which, with nimble feet 
 He'd climbed, now stretched its arms across the 
 
 street : 
 So now he was a stranger in the very town 
 Each foot of which his childhood steps had known. 
 Besides, the landlord was but lately there, 
 And so received him with a grateful stare : 
 Native or stranger, he was quite as glad, 
 And welcomed him to take the best he had : 
 The rooms were low, the windows very small ; 
 He and his wife responded to each call. 
 
 But Malcolm, with the thought pre-occupied. 
 From wife and children soon withdrew aside. 
 And, taking off his dress from head to foot, 
 Quickly put on a common sailor's suit, — 
 Pea-jacket, pants, and hat, such as he wore 
 When he went seaward, twenty years before ; 
 And then, by by-paths that in youth he'd known, 
 He sought his mother's cottage-door alone. 
 
la POEMS. 
 
 The foot-worn way he trod again along 
 Where he had shouted out his childhood's song, 
 Where he had whistled many a sailor air 
 Before he left his good old mother's care. 
 These are, above, the very chestnut-trees 
 'Gainst which he used to plant his climbing knees ; 
 And here, midway, still stands the awkward stone 
 That many a time his heedless foot has thrown ; 
 And now he sits again the old stone stile, 
 And waits to look the landscape o'er a while. 
 
 Before him is the little cottage, where 
 His tiny feet first learned to climb the stair ; 
 A stone's throw distant from him, that is all. 
 No dog would answer to the old-time call, 
 Nor bound as once the intervening wall ; 
 For old Rob Roy, worn out, toothless, and dumb, ' 
 Long years ago to his last sleep has come. 
 There is his window o'er the sloping roof. 
 The apple tree, with branches spread aloof; 
 The old stone chimney, awkward, huge, and square, 
 Still curls with sluggish smoke ascending there. 
 O, how his heart beneath his bosom smote ! 
 O, how it leaped into his choking throat ! 
 For through the mist that blinds his eager eyes 
 His mother at the window he espies ; 
 
THE AULD SCOTCH MITHER. I3 
 
 And hark ! — O, how it made his senses reel ! -^ 
 She's crooning softly to her spinning-wheel ; 
 The same sweet voice, broken although it be, 
 With which she sang when he sat on her knee ; 
 And she's the same, although the precious form 
 Is doubled up from meeting many a storm : 
 The locks of auburn that he used to know 
 Are white as winter's deep, imdrifted snow ; 
 The eyes are dim, that shone like flowers in dew, 
 Searching, yet tender, deep as heaven's own blue ; 
 And yet her cheeks are blooming like the rose 
 Beneath a bank of melting Alpine snows, — 
 The same sweet tint that youth had painted first, 
 Before life's tempests on her head had burst. 
 
 He knocked at length, and then he, waiting, stood, 
 Eager to meet and test her motherhood. 
 No answer came, except the hollow sound 
 Of his own blow, the death-like cottage round ; 
 He knocked again, and said in undertone, 
 " She's grown quite deaf, I surely might have known." 
 " Come ben ! " in her old-fashioned, simple way, 
 As often to a guest, he heard her say. 
 She brought a chair ; nor had he scarce sat down. 
 Before he asked the way to Kinlock town. 
 His garments they were new, but coarse and rough ; 
 His accent English ; and his voice was gruff. 
 
14 POEMS. 
 
 " Gang through the town across the burnie's bed, 
 Keep up the hill, to left nor right your head ; 
 When at the height, turn round the old gray kirk." 
 
 She eyed him once, and then put by her work. 
 He weary seemed, all crouching in his chair, 
 And broken down with travel, grief, or care. 
 It made her sigh. " And are ye Scotch by birth? 
 Why went ye then a roamin' roun* the earth } " 
 "Ah, yes ! Fm Scotch ; but I am altered so. 
 That her own son my mother would not know, 
 Although a mother kinder could not be 
 Before I left her and went off to sea.'* 
 " Ah, man ! of mithers ye do little ken. 
 If that's your ain conviction of them, then. 
 A mither'd ken the bairn she fondly pressed 
 On her ain bosom to a lo'in' rest, 
 Wha teuk the snawy draught frae out her breast, 
 An* toddled roun' in the auld household nest ; 
 She'd ken her bairn, her lo'in' e'e sae keen. 
 Where'er he were, wherever he had been • 
 Her ear wad ken his footfa' on the walk. 
 She'd ken him by his gait and by his talk. 
 But tell me, man, how far your foot could reach. 
 That ye sud lose the Scotch frae out your speech ? 
 On Arctic snaws, or India's scorchin' sands, 
 Where ha'e ye wandered roun' through mony lands, 
 
THE AULD SCOTCH MITHBR. I5 
 
 That ye ha'e tined the tongue your mither taught, — 
 The auld Scotch tongue, wi' sic sweet mem'ries 
 
 fra^jght?" 
 " O ! in Calcutta I have lived for years." 
 
 At that she sighed ; and then she said, with tears, 
 " And, when ye lived there, did ye chance upon 
 A bairn o' mine, one Malcolm Anderson ? " 
 " There's many of that name I know full well. 
 What is he, ma'am ? A merchant there did dwell, 
 About my age and build, and wealthy, too." 
 " Malcolm's a merchant, that is unco true ; 
 But he is younger far by mony a year, 
 An' bonnier far, than you do now appear. 
 I beg your pardon, man ; a mither's pride 
 Sic points o' likeness can fu' weel decide. 
 An', then, he stood up firm and straight and tall 
 As though he walked a laird within his hall ; 
 His han's were like a lassie's, saft an' white ; 
 His tressy hair was thick an' glossy bright ; 
 His cheeks were like the new-blawn rose to me, 
 That hangs half opened on the mither-tree ; 
 His swellin' brow was pure as any snaw ; 
 And in his een, that answered to your ca', 
 There was a glint just like the e'enen' star, — 
 A glint o' light across a sky o* blue, 
 A leuk that seemed to search a body through : 
 
1 6 POEMS. 
 
 Ye'rfr not my Malcolm, man, by very far, 
 Although a decent mither's son nae doubt ye are,** 
 
 The stranger rose, as if to take his leave, 
 That he had altered so, slow to believe. 
 " O ! bide a bit, ye've gang'd sae lang a way, 
 An' eat wi' us, before we part, I pray." 
 Thus did the kind old mother rise and say. 
 He had not answered her, before she went 
 And up the stairway this brief summons sent, — 
 " Maggie, come down, and set the supper on ! " 
 For now the parting day was well nigh gone. 
 And so the two spread out a clean repast, 
 And he drew nigh to eat, as she had asked. 
 She closed her eyes, and drooped her frosted hea i, 
 And reverently a simple grace she said. 
 The stranger took upon his plate the food ; 
 He tried to eat, but still untouched it stood : 
 His soul within him was too deeply stirred ; 
 He was too hungry for some loving word ; 
 His heart was leaping in too eager haste 
 The sweetness of his mother's lips to taste. 
 
 " Ye dinna eat, my man : what can we bring? 
 What wad ye relish? Is there any thing? *' 
 ** There is a dish my mother used to make, 
 I'd gladl}' taste, if only for her sake. 
 
THE AULD SCOTCH MITHER. l7 
 
 'Tis oatmeal porridge ; taken from her liand^ 
 Vd be the happiest man in any land." 
 " Parritch^ ye mean ! " his mother quick re- 
 plied : 
 " There's some that's left from dinner set aside ; 
 It Stan's within the pantry very near ; 
 But then it's cauld. Maggie, just han' it here ! " 
 " If it but have the taste it had of old, 
 I do not care if it be hot or cold." 
 
 He took the bowl, and then he stirred the spoon, 
 And she began to mark the motion soon. 
 And, when he twirled it by some boyhood art, 
 Half from her chair she rose with sudden start ; 
 And then she trembled, then was pale as death, 
 And then she said, as fast as came her breath, — 
 " Ye minded me o' my ain Malcolm then ; 
 There, there ! just lift your spoon that way again. 
 Just sae his parritch he was wont to stir : 
 O laddie ! now, my Malcolm gin ye were ! " 
 "Ah, weel then, gin I were your Malcolm, come 
 To cheer your auld age in your auld-time home. 
 Or gin your braw young Malcolm were as brown, 
 An* auld, an' gray, an' bald, an doublit down, 
 That Malcolm, mither, wad ye now incline 
 To lo'e him as ye did in dear lang syne?" 
 a 
 
iS POEMS. 
 
 His language had become his mother's own ; 
 She heard again the old familiar tone ; 
 At once her aged breath comes thick and fast, 
 And gathering tears begin to fall at last : 
 And when he calls her fnither^ then she goes 
 With one glad cry, and, tottering toward him, 
 
 throws 
 Her fainting form upon his manly breast, 
 With her excessive joy weak and distressed, 
 And like a child within his bosom hides, 
 While many a tear-drop down his rough face glides. 
 Her brow he kisses, then her face and hand, 
 And calls her all dear names he can command; 
 While in his face she looks, beyond a doubt 
 If she, perchance, can make her Malcolm out. 
 
 At last, by these caresses satisfied. 
 And lacking words, they seat them side by side. 
 *' But, Malcolm, wife and bairns — where are they 
 
 all.?" 
 " O ! at the inn, within a minute's call." 
 " Go bring them here, to bless my achin' e'e ; 
 I scarcely hoped this happy day to see." 
 *' But in the cottage ha'e ye surely room.'"' 
 " I'll manage that. Go bid them a' to come : 
 I ha'e twa rooms, wi' neebor closets wide. 
 An' shelves weel packed wi' gudes on ilka side, 
 
THE AULD SCOTCH MITHER. I9 
 
 Wi* things for yours IVe woven or ha'e spun." 
 
 " Weel, mither, now ye'll rest : your work is done." 
 
 " 'Twad mickle irk my soul, I ken fu' weel, 
 
 Idle to see my loom or spinnin* wheel ; 
 
 This side the grave to rest I dinna care ; 
 
 Fu' lang a time I'll ha'e to rest me there. 
 
 I canna bear these wrinklet han's to fauld 
 
 Till they are crossed to moulder in the mould : 
 
 There'll be, 'twixt then an' resurrection-day, 
 
 For needfu' rest fu' time enough to stay. 
 
 But hasten now your wife and bairns to bring ; 
 
 Against it we'll make ready ilka thing : 
 
 I hope to like your wife ; I want to see 
 
 The bonnie bairns ; I hope that they'll like me." 
 
 The good dame's hopes each one proved very true : 
 She liked them well, and well they liked her, too. 
 That night, before their rest, in holy calm 
 They knelt in prayer, they sang an old Scotch 
 
 psalm ; 
 And then, the guid-wife's palsied voice instead, 
 Her Malcolm's own the welcome worship led. 
 
 Bright was the cottage thence, within, without, — 
 Without with rose and woodbine clung about. 
 Within with childhood ways and childhood glee. 
 With books and sports and ringing melody : 
 
20 POEMS. 
 
 But sometimes would the grand-dame call around 
 The little group, and still their boisterous sound ; 
 While, as she told, their eager eyes would swim, 
 How Malcolm came^ and how she welcomed hi?n. 
 
 THE LOST GUID-MAN; 
 OR, JANET FOREMAN'S STORY. 
 
 One summer in July, when on the walls, 
 And roofs, and spires, and lofty palace-halls. 
 The sun, like king barbaric with gold crown. 
 Was pouring all his hottest terrors down, 
 A knot of ladies from " Auld Reekie " went, 
 On pastime, health, and pleasure bent, 
 To live at Annefield, a suburban place, 
 Simple and sandy and with scarce a grace ; 
 To bathe them in the surf, to walk, to fish. 
 To treat themselves to many an humble dish : 
 A wife, whose husband was in foreign parts ; 
 A daughter, decked with all the city arts ; 
 A grandchild, orphaned ere her feet could go, 
 But treated so as not the loss to know ; 
 An unwed aunt, who in the grave ha i laid 
 A noble man who sought her as a m lid ; 
 
THE LOST GUID-MAN. 21 
 
 A dog, Newfoundland, and the grandchild's pet, 
 That loved in brine his shaggy coat to wet — 
 A brute protector of them each and all, 
 That came all bounding, eager at their call, 
 That human seemed, so wise and true was he, 
 And more than human in fidelity. 
 These often met a woman, quaint and old, 
 Sitting upon a crag, surf-worn and bold, 
 That overlooked the restless, foamy Firth, 
 As though oblivious of all things on earth ; 
 Wrinkled her brow with many a deep-scored care, 
 Falling in silvered curls her unthinned hair ; 
 Her wxll-arched brow and face of classic mould, 
 Her blue eyes' depths, of true refinement told. 
 She sat there gazing ofi'upon the sea, 
 As though it had some charm or mystery ; 
 As though within its depths some treasure lay 
 Hidden forever from her reach away. 
 At last, from meetings oft, acquainted grown, 
 She told this tale in tender undertone : — 
 
 " Some twa-score years ago, in a' the town 
 There was nae happier cottage than our own. 
 Just shade the settin' sunbeams wi' your ban's. 
 And leuk off westward ; there ye see it Stan's. 
 'Twas Davie's self, before I was his bride, 
 When we had luve-walks by the foam-fringed tide, 
 
22 POEMS. 
 
 That ^inglit out the spot, alane and free, 
 VVheie my bright lamp wad shine far off at sea ; 
 And, being unco skilled wi' saw and plane, 
 To put it up himself he was fu' fain. 
 And sae, when fishin' days were dull or gaun, 
 Our hame and comin' years intent upon, 
 He hew'd the timbers, drove the ringin' nails, 
 Fitted the slant! n* roof wi' cedar scales ; 
 While, like the master-workman, happy I, 
 To hear t)je soun's and see the shavin's fly ! 
 Well, S0051 'twas dune, and then we twa were wed 
 The crownin' day for baith we thought and said. 
 How aft the sunrise met the curlin' smoke. 
 When frae the waves the purple mornin' broke ; 
 How aft the stars leuked out o' heaven to see 
 Sic human bliss as fell to him and me ! 
 'Tis but a step ; alang this path let's walk. 
 An', till we reach it, I will stap my talk." 
 
 And while they went behind the cliff' the sun 
 Dropped, as a votive shield, in battle won. 
 And hung aloft to grace a temple's walls, 
 Jostled by jarring door, descending falls ; 
 While all the west with clouds was overrun, 
 Like painter's pallet when his work is done. 
 And now they sit beneath the vine-draped door. 
 That overlooks the hamlet and the shore. 
 And she resumes the tale she left before : 
 
THE LOST GUID-MAN. %$ 
 
 " About a month, I think, a month or more, 
 The wonted herrin* fishin' had been ower, 
 When guid-man, that was Davie, weel ye ken. 
 And, syne he's dead, he was the best o' men : 
 As clear his een as heaven's unclouded blue, 
 Sae Strang his limbs, his voice sae kind and true ; 
 I ha'e his picture hung upon the wa' ; 
 Just walk this way and see it in the ha' ; 
 There, just like that he leuked when we were wed, 
 Dressed in his best, and sae held up his heid. 
 Don't min' me, for the woun' is always fresh ; 
 For, though the spirit's willin', weak's the flesh. 
 My guid-man, he that's here, and he that's there. 
 Said, 'Janet,' as he drew alang his chair, 
 ' Here is the pickle silver I ha'e earned ; 
 For bonnet and for gown I ken ye've yearned ; 
 Sae buy them baith ; it sweetens a' my work 
 To see ye walkin' Sundays to the kirk, 
 Wi' cheeks a' blushin', and with hair o' gowd ; 
 For a' the hamlet kens o' ye I'm proud. 
 There'll be enough — for next on that I dote, 
 To buy for me a bonnie fishin'-boat, 
 Sae snug and trim, sae jauntie fore and aft, 
 'Twill surely overhaul all ither craft. 
 And 'Janet Foreman' that shall be the name 
 Upon the stern, and on the flag aflame ; 
 
24 POEMS. 
 
 A' ither boats 'twill stan' as far before 
 
 As my ain Janet a* alang the shore.' 
 
 And sae we sat beside the chimla there, 
 
 An' leiiked, and bigged our castles i' the air: 
 
 The bonnet an' the gown were baith for me, 
 
 An' sae the bran new boat was, ye can see. 
 
 But, ah ! my ladies, 'tis an awfu' truth 
 
 That aften fell frae my auld mither's mouth : 
 
 'Tis not in man that walks his path to choose ; 
 
 It is not his to take, nor to refuse. 
 
 The bran new boat was never to be made ; 
 
 The gown and bonnet, black as nicht their shade ; 
 
 And his 'twas never mair again to be 
 
 To sail his boat or gang to kirk wi' me ; 
 
 But 'twas God's will, and sae it shall be mine — 
 
 He gied me a', to Him I a' resign. 
 
 *' Herrin's were gaun, but haddocks still were gran* 
 An' bigger grew the siller in my han' ; 
 For never had the weather an' the sea 
 Been better for my guid-man and for me. 
 Aweel 1 aweel ! December was half gaun ; 
 The day'd been fair, and nicht was creepin* on ; 
 I'd put the lines in order and the bait ; 
 Neptune was moanin' for him at the gate ; 
 I'd filled his basket wi' a goodly store, 
 And it sat waitin* just within the door ; 
 
THE LOST GUID-MAN. ^5 
 
 We'd ta'en our supper, and before he went 
 To God our wonted e*enin' worship sent. 
 An' then, without anither word, he rose 
 An' kissed our babie in her saft repose — 
 Our anely one ; (for thirteen years had past 
 Before her little fragile bark was cast 
 Within the friendly shelter o' our hame ; 
 Three years before, our little Maggie came ;) 
 And then, wi' laughin' word to me, alang 
 Wi' Neptune at his heels, and some sea-sang 
 Upon his hearty lips, away he strode ; 
 An' soon four strappin' chiels adown the road, 
 As crew, o'ertook him : what could I forebode ? 
 
 **The sun, 'tis true, had set that nicht in blood. 
 An* there were clouds that augured naethin' good ; 
 The wives new-married, they had gaun adown ; 
 An' lassies waitin' to be married soon, 
 To see their guid-men an' their sweethearts aff. 
 An' I had heard the cheer an* answerin' laugh ; 
 For I, Strang in my faith, Strang in my luve, 
 An' not sic early tenderness above. 
 Was busied roun' the house, until *twas dark, 
 Wi' milkin' o* the cow and ither wark. 
 An' when I fastened winnocks and the door, 
 I heard the boats a callin' down the shore, 
 An' warkin' slowly out into the sea. 
 An' then I prayed upon my bended knee 
 
26 POEMS. 
 
 To Him wha haulds the waters in his han% 
 To Him wha walk'd upon them as on Ian*, 
 To Him wha stills them as to rest a child, 
 That frae their surgin' depths and frenzy wild 
 He'd watch and ward upon my Davie keep, 
 And send him back again frae aff the deep. 
 
 '' Ah ! ladies, prayer's a helpfu' thing and gran* 
 To ease us of our sorrows kindly plann'd, 
 To sweeten a' our joys, and to prepare 
 For comin' griefs, in store we ken not where. 
 I took our babe and got me aff to bed ; 
 Upon my arm was laid her trustfu' heid ; 
 A sweeter burden mither never had. 
 An' there I lay, half mournfu' and half glad ; 
 Now thinkin' on my Davie gaun frae me. 
 Now wond'rin' why sae tearfu' I sud be. 
 I lay half wakfu', gazin' at the fire. 
 As it would wildly loup and then expire, 
 And soon I drapp'd into as soun* a rest 
 As ever came to any wearie breast. 
 Sic pictures sweet came to me in my dreams. 
 Just came and went, as if by fitfu' gleams : 
 We twa were sittin' by our ain fireside, 
 Before the babie came — I still a bride. 
 He leuked sic luve frae out his tender eyes, 
 He spak sic words, and gied me sic replies ; 
 
THE LOST GUID-MAN. 2^ 
 
 An* then he seemed to fade and fade away, 
 
 As stars go out before the dawn o' day. 
 
 How lang I slept I do not truly ken ; 
 
 I anely know, lang 'twas ere day agen. 
 
 I heard, as 'twere the thunder's pealin* soun*, 
 
 The winds awake and sweep our roof aroun* ; 
 
 Siccan a night it was ! I heard the sea 
 
 Breaking against the rocks relentlessly. 
 
 Where was my guid-man then? Alas! I thocht, 
 
 ' The darkness hideth not frae Thee ! ' This brough' 
 
 Some comfort. An', besides, he saw the storm 
 
 A brewin' ; sae in Berwick snug and warm, 
 
 Or in Dunbar, he's ta'en his trusty boat, 
 
 An' there she'll safely ride the tempest out. 
 
 I was na frightened, yet I could na hleep, 
 
 Sic tumult did the win's and waters keep. 
 
 I lighted up the fire, and down God's book, 
 
 We'd read sae aften, I for comfort took. 
 
 And thus I waited for the comin' morn. 
 
 It came, at last, with a' its cauld and scorn, 
 
 An* guilty-like, as though it wad na own 
 
 What it weel kenned the cruel nicht had done. 
 
 It came, at last, and down alang the shore 
 
 Were wives and sweethearts, oh ! weel nigh a score 
 
 A heavy fog hung like a fun'ral pall 
 
 Upon the pier, and ower the waters all. 
 
 We leuked in vain, for naething could be seen ; 
 
 Naething but waves against the rocks moss green — 
 
aS POEMS. 
 
 The loupin', surgin*, treach'rous waves, that camei 
 But brocht nae tidings on their snawy faem. 
 We lookit eastward, westward, too, in vain. 
 Ah ! naething, naething but the fog agen. 
 The fog, and angry roarin' sea ; no sail. 
 No broken mast, no sign that could avail 
 To solve the mystery or to tell the tale. 
 
 " We talkit much thegither, and made out 
 They'd sail'd for Berwick or Dunbar, no doubt ; 
 And that they'd tak the road before the nicht. 
 And come to gladden our poor achin' sight. 
 And sae to Musselboro', on that day, 
 We women-folk to meet 'em took our way. 
 We thocht our guid-man and the lads wad come 
 Ere we had tramp'd ower half the road frae hamc 
 Like torrents, then, the rain was pourin' down ; 
 We felt it not, nor heard its mony soun'. 
 But ah ! we found them not, and sae our lane 
 We travelled back. Of griefs each had her ain. 
 Intiil the west went down the sad, sad day, 
 On came the gloamin' hour, sae cauld and gray ; 
 And darker grew the twilight, darker still, 
 And not a word of hope our hearts to thrill. 
 Ah ! sic a nicht in Annefield never was ; 
 Of sic anither may there ne'er be cause ! 
 How mony hearts within our hamlet broke 
 Before the next dav frae the sea awoke 1 
 
THE LOST GUID-MAN. 2g 
 
 How mony, too, that could na think or sleep ! 
 
 How mony, too, that could na break or weep ! 
 
 Ah ! ladies, aften had I sung the sang, 
 
 ' My guid-man's step hath music in't.* 'Twas lang 
 
 Before I kenned the meanin' o' the line ; 
 
 But then, alas ! I could too weel divine : 
 
 My Davie's footfa', ah ! was never mair 
 
 To sing his welcome comin' on the stair. 
 
 " Twa days passed slow awa' ; and then the waves, 
 As if they tokens brocht frae rifled graves. 
 As if they mock'd our sorrow and our woe. 
 Washed up the broken spars frae down below. 
 Oh ! when we saw them, then we kenned the een 
 That blink'd wi' sunshine never mair'd be seen ; 
 That we might leuk and leuk across the sea, 
 And to our sight nae lang'd-for craft should be ; 
 That we might listen still frae year to year. 
 But ne'er the music of their voice wad hear ; 
 That never till the sea gave up its dead 
 Wad mortal ken where God had made their bed.^ 
 What weepin', lamentation, sorrow, woe I 
 In the gran' words o' Scripture that ye know, 
 Rachel a weepin' for her bairns, and we 
 For those that better were than bairns could be I 
 
 " But, in this season of my bitter need, 
 A-down I bowed my beaten, droopin' heid ; 
 
30 POEMS. 
 
 I kenned that He wha made us knows the best 
 How He can fit us for His heavenly rest. 
 I ask'd my guid-man's safe return to hame ; 
 God took him thet'e^ and that is a' the same. 
 That is our hame ; our babie's gaun there too, 
 An' I'm but waitin' till my wark is through. 
 'Twill not be lang ; ye see I'm auld and gray, 
 I'm waitin* for His ca' to rise and gang away." 
 
 Her auld voice drops, and they are all in tears 
 Just then from out the cloud the moon appears ; 
 And so, with many thanks and greetings fair, 
 They thoughtful to their quiet home repair. 
 
 THE BURDIE. 
 
 A BURDIE lighted on my han*, 
 As it had been a spray ; 
 
 An* sportively keeked in my e*e, 
 An illed a winsome lay. 
 
 A roguish pet he soon became. 
 An' thought to build his nest, 
 
 An* rear a brood of gentle ones 
 Within my frightit breast. 
 
GANGING TO THE WARS. 3I 
 
 Ae burdie ane might scare awa*, 
 
 Gin he wad come again ! 
 But, gin he never found ae liame, 
 
 Ane wad be sorry then ! 
 
 An* ilka breast maun be a nest 
 
 For some poor bird to fill ; 
 Sae 'twas na in my heart at a' 
 
 To cheat him o' his will ! 
 
 GANGING TO THE WARS. 
 
 PART I. WILLIE. 
 
 I'm ganging to the wars, Jean ; 
 
 There is nae peace at hame ; 
 Thou'lt na gainsay the word, Jean, 
 
 That gars me do the same. 
 
 I came na for thy gear, Jean ; 
 
 Oh ! leave it a' behind ! 
 House fu' o' stuft^'s a pest, Jean, 
 
 Without a willing mind. 
 
 I would hae stown thy heart, Jean, 
 Then waited for thy han' ; 
 
:>» 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 I did not hae the thought, Jean, 
 Till my ain heart was gaun. 
 
 Oh ! canst thou gie it back, Jean? 
 
 Owre meikle, twa for ane ; 
 An' nane's a sorry plight, Jean, 
 
 For him wha gangs his lane. 
 
 Nay ! keep them baith thysel', Jean ; 
 
 Somehow mine was thy due ; 
 I wad na cheat thee o't, Jean, 
 
 Though I hae nane in lieu. 
 
 And maun I to the wars, Jean, 
 
 An* never see thee mair? 
 Thou ijoilt gainsay the word, Jean, 
 
 That vexed my heart sae sair ! 
 
 PART II. — JEAN. 
 
 I wad na hae thee gang awa, 
 Thy ways hae been sae kind ; 
 
 I can na think what I hae done 
 To make thee o' that mind. 
 
 Yestreen thy words were sweet to me t 
 Wad thou but tell them o'er, 
 
NAE WARK O MY AIN. 33 
 
 rd schule mysel' to say the things 
 1 durst na say before. 
 
 Oh ! meikle crowded to my throat I 
 
 My heart lay beating there ! 
 I know, I could na mean to speak 
 
 A word na kind and fair ! 
 
 Oh ! Willie, thou'lt na gang to-day^ 
 
 Because I ask thee so ; 
 Thou wilt na grieve thy gentle Jean 
 
 Sae soon before thou go ! 
 
 NAE WARK O' MY AIN. 
 
 *TwAS nae wark o* my ain ; 
 
 I ken na how it was ; 
 Her palm I'd saftly ta'en ; 
 
 I can na guess the cause. 
 
 *Twas nae wark o' my ain ; 
 
 I durst nae think of it ; 
 Slyly my lips were fain 
 
 To peck her han' ae bit. 
 3 
 
34 POEMS. 
 
 'Twas nae wark o* my ain ; 
 
 I said I lo'ed her best ; 
 The silly tale had lain 
 
 Sae whist within my breasL 
 
 'Twas nae wark o' my ain ; 
 
 I could nae help to see, 
 What she wad check in vain, 
 
 Come bubbling to her e'e. 
 
 Nae wark o' mine was this, 
 To stoop an' reach her mou'^ 
 
 An* pluck a red ripe kiss, 
 O' hearty luve sae fu'. 
 
 *Twas nae wark o' my ain. 
 Her nestlin' in my arms ; 
 
 A neuk she syne has ta'en 
 In wee-bit luve alarms. 
 
 I wonder at it a' ; 
 
 It might nae hap again ; 
 It could na better fa', 
 
 Though ae wark o' my ain. 
 
AE SIMMER SABBATH MORN. 35 
 
 AE SIMMER SABBATH MORN. 
 
 The simmer claver is i' flower; 
 
 The fields a' red and white ; 
 Fragrant with incense is the hour ; 
 The wearie week has left a dower — 
 
 The Sabbath's tranquil light. 
 
 Nae wheel comes rumbling down the road ; 
 
 Nae clutter frae the mill ; 
 The beasts hae respite frae the goad ; 
 The cart stan's empty o' its load, 
 
 Stray roun' where'er ye will. 
 
 Saft and unjangled are the bells 
 
 That call us to the kirk ; 
 Their ebbings an' their pealing swells 
 Are sughing through the distant dells 
 
 Whare timid conies lurk. 
 
 The bairns come linkit loof in loof 
 To their sweet Sabbath schule ; 
 Ye ken yon house wi' sloping roof, 
 Whose moss-grown boards gie meikle proof 
 It's seen fu' mony a Yule ! * 
 
 * Christmas. 
 
36 POEMS. 
 
 Decrepit, doublit up in half, 
 
 Upon a sturdy arm, 
 Auld age comes hirplin' wi' its staff; 
 Nae ill-bred youngster hides a laugh, 
 
 Or plots the gray-beard harm. 
 
 Nae ither day can see sic sight 
 
 Within these dingy wa's ; 
 Ilk lad, ilk tentfu' rimkled wight, 
 Ilk dame, ilk damsel bonnie bright, 
 
 Frae God instruction draws. 
 
 The seed is sawn on mellow groun' ; 
 
 Ilk heart is weel prepared ; 
 How thrifty virtues grow aroun' 
 Within those sweet bells' Sabbath soun', 
 
 Time hath fu' weel declared. 
 
 FORSAKEN. 
 
 •'Oh! nocht but luve and sorrow joined." — Burns, 
 
 Auld mither, rax thy bany ban', 
 
 An' baud it to my breast ; 
 This busy heart is worn an' faint, 
 
 An' droop in' to its rest. 
 
FORSAKEN. 37 
 
 Awa, awa in Scotia's Ian*, 
 
 Was ance my Highlan' hame ; 
 Ae Lowlan' chiel made suit to me, 
 
 An' owre the seas we came. 
 
 Oh ! he was cannie, brisk, an' braw*, 
 
 An' spake the hinnied word : 
 Then wound his arm anent my waist; 
 
 A' flitchrin' hke a bird ! 
 
 Oh ! hght was then my foohsh heart. 
 
 An' dancin' with the faem 
 That curled sae daftly roun' the beak 
 
 That bore me frae my hame. 
 
 But hinnied words may prove fu' fausi 
 An' proud man's luve grow cauld, 
 
 An' ither lads forget the aiths 
 Their tentless lips ha'e tauld. 
 
 Then dinna stare sae sad and stern : 
 
 I am nae guilty thing : 
 An' I maun soon be gaun frae thee, 
 
 An' life, an' sufterin'. 
 
 Ae drouth is i' my burnin' veins, 
 Ae sair drouth i' my een ; 
 
3$ POEMS. 
 
 'Twad be too sweet a joy to greet, 
 As when a wee, wee wean. 
 
 Auld mither, raise me i* my bed, 
 An' baud me to thy breast ; 
 
 I wad be niest suthin o' earth 
 When droopin' to my rest. 
 
 An* can ye say ae simple prayer, 
 Sic as I heard lang syne ? 
 
 An' can ye quote some healin' words 
 Frae out the beuk divine? 
 
 Like lamb a-bleatin' for the fauld. 
 Like bird for mither-nest, 
 
 Sae is my broken, achin' heart, 
 Sae is my soul distrest. 
 
 Auld mither, when I'm dead and gaun, 
 Gin that poor chiel sud ca*, 
 
 Tell him when Maggie came to dee, 
 That she forgied it a' ! 
 
AULD ADAM ADAIR. 39 
 
 AULD ADAM ADAIR. 
 
 AuLD Adam Adair, wi' a strut an' a stare, 
 
 He ask'd for my heart, and ask'd for my han* ; 
 
 But wha'd be his wife, to lead sic a life 
 
 As the ane that's lately heart-broken and gaun? 
 
 For ane weddin' night, his ha' wad blink bright, 
 And then at his wark a' her days she wad spend ; 
 
 Till the crabbit auld carl, in the niest drunken snarl, 
 To lie by the ither, the braw ane sud send. 
 
 Auld Adam Adair, he spak unco fair. 
 
 An' talked o' his siller, and talked o' his gowd ; 
 
 He'd fetch me frae town a bonnie silk gown, 
 An' a bonnet wi' plumes a' tossing sae proud. 
 
 Auld Adam Adair, he straikit my hair. 
 An' leuked a' sae saucily into my een ; 
 
 The bluid in my cheek was a' that did speak, 
 For my throat was choking wi' anger I ween. 
 
 Auld Adam Adair, I wad meikle rather wear 
 Ae hamespun petticoat a' o' my days, 
 
 And sit down at night by the chimla-lug bright 
 O' the laddie that warks a' day on the braes. 
 
40 POEMS. 
 
 There's ane, when he sues, I never .'efuse, 
 
 For the luve that lights up his sparklin' blue e*e, 
 
 And though his hearthstane be humble and lane, 
 Its blink shines brighter than siller to me. 
 
 And sae the auld squire maun strut and maun stare, 
 And drive a' alane in his carriage sae proud ; 
 
 That lass rew^s the day when she barters away 
 Her luve an* her youth for siller and gowd. 
 
 NAE KNEE-BAIRN. 
 
 Oh ! ha'e ye, then, nae knee-bairn 
 
 Wi' dumpy, dimplit ban's, 
 Wi' fit accoutred i' sma' boots, 
 
 An' fitfa' like a man's? 
 
 An' fitfa' thund'rin' roun', 
 As though your ain knee-bairn 
 
 Wad weigh a hunder poun*? 
 
 Oh ! ha'e ye, then, nae knee-bairn, 
 Soon as ye lift the latch, 
 
 Soon as ye touch the stair or floor, 
 Your comin' step to catch ? 
 To catch, and to ca' out. 
 
NAE KNEE-BAIRN. 
 
 Your toddlin' wee knee-bairn, 
 Wi' mony a peal an* shout. 
 
 Oh ! ha'e ye, then, nae knee-bairn, 
 
 To climbit for a kiss, 
 To pu' your beard, and tweak your nose? 
 
 Fu' half o' life's in this ! 
 
 Fu* half o' life an' more. 
 To ha'e your ain knee-bairn 
 
 A-stumpin' roun' the floor. 
 
 Oh ! ha'e ye, then, nae knee-baim, 
 
 To hand ye by the ear, 
 An' whisper wi' his pouty lips 
 
 What nane but you maun hear? 
 
 But you ! some secret wise 
 The whilk your ain knee-bairn 
 
 Imparts wi' starin' eyes. 
 
 Oh ! ha'e ye, then, nae knee-bairn, 
 
 To snuggle his roun' head 
 Down in your lap, curl up his lim'si 
 
 An' nestle aff to bed ? 
 
 An' nestle aff as though 
 Your ain worn-out knee-bairn 
 
 Had nae where else to go? 
 
43 POEMS. 
 
 Oh! ha'e ye, then, nae knee-bairn? 
 
 Weel, ye can never ken 
 What 'tis to ha'e him ta'en awa*, 
 
 Nor hear him roun' agen : 
 
 Nor hear him roim', but gaun 
 Frae sight and sense, your knee-bairn 
 
 Ye had sae doted on ! 
 
 What 'tis to ha'e a knee-bairn, 
 That's cHm' out o* your sight, 
 
 Far up alang the angel-steps, 
 Aboon the starn o' night, 
 Aboon your reach or ca* ! 
 
 What 'tis to ha'e a knee-bairn 
 Ye canna ken at a' ! 
 
 MY AIN FIRESIDE. 
 
 My ain fireside, my ain fireside ! 
 
 My bonnie wifie's there : 
 My gigghn' wee-things roguish hide, 
 
 An' miss their daddie sair. 
 There auld-man in the corner sits, 
 
 An' ower his lang Hfe dreams, 
 
MY AIN FIRESIDE. 43 
 
 Wi* now and then his talkin' fits, 
 As blaze on hearthstane gleams. 
 
 II. 
 
 I've seen through palms the tropic sun, 
 
 I've trodden polar snows, 
 An' frae cauld heights that toil had won 
 
 Ha'e watched the day's repose. 
 Whate'er the clime, whate'er the lot, 
 
 What starn in heaven did ride, 
 There was for me ane single spot — 
 
 My ain, my ain fireside. 
 
 III. 
 
 My ain fireside, my ain fireside I 
 
 I hear in dreams thy glee : 
 There breaks in spray sweet laughter's tide, 
 
 An' nane's awa' but me. 
 I see them roun' the board snaw-spread ; 
 
 I hear the reverent word 
 Which, frae wife's lips sae fitly said. 
 
 Our Father, too, has heard. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Blue skies aboon my bonnie Ian*, 
 Gran* fludes that seek the sea, 
 
44 POEMS. 
 
 Proud heights that roun' as bulwarks stan* 
 Blythe-bid my hame frae me ! 
 
 Ye stains, Oh ! keep your vigils still* 
 Still be the exile's guide ; 
 
 And Thou, who dost a' wide space fill 
 Bield Thou my ain fireside ! 
 
 V. 
 
 My ain fireside, my ain fireside ! 
 
 I seem to catch through thee 
 Faint gleams o' what God does provide. 
 
 What Heaven itseF shall be. 
 I seem to hear hame-voices there , 
 
 I seem to see hame-thrangs : 
 For that hame-gathering us prepare, 
 
 An' teach us a' the sangs ! 
 
 LANELY AGNES MURRAY. 
 
 Oh ! lanely Agnes Murray, 
 Wi' teeth like drifted snaw, 
 
 With mou' sae like a peach-cleft 
 The frosty heart to thaw ; 
 
LANELY AGNES MURRAY. 45 
 
 How sweetly do your eyelids 
 
 Qi-iiver beneath my gaze. 
 While in their saften'd shadow 
 
 Your soul is a' ablaze ! 
 In spite of wedow's claethin*, 
 
 Ye seem on any day 
 As though ye were an angel 
 
 That down to earth did stray. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh ! lanely Agnes Murray, 
 
 I heard you greet sae sair, 
 When ye parted wi' your gude-man, 
 
 To meet him nevermair ; 
 Your een were like twa blue-bells, 
 
 A' brimmin' ovver wi' dew; 
 Your bosom heaved sae heavy, 
 
 Your heart was breakin', too ; 
 But, spite o' wedow's claethin', 
 
 It seemed to me, that day, 
 Ye might hae been an angel 
 
 That down to earth did stray. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh ! lanely Agnes Murray, 
 I saw you stan' sae fair, 
 
^" 
 
 FOKMb. 
 
 Twa lily brows a-gleamin' 
 
 Atween your weel-kempt hair ; 
 I saw you when, on Sunday, 
 
 Ye to the altar came. 
 And heard your snaw-crown'd pastor 
 
 Speak out aloud your name ; 
 x\n', spite o' wedow's claethin', 
 
 It seemed to me, that day. 
 Ye might hae been an angel 
 
 That down to earth did stray. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! lanely Agnes Murray, 
 
 Your daintie ban' has ta'en 
 To parchin' lips the cordial 
 
 That brought relief frae pain ; 
 But, while the ane sae wearie 
 
 The welcome draught did sip. 
 The hallow'd words were sweeter 
 
 That hinnied on your lip : 
 For, spite o' wedow's claethin', 
 
 It seemed to him, that day, 
 Ye might hae been an angel 
 
 That down to earth did stray. 
 
 Oh 1 lanely Agnes Murray, 
 Ye are sae fair and frail — 
 
IN DUMFRIES KIRKYARD. 47 
 
 Ye are sae white and fragile, 
 
 Sweet lily o' the vale — 
 We aften fear the breezes 
 
 Will waft your soul awa* 
 Beyont our livin' vision, 
 
 Beyont our earthly ca' ; 
 For, spite o' wedow's claethin', 
 
 Ye seem on any day 
 As though ye were an angel 
 
 That down to earth did stray. 
 
 IN DUMFRIES KIRKYARD. 
 
 In Dumfries kirkyard lies a chiel, 
 Whase e'e love kindled ; loof was leal ; 
 Proud Scotia's sons, they ken fu' weel, 
 
 Though sae lang dead, 
 'Tis Robert Burns ; by God's own seal, 
 A poet made. 
 
 In Ayrshire did his mither bear him, 
 In Ayrshire did his daddie rear him ; 
 Nor did the great e'ed beasties fear him, 
 
 That dragged the plew ; 
 The silly sheep ran bleatin' near him, 
 
 Wham weel they knew. 
 
48 POEMS. 
 
 In harvest field he swung the sickle, 
 
 O' rural pastimes had fu' meikle, 
 
 At ilk man's grief his een wad trickle, 
 
 As at his ain ; 
 But ah ! fu' aft his will was fickle, 
 
 An' wrought man pain. 
 
 He wooed the secret charms of Nature, 
 He kenned her beauties, ilka feature ; 
 The bird, the mouse, ilk fearfu' creature, 
 
 He still befriended : 
 The plew-crushed daisy, he maun greet her, 
 
 Sae fair, sae ended ! 
 
 How weel he sang the sacred scene. 
 When cotter trudges hame at e'en, 
 An' wi' his wifie, bairns, and wean, 
 
 Sae humble kneels ! 
 Sic holy joys, the weeks atween, 
 
 His household feels. 
 
 He yielded, all ! to stormy passion ; 
 He madly drank, as was man's fashion, 
 He sairly sinned, by his confession, 
 
 And suffered sair ; 
 He sadly needed God's compassion ; 
 
 Some need it mair. 
 
THE AYRSHIRE PLEUCHMAN. 
 
 49 
 
 Let daisies weep, larks mount abo'e him, 
 Let peasants come, who read and lo'e him, 
 Let a' eschew the fawts that slew him. 
 
 And laid him there ; 
 While Dumfries kirkyard proud shall ha'e him, 
 
 Or rin the Ayr ! 
 
 THE AYRSHIRE PLEUCHMAN. 
 
 The snaw-white daisy on the hill 
 Still hangs her modest head ; 
 
 The peasant drives his furrow still 
 Across the mousie's bed. 
 
 The banks are green on bonnie Doon, 
 Still flows the gurglin* Ayr ; 
 
 The woodlan' warblers are in tune, 
 As when they tzua were there. 
 
 The sturdy cotter, frae the soil, 
 Comes singin' happy hame, 
 
 Catchin' as oflset to his toil 
 His ingle's blinkin' flame. 
 4 
 
50 POEMS. 
 
 Tossin' his wee things high in air, 
 
 Kissin' his wifie's lips ; 
 Settlin' his limbs within his chair, 
 
 Thankfu' his bowl he sips. 
 
 But where is he, these scenes amang, 
 Wha glints wi' poet's e'e ; 
 
 Wha as he pleuchs wad sing a sang, 
 Or as bairns climb his knee? 
 
 Oh, where is he that beauty sees 
 Where'er his footstep turns — 
 
 In Lowlan' vales, in Highlan' leas — 
 Proud Scotia's Robert Burns ? 
 
 Be Dumfries' grasses always green 
 Above his pleuchman breast ; 
 
 An' biessin's on the tender een 
 That greet around his rest. 
 
ROBIE BURNS. 5 1 
 
 ROBIE BURNS. 
 
 Sae lang as Boon's a rinnin* river, 
 Sae lang's the share the daisy turns, 
 
 Sae lang as mice at plewmen quiver ; — 
 Our een shall greet for Robie Burns. 
 
 Sae lang as blue-bells deck the heather, 
 Sae lang as baum breathe Scotia's ferns, 
 
 Sae lang as beastics dread cauld w^eather ; - 
 Our een shall greet for Robie Burns. 
 
 Sae lang as Highlan's ha'e their Marys, 
 Sae lang as stars ha'e gowden urns, 
 
 Sae lang as lovers tine their dearies — 
 Our een shall greet for Robie Burns. 
 
 Sae lang as hame o' nights the cotter 
 Wi' achin' banes frae wark returns, 
 
 Tossin' in air each gigglin' trotter ; — 
 Our een shall greet for Robie Burns. 
 
 Sae lang as frae his han' the chalice 
 That's tyrant-mixed the patriot spurns, 
 
 Sae lang as Scotchmen lo'e their Wallace ; 
 Our een shall greet for Robie Burns. 
 
52 POEMS. 
 
 Sae lang as man forgies his blither, 
 Sae lang as for his gude he yearns, 
 
 Sae lang's the weak maun lo'e ilk ithcr ; - 
 Our een shall greet for Robie Burns. 
 
 Sae lang as Dumfries' sod lies vernal, 
 Where mony a heart his story learns, 
 
 We'll fling the husk, and tak' the kernel ; 
 Our een shall greet for Robie Burns. 
 
 THE WEE-BIT BAIRN. 
 
 We ha'e a wee-bit bairn at hame, 
 Sae blithesome, cannie, bright, 
 
 That ever syne the day he came, 
 He's filled the house wi' light. 
 
 He now is twa years auld or mair, 
 A' glib o' tongue and foot ; 
 
 He climbs up ilka fatal stair, 
 He claims ilk cast-off boot. 
 
 Barefit he toddles roun' the streets, 
 Wi' gran'sire close behin' ; 
 
 Giving ilk person that he meets 
 Piece of his childish min'. 
 
ENOUGH FOR TWA. 53 
 
 Wha kens Uie wee-thing? what he'll be 
 
 When years a score ha'e gaun ? 
 Gladdin' his mither's grateful e'e? 
 
 Piercin' her breast wi' thorn ? 
 
 God gie His angels charge to keep 
 
 The bairnie, lest he stray, 
 An' though in death we fa' asleep, 
 
 Show him the narrow way. 
 
 ENOUGH FOR TWA. 
 
 Fu' twa-score years I've ganged my lane, 
 
 A bachelor an' a' ; 
 Sae now I'll leave my pleugh an' wain, 
 An' trudge alang, and tell my Jean, 
 That I've enough for twa. 
 Repeat. That I've enough for twa. 
 
 Sae now I'll trudge and tell my Jean, 
 That I've enough for twa. 
 
 My house is large, and sae's my hearth. 
 
 Whatever may befa' ; 
 Come days o' grief or days o' mirth, 
 Whichever way may turn the earth, 
 
 I ha'e enough for twa, &c. 
 
54 POEMS. 
 
 I've flocks enough upon the hills, 
 
 An' kine within my ca' ; 
 The bubblin' spring my pitcher fills, 
 The hinney frae the comb distills, 
 
 An' there's enough for twa, &c. 
 
 However weel my barns are stored, 
 
 I'm lanely i' my ha' ; 
 I'm lanely at my weel-spread board : 
 Sae now wi' Jean I'll share my hoard ; 
 For there's enough for twa, &c. 
 
 FOREBODINGS. 
 
 I CAN na staunch the saut, saut tears, 
 That blind my bleerit e'e ; 
 
 For thou art ganging far awa* 
 Upon the heartless sea. 
 
 Its bosom is na saft as mine, 
 
 Na is its beat sae kind ; 
 Thou'rt taking a' my life wi' thee. 
 
 Yet leavin' me behind. 
 
 Gin ither lips sud meet wi' thine, 
 Gin ither vows thou make, 
 
MITHBRHOOD. ^^ 
 
 An* thou na min* thy Mary's luve. 
 Her lo'in* heart wad break. 
 
 An* sud thou, ah ! come back again, 
 
 An' bring a daintie bride, 
 Oh, dinna leuk to find me here, 
 
 But by the auld kirk's side. 
 
 For lane will rest the broken heart, 
 
 An' sleep the weary e'e, 
 That longed and leuked to welcome thee, 
 
 Frae owre the heartless sea. 
 
 It's unco wrang to spae sae sad 
 An' smiles 'twere weel to feign , 
 
 But ah ! 'tis heavy on my heart, 
 Thou'lt find me ne'er again. 
 
 MITHERHOOD. 
 
 Ae dimpUt ban' is at my breast. 
 Where tossed a beaded heid at rest; 
 I leuk to see what it may mean, 
 An' meet twa roguish twinklin* een. 
 
56 POEMS. 
 
 Far ofl in slumbeis saft before, 
 Now feelin* at luve*s beatin' door ; 
 An' sure the eager ban' will win 
 An' mither '11 let the stranger in ! 
 
 Nay, dinna pout, and dinna frown, 
 O' a' my joys this is the crown ; 
 To see thee, in thy greedy strife, 
 Sae tuggin' at my very life. 
 
 Tak' in thy mou* my breastie's bud, 
 Draw through thy lips the snawy flood: 
 O, press me hard wi* toothless gums, 
 An' dent me wi' thy tiny thum's. 
 
 'Tis hinney sweet to min' thy whims, 
 To soothe thy rest wi' cradle hymns, 
 To tumble thee in gladsome play, 
 An* bear thee on my heart a' day. 
 
 I dinna o' my lot complain, 
 I dinna grudge gudeman's domain : 
 How happier could a mither be, 
 Tnan I am aft with God and theei* 
 
BABIE GREETIN'. 57 
 
 BABIE GREETIN*. 
 
 Greetin', babie, greet! n' art thou, 
 Here anent my mither-breast ? 
 
 Greetin'? Dost frae sleepin' start thou. 
 On the wave o' troubht rest? 
 
 Mither's bosom is thy pillow ; — 
 Win' ne'er wafted safter down ; 
 
 Mither's heart-beat is the billow, 
 That still lifts thee up an* down. 
 
 Here at anchor thou art ridin' ; 
 
 Far awa' is life's rough sea ; 
 An' the waves to peace subsidin'. 
 
 In lo'e's haven reach na thee. 
 
 Mither'U kiss thy jewelled eyelids, 
 Mither '11 kiss the lash-strung tear ; 
 
 Dinna open, lo'e, the sky-lids ; 
 Let blue orbs nae mair appear. 
 
 There ! Again in sleep he nestles 
 Roun' the centre o' my soul ; 
 
 Wi' rough seas nae langer wrestles : 
 Mither's kiss has made him whole. 
 
58 POEMS. 
 
 AE MAN BEYONT THAT. 
 
 Why will ye brak my lo'ing heart, 
 
 An' blin' wi' tears my een ; 
 Sae laith wi' the fell foe to part, 
 
 That comes our luve atween? 
 Oh, raise your loof on high, John, 
 An' swear before the sky, John, 
 
 To be a man beyont that ; 
 Beyont that, beyont that. 
 
 To be a man beyont that. 
 
 Our bairns are unco fair an' sweet, 
 
 Ae blessin' ilka hour ; 
 Why will ye mak them sairly greet, 
 
 An' leave them sorrow's dower? 
 Oh, break the gallin' chain, John, 
 An' never drink again, John ; 
 
 But be a man beyont that, 
 Beyont that, beyont that, 
 
 But be a man beyont that. 
 
 There's sin an* wae within the cup, 
 Although it sparkle bright, 
 
 Oh, never, never tak it up, 
 Nor bask ye in its light. 
 
59 
 
 But dash the thing away, John, 
 An' talc the pledge for aye, John, 
 
 An' be a man beyont that, 
 Beyont that, beyont that, 
 
 An' be a man beyont that. 
 
 An' bring nae drap into the house, 
 
 Nae mair wi' cronies gang, 
 Down to the dram-shop to carouse, 
 
 An' sing the drunken sang. 
 But Stan' upon your feet, John ; 
 111 powers ye'll sure defeat, John, 
 
 An' be a man beyont that, 
 Beyont that, beyont that, 
 
 An' be a man beyont that. 
 
 WAITIN' SUPPER. 
 
 TwA barefit bairns are in the door, 
 
 A puss in ilka lap ; 
 A crawing babie's on the floor, 
 
 Hid in its daddie's cap. 
 
 The supper splutters on the fire. 
 Some dish of humble kin', 
 
6o POEMS. 
 
 Waitin* the com in' of the sire, 
 Whose footsteps lag behin*. 
 
 The mither, in her matron gown, 
 Contented, phimp, and fair, 
 
 Is sittin' by the winnock down. 
 Their stockin's to repair. 
 
 And aft she lifts her tender e'e. 
 Does Johnnie trudge alang ? 
 
 And aft she stills the } ounkers' glee, 
 Crooning ae lanesome sang. 
 
 Gude keep her Johnnie on his way. 
 And bring him safely hame : 
 
 Sud aught befa' him, wae's the da} 
 For younkers an' for dame ! 
 
 AULD AGE. 
 
 The wee-bit bairn that toddles roun* 
 
 An' catches mony a fa', 
 Frae his sweet pranks ha's always foun* 
 
 Some ane to min' his ca' ; 
 But, och, when he's a bairn ance mair 
 
 An' his auld mither dead, 
 
AULD AGE. 
 
 Wha, then, aboon afflictions sair 
 Will help him haud his head? 
 
 When ill he bears the weight o' years, 
 
 An* life is on its wane, 
 A prey to mony cares and fears, 
 
 An' wrought wi' mony a pain, 
 Wha 'II win' her fingers in his hair, 
 
 Those locks a' siller white? 
 Wha 'II kiss wi' luve his haffets bare, 
 
 An' ca' him her delight? 
 
 He'll crouch a' day beside the door, 
 
 Sae desolate an lane, 
 His bleerit een upon the floor. 
 
 His clutch upon his cane ; 
 An' aft will drap the saut, saut tear, 
 
 An' trickle slowly down ; 
 An' frae his shattered hulk ye'U hear 
 
 Ae melancholy soun'. 
 
 But she wha lo'ed him when a child, 
 An' staunched his ilka tear, 
 
 Wi' nursery sangs his waes beguiled, 
 Till smiles did reappear, 
 
 Lang syne has gaun to holy rest 
 Wi' blessings on her head ; 
 
6a POEMS. 
 
 Nae mair she'll haud him to her breast, 
 Nor lay him aff to bed. 
 
 Auld man, ye maun nae greet sae sair ; 
 
 Tak* heart ; ye're gangin' hame ; 
 Ye'll ha'e gude care forevermair, 
 
 If ye but rax the same ; 
 An* your Redeemer's unco near, 
 
 An* kens your frailties weel ; 
 Ye downa gang where He'll not hear, 
 
 Nor urge what He'll not feel. 
 
 THE GUDEWIFE. 
 
 There's ane gudewife in a' the Ian* ; 
 
 Her praise the bard wad utter : 
 A' things she bauds wi' tentfu' ban* ; 
 There's ane gudewife in a' the Ian', 
 
 An' ilk man thinks he's got her. 
 
 There's ane gudewife in a' the Ian' ; 
 
 The lave may fret and sputter ; 
 She greets wi' smiles her comin' man ; 
 There's ane gudewife in a' the Ian', 
 
 An' ilk man tbinks he's got her. 
 
THE GUDEWIFE. 6x 
 
 There's ane gudewife in a' the Ian' ; 
 
 In stane, ye artists, cut her ; 
 Skilfu' to sew, and knit, and plan ; 
 There's ane gudewife in a* the Ian*, 
 
 An* ilk man thinks he's got her. 
 
 There's ane gudewife in a' the Ian' ; 
 
 She makes baith bread an' butter ; 
 She's keystane i' the human span ; 
 There's ane gudewife in a' the Ian', 
 
 An' ilk man thinks he's got her. 
 
 There's ane gudewife in a' the Ian' ; 
 
 Why sud Sir Adam mutter? 
 'Tis just as 'twas in Eden's plan ; 
 There's ane gudewife in a' the Ian', 
 
 An' ilk man thinks he's got her. 
 
 There's ane gudewife in a' the Ian' ; 
 
 There is nae ither but her ; 
 She bears her Maker's perfect bran' : 
 There's ane gudewife in a' fhe Ian', 
 
 An' ilk man thinks he's got her. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 ITHER DAYS. 
 
 Oh, Mary, min' thee o' the days, 
 When, like the prattlin' burn 
 That 'mang the simmer claver plays, 
 We linked at will through vvoodlan' ways, 
 Ae kiss at ilka turn. 
 
 Meikle of luve was i' thine e'e, 
 
 Though scantie were thy words ; 
 
 Thy leuks fu' weel contented me. 
 
 Syne it was nae sair task to see 
 Thy heart louped like a bird's. 
 
 Beneath a simple hat of straw, 
 
 Wi' hive-knots on the side, 
 I keeked, wi' ill-concealit awe. 
 Distraught wi' joy, as fancy saw 
 
 My manhood's cannie bride. 
 
 We climbed upon an auld gray slane, 
 
 Within the burly brook ; 
 O* troutin' I wad soon ha'e nane, 
 For it 'gan be to me owre plain 
 
 I did na min' my hook. 
 
ITHER DAYS. 6^ 
 
 I spied twa little hingin* feet 
 
 Aboon the burnie's lap, 
 That seemed to peek into the weet, 
 Like twa gray mice wi' noses neat, 
 
 Reachin' to tak a drap.* 
 
 We*d ta*en wi* us a fav'rite beuk, 
 *' The Cricket on the Hearth ; " 
 
 Nor laith was I on it to leuk, 
 
 An' ferret frae some covert neuk, 
 Suthin' to wake our mirth. 
 
 But, tender, tender tear in lieu 
 
 Came tricklin' frae our een, 
 Sae there we leuked the carol through. 
 An' thought the story weel nigh true, 
 
 O' us oversel's, I ween. 
 
 Oh, saft upon my rough, rough cheek 
 
 Lay that sweet cheek of thine ; 
 An' mony a word thy een did speak, 
 Those happy een, sae blue and meek, 
 To answerin' words i' mine. 
 
 ♦ Her feet beneath her petticoat 
 Like little mice stole in tnd out, 
 As if thev feared the HgUt. 
 
 Sir John Suckling. 
 
 5 
 
66 POEMS. 
 
 Those ither days, those ither days, 
 
 O' early hive the seal ; 
 Nae lays o' mine can suit their praise, 
 But sud God gie us ither days^ 
 
 We'se luve ilk ither vveel. 
 
 MY AIN GUDEWIFE. 
 
 My ain gudewife, saft hair o' brown 
 Still shades thy brow, thy beauty's crown ! 
 An' faulds luxuriant, silken, fa'. 
 Whene'er unbound, it tumbles a' ; 
 Though siller threads ha'e, here and there, 
 Been woven 'neath by wark an' care. 
 
 My ain gudewife, thy gentle e'e 
 Still smilin' glints to welcome me ; 
 An', as lang syne, love's dew somehow 
 Still gathers on thy red-ripe mou' : 
 Scarce aulder, but yet sweeter far 
 Than when we trysted 'neath love's star. 
 
 Five bairnies we ha'e ca'd our own ; 
 The fourth has frae our nestie flown ! 
 Like plants aroun' us, Strang and ta'. 
 Are three, wha answer to our ca' ; 
 
MY AIN GUDEWIFE. 67 
 
 While Edie wee, last o' the crowd. 
 Comes \vi' blue een, and hair o' gowd. 
 
 We've foun' leal trien's ; the fan se are gaun ; 
 Steadfast ha'e kept life's journey on ; 
 Now shadowed in the vale, and now 
 Upon the mountain's sun-lit brow : 
 O' ills and joys ha'e had fu' share ; 
 They've made us lo'e ilk ither mair. 
 
 Some day — God grant it come fu' late ! — 
 We'se part, at yonder e'enen gate ! 
 Some day will lay on ane's sad breast 
 The ither's head, i' sweet, sweet rest! 
 An' ane, bereft, alane will gang, 
 Until we meet the blest amang. 
 
 Some day ! God grant before it dawn 
 Their loins weel-girt, their sandals on. 
 We see our bairnies, staff in han', 
 Wi' faces tow'rd the better Ian', 
 While angels roun' their pathway keep ; 
 An' then content we'se fa' asleep. 
 
68 POEMS. 
 
 THE BABIE.* 
 
 Nae shoon to hide her tiny caes, 
 
 Nae stockin' on her feet ; 
 Her supple ankles white as snaw, 
 
 Or early blossoms sweet. 
 
 Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, 
 
 Her double, dimplit chin, 
 Her puckered lips, and baumy mou', 
 
 With na aiie tooth within . 
 
 Her een sae like her mither's een, 
 
 Twa gentle, liquid things ; 
 Her face is like an angel's face : 
 
 We* re glad she has nae wings. 
 
 She is the buddin' o' our luve, 
 
 A giftie God gicd us : 
 We maun na hive the gift owre weel ; 
 
 'Twad be nae blessin' thus. 
 
 ♦ In the copy of sheet music published by Ditson & Co. 
 this stanza is introduced as a chorus : — 
 
 Bonnie babie, clean and sweet, 
 Now ye craw, and now ye greet. 
 Nane but God can ever see 
 What ye are to wife and me. 
 
. THE LITTLE MITHER. 69 
 
 We Still maun lo'e the Giver mair, 
 
 An' see Him in the given ; 
 An* sae she'll lead us up to Him, 
 
 Our babie straight frae Heaven. 
 
 THE LITTLE MITHER. 
 
 Wi' een o' blue, an' hair o' gowd, 
 Wi' chiselled chin, an' angel-browed, 
 Ae little mither warks her way 
 Frae room to room the livelang day. 
 
 O' bairnies she's her apron fu' — 
 Daddies and mithers, babies too, 
 Frae unclad ane to weel-dressed man, 
 Frae ane inch lang to twice ae span. 
 
 She gi'es them drink, she gi'es them food, 
 Sae tentfu' o' the little brood ; 
 An' mither-like, when she's awa', 
 She thinks she hears her bairnies ca'. 
 
 She hushes them at e'enen prayers, 
 An' ilk ane for its couch prepares ; 
 Nor will she put diem aff to bed 
 Until they all their prayers ha'e said. 
 
70 POEMS. 
 
 Ane half sae weel sud she but do, 
 When she becomes a mither true, 
 Her bairns, brought up wi' mither art, 
 Frae the gude way will ne'er depart. 
 
 O ye wi' lengthened trains an' purses, 
 Wha gi'e your bairns to pagan nurses, 
 Nae pattern tak' of ane anither, 
 But learn ye o' the little mither. 
 
 LEARNIN' TO GANG. 
 
 Babie maun ha'e done wi' creepin* ; 
 
 She maun learn to gang ; 
 There's nne harvest worth the reapin', 
 
 Govvden fields amang, 
 There's nae treasure worth the keepin'. 
 
 Without tuggin' lang. 
 
 On her tiny footie stan' her, 
 
 On her limber lim' ; 
 Face about ! you maun comman' her, 
 
 Never min' her whim ! 
 You'll misgive you, if you scan her, 
 . Tott'rin' on the brim. 
 
learnin' to gang. 71 
 
 There she toddles, haltin', droopin', 
 
 Just about to fa' ; 
 Mither bauds her, downward stoopin*, 
 
 Rinnin' to her ca' : 
 Daddle stan's there, becknin', whoopin' ; 
 
 Boist'rous are they a'. 
 
 Now, at last, the trip's completed, 
 
 Wi' its storms and calms ; 
 In her daddie's lap she's seated, 
 
 Nestlin' in his arms ; 
 Wi' a hundred kisses greeted, 
 
 Brow, and cheeks, and palms. 
 
 Back and forth, between them headin*, 
 
 Like a freighted craft. 
 Colors flyin', arms outspreadin'. 
 
 How at her they laughed ! 
 Saft, as though on thistles treadin' — 
 
 You'd ha'e thought them daft. 
 
 You'd ha'e thought them addle-headed, 
 
 Cheeks a' red wi' flame ; 
 Ne'er sic joys had they twa wedded, 
 
 Since the toddler came ; 
 While, like shuttle wi' love threaded, 
 
 Babie made them game. 
 
7a POEMS. 
 
 THE CHRIST'NIN' O' THE BABIE. 
 
 In her robe o' driven snaw, 
 Meekly wond'ring at it a*, 
 Man and gudewife babie bring 
 To the kirk for christening. 
 
 Clad sae fair frae head to feet, 
 Never seemed she half sae sweet ; 
 Wi' twa een sae deep an' blue, 
 Like twa pansies wet w^i* dew. 
 
 Is her mither ony proud 
 Of her wavy hair o' gowd? 
 Proud is she o' broidered dress. 
 That she faulds i' half distress.? 
 
 Will she greet, or will she craw? 
 Sic a crowd she never saw ; 
 As they to the altar come, 
 'Mang the bairns, there is a hum. 
 
 When the pond'rous organ soun's, 
 This her little heart confoun's ; 
 Mither catches quick her han', 
 An' she seems to understan'. 
 
JEAN ANDERSON, MY JOY. 73 
 
 When on God the pastor ca's, 
 When the drippin' water fa*s, 
 Tremblin' is her little mou' ; 
 Will she greet or will she coo? 
 
 She but droops, her face to hide 
 Daddie's shelterin' neck beside, 
 Like some tiny buddin' flower 
 From beneath a mornin's shower. 
 
 JEAN ANDERSON, MY JOY. 
 
 Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean, 
 
 Just la}'^ your loof in mine, 
 An' let us talk thegither 
 
 O' days of auld lang syne. 
 The sun is wearin' low, Jean, 
 
 An' death is drawin' near ; 
 'Tis growin* hard for baith to see, 
 
 'Tis growin' hard to hear. 
 
 Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean, 
 
 I kenn'd ye lang ago. 
 When ye were but a wee thing, 
 
 That toddlin' roun' did go ; 
 
74 POEMS. 
 
 All' I was but a child, Jean, 
 A boastfu' boist'roLis boy, 
 
 That pulled ye in his wooden cart, 
 Jean Anderson, my joy. 
 
 Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean, 
 
 I comp'nied ye to school ; 
 Your basket hung between us. 
 
 To keep the govvden rule : 
 An', hameward when we strolled, Jean, 
 
 It was a joy fu' sweet 
 For us to gang our lane, and pluck 
 
 Spring violets at our feet. 
 
 Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean, 
 
 When first we twa were wed 
 Your cheeks were like the blush-rose. 
 
 As dewy and as red ; 
 Your e'en were like the sky, Jean, 
 
 As gentle and as blue ; 
 An' oh, your trustfu', wifely touch. 
 
 It thrilled me through and through. 
 
 Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean, 
 Ye've been my anely lo'e ; 
 
 I lo'ed ye in your bairnlicid ; 
 I've lo'ed ye steadfast through ; 
 
JEAN ANDERSON, MY JOY. f^ 
 
 I lo'ed your girlhood curls, Jean ; 
 
 I lo'e the locks of siiaw 
 That Time has drifted on your head, 
 
 An' spring will never thaw. 
 
 Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean, 
 
 Our bairns, they too are grown ; 
 An* roun' the cheerfu' ingle 
 
 Have wee things o* their own : 
 Three lives I think we've lived, Jean, 
 
 Since we were girl and boy — 
 Our ain, our bairnies', and t/ieir bairns* — 
 
 Jean Anderson, my joy. 
 
 Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean, 
 
 There is ane life bey on', 
 An', though I'm dull o' hearin*, 
 
 I seem to catch its soun' ; 
 An' through the mist I see, Jean, 
 
 Heights o' that govvden Ian', 
 Up which we baith shall mount to God, 
 
 Led by his lo'in' han'. 
 
 Jean Anderson, my joy, Jean, 
 It makes cauld bluid leap warm. 
 
 To think ^/la^ Hame we're nearin*, 
 Beyon* Life's beatin* storm ; 
 
76 POEMS. 
 
 To think that there at last, Jean, 
 We'll lean upon His breast, 
 
 Who gathers wearie, waitin' anes, 
 An' gi'es them His ain Rest. 
 
 BABIE'S FIRST SHOON. 
 
 Those pink taes, oh, wha wad hide" 
 Wha wad ha'e those ankles tied? 
 Captives held in ilka shoe, 
 What wad little toddler do? 
 Is he man, or is he brute, 
 That wad cramp ilk dimplit foot, 
 Clean an' white as snaw or milk, 
 Saft to touch as ony silk ? 
 
 But the thing, it maun be done ! 
 Barefit she na mair may run ! 
 Pair o' blue, or pair o' pink? 
 Gowd wad suit her weel, I think: 
 Blue to match her een we seek, 
 Pink to match her lip an' cheek : 
 Yes, she needs anither pair, , 
 Gowden, like her gowden hair I 
 
BABIE S FIRST SHOON. *J*J 
 
 Shoon for babie we ha'e bought, 
 Not without the after-thought, 
 Now she's clad frae top to tae, 
 Wha will tell where she may gae ? 
 Soon she'll slip frae daddie's knees, 
 Soon she'll toddle where she please, 
 Nor will deign to ask us soon 
 To select a pair o' shoon. 
 
 Little lassies, could they last ! 
 Little feet, they grow sae fast ! 
 Wad there were some rigid laws. 
 That sud gar our wee-things pause. 
 \Vr.eii they ax'e &ac mup and sweet, 
 When they ha'e sic supple feet ; 
 Wad we could some art devise, 
 Haud them i' their ankle-ties I 
 
THE SCOTCH ELDER'S SUNDAY RIDE. 
 
 79 
 
TO 
 
 MY NOBLE FRIEND AND PARISHIONER, 
 GENERAL GEORGE W. BALLOCH 
 THIS "OWER TRUE TALE" 
 Ay AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
 
 80 
 
THE SCOTCH ELDER'S SUNDAY RIDE 
 
 "Oh, rough, rude, ready-witted Rankin, 
 The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin', 
 There's mony godly folks are thinkin' 
 
 Your dreams and tricks 
 
 Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin* 
 
 Straight to Auld Nick's. 
 
 ** Ye ha'e sae mony cracks and cants, 
 An' in your wicked, drunken rants 
 Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, 
 
 An' fi' them fou' ; 
 An' then, their failin's, flaws, and wants 
 
 Are a' seen through." — BuRNa 
 
 Mine is nae rhyme o' Tarn O'Shanter 
 A streakin' hameward on wild canter ; 
 His mear red-wud frae clutchin* witches, 
 An' loupin' over brigs and ditches, 
 Tempestuous weather rouu' him howlin*, 
 His gudewife by the ingle scowlin' ; 
 Nor yet the ride o' Johnnie Gilpin, 
 Wi' dogs and boys ahint him yelpin*, 
 While quick before, the folk a' scatter 
 Ilk speirin' ilk, What is the matter? 
 6 ' 8j 
 
82 POEMS. 
 
 Alarm at length turned into laughter. 
 
 To see the postboy thund'ring after, 
 
 With ither steed down on him bearin', 
 
 An' mair Jolm's luckless courser scarin'. 
 
 Mine is the tale of a Scotch Elder 
 
 An' his mear Kate, — a tether held her, ^ 
 
 That by his side, on thistles feedin'. 
 
 Was weel content, while he was readin*,— 
 
 Nane o' that stuff' o' Watts's scribblin', 
 
 The sacred text by art enfeeblin', — 
 
 But the Strang words o' auld King David, 
 
 Frae carnal desecration saved ; 
 
 A-takin' thus his Sunday noonin', 
 
 On what he read pond'rin' and croonin'. 
 
 Alike himsel' and beastie treatin', 
 
 Ere ither folk might come to meetin'. 
 
 An Ayrshire worthy, ycleped Rankin, 
 Wham Burns has chid for fun an' drinkin*, 
 Altho' 'twad tak a shrewd an' wise man, 
 O' thae same fau'ts to clear th' exciseman. 
 An' 'tis ower plain, benenth the chidin*, 
 A smile complacent there was hidin' ! 
 This Elder on the common spied he, 
 An' eager for his prey lang eyed he, 
 Like drownin' wretch, within a-clutchin'. 
 To fix some stain on his escutcheon. 
 
THE SCOTCH elder's SUNDAY RIDE. Sa 
 
 For aft the Elder had reproved him, 
 Until he — weel, he never loved him — 
 Takin' reproof in sic high dudgeon 
 As though he struck him v^i' a bludgeon, 
 An' not at a', as though 'twere unction 
 Poured on his pate i' holy function. 
 
 Just then there v^as a contest w^agin 
 The country through, like w^ildfire ragin', 
 Betw^een the auld light and the nev^er ; 
 An' men o' sense grew few and fewer, 
 An' baith lights seemed to burn tlie bluer, 
 While a' the talkers talked the louder, 
 An' a' the proud anes grew the prouder. 
 Till it was hard wark to discover 
 Auld light or new, when a' was over. 
 
 Weel, while the Elder's mear was feedin*, 
 Her maister, half unconscious, leadin'. 
 Said Rankin joined the Sunday party, 
 Gie'in' the Elder greetin' hearty : 
 " An' wad ye help a fellow-sinner, 
 Wha reads o' heav'n, and wants to win there: 
 Here is thing dark ; wad ye unlock it? " 
 Takin' his Bible frae his pocket. 
 The Elder paused, nae little flattered,. 
 His wa's o' prejudice down battered, 
 
§4 POEMS. 
 
 Weel pleased could he convert his neebor 
 
 On him to gi'e this Sunday labor. 
 
 An' sae thej^ talked, and still kept talkin*, 
 
 The mear ahint them nibblin', walkin'. 
 
 The thing was dark, but still grew clearer ; 
 
 Nae parson ever had sic hearer : 
 
 The rain frae cloud at last outburstin', 
 
 As though on lan's lang parched and thirstin' : 
 
 Silenced, convinced at last, he listened, 
 
 An' in his een the tear-drap glistened. 
 
 While they w^ere thus bent on ilk ither. 
 The folk to kirk had come thegither: 
 Parson was deep within his sermon, 
 Discoursin' on The Dews o' Hermon, 
 Aloft on wings o' fancy soarin', 
 Or luckless ancient sinners scorin', 
 His brither Elders, head-drooped, snorin*. 
 
 At length, o' abstract thought grown wearie, 
 A drap o' suthin' wad be cheerie ! 
 They felt, they leuked, they thought, they said it 
 'Twas Rankin first, to his discredit ! 
 Wee drap he had, they twa maun tak' it ; 
 He'd baud it to the light, and shak' it. — 
 Tt was nae faut sic as we mi^k' it ! 
 They did not hedge thenisel's wi' pledges, 
 To keep frae slippin' aff the edges; 
 
THE SCOTCH ELDER's SUNDA\ RIDE. 85 
 
 Maist prudent souls, and e'en kirk members, 
 Wad aften toddle on their timbers ; 
 But, frae their cups they restit one day, 
 Nor ever wad be drunk on Sunday. — 
 Wee drap he had, and out he brought it 
 Frae his deep pouch, wherein he sought it. 
 The Elder scanned the movin' creature. 
 An' I maun add, he lo'ed ilk feature ! 
 She seemed e'en fiiirer, then, on Sunday, 
 Than he had ever kenned her Monday ; 
 An' sae his will had a' surrendered. 
 Before the bottle had been tendered. 
 
 They teuk ane drap, and found it smoothin* j 
 Theyteuk ane mair — 'twas saft and soothin' ; 
 An* as they drank, ilk saw the better. 
 An' Rankin owned himsel' a debtor. 
 The Elder thought — he grew light-hearted — 
 His neebor was weel nigh converted. 
 Sae, havin* finished that ane bottle, 
 Anither ane they quickly throttle: 
 For Rankin, on to vengeance goaded, 
 Had to the field come double-loaded ; 
 An' now frae out his breast-coat linin* 
 Drew forth anither tempter shinin*, 
 Till 'cross the Elder flashed a glimmer, 
 Like the first swallow o' a simmer, 
 
86 POEMS. 
 
 Himsel' dead-drunk he had been drinkin', 
 
 An' fast into a quagmire sinklii'. 
 
 " Light bless my een ! What does confuse me? 
 
 It canna be that I am boosy ! 
 
 I thought I was a soul convertin* ; 
 
 I've tint my ain, I'm weel nigh certain ! 
 
 To baith the kirk, as weel as session, 
 
 I'll ha'e to mak' a fu' confession ; " 
 
 An' yieldin', then, to growin' stupor, 
 
 " I'm drunk," he groaned, '' as ony trooper.** 
 
 Not then at loss was neebor Rankin, 
 His restless een wi' mischief blinkin', 
 An' now put up to his best mettle, 
 By ane bauld stroke, auld scores to settle; 
 An* thus discoursed he to the Elder, 
 As bringin' up the mear, he held her : 
 •"^ Braw Kate," he said, " is staid and steady, 
 Nor ever frolicsome or heady ; 
 Gin I upon her back can mount you. 
 Just safe at hame I shall account you. 
 Sic trustie beast, lia'e she but man on. 
 Will carry straiglit as ball frae cannon. 
 Sae be not now disturbed or troubled." 
 Wi' this, the Elder up he doubled, 
 An' by main strength, set him astraddle 
 The mear, upon his weel-worn saddle. 
 
THE SCOTCH ELDER*S SUNDAY RIDE. 87 
 
 Then, 'iieath her tail a loyal thistle 
 He slyly tucked, and gied a whistle ! 
 
 Down drapped her ears, aff she was spinnin*, 
 As though she fled frae Sunday sinnin' ; 
 Down drapped her ears, the thistle spurrin' ; 
 Houses and woods apast were whirrin' ; 
 The Elder's head was in sic muddle. 
 That he could shun nor ditch nor puddle ; 
 Nor in himsel' was he conceited 
 That he could hand where he was seated. 
 But hameward thunderin' and splashin*, 
 Kate teuk him at a rate maist dashin* ; 
 His held fell aff in ilk direction. 
 Like some poor gobbler's, wi' his neck wrung ; 
 The mair her bridle-rein he tightened, 
 The mair mad Kate was sairly frightened. 
 
 It strangely turned, beyont prevision. 
 To bring guid folks into derision, 
 That, past the kirk as they went sailin*. 
 The people frae the poich were skailin* ; 
 The parson grave, and solemn session, 
 A-bringin' up the lang procession ; 
 Just as they came frae service solemn, 
 Gudemen an* gudewives in ane column ; 
 The laddies wi' the lassies blinkin*. 
 Now edgin* up, now backward shrinkin' ; 
 
88 POEMS. 
 
 Standin' for a few words o' partin*, 
 Before they a* were hamevvard startin' ; 
 Just as they came frae psalm completed, 
 By this mad apparition greeted ! 
 
 They kenned the mear, they kenned the rider, 
 Not some wnld ane, a bauld outsider, 
 But the staid man, wha in Scotch bonnet 
 Passed them the plate, wi' what was on it. 
 Nae language that the muse can borrow 
 Can right portray their speechless horror — 
 Can right portray the wicked scandal. 
 Nor how the warld the thing did handle ; 
 It wad nae mair ha'e raised their wonder, 
 As he drove by wi' splash and thundm*, 
 Had he been some auld risen Norseman, 
 Or had he been a headless horseman. 
 Or had he been a sheeted spectre ! 
 An' Kate, some imp seemed to infect her ; 
 For, huggin' close her fierce tormentor, 
 The beastie tremblit to her centre ; 
 Wi' een o' flame, nostrils dilated. 
 She neither fear nor speed abated. 
 An' what was waur, aroun' her gathered 
 The hale horse-tribe that fed untethered ; 
 The lang-tails, bob-tails, wi' mane streamin', 
 A-limpin', loupin', een a ^leamin', 
 
THE SCOTCH elder's SUNDAY RIDE. 89 
 
 Ilk colt an' mear, an' unused stallion, 
 
 Went plungin' on in lang battalion, 
 
 Behin' her in rude order fallin', 
 
 An' thundrin' past, a host appallin' ! 
 
 On, on they went, as though foe chargin', 
 
 Or like the swine down the lake's margin ! 
 
 How far they'd gone — I've thought upon it. 
 
 An' by my gran'sire's auld Scotch bonnet. 
 
 To calculate I've not been able ; — 
 
 When hove in sight braw Katie's stable. 
 
 Where she had aften fand protection, 
 
 An' had of oats sweet recollection ; 
 
 Though now, I'm sure, sic imp was in her. 
 
 She had nae thought o' comin' dinner : 
 
 To reach this goal her neck outstretchin', 
 
 An' o' relief a sigh forth-fetchin', 
 
 She put new length into her movement ! 
 
 The Elder fand it nae improvement ; 
 
 But he nae langer made resistance. 
 
 An' sae quick dune was a' the distance ; 
 
 But there she stopped ! Like blow it felled her ; 
 
 An' on the midden shot the Elder ! 
 
 An' here the Muse maun drap the curtain, 
 In this alane weel fixed and certain : 
 They gar'd the Elder mak' confession 
 Before the kirk, as weel as session ; 
 
9© POEMS. 
 
 Fathomed the trick whilk had been pla} ed him, 
 
 The creature-weakness that betrayed him ; 
 
 An' on a Sunday, kindly hinted 
 
 That to hinisel' he sud be stinted, 
 
 Nor undertake some wily pagan 
 
 To leave him headlang thrawn like Dagon. 
 
 Ane soul outspake, maist unforgivin* : 
 
 " Sic saunts as that he'd ne'er believe in, 
 
 Whether they might be dead or livin' ! " 
 
 '* Ah weel ! but you maun just remember 
 
 That men maun build o' their best timber I** 
 
 Replied the parson, bland and knowin', 
 
 " Where ha'e we better, cut or growin*?" 
 
 NAE GUDEWIFE. 
 
 An' sae ye want nae gudewife 
 
 To bide for you at hame. 
 To keep a' snug an' warm your nest, 
 An feed the blinkin' flame ; 
 The blinkin' flame that plays 
 In een o' your ain gudewife, 
 
 That chides your lang delays. 
 
 An' sae ye want nae gudewife, 
 Wi' daintie han' an' fit ; 
 
NAE GUDEWIFE. 
 
 An' voice sae like ae weddiii'-bell, 
 Wr mony tunes in it ; 
 Wi' changes a' day lang, 
 Rung by your ain gudewife, 
 
 Her housewife wark amang 
 
 An* sae ye want nae gudewife 
 
 To bustle brisklie roun', 
 Agenst she hears her gudeman's fit, 
 A-comin' frae the town ; 
 A-comin' cauld or wet, 
 Where by the fire his gudewife 
 
 The braid-backed chair has set. 
 
 An' sae ye want nae gudewife 
 
 Wi' twinklin' een to wait, 
 Wi' red-ripe kisses on her mou*, 
 To greet you at the gate : 
 To greet wi' upturned face 
 The gudeman, his ain gudewife, 
 Sae fu' o' wifely grace. 
 
 An' sae ye want nae gudewife. 
 To spread the claith o' snaw, 
 
 An* set the toast and butter on, 
 An* put the tea to draw : 
 
 To draw, and mak* the room, 
 
93 POEMS. 
 
 Where is your ain gudewife, 
 Fragrant wi' its perfume? 
 
 An* sae ye want nae gudewife I 
 Weel live your lane and dee ! 
 But just drap in and see the hoard 
 My gudewife spreads to me ; 
 To me, while ye are glum, 
 Because ye ha'e nae gudewife, 
 An' can na get a crumb. • 
 
 MIRK MONDAY. 
 
 Drive the mirk frae aff thy braw 
 What's the guid o' scowlin*? 
 
 Though the airs are fu' o' snaw, 
 An' the win's o' howlin', 
 
 What's the guid o' lookin' blue? 
 
 You and I shall stacher through. 
 
 Drive the mirk frae aff thy braw ; 
 
 Show a gleam of simmer ; 
 There's nae day without its flaw ; 
 
 Glow'rin' mak's it dimmer. 
 What's the gude o' lookin' blue? 
 You and I shall stacher through. 
 
hp:id o the house. 93 
 
 Drive the mirk frae aff thy braw ; 
 
 Let us ha'e clear shinin' ; 
 Let the croakin' corbies caw ; 
 
 We'll ha'e nane o' whinin'. 
 What's the guid o' lookin' blue? 
 You and I shall stacher through. 
 
 Drive the mirk frae aff thy braw ; 
 
 That'll clear the weather : 
 Then let a' the rough airs blaw : 
 
 We are safe thegither. 
 What's the guid o' lookin' blue? 
 You and I shall stacher through. 
 
 HEID O' THE HOUSE. 
 
 A PRIEST was through his parish one day walkin* 
 I'm wrang; 'twas naethin' but a minister: 
 'Twas in the heather Ian', the Ian' o' cakes, 
 An' na the Ian' o' bogs an' wakes ; 
 When, lo ! sic rumblin' mutters sinister, 
 Sic thunder-peals, sic boist'rous talkin', 
 Came frae the troublit wame 
 O' ane mud-shinglit hame, 
 That he went to it, quickly stalkin*. 
 
94 POEMS. 
 
 He struck his staff agenst the panel oaken, 
 As though he wad the deid awaken ; 
 
 There was nae lull within, nor sign o' ceasin* ; 
 The storm instead went on increasing 
 Until the very wa's were shaken ; 
 When on the wooden hinges croakin*, 
 The door he sturdy turned, 
 An* then aghast he learned 
 What bogles were this gale provokin'. 
 
 He fand the laird an* mistress hetly clashin'; 
 They were, indeed, twa chiels weel mated ; 
 
 A vScotch-born bonnie lass, and her braw laddie, 
 That held, that day, tu' high the heidie, 
 Frae whilk their wedded bliss they dated: 
 But now wi' tongue ilk ither fashin', 
 
 Like cats wi' wrath fu' black, 
 Forth spittin' fire and back, 
 An' chattel at ilk ither dashin'. 
 
 Nonplussed, he wad the field speedy ha'e quitted, 
 Doubtfu' to gain footin' or hearin' ; 
 
 But they, likewise, aghast at him, were waitin* 
 For breath, to gi'e their cause a statin', 
 The guid man's admonition fearin' ; 
 When, like a flash, bein' Scotch-witted, 
 
HEID O THE HOUSK. 95 
 
 The situation takin', 
 An' awkward silence breakin', 
 To speak, his overhingin* braw he knitted. 
 
 But, first, he leuked frae ane untill the ither., 
 Baith mickle-blawn, red-cheeked, an' heated, 
 Wi' towseled heids, flame-red, an' een a-flashin*, 
 Just as they were, when they were chishin', — 
 They'd just withdrawn, the battle half completed ; 
 An* then he said, half jestin', — 
 Few words it was compressed in, — 
 *' Whilk man's heid o' the house, my brither?" 
 
 The man, as blunt as he, an' sae high-mettled, 
 Sic undecided battle wagin'. 
 
 Had surely been or mair or less than human. 
 Thus held at bay by mortal woman, 
 Had he nae war within him ragin'. 
 The guid man's wit him further nettled : 
 Sae back he hetly stated ; 
 " The very thing debated ; 
 Tust tak' a seat until 'tis settled ! '* 
 
^ POEMS. 
 
 DROUKIT DAFT. 
 
 I'm droukit daft wi' mither-joy, 
 
 Licht-heartit an' licht-beided ; 
 I'm droukit daft wi' my ain boy, 
 
 To him I am sae wedded. 
 A' day an' night upon my heart 
 
 A burden sweet I hauld him ; 
 Waukin' or sleepin' I've the art 
 
 Still close to me to fauld him. 
 
 I'm droukit daft wi' my ain boy, 
 
 Wi' ower delight I'm droukit; 
 Sae like a bairn, wi' some fresh toy, 
 
 I kenna how to bruik it. 
 Or, like a pansie fu' o' dew, 
 
 Wi' God's ain sun downshinin* ; 
 A tremblin' wi* its e'e o' blue, 
 
 Its wat-drenched heid inclip.in*. 
 
 Ithers may i' their fashion whirl, 
 Their achin' hearts disguisin*, 
 
 An* gi'e them to the empty warl, 
 Sic mither-Hfe despisin* : 
 
DROUKIT DAFT. 9^ 
 
 Trippin' till morn, wi' daintie feet ' 
 
 Encased in snawy satin ; 
 My fit obeys his ca* sac sweet, 
 
 Frae matin unto matin. 
 
 Some folk gae daft frae growin* rich, 
 
 An' some gae daft frae drinkin', 
 An' some lo'e bulks to sic a pitch, 
 
 That they gae daft frae thinkin* ; 
 But I'm gaun daft frae very bliss ; 
 
 I'm fu' o' inward laughter ; 
 It bubbles up m ilka kiss, 
 
 Whilk only makes me dafter. 
 
 I'm fu* o' sansjs as are the birds. 
 
 As lambies fu' o' frolic ; 
 I'm ne'er at loss for playfu' words, 
 
 Nor ever melancholic ; 
 I'm droukit daft wi' mither-joy, 
 
 As frae deep fountain wellin' ; 
 I'm droukit daft wi' my ain boy, 
 
 >' day upon him dwellin'. 
 
 /lever kenned what God had dune 
 When he sent Andyr to me ; 
 7 
 
98 POEMS. 
 
 It set my life to sic a tune ? 
 
 What if it sud undo me? 
 What if, for very joy I dee, 
 
 An' leave him to anither? 
 Ah ! that wad never do for me ; 
 
 I maun be still his mither I 
 
 SKAILIN' FORTH FRAE KIRK 
 
 I lo'e to mark the gnidfolk 
 
 A-skailin' forth frae kirk ; 
 Accoutred i' their haimilt claith, 
 
 Weel kept frae wear an' wark : 
 I lo'e to mark their rev'rent ways ; 
 The lingerin' leuk of awe an' praise. 
 
 There comes a group o' bairnies, 
 
 Sae gran' i' tartan drest ; 
 Meikle o' wisdom i' their heids, 
 
 Their twinklin' mirth supprest: 
 Nae wantonness, nae idle play, 
 Sae douce upon Gude's halie day. 
 
 The laddies wi' the lasses, 
 I' pairs, thegither cleek ; 
 
SKAILIN FORTH FROM KIRK. 
 
 I lo'e to mark luve's simmer rose 
 Half blawn on maiden cheek ; 
 I lo'e to hark ilk falt'rin' word, 
 Sae timid spak, sae eager heard. 
 
 I lo'e to mark the auld folk, 
 
 Their haffets crowned wi' snaw, 
 
 Ilk claspin' ithers rimklit han's, 
 Sae lo'in' still withdraw : 
 
 Their honored heids a' downward bowed, 
 
 Like harvest grain i' shooks of gowd. 
 
 Some loiter I' the kirk-yard, 
 
 Whare mony an achin* heid 
 Lies hid beneath the sweet, sweet clods : 
 
 The late, the lang-syne deid ; 
 The path their faithers a' ha'e trod 
 To rax the upper House o' God. 
 
 They stap i' yonder hamlet. 
 
 They loup across the burn : 
 Hame through, they a' sae doucely gae ; 
 
 A' lost to sight by turn. 
 The kirk Stan's lane, an' wholly gaun 
 The halesome pageant we leuked on. 
 
 99 
 
:00 POEMS. 
 
 ILK NIGHT AT MITHER'S KNEE. 
 
 Ha'e you forgot, now we ha'e bairns, 
 When you an' I were lass an' lad, 
 How, i' our snawy night-dress clad. 
 We knelt ilk night at mither's knee? 
 
 We tauld her a' our bairnheid fauts, 
 An* then she faulded ilk plump palm, 
 An' as we prayed, like Sabbath calm 
 It seemed to kneel at mither's knee 
 
 Ha'e you forgot, though lang ago, 
 Her han' sae sweet on ilka heid ? 
 What wad we gi'e, when our hearts bleed, 
 To kneel agen at mither's knee? 
 
 1 kenna what the warld may ha'e. 
 What halie spots my fit may climb ; 
 I doubt if ane be mriir sublime 
 
 Than that, ilk night, at mither's knee. 
 
 Among the bluid-bouglit anes aboon. 
 When you an' I, at last, shall stan', 
 'Twill be because o' that sweet han', 
 Ilk night we knelt at n^ither's knee. 
 
WIMPLIN BURNIE. lOI 
 
 WIMPLIN' BURNIE. 
 
 Wimplin' burnie, whither awa', 
 Through the wood, an' doun the fa', 
 Black wi' shade, an' white wi' faem. 
 Whither awa' sae fast frae hame ? 
 
 Wood-birds on thy sparklin' brink 
 Dip their bills, an' thankfu' blink, 
 Mak' the forest-arches thrill 
 Wi' their warblin' sang an' trill. 
 
 Where thy stanes are green wi' moss, 
 Barefit bairnies wade across, — 
 Thrustin' i' 'ilk covert neuk, 
 Writhin' worm on treach'rous hook. 
 
 Clover-breathin' humane cows, 
 Stan' beneath the apple-boughs, 
 Lash their tails and chew their cud, 
 Knee-deep in thy coolin' flood. 
 
 Thou art glidin' smooth an' meek, 
 While craigs lie upon thy cheek ; 
 Through the simmer an' the glow, 
 'Neath the winter an' the snow. 
 
I02 POEMS. 
 
 What's thy life, I dinna ken ! 
 But thou art to earth an' men, 
 That Gude gi'es, the richesc gift, 
 Frae His hame within the lift. 
 
 EFTER THE MILKERS. 
 
 Efter the milkers, the fu'-uddered kye, 
 Wi' red on her mou' and lo'e i' her eye, 
 Efter the milkers she gaed wi' a sang, 
 A callin', a callin', an' dreamin' alang : 
 ' " Coom hame ! coom hame ! " 
 Efter the milkers she gaed. 
 
 Efter the milkers she wrang strayed afar; 
 Doon gaed the sun, out-glinted a star ; 
 Out-glinted a sternie, a' tremblin' an' lane ; 
 An' she ca'd, an' she ca'd for the milkers in vain : 
 
 " Coom hame ! coom hame ! " 
 
 Efter the milkers she gaed. 
 
 The echoes were busy, the echoes are still ; 
 Somewhere the lost milkers ha'e eaten their fill ^ 
 A kiss on the mou' has silenced the maid, 
 Efter the milkers a callin' that gaed : 
 
I03 
 
 " Coom haaie ! coom hame ! " 
 Efter the milkers she gaed. 
 
 Dotm came the milkers, the fu'-uddered kine, 
 A looin', a looin', i' lang, stragglin* line; 
 A looin', a looin' for sight o* the maid, 
 Efter the milkers a callin* that gaed, 
 
 *' Coom hame ! coom hame ! " 
 
 Efter the milkers she gaed. 
 
 O' MY GUIDMAN. 
 
 Blythe-bid me o' my guidman, 
 
 Wha drie's the pleugh at dawn, 
 Behin' the great-e'ed beastie's feet, 
 
 Wat-beaded frae the lawn ; 
 Wi' luve-glint in his manly e'en. 
 
 And sunburn on his cheek, 
 Blythe-bid me o' my guidman ; 
 
 His match ye need na seek. 
 
 Blythe-bid me o' my guidman, 
 Wha came ane simmer morn, 
 
 When hinnied claver was i' blume. 
 An' tasseled out the corn ; 
 
I04 POEMS. 
 
 Wha came and teuk me by the han', 
 An' pledged that he wad be, 
 
 Come weel, come wae, alang life's roadj 
 A guidman unto me. 
 
 Blythe-bid me o' my guidman ; 
 
 Nae breedin' high had he ; 
 His mind's nae stored frae classic beuks, 
 
 An* schules o' high degree ; 
 He's walked wi' Gude beneath the lift, 
 
 An' owre his fields o' green : 
 Rare lessons read in water-rins, 
 
 An' i' the heights serene. 
 
 Blythe-bid me o' my guidman, 
 
 Wha earns our daily bread ; 
 Wha lifts the bairns upon his lap, 
 
 An' straiks ilk youngster's head. 
 An' when the gloamin' is abraid, 
 
 Wha bends ilk night the knee, 
 An' to our Father up aboon, 
 
 Commends our babes an' me. 
 
 Blythe-bid me o' my guidman, 
 Wha maks life brim wi' joy ; 
 
 An' seems to luve me owre agen 
 In new-born lass and boy : 
 
THE HARVEST LASSIE. 105 
 
 Wha i' the darksome day o' dule, 
 When heids hang doini wi' grief, 
 
 Kens how to soothe me hke a bairn, 
 Until I find relief. 
 
 Blythe-bid me o' my guidman, 
 
 Sud we outli'e fourscore ; 
 I sud not then half find him out, 
 
 But lo'e him more an' more. 
 The bloomin' almond on his braw. 
 
 An' his saft, dimmin' e'e, 
 Still kindlit up wi' early luve, 
 
 Wad pleasure wark in me. 
 
 THE HARVEST LASSIE. 
 
 The lark, a' beadit her fu' breast, 
 
 Went up morn's blue a-singin*, 
 Disturbit wi' a sweet unrest, 
 
 An' doun her warbles flingin' ; 
 'Twas then an e'eblue lassie first, 
 
 A bright, bewitchin' creature, 
 The sealit springs o' luve a' burst, 
 
 An* captured iny Strang nature. 
 
Io6 POEMS. 
 
 We wrought thegither, lass an' lad, 
 
 Frae morn till sternie e'enen ; 
 She in a haimilt kirtle clad, 
 
 Braid hat her fair braw screenin* : 
 We sat beside the tinklin' fa' 
 
 An' teuk our harvest dinner ; 
 Strange hunger i' my breast did gnaw : 
 
 Wad it were mine to win her ! 
 
 But, when I held her life-warm han*, 
 
 To pluck the cruel nettle, — 
 I thought mysel' mair o' a man, — 
 
 'Twad a' my nerves unsettle : 
 Her snavvie palm vvas veined wi' blue, 
 
 Wi' life's Strang current beatin' ; 
 Her cheeks now gained, now tint their hue, 
 
 In answer to my greetin'. 
 
 Aboon the shoone, her feet that boun*. 
 
 Her ankle gleamed vveel-shapit ; 
 A modest vest her waist was roun', 
 
 To fit her form and keep it. 
 Her w^eel-kempt hair wi' ribbon tied 
 
 Like loosened burnie tumblit, 
 Frae tap to tae, frae side to side, 
 
 Sae tidy an' unrumplit ! 
 
THE HARVEST LASSIE. IO7 
 
 How can I speak o' that luve-glint 
 
 Within her een o* azure ; 
 That had sae deftly hid within't 
 
 What trilled me through vvi' pleasure? 
 That seemed to win me bauldly on, 
 
 Then awed me till I tremblit? 
 Doun, doun I sank till hope was gaun, 
 
 An' cauldness I dissemblit. 
 
 How can I speak o' hoo it fared, 
 
 The day I tauld lo'e*s story ? 
 Wi' that nae bliss can be compared, 
 
 Nae fame can ha'e sic glory. 
 That night, when a' had left the rig, 
 
 Behin', agreed, we haltit ; 
 I kenned the time wi' fate was big; 
 
 To meet it my heart vaultit. 
 
 Aboon the hills the harvest-mune 
 
 Her bluid-red disk was showin', 
 An' peace frae Gude came silent doun, 
 
 Owre a' rapt Nature flowin. 
 I min' me weel o' that sweet hour 
 
 In whilk behind we lingered. 
 An' stooped and pluckit mony a flower, 
 
 All' it to pieces fingered. 
 
I08 POEMS. 
 
 I min* we weel o' that lang kiss 
 
 Fond lips wi' first luv^e sealit ; 
 We baith were faint for vera bliss ; 
 
 Weak words canna reveal it. 
 I min' me weel o' that hame-walk: 
 
 Fond fit kept step thegither, 
 An' tongues, lo'e-loosed, minglit i' talk, 
 
 'Twas a* o' ane anither ! 
 
 Weel, ere was gaun the harvest-mune 
 
 An' a' the rigs were clearit, 
 The man o' Glide had made us one ; 
 
 The hoo we did na speir it. 
 We anely kenned ilk was ilk's ai'n, 
 
 Eschewed our fortune single ; 
 Without, I hai-vest a' the grain, 
 
 She feeds, within, the ingle. 
 
BAIRNS THEGITHER. IO9 
 
 BAIRNS THEGITHER. 
 
 When we were bairns thegither, 
 
 My Andyr, you an' I, 
 The gowden stern ies i' the lift 
 
 Were nightly kindlit high ; 
 We thought they maun be angels* een, 
 
 Blinkin' to bless our sight ; 
 Or else the crystal winnocks, whence 
 
 Streamit celestial light. 
 
 When we were bairns thegither, 
 
 We slept up 'neath the roof, 
 An' heard the blithesome autumn-rain, 
 
 Wi' mony a thousand hoof; 
 Or waked to see the snaw-flakes lie 
 
 On trees an' hills aroun* — 
 A spectral host, at morn in camp, 
 
 Without a note or soun' ! 
 
 When we were bairns thegither, 
 Wi' pants aboon our knees, 
 
 On some rude raft, we paidlit aff. 
 As though we sought new seas. 
 
no POEMS. 
 
 But aft we waded back agen, 
 
 Drippln' in sorry guise, 
 An' hameward skulked, twa sadi*r bain s. 
 
 But seldom, ah ! mair wise. 
 
 When we were bairns thegither, 
 
 We kenned ilk wimplin' burn ; 
 We threadit a' the neeb'rin' woods, 
 
 Our store o' nuts to earn : 
 We climbit mony a high, high tree» 
 
 Rattlin* its burden down 
 Wi' frolic, on the rustlin' leaves. 
 
 That strewed the stiffened groun*. 
 
 When we were bairns thegither, 
 
 We baith maun gang to kirk. 
 An' sit and wauk our faither preach, 
 
 Thou aft our limbs wad irk ; 
 An* aft wad droop the dowerit heid, 
 
 An' blink the strainin' een : 
 Was it sae wrang to nod assent, 
 
 When sic a wee-bit wean ? 
 
 When we were bairns thegither, 
 We thought we wad be great, 
 
 An' climb life's steps until we faurf 
 High niche i' kirk or state. 
 
A GUDEWIFES PORTRAIT. Ill 
 
 But ipi^]:er, our giiid angel then. 
 
 She wha frae evil wooed. 
 She heard us wi' a mither's leuk, 
 
 Ac' inely said, Be guidl 
 
 When we were bairns thegither, 
 
 I led you aften wrang ; 
 Foigi e me, that my fit should stray 
 
 Forbidden things amang. 
 But, thanks to our guid mither's luve, 
 
 An' thanks to Gude's kind care, 
 We did na wander far awa', 
 
 Nor linger langf time there. 
 
 A GUDEWIFE'S PORTRAIT. 
 
 GuDEWTFE sud be always seen 
 Through the gudeman's partial een ; 
 An' her praises sud be sung 
 By the gudeman's partial tongue. 
 
 Saft tl.:>sc nut-brown locks o' thine, 
 That on snaw-white temples shine ; 
 
112 POEMS. 
 
 Ripplit like the glintin' san', 
 Where the salt faim dri*es to Ian*. 
 
 Lo'esome are thy doo-like een, 
 Whilk thine e'ebraws arch atween. ; 
 E'elids droopin' owre luve-glint, 
 Frae thine orbs o' hazel tint. 
 
 White thy neck, and white thy braw 
 As the tremblit waterfa' : 
 Fu' an' roundit is thy throat 
 As a' bird's swollen wi' note. 
 
 Thy twa neebor cheeks are each 
 Like first blushin' o* the peach : 
 Lips red-seamed mak' up thy mou', 
 Hinney-drippin', kindness-fu'. 
 
 There's a gentle note of laughter 
 Whilk thy word goes ripplin' after; 
 An' thy breath is like sweet mini, 
 Of whilk breezes gi'e us hint. 
 
 Ithers, blindit, ne'er behold 
 What the gudeman's tongue has told 
 Aiblins, they've nae gudeman's "*" 
 A* a gudewife's parts to see. 
 
TINKLE-SWEETIE. II3 
 
 E'esome still to me art thou, 
 Frae thy fit unto thy brow, 
 Glidin' here, and glidin' there, — 
 Wi' a* else ayont compare. 
 
 TINKLE-SWEETIE.* 
 
 Tinkle-Sweetie ! aught-hour bell, 
 Oot aboon Auld Reekie swell ! 
 Ah, ye kenna what ye do, 
 Tremblin' wi' yer sweet-tongued mou* : 
 Naught is like yer minstrelsie, 
 Ringin' Donald oot till me ! 
 
 Tinkle-Sweetie ! up an* doun 
 Tell thy tale to a' the toun ; 
 Ither wives an* bairnies wait 
 At the winnock an' the gate : 
 Tak' anither turn about ; 
 RinsT ^he wearie warkmen out ! 
 
 Tinkle-Sweetie ! work is dune ! 
 Toil may now unbui' his shoone. 
 
 • The name given by the people of Edinburgh to the bell that rings out 
 from work at night. — Jamibson. 
 
 8 
 
1 14 POEMS. 
 
 Han's o' horn an' ban's o' soot, 
 Wearie brain and wearie foot, 
 Frae the bet and frae the grease 
 Ye ha'e rung them a' release. 
 
 Hame wi' us our Donald stays ; 
 Never to the ale-house gaes : 
 Never braks the country's law ; 
 Free frae shame his manly braw ; 
 Wrestlin' bairnies shin his knee, 
 An' he maks auld lo'e to me. 
 
 Tinkle-Sweetie ! soon may Rest 
 Brood aboon ilk troublit breast ; 
 An' the wings o' gentle Night 
 Fauld us till the mornin' light ; 
 Gird wi' strength the toilers ban's, 
 For anither day's deman's. 
 
 Tinkle-Sweetie ! brief Life's toil, 
 Brief its sorrows, dule, an' moil ; 
 An' yer sweet tongue seems the siga 
 O' the day o' life's decline: 
 Fit at rest, an' fauldit palm. 
 Taken in till Gude's ain calm I 
 
AULD TIMBERTAES. II5 
 
 AULD TIMBERTAES. 
 
 He stachers a-wee, an' then doun gaes, 
 Sae limber his limbs, sae timber his taes; 
 He's up wi' a rush, then spread oot flat, 
 Like a bairn that walks wi' a brick i' his hat. 
 
 Yet naethin he drinks but water or milk ; 
 Na, na, he's na fou', he's na o' that ilk ; 
 An' naethin' he eats but parritch sae hot, 
 Drappit i' bowl, a' steamin' frae pot. 
 
 At the door o' a' herts he's tirlin' the pin, 
 An we maun just rise, and let the bairn in ; 
 Like the sang o' a bird are his voice an' his feet. 
 He sets the house gigglin', his laughter's sae sweet 
 
 Ye'd tremble for him, hoo he gangs could ye see, 
 For mischief itsel' lurks hid i' his e'e ; 
 He's plottin' sae deep ilk day o' his life, 
 Now after yer thimble, or scissors, or knife. 
 
 He's rollin' frae bed, he's tumblin' down stairs, 
 He's kickin' doun blocks, an' climbin' up chairs; 
 He loses his balance, gaes down on his held, 
 An' lifts up a wail that maks yer hert bleed. 
 
Il6 POEMS. 
 
 He's laird o' ane house, frae threshold to roof, 
 
 O' the joy that is there baith warp an' baith woof; 
 
 I dinna recount the hale o' his ways : 
 
 He's our ain Kennawhat, an' Auld Timbertaes 
 
 THE FIRST SILLER GREY. 
 
 I've spied ye, strainger, defdy there 
 Within the depths o' craw-black hair, 
 An' fear, aiblins, there may be mair, 
 
 Beyont my vision ; 
 An' sae my min' I maun declare 
 
 Wi' fu' precision. 
 
 Ye grisly carl, shrivlit and blighted, 
 I'm sure ye came quite uninvited : 
 Awa', awa', I'd not feel slighted. 
 
 On ither heidie, 
 Frae Age's cloud had ye alighted, 
 
 O' laird or ladie. 
 
 rd na object, ava, to siller, 
 Were it but coinit into dollar : 
 I've ban* capacious, pocket hollow, 
 Secure to hauld it ; 
 
THE FIRST SILLER GREY. M^ 
 
 Or, were't a guinea gowden-yellow, 
 Tender I'd fauld it. 
 
 O' grey heid I'd na be ashamit ; 
 
 When Auld Age comes, na ane can blame it ; 
 
 Frae Scripture I ha'e heard it namit, 
 
 A heid a' hoary, 
 If not by wickedness defamit, 
 
 'S a crawn o' glory ! 
 
 But ye, yer man ha'e just mistaken ; 
 Some ither ane ye ha'e forsaken, 
 Some giiidman elder, laird, or deacon, 
 
 Ye ha'e neglectit ; 
 An' ane sae braw and Strang ha'e taken, 
 
 When na expectit. 
 
 Sae, though deep doun ye are imbedded, 
 My way untill ye I ha'e threaded ; 
 An' now, although it maun be dreaded, 
 
 An' nerve displeases, 
 Without my scalp ye shall be shredded, 
 
 An' gi'en to bleezes ! 
 
Il8 POEMS. 
 
 THE FAR-AWA' LAN'. 
 
 Nae ane's wae-worn an' wearie, 
 Nae ane gangs dark an' drearie, 
 
 r the Far-Awa' Lan' ; 
 Nae frien' frae frien' is parted, 
 Nae chokin' tear is started, 
 Nae ane is broken-hearted, 
 
 r the Far-Awa' Lan'. 
 
 Nae bairns greet their deid mither, 
 Like lammies i' cauld weather, 
 
 r the Far-awa' Lan' ; 
 Nae gudewife there will sicken, 
 Nae Strang man doiin be stricken, 
 Nae sky wi' mirk will thicken, 
 
 r the Far-Awa' Lan'. 
 
 The heights are crawned wi' sunmer, 
 The burns rin glad wi' glimmer, 
 
 r the Far-Awa' Lan'. 
 As burds win till their nestie, 
 As to its dam ilk beastie, 
 We'll win till Glide's ain breastie, 
 
 r the Far-Awa' Lan'. 
 
THE lord's day e'enEN AT THE MANSB. II9 
 
 THE LORD'S DAY E'ENEN AT THE 
 MANSE. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THE LIVING AND THE DEAIX 
 
 Oh, day of God, upliftit mid man's week, 
 Oh, loan to man frae God's eternal rest, 
 I liken thee to some gran', sunlit peak, 
 Without a cloud, in autumn's glories drest. 
 How welcome thou, to folk by sin distrest, 
 Wha gather chastened in their wonted place, 
 Achin' to lean upon the Maister's breast. 
 To see their God in His Anointed's face, 
 To rax' His outstretched han', an tak' His proffered 
 grace. 
 
 How sweet to them the Sabbath peace profoun', 
 That falls on hills and nestles in ilk vale ! 
 The freedom frae the week's distractin' soun', 
 Frae care and toil, ilk (l:iy's exactin' tale ! 
 Release frae man's first curse seems to prevail, 
 His braw nae langer sweats, nor toil his ban's ; 
 The meek, dumb beasts, wi' mony an ache an' ail. 
 Roam at their will through the wide pasture-lan's ; 
 Sae does God's holy day unbin' sin's heavy ban's. 
 
I20 POEMS. 
 
 How sweet for them, by Sabbatli bell addrest, 
 To pour frae rose-clung cottage and proud ha*, 
 To come, through all the week sair-worn, untlest, 
 An' ease their burden at the Saviour's ca' ! 
 The kirk is fu' frae near and far awa' ; 
 God's is the only grandeur reignin* there ; 
 Free frae adornment is the simple wa' ; 
 Nae frescoed art provokes the smile or stare, 
 But doucely bow'd, they cast on God their ilka care. 
 
 Nor at the threshold wakes the organ gran', 
 Whase harmony the human spirit thrills, 
 Touched into life by some quick, maister han*, 
 Till a' the sacred place wi' soun' he fills : 
 But, wi' saft wings as e'enen dew distils, 
 While over a' a heavenly silence reigns, 
 God's grace descends, a cure for man's worst ills; 
 Descends, a baum for a' his creature-pains, 
 And e'en life's heavier crosses seem eternal gains. 
 
 The day had set, the Pastor's work was done. 
 He wi' his household clustered i' the door. 
 The wee-things ready to burst out wi' fun. 
 Glad that for sax daj-s Sunday comes nae mair 
 The gran'sire, snawy frae his maist fourscore, 
 Wi' her, his lang-lo'ed wife, sat han' in han' ; 
 An* ranged aroun', as aft they'd sat before, 
 
THE LORD S DAY E ENEN AT THE MANSE. 121 
 
 Sax bairns, a halesome, Strang, united ban', 
 Frae gigglin' girlhood up to maid, frae boy to man. 
 
 The Pastor's work was done, but lingered still 
 Strange leuk within his een and on his bravv ; 
 How vain, he thought, his utterance and skill ! 
 How easy then to see and mark ilk flaw ! 
 His gentle gudewife soon the sadness saw, 
 And quick her touch upon his shoulder laid, 
 An' bade him mark, frae sel' aside to draw. 
 An' o' the shadow on his braw afraid. 
 How in her lap their towmond babie leaped and 
 played. 
 
 An' then she held him up her face aboon, 
 Wi' mither sport a' beautifu' aglow, 
 Wi' mither art, began to chaff and croon. 
 In dialect that babies sae weel know. 
 How. soon they twa the central group did grow, 
 An' a' the ithers flocked aroun' to hear ! 
 E'en auldest anes, stiff-baned and stoopin' low, 
 Wi' han' shell-shaped upon the dull-grawn ear, 
 Draggin' their pond'rous, braid-backed, auld arm- 
 chairs, appear. 
 
 This lifted aff the warld o' settlin' care, 
 
 That weighed sae heavie on the Pastor's heart; 
 
122 POEMS. 
 
 Men's unbelief nae mair was his affair, 
 Nae langer teuk it in sae serious part. 
 An' thus brought back to earth, wi' sudden start, 
 He ca'd the wee-things roun' his study-chair, 
 Breakin' the livin' bread wi' wisdom's art, 
 Talkin' of God an' Christ wi' cheerfu' air, 
 Till he had driven far awa' ilk dark-winged care. 
 
 An' then he heard some bairn the verse recite. 
 Chosen that day to be the pulpit theme ; 
 While still anither, than the lave mair bright. 
 Laid bare entire the sermon's simple scheme. 
 Nor did this talk or dry or irksome seem, 
 Sic light and lo'e glowed in his tender een ; 
 Nor did he check o' wit the childhood gleam, 
 Regardin' it with thought mature, serene, 
 In whilk the father and the pastor baith were seen. 
 
 On this, some hymn o' aulden time they sang. 
 While blendit was the quivering voice o* years 
 Wi' lispin's frae the youngest o' the thrang, 
 Sae quick to touch the soul, and melt to tears ; 
 For even sin nae heart o' man sae sears, 
 That childhood accents downa mak* him weep, 
 Until the pages o' past life he blears. 
 As backward mem'ry's wings across it sweep ; 
 Greetin' that as he*s sawn, sic hairvest maun he reap 
 
THE LORDS DAY E ENEN AT THE MANSE. 1 23 
 
 An' when the hymn had ceased, hushed was ilk 
 
 soun', 
 An' a' bowed doun i' their encircled place, 
 Formin' a holy group the altar roun' ; 
 Ilk heart was awed, and covered ilka face, 
 While words o' penitence and wondrous grace 
 Fell frae the chastened Pastor's treinblin' speech, 
 Feelin' how swift we run our earthly race, 
 How soon we pass beyond the Gospel's reach, 
 An' where nae mair the lips of man the truth can 
 teach. 
 
 The Pastor first bethought him o' his flock. 
 
 The flock that he sae lang had shown the way ; 
 
 The hearts that heard, but answered not ChriSt'.^ 
 knock, 
 
 And turned the Lord he preached in grief away. 
 
 His mind's e'e kenned them wanderin' astray, 
 
 As sheep without a shepherd, wildered, lost ; 
 
 To them he prayed God wad their sin display ; 
 
 An' ithers saw shipwrecked and tempest-tost ; 
 To them wad show that 'twas His love their coun- 
 sels crossed. 
 
 Then for his ain he as a father prays ; 
 For twa, whase heads were white wi' Age's 
 snaws, 
 
1 24 POEMS. 
 
 That God wad crown this winter o' their days, 
 An' shield them in His arms frae wind :hat 
 
 blaws ; 
 That mercies sure o' David he wad cause 
 Upon himsel', his wife, and bairns descend ; 
 That seeking God, and not the world's applause, 
 By Him directit, e'e on hfe's great end, 
 To meet in Heaven aboon their earthly steps might 
 
 tend. 
 
 One son, devoted to his father's haly work, 
 Awa', the learn in' o' the schules to store, 
 They missed that day within the pew at kirk. 
 In toils and pastimes missed the week before. 
 Nor failed that father warmly to implore, 
 In whilk petition auld an' j'oung had share, 
 That while thus gleanin' richest human lore, 
 To ken God's will might be his anely care. 
 And o' man's so-called wisdom, that he might beware. 
 
 The tallest lass, this brither's twin and pride, 
 Had hameward come but late the night before ; 
 Sedate and wise, she on her weel-paid toil relied, 
 Teachin' a schule o' urchins fu' twa-score : 
 A weekly pilgrim to her father's door, 
 She spent ilk Lord's day at his ingle-side. 
 Right weel she kenned it was a struggle sore 
 
THB lord's day e'eNEN AT THE MANSE. 1 25 
 
 Her brithei*s beuks and claethin* to provide ; 
 For this, fu* glad, she laid her weekly pay aside. 
 
 The nestlin' bairns, the e'enen service o'er, 
 To kiss ilk ane gudenight aroun' w^ere sent, 
 An' pattered soon upon the chamber floor, 
 Where nursery sangs and childhood murmurs 
 
 blent ; 
 Until, at last, their pent-up forces spent. 
 They lay fast locked in restfu' slumbers sweet, 
 Forgettin' ilk the Strang, determined bent. 
 In quest of whilk they a' wad guide their feet. 
 As soon as Monday's dawn their wakin' e'e should 
 
 greet. 
 
 Nor this the only house where incense rose ; 
 God had an altar in ilk happy hame ; 
 Nor did each different circle seek repose, 
 Until a gratefu' group aroun' the same 
 Kindlit anew the sacrificial flame. 
 That glows in spirits humble and contrite ; 
 Chastening the heart to reverential frame, 
 An' entering thus the portals o' the night, 
 Thankfu* it was still day in God's clear sight. 
 
126 FOEm. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 " JTe that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone. 
 
 "'We^ll drap but flow'' rs an' cast nae stane.'" 
 
 I. 
 
 In mud-bigg'd Ayrshire-cottage bom, 
 
 Amang woodlan's and heather ; 
 When ootdoor beasties were forlorn, 
 
 In cauld, niid- winter weather ; 
 When springin' larks nae langer mountit 
 
 Aboon the simmer meadows ; 
 Nor could the floatin' cluds be countit 
 
 I' burnies, by their shadows ; 
 Just as his mountain -daisy glintit 
 
 Beneath the beating storm, 
 On earth., unheraldit, unhintit, 
 
 Appeared the Poet's form. 
 The cottr.ge wa's his faither buildit, 
 Ane single day, the strainger shieldit ; 
 Then, by the beatin' tempest crumblit, 
 Aboot his heid, untimely tumblit : 
 Mither an' wean, to neebors driven, 
 Bravin' the snawy airs o' heaven. 
 
 n. 
 
 And. yet,- this was the cent'ry's aloe-flow'r, 
 Glintin' in cottage, not in mansion; 
 
ROBERT BURNS. J27 
 
 Hoardit her sweetness till that hour, 
 
 To gVe it ane expansion ! 
 A prince, his sceptred realm to tak' 
 
 In province lang kept waitin' ; 
 A prophet, silence lang to brak' 
 
 An' gi'e man's cause re-statin'; 
 A seer, a' fause things to pierce, 
 
 An' strip them o' their mantle ; 
 To haud them wi' a seizure fierce, 
 
 An' slay them by the hantle : 
 An', yet, a poet, sent to mark 
 
 An' lo'e ilk simplest beastie ; 
 Frae cow'rin' mouse, to mountin' lark, 
 
 Poised upward frae her nestie ! 
 
 in. 
 But, not frae Life's rough work was bought 
 
 For him, the least exemption : 
 At his ain task, he painfu' wrought : 
 He strugglit, suff'rit, felt, and thought, 
 Eschewin' nane, and shrinkin' naught. 
 
 Till Death brought him redemption. 
 Nae thornless road through Life he sought, 
 
 Just where he was, he entered : 
 He dealt his blows, where ithers fought, 
 
 There where the battle centered ! 
 Frae early dawn, ahint the plew. 
 
 Until the sun was settin' : 
 The mornin' an' the e'enen dew 
 
 His fit right manly wettin'. 
 
128 POEMS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sprung frae a man, who feared his God, 
 
 An' a true-hertit mither : 
 They wrung their Hvin' frae the sod, 
 
 An' dwalt in lo'e thegither. 
 They read, they knelt, they sang their psalm, 
 
 Their praise by faith indited ; 
 I'mirk, came doun, Gude's light an' calm, 
 
 An' a' their ills were rightit. 
 He taught the younkers what he kenn'd ; 
 
 His ain, hard-purchased learnin' ; 
 Seekin', ilk night, at hame to blen\ 
 
 The tutor wi' his earnin'. 
 When still he was a bairn i' years, 
 
 He gie'd a manly shouther : 
 He teuk man's share o' waes and tears ; 
 
 He teuk Life's warly bother. 
 An' when his saunt-like faither died. 
 
 Because he was the auldest, 
 I' front, to stem grim poortith's tide 
 
 He stood him, like the bauldest. 
 'Twas his to tak' the guidman's place, 
 
 An' spread the big ha' Bible ; 
 Or, bonnet-aff , to speak the grace 
 
 The lave aroun' the table. 
 
 A thoughtfu', stoopin' lad he grew, 
 As though beneath some burden ; 
 
EGBERT BURNS. 139 
 
 A lad o' moods, wha hardly knew 
 
 His life, a bane or guerdon ! 
 Though now an' then, when sairly prest, 
 
 He spak' in sic het fashion ; 
 Some wrang to man or beast redrest, 
 
 Kindlit to burnin' passion. 
 A swarthy, well-knit chiel he leuked, 
 
 Wi' black een coal-like burnin' ; 
 Wha never slight nor insult brook'd ; 
 
 Nor true man's lo'e was spurnin' : 
 Weel-pleased, to please his brither-man 
 
 Nor his ain pride concealit : 
 Though unco sharp a faut to scan. 
 
 Still, tender aft to shiel' it. 
 Kennin' and lo'ein' weel the guid, 
 
 Wi' herts na proud nor frigid, 
 Though paintit mask, he af ten pu'd 
 
 Frae bigotit and rigid : 
 A chiel to gaze at, when he passed, 
 
 An' when he spak' to hear him ; 
 Angered, to mak' ane leuk aghast : 
 
 To make ane lo'e and fear him : 
 Nae weaklin' nursed on Fortune's knee. 
 
 And in her lap saf t dandled ; 
 Nor even when he erred, to be 
 
 By man too rudely handled. 
 But, tim'rous things still lo'ed his ca', 
 
 Dk flow'r he tender f ondlit ; 
 He pluck'd the wee-thing frae it's fa', 
 
 An' it like mither handlit. 
 
ISO POEMS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A strange compound o' lo'e an' het, 
 
 Still kept within, unuttered : 
 A bird, the sky untried as yet, 
 
 Whase wings aft wildly fluttered : 
 To him denied the scholar's leuk, 
 
 To ken the rede o' sages ; 
 But partial Nature spread her beuk 
 
 The wider, wi' bright pages : 
 A' sights and soun's that came frae her 
 
 To him had halie meanin' ; 
 He was her daily worshiper 
 
 Aboon the furrow leanin' ; 
 He saw her i' the wimplin' bum, 
 
 An' i' the blue-e'e'd woman : 
 Frae mouse and lark had tact to learn 
 
 Su'thin' 'twas a'maist human : 
 His nature was sae large aboot, 
 
 An' orb so grandly roundit, 
 High thing or low, he speired it oot, 
 
 An' spak it, when he found it. 
 For, when, bely ve, his tongue he fan', 
 
 In satire grave, or humor. 
 There was nae chiel i' a' the Ian', 
 The waggin' o't could weel withstan' ; 
 
 For sae comes doun the rumor ! 
 The saunts, he fear'd them not ava. 
 
 But tauld their creature-f ailin's ; 
 His verse was heard i' cot an' ha'. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 181 
 
 Noo ringin' oot in accents braw, 
 Then sad wi' puir man's ailin's ; 
 The very doggies, too, f and tongues, 
 
 An' at ilk ither rattlit ; 
 Discoursin' wi' inflatit lungs 
 
 On themes that men had battlit; 
 The brigs themsels, aboon the Ayr, 
 Were heard, ane night, disputin': 
 
 Were barely kept frae pu'in' hair. 
 The Ayr, alarm'd doun-shootin' ! 
 
 An' then, he strode the warlock war!' 
 As though its laird an master; 
 
 An' ghaistly hizzies set awhirl. 
 Nor risk'd puir Tam's disaster. 
 
 Discoursed to him, e'en Death himsel', 
 That day he met the Doctor : 
 
 While he preach'd to Auld Nick as well 
 As though he'd been his proctor. 
 
 The harvest-gangs wad af ten pause, 
 I' very het o' simmer. 
 
 To hear his tongue deal ready blaws, 
 Or catch o' wit his glimmer ; 
 
 He'd stap the blacksmith at his work 
 Haudin' the lif tit hammer ; 
 
 An' set the loiterers roun' the kirk 
 At noontide, i' a clamor : 
 
 Like some ta' tree still to the groun' 
 Its frute profuse doon-shakin'. 
 
 Regardless wha the treasure foun', 
 Or wha, it hame was takin'. 
 
132 POEMS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 In him, the puir dumb beasties fan' 
 
 A judge an' a defender ! 
 Their wrangs to right, his was the han'. 
 
 To state, his voice sae tender 1 
 An' when he tauld his ain true lo'e, 
 
 The sternies seem'd to Usten ; 
 The flowers aroun' him seem'd to know, 
 
 An' wad wi' tear-draps gHsten : 
 The very burdies stilled their sangs, 
 
 As neath them, he walk'd croonin' ; 
 An' seemed to catch his waes and wrangs, 
 
 Their notes to his attunin' ; 
 Sae that, although his sun went doun, 
 
 Before he reached twa-score, 
 His name i' ilka tongue is foun'. 
 
 His sangs on ilka shore : 
 " Sweet Afton " glides where waters curl, 
 
 An' *' Bonnie Doon " rins roun' the warl'I 
 
 vm. 
 
 'Tis true, he aft forgot himsel'. 
 
 An' soil'd Gude's robes aroun' him ; 
 Alas! he kenn'd his weakness well: 
 
 Nor lo'ed the chains that bound him ! 
 Could he ha'e held his purpose true. 
 
 Nor on fause currents drifted, 
 His sky had been serener blue, 
 
 Nor wad its win's sae shifted. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 133 
 
 His nobler uses, had he kenned, 
 
 Or Hved man's years allotted, 
 There's mony a line i' passion penn'd, 
 
 Ablins, he might have blotted : 
 An', when he came at last to see 
 
 Death's waters surgin' roim' him, 
 Wi' big ha' Bible on his knee 
 
 Fu' aft his guid-wife foun' him: * 
 What passed, Gude kens, in thae last hours, 
 
 He in the furnace walkin', 
 Between thae high contractin' powers 
 
 Gude an' himsel' there talkin'; 
 He kenn'd fu' weel the gate to choose, 
 
 The gate sae lang forsaken ; 
 The gate, we a' sae sadly lose: 
 
 Ablins, that gate was taken. 
 But, ah I we'll plead nae mair his cause; 
 We lo'e him still for what he was ! 
 He was but man, man born o' woman, 
 Had he been mair, he'd na been human. 
 An' till we see his like agen. 
 We'll drap but flow'rs, and cast nae stanel 
 
 * See Dr. Waddell's new Life of Burn*. 
 
OOR KiRK FAIR, 
 
 ITHEE VERSP:S OF THAT ILK. 
 
THESE SCOTCH VERSES 
 
 ARE DEDICATED TO 
 
 MY ONLY BROTHER, 
 
 ANDREW EVARTS RANKIN 
 
 OF ST. JOHNSBURY. VT, 
 
OOR KIRK FAIR. 
 
 It was twa years agone, or little mair, 
 At gloamin' sat I, in my wicker chair : 
 For, I, that day, had muckle business done, 
 Syne in the East had rose October's sun : 
 My laddie'd just put up the shutter aims ; 
 'Tis toys I keep, and sweeties for the bairns; 
 Complacent was I, in my widow's cap, 
 Dozing a-wee, hands folded in my lap: 
 Thinking hoo God had blest me in my lad, 
 While ither chiels were aft sae loose and bad ; 
 When who sud sudden glow'r within the door, 
 Gie'ing a hasty glance aroun' the store, 
 But, Dr. Fergus Ferguson, who stands 
 Ilk week before us, in his gown and bands ! 
 It made my heart within, go pit-a-pat; 
 For, Janet Dunbar was na used to that : 
 An' mony troublit thoughts began to thrang, 
 0' things neglectit, an' things done wrang ! — 
 'Tis strange, what thoughts begin to stir abroad, 
 At sight of him they ca' the man of God ! 
 But, saf t his step, his tone, hoo delicate ! 
 Hoo daintily he teuk the chair I sate ! 
 I never saw a minister sae near, 
 An' sae I viewed him with a holy fear. 
 He spak' o' Willie, an' his manly ways : 
 Willie's my bairn, and I could stan' his praise : 
 
138 POEMS. 
 
 Right skillful he, to use the hinnied phrase ! 
 An' then, he talked o' folk in forrin' parts, 
 O' their outlandish gods, and pagan arts : 
 To save these nakit horrid multitudes, 
 Hoo we sud consecrate oor warly goods : 
 Hoo sic a kirk, and sic anither too. 
 He tauld hoo much they had agreed to do. 
 An' then, he sighed, as though 'twas on his 
 
 mind. 
 The kirks 'foresaid, sud leave oor kirk behind : 
 An' then, he wished, wi' sic an anxious air, 
 That oor kirk, too, wad hauld a halie Fair: 
 He leuked aroun' my store, and praised ilk art, 
 Whilk I had plied to tempt the bairnie's heart ; 
 And, then, when he had weel prepared the way, 
 He fu' unfauldit, what he had to say : 
 x\n' sud oor kirk conclude to hauld a Fair, 
 O' needful burdens, wad I tak' my share; 
 Wad I contribute, were it less or more, 
 Su' things to help, f rae oot my thriftie store ! 
 " Of course ! " I said : what could a bodie say, 
 The thing proposed in sic an artfu' way? 
 I've aften thought, in plyin' winnin' words, 
 There's none to beat oor spir'tual under-herds : 
 And, sae, a wheen o' goodies and o' toys. 
 Of dolls for girls, and bats and balls for boys 
 Before I slept, that night, I'd set aside. 
 Right well-contentit i' my carnal pride. 
 Altho' I did na count to hear my name 
 Within the donor-list, when Sundav came. 
 
 i 
 
OOR KIRK FAIR. I39 
 
 Oor pastor thinks, 'twere weel the right han, 
 
 knew, 
 What goodly deeds, the left han' means to do : 
 As though, they'd sort o' emulate ilk ither : 
 
 An sae the stronger, help his weaker brither : 
 He seems to hold, ahead o' singing psalms, 
 The art of gettin' a' the gifts, an' alms ; 
 An' aft, for fear he sud na mak' it go, 
 He seems to me, to strain a point or so ; 
 But, then, indeed, I'm not supposed to know. 
 
 Ah ! weel, th' expectit day, at length, came 
 roun'. 
 My lad and I betimes were on the groun' : 
 For strange enough, my Willie seemed to care, 
 Weel-buskit first, to be the earliest there : 
 My Willie, whom I leuked on, as a wean, 
 Although, in fact, he had just turned nineteen. 
 
 Sic lassies ! deck'd sae sweetly, an' sae fair ! 
 Wi' roundit necks, an' arms a' plump an' bare ! 
 With een, sae like the lowin' starn o' night ! 
 Auld as I was, I ne'er had seen sic sight. 
 My lad, he was half crazy with delight. 
 An' quick I saw, what I was loth to see, 
 The wily creature that had caught his e'e. 
 My laddie ! ah, the truth I'd never dreamed. 
 He tremblit, when she kindly on him beamed: 
 I then remembered, aince I'd seen at kirk. 
 At her he'd glint, behind her he wad lurk. 
 An' she was beautiful ! You've seen a rose, 
 Mingling its pink and white, before it blows.: 
 
J^40 POEMS. 
 
 Twas just like that, upon her cheek and bro\v ; 
 Ye cud na help admirin' ony how. 
 Yes, she was beautiful ! An' when she brought 
 X sweet bouquet, and, then, as quick as 
 
 thought, 
 ^ust pinned it to the lappel of his coat, 
 There was na utterance in his chokin' throat : 
 At first, his face gleamed like a lily, white ; 
 An' then, it crimson flushed, sae fiery bright : 
 My laddie's secret, then, too well I knew ; 
 And like a sword, it pierced my auld heart 
 
 through. 
 God kens hoo much it costs a mither, when 
 Her lad maun ha'e a lass, like ither men : 
 To feel anither orb maun rule his life, 
 God kens a mither's grief, an' inward strife ! 
 And, sud she prove to be unworthy him ! 
 Some passing fancy, or some idle whim ! 
 Some syren luring on his honest barque, 
 To waters fickle, treacherous and dark ! 
 God kens hoo much, a tender mither fears 
 A lassie may not be a' she appears ; 
 May ply on him her charms, artfu' and coy, 
 An' prove, instead of gude wife, but a toy ! 
 But, to return: Those lily hands, that 
 
 tempting face, 
 The tone, the figure, and the nameless grace, 
 I3oo could a lad like him, resist sic charm? 
 E felt the tremor, as I held his arm. 
 fhe deed was done ! And, then I heard her say, 
 
OOR KIRK FAIR. 14I 
 
 ' ' Anely a half-crown for the sweet bouquet ! " 
 A half-crown ! Yes. It made my laddie start 
 But, she had pinned it next his beating heart 
 He gave the sum ; for she had made him mad 
 Although 'twas a' the honest laddie had ! 
 I watched her practising the winnin' game 
 On ither laddies, as they went and came : 
 The same sweet look : the same saf t, thrillin' 
 
 word, 
 Which just before, my eager lad had heard, 
 '* A half a crown, if pinned aboon your heart ! ' 
 Fast went the flowers, sold by woman's art. 
 
 An e'enen passes quickly at a Fair, 
 Altho' my heart beat heavy, sad and sair; 
 I saw the rafflin' gangin' on aroun' ; 
 I heard the auctions, with their deaf 'ning soun' ; 
 The giddy laughter, and the merry calls 
 Frae out the cabins, tents, and booths, and 
 
 stalls: 
 And, aince, I caught a glimpse o' lads and 
 
 girls, 
 Dissolvin' in the dance's mazy whirls; 
 Although they all denied it stout and flat, 
 That in God's House, they'd do the like o' that ! 
 I know, at this, our pious Pastor grieves ; 
 Although he sheds his tears— within his 
 
 sleeves ! 
 He thinks it weel to play a wily card, 
 An na' on warly sports to press ow'er hard. 
 He lo'es the heathen, in those forrin' parts, 
 
142 POEMS, 
 
 For their salvation, plies a' pious arts. 
 One time, I thought, if Bunyan had been 
 
 there, 
 Or Bobbie Burns, to note our halie Fair ; 
 Hoo it wad read, if it were written out, 
 All that these Christian lasses were about ; 
 Their smirkin', smilin', an' coquettish pleas, 
 Their artfu' ways, their bantering an' lees ; 
 Hoo much of this, 'twad tak' to mak' a saint ! 
 If 'twere as good as Indian dance and paint ! 
 Hoo far, the Lord wad mak' the money go ; 
 They gave to Him, whilk had been gotten so ! 
 Hoo they wad seem, these ill-got gains and 
 
 fees. 
 When a' tired oot, at last, they bent their 
 
 knees ; 
 Hoo it wad leuk, a' they had said and done. 
 When calmly viewed, beneath to-morrow's 
 
 sun; 
 Alas ! poor souls ! what wad they have to say, 
 If there sud be sic thing, as Judgment Day ! 
 
 At last, the wee-bit hours o' mornin' came, 
 When we maun guide our footsteps to our 
 
 hame; 
 They turned, at length, the flaming gaslight 
 
 down; 
 An' hushed within the kirk, ilk warly soun' ; 
 It seemed to me— sae loud the clock struck 
 
 one — 
 
OOR KIRK FAIR. I40 
 
 Some ither dispensation had begun: 
 
 As though we walked some dimly-hghted 
 
 tomb ; 
 As though confrontin' baith, the Day o' Doom. 
 
 My laddie had a strange and restless night ; 
 I saw, his een were kindlit wi' new light ; 
 xln' when, at breakfast hour, we teuk our meal, 
 His topmost thought, he could but ill conceal : 
 To talk o' that fair lass, was he f u' fain : 
 Hoo he wad like to ca' the girl his ain ; 
 To take the big store, on the City square, 
 An', then, we three could stock a large bazaar : 
 Wond'ring the while, wad she complacent 
 
 prove, 
 A gi'e him honest back, his honest love. 
 . I saw the laddie's heart beat unco high, 
 Misgivin's, though untauld, alas ! had I. 
 
 Ere mony days, agen, the Sunday came, 
 I saw upon his cheeks, a hectic flame ; 
 An' when accoutered in his Sunday's best, 
 I saw the same bouquet pinned on his breast. 
 Wi' thankfu' hearts, we breathed the mornin' 
 
 air, 
 An' arm in arm, walked to the house of prayer. 
 We saw the lass, among a hauf a score ; 
 The lad stepped up to greet her, at the door. 
 She did na min' him, hoo he raised his hat : 
 His leuk and bow superb, an' a' o' that : 
 She simply curled her lip, an' passed him by, 
 As though some bird, just lighted frae the sky : 
 
144 POEMS. 
 
 As though she feared to spoil her plumage fair ; 
 As though too proud, to breathe earth's 
 
 common air ; 
 As though she thought hersel' too bright an' 
 
 good, 
 To herd with ane who earned his daily food : 
 An' ev'ry vestige of her former grace 
 Forsook her frigid, proud, forbidding face. 
 
 I saw the iron strike my Willie then : 
 Nor syne that day has he e'er smiled agen. 
 You've seen a snow-white lily droop and fail 
 In spite o' a' ye did to cure its ail ; 
 In spite of sunshine and the gentle rain, 
 Woundit within, as though it felt some pain ; 
 Just so, my laddie, frae that self -same day, 
 Began to wilt and droop an' slip away. 
 An' though I'd never known him aince to shirk, 
 He'd tell me aft, he did na feel like work. 
 Wad sit at gloamin', sad and mope, 
 As though he'd lost his anely earthly hope. 
 Hoo mony a far-fetch'd thing I've gladly 
 
 bought, 
 To please his fancy or his passing thought ; 
 T'was like a plaything to a home-sick child : 
 He wad na o' his grief be thus beguiled. 
 Ah ! vain my hope, my pray 'r to keep him still, 
 An' vain my nursin', vain the doctor's skill : 
 Ere spring, I saw by mony a certain sign. 
 He had his death ; was sinkin' in decline. 
 I'd heard it af ten sung : I thought it true •. 
 
OOR KIRK FAIR. 146 
 
 Each blade o' grass maun ha'e its drap of dew. 
 
 But, ah ! I saw the fever drinkin' up 
 
 My drap frae oot life's wearie, wearie cup. 
 
 The care of him, I had ilk day to take, 
 Did on my tiny store, sic inroads make : 
 The doctor's drugs, the doctor's drainin' fees, 
 Did waste it sae, by slow;, but sure degrees, 
 It was fu' hard to mak' the twa ends meet, 
 To buy the coke, and get us aught to eat. 
 I thought, in my great straits, I'd try the arts 
 The kirk had tried for those in foreign parts: 
 I'd raffle off an article or so, 
 A carriage spread, a fancy doll, you know; 
 Just in my winnock, in a quiet way : — 
 But, they had been there, scarce a single day. 
 Before policemen, buttoned sleek and round. 
 Stalked in, and did my tremblin' heart astound, 
 Wi' swelling words, that I the law did break ; 
 The goods were forfeit : them they'd have to 
 
 take: 
 Mysel', unless I ceased this thing to do, 
 They'd budge me off to grace the station too. 
 I tried to tell them, I was a' alone, 
 My Willie deein', they could hear his moan : 
 They shook their heids, as though sae unco 
 
 wise, 
 Wad hear excuses nane, and nae replies. 
 Bade me, wad I escape the Judge's claw. 
 Walk circumspec', and never break the law: 
 Advice weel-meant, and guid for me, na doubt, 
 
146 POEMS. 
 
 But guid as weel for them, to carry out; 
 For, still the thing did in my noddle lurk, 
 They must hae known the rafllin' at our kirk ; 
 But, then, the place maun sanctify the deed ; 
 The law's not broken, if intact the creed ; 
 The naked Indians in those foreign parts, 
 They sanctify unhalie .deeds and arts ; 
 The truth, I may not be supposed to know ; 
 Doubtless, our Doctor, he must think it so. 
 
 Ah weel ! in twa days mair, my laddie died i 
 An' sae my struggle went, how to provide. 
 Beneath his pillow, after he was gaun, 
 J found the fiow'r, whilk he had doated on : 
 The withered parcel, and a brief, brief line ; 
 Sae dim, the writin' I could scarce divine. 
 It meant, wi' that, he did na want to part ; 
 ' ' Please lay it, mither, on my broken heart ! " 
 
 ABOON THE STARS. 
 
 O snawie feet, sae veined wi' blue, 
 
 O ankles limp an' roun', 
 Wi' greetin' een, I've sought for you. 
 
 All up the warl an' doun. 
 
 Aboon the stars? I ken, I ken. 
 
 What service do they there? 
 Does Heav'n itsel' need little men. 
 
 To make its mansions fair? 
 
ABOON THE STARS.. I47 
 
 Do little feet rin in an' oot? 
 
 Is bairnheid laughter heard? 
 Ah ! that's the Heav'n me to suit, 
 
 I catch the sweet, sweet word. 
 
 An' sal I meet my bairn aboon? 
 
 My bonnie, wee, wee bairn? 
 Hoo aft, at night, I sit an' croon, 
 
 Sae piercin' is the airn ! 
 
 An' mithers may be mithers there, 
 An' bairns still bairns may be, 
 
 Wi' glowin' cheek, an' flowin' hair, 
 An' childhood ecstasy? 
 
 At least, until I better ken, 
 I'll dream the pleasant thought ; 
 
 Nor think our bairns grow up to men, 
 An' sae, alas, are not ! 
 
 WE HA'E NAE BAIRNS. 
 
 Wk ha'e nae bairns, our hame within, 
 Wi' ootspread arms to meet us ; 
 
 To fill the door wi' fun and din, 
 As they rush forth to greet us. 
 
148 POEMS. 
 
 We ha'e nae cherry mou's to feed ; 
 
 We buy nae toys to please them ; 
 Nae boots, nae dolls, nae skates we need 
 
 Nae eager wee-things seize them. 
 
 We ha'e nae sturdy stock to raise 
 O' men, o' wives, beginning ! 
 
 To teach them warldly arts and ways, 
 Of bread and butter winning. 
 
 We ha'e nae tempted ones to guide 
 The path that leads to glory ; 
 
 To tell them of the Crucified : 
 The pith o' Bible story. 
 
 We ha'e nae bairns, when we are dead 
 To shed lo'e's tears aboun' us, 
 
 To smooth for us the lanely bed. 
 And sprinkle flowers aroun' us. 
 
 We ha'e nae bairns, to keep our name. 
 When we are gane, frae dying; 
 
 To build agen anither hame, 
 The stock still multiplying. 
 
 A barren pair, we look around. 
 
 Not mither and not father ; 
 Like water spilled upon the groimd, 
 
 Whilk nae man's art can gather. 
 
I WAD THAT WE WERE BAIKNS AGEN, 145 
 
 I WAD THAT WE WERE BAIRNS AGEN. 
 
 I wad that we were bairns agen, 
 
 Our life a' simmer weather; 
 The air as fu' of sangs as then, 
 
 An' birds o' shinin' feather. 
 I wad we had those daft days back; 
 
 Their spring, their light, their rapture ! 
 I wad we had that auld time knack 
 
 Ilk passin' bliss to capture . 
 
 A bow hung spannin' ilka cloud, 
 
 However dark an' f rownin' ; 
 At sight of it we laughed aloud, 
 
 Our petty troubles drownin'. 
 We then could wade in tiny brooks, 
 
 That murmured through the meadows: 
 And ferret out the hidden nooks 
 
 Amang the leafy shadows. 
 
 We had our bairnheid's gentle mates, 
 
 Alas ! in dust they moulder ! 
 The lad who strapped for us our skates. 
 
 Who bore us on his shoulder; 
 The bright-e'ed lassies that we kenned, 
 
 Like them to us nae ither ! 
 So peacefu' did our pastimes blend, 
 
 As streams that rin thegither. 
 
150 POEMS. 
 
 Ah ! what can make us bairns agen, 
 
 Before us, life's December— 
 But just these auld time maids and men, 
 
 Whom we thus aft remember? 
 But just to fill those scenes once mair 
 
 With childhood sang and laughter? 
 Although the truth they're nae mair there 
 
 Will mak' us sadder after. 
 
 MITHER TAUGHT. 
 
 At mither's knee I waitin' stood, 
 
 Wi' fingers link'd behin' me, 
 The bauldest o' the bairnheid brood : — 
 
 That hour they seldom tined me ; 
 My mither's weel-arch'd bree aboon, 
 
 Wi' lo'e-lit e'e a droopin' : — 
 The deid, the gaun, they gather roun\ 
 
 In memory's halie groupin' ! 
 
 Her han' she placed upon my heid; 
 
 Hoo af ten I've caressed it ! 
 An' syne it moulder'd wi' the deid, 
 
 Hoo aft wi' tears ha'e blessed it! 
 Hoo sweet she tauld us o' Christ's lo'e, 
 
 Hoo He lay in the manger : 
 Hoo, then, she leuked our hale life thro', 
 
 An' mapped out ilka danger. 
 
MITHER TAUGHT. 151 
 
 A roguish, rompin' bairn was I, 
 
 Wi' een deep-set, blue-blinkin', 
 Who speir'd o' things baith laigh and high, 
 
 An' had a way o' thinkin' : 
 Her leuk o' lo'e could mak' the tears, 
 
 Adoon my cheek fast trickle : — 
 But, ah, nae bairn lang face lang wears, 
 
 He has o' joys sic mickle. 
 
 She never thought her wark was gran', 
 
 Nor bruited it, nor tauld it: 
 But, kept at it, wi' silent han'. 
 
 Our bairnheid life to mould it; 
 Contentit wi' the halie sphere, 
 
 Ower whilk she stretch'd lo'e's sceptre; 
 The harvest o' life's comin' year, 
 
 Hopefu' through a', this kept her. 
 
 For, like the sources o' the burn, 
 
 Frae rocks an' trees doon-drappin'. 
 Those deft-hid things that first we learn, 
 
 Still oot they maun be crappin' ; 
 I've lang forgot the beuks I read, 
 
 The wise things taught i' college : 
 But, time '11 na dri'e frae oot my head 
 
 That ither bairnheid knowledge! 
 
153 POBMS. 
 
 DINNA COME OOURTIN' TILL ME. 
 
 DiNNA come courtin' till me, young man, 
 
 Dinna come courtin' till me! 
 Ye're a rake I can see, wi' the hauf o' an' 'ee, 
 
 An' ye lo'e Scotch drink, an' the barley bree ; 
 Sae dinna come courtin' till me, young man, 
 
 Dinna come courtin' till me. 
 
 Dinna come courtin' till me, young man, 
 
 Dinna come courtin' till me ! 
 Tho' ye're supple an' ta', an' briskit sae braw, 
 
 An' can loup an' prance in the harvest dance ; 
 Ye needna come courtin' till me, young man, 
 
 Ye needna come courtin' till me ! 
 
 Ah ! then, come courtin' till me, young man, 
 
 Ah, then, come courtin' till me ; 
 Wi' drink, if ye're dune, by a' that's aboon ; 
 
 I'll gi'e ye my han', as a prince o' the Ian', 
 An' let ye come courtin' till me, young man. 
 
 An' let ye come courtin' till me. 
 
BOBBIN^ FOR BOBBIN. 
 
 15S 
 
 SOBBIN' FOR ROBBIN. 
 
 Guidman. What for are ye sobbin', 
 My dear, my dear? 
 
 Cruidwife, I'm sobbin' for Robbin, 
 
 For Robbin I'm aobbin' 
 
 An' sheddin' ilk tear. 
 
 Guidman. Auld Robbin, his heidie— 
 Do stap, do stap ! 
 
 An' fit were unsteady ; 
 
 Fu' aft was he ready 
 To stacher an' drap. 
 
 Guidwife. Auld Robbin, he carried 
 Us twa on his back, 
 That day we were married ; 
 Nor halted nor tarried. 
 Nor needed a crack, 
 
 Auld Robbin, he's nibblet 
 Frae ilk o' the weans. 
 
 An' on their heids dribblet 
 His aits an' his beans ! — 
 Guidman. He's auld an' enfeeblet. 
 
 An' that's what it means; 
 
154 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 We'll ha'e a new Robbin, 
 My dear, my dear ! 
 
 Sae awa' wi' your sobbin', 
 An' staunch ilka tear: 
 
 Awa' wi' your sobbin' 
 
 For Robbin: 
 The new ane is here I 
 
 GUIDMAN AWA'. 
 
 The sternies blink, when e'enin' fa's, 
 
 An' at the break o' day ; 
 Amid wild woods, the ring-doo ca's ; 
 
 The brown thrush pours his lay ; 
 Nature an' I can na agree. 
 Syne my ane guidman's gone frae me. 
 
 At gloamin' time, I gang an' sit 
 
 My lane, without the door: 
 O wad, aince mair, his manly fit 
 
 Might echo on the floor ! 
 At night, wee things asleep, I wake, 
 
 An' sair's my heart, wi' mony an ache. 
 
 I hear the soun' o* distant hoof: 
 Some guidman gangin' hame: 
 
 But ah ! he bauds his way aloof, 
 To glad some ither dame ! 
 
 An' sae, heart-sick, I lay my head 
 
 Again upon my sleepless bed. 
 
GUIDMAN AWA\ 155 
 
 I think, I think mischances o'er, 
 
 Whilk ither men befa' ; 
 Perhaps, I'll never greet him more, 
 
 He'll never come at a' ! 
 An' then I toss, an' grieve an' fret, 
 Until my lanely pillow's wet. 
 
 At last, at last, the sunlight glints 
 
 The taps o' yonder trees : 
 The curling smoke, plays wi', an' tints. 
 
 Then lights the beaded leas : — 
 Nae sunlight is for me at a', 
 Syne my ane guidman's gone awa'. 
 
 The bairnies come, betimes, at morn, 
 
 An' speir, ' ' Is daddie come ? " 
 The very dog gangs roun' forlorn, 
 
 Or sleeps morose an' glum : 
 An' when, at length, he hears a soun'. 
 He rins wi' nose alang the groun'. 
 
 But, hush ! I hear, I hear a bark ! 
 
 It echoes far an' near : 
 My guidman comes ! His voice, O, nwr 
 
 His step, his step ! He's here ! 
 Awa', awa', my ilka pain. 
 He's come ! an' I'm heart-whole again 
 
156 POEMS. 
 
 TO A MITHERLESS WEAN. 
 
 Frae thy deid mither's dust, thou'st glinted, 
 Thou wee bit, frail an' tender creature, 
 In wham thy daddie spies ilk feature, 
 
 Thy mither's ain, agen soft hinted ; 
 Her bree, her een, ilk girlhood dimple, 
 Her bonnie mou' sae sweet, sae simple. 
 
 Thou'st stayed sae lang without life's portal, 
 Doubtfu' thj'sel' whether to enter, 
 That when, at last, thou cam'st to venture, 
 
 Thou gav'st her life, woun' deep an' mortal : 
 An' there ayont wean's prattlin' warble, 
 She lies outstretched in death's cauld marble. 
 
 As dull as stane, the e'e luve-glintin', 
 As cauld as snaw, the kindly breastie 
 That sud ha'e been thy ain warm nestie ; 
 
 The lips close set, lo'e had been mintin' ; 
 Death bauds her form i' cruel capture ; 
 An' wreck'd thy daddie's ill-timed rapture I 
 
 Thou didst nae mean it, f rightenit weanie. 
 But, ah ! sae hard for life thou wrestlit 
 Thou'st fined the ane, thee sud ha'e nestlit ; 
 
 Thou'st robb'd me o' my bonnie Jeanie ; 
 Thou'st robb'd thysel' an' me thegither ; 
 For wae's the weanie without mither ! 
 
TO A MITHERLESS WEAN. ^^57 
 
 I've seen, like thee, some ilLstarr'd lammie, 
 A' comfortless, for shelter bleatin' ; 
 Backward and forth, the caiild earth beatin', 
 
 In search o' its puir deid-stretch'd dammie; 
 But ah ! her lug was dull o' hearin', 
 An' fruitless a' its grief an' speirin'. 
 
 This warl's a cauld, cauld warl thou'lt find it, 
 For fragile flowers and weans to gUnt here; 
 It's fu' of snaws as ony winter; 
 
 An' to the helpless, unco blindit; 
 But a' the mair, thy wa-gaen daddie 
 Will wrap thee snug within his plaidie. 
 
 By thee o' his deid Jean remindit, 
 Delightit with thy nature's buddin', 
 Thy bonnie bree wi' tears aft floodin'. 
 
 The way she teuk to Gude, he'll find it. 
 There's nae mair death, nor dule, nor sin 
 
 there. 
 An' by Gude's grace, we twa will win there. 
 
158 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 TO A CAGED LAVROCK SINGING. 
 
 Wha teuk thee f rae thy native meadows, 
 
 A' daisy -e'ed, dapplit wi' shadows, 
 Where thou hadst bigg'd thy snug-bit nestie, 
 Frae whilk thou sprangs't, gowd on thy 
 breastie. 
 
 The dew- wet air o' mornin' skiltin', 
 
 Thy matin hymn, warblin' an' hltin' ? 
 
 Wha robb'd the fields o' thy blythe presence, 
 Wha robb'd plain folk and bairns o' peasants, 
 
 That romp'd an' play'd, the wild flowers 
 pluckin', 
 
 Fright'nin' the bees, red claver suckin', 
 A han' -strung garland, crown'd with daisies, 
 Linkin', iit will, thro' bairnheid's mazes ? 
 
 Wha teuk thee to the clouds high-mount'n', 
 Wellin' thy warbles frae sang's fountain, 
 Gladd'nin', in thy ascent, ilk acre, 
 To reach, ablins, ear o' thy Maker ? 
 Or when, at last, thy hymnal utter'd, 
 Thou'dst back unto thy fledglin's fluttered ? 
 
 Wha bauds thee i' this alley blightit, 
 Whilk. at high noon, is still benightit, 
 Wh(?re sombre shades, winnocks bedizzen, 
 
TO A CAGED LAVROCK SINGING. 159 
 
 An' uncag'd folk still live i' prison ; 
 Wha, when frae thy sweet fields he'd won thee, 
 Just shut this cruel gate upon thee ? 
 
 Thou singest o' thy robbit nestie; 
 
 Thy wedow'd mate, that lang syne blest thee ; 
 The brood o' nestlins ye were rearin', 
 The cruel chiel, thy lo'e-dreams scarin', 
 
 An' human tongue thou seem'st to borrow, 
 
 An' tell'st the tale o' human sorrow. 
 
 Then lilt nae mair, I canna bear it, 
 Thou'lt break my heart, or oot wilt tear it ; 
 Thy sang is like some weanie greetin', 
 Hamesick, its bairnheid haunts entreatin 
 Then lilt nae mair, for thy green meadows, 
 Wi' daisy een, dapplit wi' shadows ! 
 
 Had I the power, I'd send thee wingin' 
 The fields o' blue, Gude's praises singin' ! 
 Nae han' o' man sud mar thy rapture. 
 Nor frae thy native haunts sud capture ; 
 Nae han' o' man sud mar the measure 
 Wi' whilk thou'dst tell to God thy pleasure ! 
 
XgO POEMS. 
 
 SIMMER WEATHER. 
 
 Ilk sweet neuk, my Jeanie knows; 
 Where the baumy heather blows, 
 Where the tinkUn' burnie flows, 
 
 In the simmer weather ; 
 There, at gloamin' hour we meet, 
 There, we guide reluctant feet. 
 
 When we link thegither. 
 
 Like the hummin' o' the bee. 
 Like the murm'rin' o' the sea. 
 Are her words o' lo'e to me, 
 
 When we are thegither. 
 Mirk may thicken roun' about, 
 Still her lo'e can keep it out, 
 
 She's a' simmer weather ! 
 
 Sud I tine my Jeanie dear, 
 
 A' the warl' wad be maist drear, 
 
 Like the autumn cauld an' sere. 
 
 For the simmer weather ; 
 Gladly wad I then efface 
 Trysting hour an' trysting place, 
 
 When we link'd thegither. 
 
THE MISSIN' BAIRNIES. . 161 
 
 THE MISSIN' BAIRNIES. 
 
 Where are ye, missin' bairnies, 
 
 A toddlin' in an' out, 
 Chuck fu' o' bairnheid mischief, 
 
 Chuck fu' o' din an' shout ? 
 I miss ye, ilka nightf a' ; 
 
 Ilk gowden blink o' day ; 
 I aften stap an' wonder 
 
 Where ye are gaun away. 
 
 I aften stap an' wonder, 
 
 If ye are still at school ; 
 If ye win come, wi' stamp, stamp, 
 
 An' brak' my ilka rule ; 
 I aften stap an' wonder 
 
 If ye're gaun aff to play ; 
 In fav'rite woodlan' pastime, 
 
 To while the livelang day. 
 
 I think ye're at the neighbors' 
 
 Perhaps ye're gaun for fruit : 
 Perhaps ye tramp the meadows. 
 
 Or hide some bairnheid loot ; 
 An' sae I sit a-waitin'. 
 
 An' let the table stan' ; 
 But nae mair comes ilk woman 
 
 Or comes ilk little man. 
 
162 POEMS. 
 
 Hoc aft ye brought your chestnuts, 
 
 An' spread them oot to dry ; 
 Hoo aft ye thought your minnows 
 
 Were big enough to fry ; 
 Hoo aft I've wrung your stockin's, 
 
 Your little boots arrayed, 
 An' ye've gaun aff ere bedtime. 
 
 Ye had so madly played. 
 
 O little feet, aft wearie, 
 
 Where do ye wander now ? 
 Wha kames the tangled ringlets ? 
 
 Wha cools the heated brow ? 
 O little ban's, sae busy ! 
 
 O little hearts aft sore ! 
 I'm longin' for the footfa's, 
 
 That echoed roun' the door ! 
 
 Alas ! I've grown f orgetf u' ; 
 
 Some lie in little graves ; 
 Some bear the brunt of manhood ; 
 
 An' some are fortune's slaves. 
 Sma' use for me to wonder 
 
 Oot door, or winnock stare; 
 To greet me, as in bairnheid, 
 
 They'll come, ah ! nevermair. 
 
 An' is their nae mair bairnheid, 
 
 Whilk mak's this warl' sae fair ? 
 Ayont the glowin' sternies, 
 
QUAKER KIRK. 163 
 
 Time's bairnies gather there ; 
 Ayont the glowin' sternies, 
 
 Ayont the lift o' blue ; 
 I'll fin' my missin' bairnies, 
 
 If they are guid an' true. 
 
 QUAKER KIRK. 
 
 Through the fields' a breathin' clover, 
 Down the burn a-jumpin' over. 
 Up the hill, alang the plain, 
 By the host o' breathless grain, 
 Free f rae care, an' free f rae wark : — 
 That's the gate to Quaker Kirk. 
 
 On the right han', daft an' crazy, 
 Swings the bob'hnk on the daisy; 
 On the left han', hear the gush 
 O' the deftly hidden thrush ; 
 I' the barnie, see the trout 
 Like the sun's glint in an' out. 
 
 Blue, deep-blue, as some kind eye. 
 Bends aboon the archin' sky ; 
 An' the gran' old neebor wood 
 Stan's a leafy multitude ; 
 Here an' there, the sunshine smiles, 
 Smiles o' gowd, athwart its aisles. 
 
164 POEMS. 
 
 There, at last, before you Stan's 
 Quaker Kirk i' green wood lan's ; 
 Open winnocks, open doors ; 
 In an' oot, the sweet breath pours 
 Frae the clovers' purple heids ; 
 Frae the wild flow'rs i' the meads. 
 
 Meek, loofs braidit, i' calm mood, 
 
 Wait the silent britherhood : 
 
 Till an auld-mou'd man, snaw-white, 
 
 Tall but bent, an' saintly quite, 
 
 Rises slowly to enf auld 
 
 What the Voice Within has tauld. 
 
 Down he sits : a minute's hush, 
 Then a kindly social gush : 
 Han's are shaken, mou's are kissed. 
 Kind words said anent the missed. 
 Gane the wagons, a fu' laden 
 Wi' calm matron, an' fair maiden I 
 
 Back, my lane, through fields I wander, 
 On the breathless warl' I ponder: 
 To the dew wet woods return, 
 Hear the wimplin' o' the burn. 
 Breathe the peace that's a' abroad 
 On this hallowed day o' God. 
 
THE FIRST TOOTH. 2^5 
 
 THE FIRST TOOTH. 
 
 Open, rogue, your pursed-up mou', 
 There's ane straggler strugglin' through; 
 Fh'st of a' the snaw-white ban', 
 That are crowdin' close at han'. 
 
 White as white o' pearl can be, 
 Or the white edge o' the sea ! 
 Dinna, bairnie, dare to bite, 
 Why ! you gave me sic a fright ! 
 
 That your diet's maistly milk, 
 That ye kenna whilk is whilk. 
 Eat na fruit, nor hinney-kame, 
 Ah ! ye ha'e yoursel' to blame. 
 
 When your sharp incisors come; 
 Crowded fu' ilk toothless gum; 
 Grapes and cherries ye sal eat; 
 Bread snaw-white, an' juicy meat. 
 
 Open, rogue, your pursed up mou', 
 Let your daddie see it, too ; 
 Tell your grandame, wi' a crow, 
 Ane is come ! Let a' folk know. 
 
166 POEMS. 
 
 Ane is oome ! There's many more 
 Hidin' there ahint the door ; 
 An' a mou' fu', dinna doubt, 
 Soon maun be a-crowdin' out. 
 
 THE DOUCE, DOUCE GUIDFOLK.* 
 
 I lo'e the douce, douce guidfolk, 
 'Mang whom my bairnheid went ; 
 
 Their honest name, unkenned to fame, 
 Unkenned, too, their descent. 
 
 Their ban's begrimed and horny, 
 Their brees wrinkht an' auld, 
 
 Their cheeks aft dun frae win' an' sun, 
 Or crimson frae the cold. 
 
 Ere yet the morning sun-burst 
 
 Broke on the clovered hill, 
 The scythe to wield they went afield, 
 
 Wi' stalwart step an' will. 
 
 An' when the dew-wet gloamin' 
 
 Descended saft an' fair, 
 Uprose to greet the mercy seat. 
 
 Their sturdy sang an' pray'r. 
 
 *Do^tce, sedate, sober. 
 
WE TWA'VE GROWN AULD THEGITHER. 167 
 
 An' then, when came a Sunday, 
 Eschewed their week-day work : 
 
 Wi' rev'rent mien, wi' wife an' wean, 
 They gathered in the kirk. 
 
 Ah ! they were douce, douce guidf oik ! 
 
 Ay, that's the phrase for them ; 
 Steadfast an' gran', they wrought the Ian', 
 
 An' wore toil's diadem. 
 
 Their dust moals i' the kirkyard, 
 
 Eude-cut their names i' stone ; 
 They walk in white, where there's nae night, 
 
 Their Lord has said, weel done! 
 
 WE TWA'VE GROWN AULD THEGITHER 
 
 For the Gowdkn Weddin' of Dr. Ray Palmer. 
 
 We twa've grown auld thegither, 
 
 Leal guidwife, thou and I ; 
 Sae fresh life's clear, spring weather I 
 
 Sae sweet life's simmer sky ! 
 Then came the autumn golden, 
 
 And now life's winter years : 
 But to God's care beholden, 
 
 We've had few doubts or fears. 
 
168 POEMS. 
 
 Our hame has aye been homely, 
 
 All f u' of peace and sang ! 
 Ilk lad and lassie comely, 
 
 Like cherub drapt alang ; 
 We've drank the cup o' kindness, 
 
 Aft sanctified by praise ; 
 Forgi'en our sin and bhndness, 
 
 Lo'e-crowned our passin' days ! 
 
 How aft we've heard thegither, 
 
 Frae kirk, the Sabbath bell ! 
 An' kneelin' by ilk ither, 
 
 Ha'e sought the Lord Himsel' ; 
 How aft ha'e seen His glory 
 
 Before our footsteps pass ; 
 Ha'e proved, how aft, the story, 
 
 That man is as the grass. 
 
 How aft we've plucked at gloamin', 
 
 The primrose in her blush ; 
 How aft ha'e heard, love-roamin'. 
 
 The throstle's matin gush ! 
 The almond's snaw is on us. 
 
 Instead o' primrose bloom ; 
 What matin songs will crown us 
 
 Ayont, ayont the tomb ! 
 
 Life's gloamin' star comes blinkin', 
 
 Frae out the nearing west ! 
 Of this, f u' aft we're thinkin' : 
 
DRAPPIN' AWA'. 169 
 
 Hame-gathering o' the blest ! 
 We kenna what's before us, 
 
 Leal guidwife, thou and I; 
 Love's banner still is o'er us, 
 
 And love's o'er-arching sky. 
 
 Nae earthly light we've kindled, 
 
 Life's passage here to see, 
 By auld age dimmed and dwindled, 
 
 And sure, at length, to dee. 
 God's love kens nae forgetting, 
 
 He rules that realm afar ; 
 The Light, that lights life setting. 
 
 Becomes Life's Morning Star. 
 
 DRAPPIN' AWA'. 
 
 They're drappin' awa', they're drappin' awa', 
 The auld, and grey-headed are drappin' awa' ; 
 The lips that caressed us. 
 That guided and blessed us ; 
 The forms once sae manly, sae staunch and 
 sae braw : 
 Frae kirk and frae ingle, frae cottage 
 
 an' ha', 
 They're drappin' awa', they're drappin' 
 awa'. 
 
170 POEMS. 
 
 They're drappin' awa', they're droppin' awa', 
 The wise an' the prudent are drappin' awa' ; 
 The tongues that once taught us, 
 The arms that safe brought us, 
 Are passin' ilk twel'mon', frae sight and 
 f rae ca' : 
 Frae kirk and frae ingle, frae cottage 
 
 an' ha', 
 They're drappin' awa', they're drappin' 
 awa'. 
 
 They're drappin' awa', they're drappin' awa'. 
 The sick an' the palsied are drappin' awa' ; 
 The hearts that once bred us, 
 The hands that kind led us, 
 Like leaves in the fa', like snaw in the thaw, 
 Frae kirk and frae ingle, frae cottage 
 
 an' ha', 
 They're drappin' awa', they're drappin' 
 awa'. 
 
 They're drappin' awa', they're drappin' awa', 
 The leal an' the loyal are drappin' awa' ; 
 They're gangin' before us, 
 They're watchin' there o'er us, 
 Who've aft knelt them down for ilk of us a' ; 
 Frae kirk and frae ingle, frae cottage 
 
 and ha', 
 They're drappin' awa', they're drappin' 
 awa'. 
 
THE ANE LAN' FOR ME. 171 
 
 They're drappin' awa', they're drappin' awa', 
 Their like we sal leuk on never at a' ; 
 The auld an' grey-heided, 
 The stalwart an' steadied, 
 They're gangin' aboon us f rae sight and f rae ca', 
 Frae kirk and frae ingle, frae cottage 
 
 an' ha', 
 They're drappin' awa', they're drappin' 
 awa'. 
 
 THE ANE LAN' FOR ME. 
 
 Ken ye the Ian' o' daisies an' heather ? 
 Ken ye the Ian' that sae glints o'er the sea ? 
 
 Aft gaes my heart at gloamin', back thither: 
 Still 'tis the Ian', the ane Ian' for me : 
 Scotland's the Ian', the ane Ian' for me. 
 
 Ken ye the Ian' o' burnie an' thistle ? 
 Ken ye the Ian' o' the bauld an' the free ? 
 
 Ken ye the Ian' o' lav'rock an' throstle ? 
 Still 'tis the Ian', the ane Ian' for me : 
 Scotland's the Ian', the ane Ian' for me. 
 
 Ken ye the Ian' o' tartan an' bonnet ? 
 Ken ye the Ian' o' the gowan's bright 'ee ? 
 
 Grim though ilk mountain, wi' snaw crested 
 on it: 
 Still 'tis the Ian', the ane Ian' for me : 
 Scotland's the Ian', the ane Ian' for me. 
 
172 POEMS. 
 
 Ken ye the Ian' o' martyrs an' sages ? 
 
 Ken ye the Ian' o' the loch an' the lea ? 
 Wild is the war that bleak winter wages : 
 
 Still 'tis the Ian', the ane Ian' for me . 
 
 Scotland's the Ian', the ane Ian' for me. 
 
 Far though I'm sund'red frae the Ian' o' the 
 heather. 
 Dear a' its emblems ever sal be : 
 
 Aft gaes my heart at gloamin' back thither: 
 Still 'tis the Ian', the ane Ian' for me : 
 Scotland's the Ian', the ane Ian' for me. 
 
 THERE IS A LAD, I KENNA WHA, 
 
 There is a lad, I kenna wha. 
 
 Will come, some day, to woo me; 
 There is a heart, in spite of a', 
 
 Will hand still steadfast to me. 
 Wha is the lad, or near or far, 
 
 Blue ben' the lift abo'e him : 
 An' were I in yon trembhn' star, 
 
 Still doon I'd come to lo'e him. 
 
 There is a name, I kenna what ! 
 
 Weel now, how sud I know it ? 
 Donald or Rob, it matters not. 
 
 Some day, he'll surely show it ; 
 
THERE IS A LAD, I KENNA WHA. 173 
 
 There is a voice, I kenna wha's, 
 
 Will thrill just through and through me, 
 Will gie my little heart a pause, 
 
 When he comes here to woo me. 
 
 There is a day, I kenna when ! 
 
 My heid in orange blossom, 
 I'll take him frae all ither men, 
 
 An' hide me in his bosom. 
 What day may dawn, what day may die, 
 
 Or foul or fair the weather, 
 Neath wintry win', or simmer sky, 
 
 We'll link awa' thegither. 
 
 There is a cot, I kenna where! 
 
 The simmer's warm aroun' it; 
 Woodbine and roses cluster fair. 
 
 The bees and birds ha'e foun' it; 
 There is a cot, I kenna where, 
 
 I'm sure, at last, to win it. 
 An' when I am weel settled there, 
 
 I'll just reign queen within it. 
 
174 POEMS, 
 
 FRAE THE LORD. 
 
 I've singlit oot an' e'esome lass, 
 
 I maun na speak her name ; 
 Whose lips, the law o' kindness drap, 
 
 Like hinnie f rae the kame ; 
 She's handy at the wheel an' loom ; 
 
 She's handy at the coo ; 
 For wark's nae wark to her sweet han's, 
 
 It's a' sae sweet to do. 
 
 Her een are blue, her lashes lang, 
 
 Her hair a gowden brown ; 
 She is nae like the bauld-e'ed anes, 
 
 She glints, and then leuks down. 
 A rose-bud in her keppin-kame, 
 
 Or on her breast she wears ; 
 What ither lassies her outshine, 
 
 She neither kens nor cares. 
 
 She loe's fu' weel the halie Beuk, 
 
 That God has gien to man. 
 An' humbly trusts in Christ alane — 
 
 The simple, Gospel plan ; 
 An' when she sings at gloamin'-time, 
 
 Her een hae tearfu' light. 
 An' o' the far-off warl' aboon, 
 
 She seems to hae the sight. 
 
FRAE THE LORD. 175 
 
 I've singlit oot a cozy neuk, 
 
 In whilk to build our bield ; 
 Frae whilk to hear her song ring oot, 
 
 When I am gaun afield : 
 Frae whilk, at noon, she'll trippin' come, 
 
 Wi' basket an' wi' pail ; — 
 We'll eat, and drink frae oot the bum 
 
 Fresh draughts o' Adam's ale. 
 
 I hae na tauld her hauf my min', 
 
 I hae na courage yet ; 
 Although my heart leaps to my mou' 
 
 Whene'er I hear her fit ; 
 Although my bluid mounts to my cheek, 
 
 An' sets my heed awhirl ; 
 An' a' things seem sae strangely bright, 
 
 I scarcely ken the warl'. 
 
 We twa were Christ'nit at the kirk, 
 
 Lang-syne, when ilk was young ; 
 The same the sermons that we irked ; 
 
 The same the psalms we sung ; 
 An' ^here, some day, ere lang, we'll gang, 
 
 An' baud ilk ither's ban', 
 An' she shall be my ain true wife, 
 
 An* I her ain guidman I 
 
176 POEMS. 
 
 THE SPRIG O' HEATHER. 
 
 I tak', fair Jessie, frae thy hand 
 
 This sprig o' purple heather, 
 It links us twa to dear Scotland ; 
 
 It links us to ilk ither. 
 
 I never heard the mavis' sang, 
 Nor note o' Doon's sweet flowin' ; 
 
 Nor wandered sacred Ayr alang, 
 Nor plucked the snaw-white gowan. 
 
 I never walked the birken ways, 
 Burns hallowed wi' his Mary ; 
 
 Nor breathed the fragrance o' the braes, 
 Where aft he loved to tarry. 
 
 I never saw the fields he plowed. 
 
 The skies above that bended ; 
 Nor felt strange thoughts upon me crowd, 
 
 By dreams o' him attended. 
 
 But this one sprig has ta'en me owre 
 
 The waters o' the ocean ; 
 An' caused within my veins to pour 
 
 Strange tides of true devotion. 
 
SUD I GROW AULD. I77 
 
 An instant ha'e I seemed to feel 
 
 Auld Scotia's chrism on me ; 
 While to my bree she set her seal, 
 
 As though her son to own me. 
 
 Fair land, my sires, lang-deid, once trod, 
 
 I claim thee by this token; 
 Sacred to me, thine humblest sod, 
 
 Still bauds the link unbroken* 
 
 SUD I GROW AULD. 
 
 SuD I grow auld, wi' haffets bare, 
 
 An' locks o' snaw ahin' me, 
 I'd win the wee things to my chair, 
 Still to the earth to bin' me. 
 I wad na frown. 
 Nor grumble roun'. 
 Because I'd nane to min' me. 
 
 I'd win the wee things to my side, 
 An', in low tones, wad tell them 
 Of Him, lang-syne, for them wha died ; 
 Nor sud ane leuk repel them ; 
 How wee-things came. 
 An' lisped His name ; 
 What blinks o' bliss befell them ! 
 
178 POEMS. 
 
 Sud I grow auld, could I forget 
 
 The bairnheid days that blessed me ? 
 When life's first bloom wi' dew was wet, 
 An' a' things fair addressed me ? 
 The joys I had 
 Wi' lass an' lad ; 
 The mither that caressed me ? 
 
 Sud I grow auld, I fain wad leave 
 Sic mem'ries sweet to crown me, 
 That e'en the very bairns wad grieve — 
 Wha clang sae close aroun' me, 
 Wha climbed my knee, 
 Wi' shouts o' glee — 
 When in death's robe they f oun' me. 
 
 God keep His kingdom in me yet, 
 Till He frae earth sal take me ? 
 Nor ever let me pine or fret, 
 Though a' things else forsake me I 
 God gi'e me rest 
 On His ain breast, 
 An' then above awake me I 
 
FAIR andover: ANCE HALIE SCHULE. 179 
 
 FAIR ANDOVER! ANCE HALIE SCHULE. 
 
 Fair Andover ! ance halie schule, 
 Where Orthodoxy's lang held rule, 
 Now wise men made and now a fool, 
 
 Or a f ause prophet : 
 Philistia's tongues speak oot thy dool : 
 
 Thou'st gane to Tophet ! 
 
 Thy founders' prayers were a' in vain, 
 
 The funds, whilk wedows scrimped wi' pain ; 
 
 Thy creed, slow -braided, strain on strain, 
 
 Could na protect thee ! 
 They've tustled lang wi' might and main, 
 
 An' now ha'e wrecked thee. 
 
 On Pisgah where thy Moses lies, 
 Where Woods and Porter maun arise, 
 Twa Edwardses, fit for the skies. 
 
 There art thou scuttled : 
 New-fangled Rabbis, modern wise, 
 
 Roun' thee befuddled ! 
 
 They dinna spier what Jesus taught, 
 But uncos of man's modern thought, 
 Wi' Teuton smudge and lager brought 
 
 Across the ocean : 
 Wi' them the Bible goes for naught, 
 
 'Gainst such a potion. 
 
180 POEMS. 
 
 They've stalked an auld hypothesis, 
 Whilk, when interpreted is this : 
 That Hades is short-cut to bUss, 
 
 Or half-way station ; 
 The lake o' fire, the serpent's hiss 
 
 A fabrication. 
 
 That Satan's realm is na disgrace : — 
 
 A sort of penitentiary place, 
 
 Where chaplains say a word o' grace ; — 
 
 House of correction : 
 Where dyeing does all sins efface 
 
 From soul's complexion. 
 
 If there's a God, He has na seen it ; 
 If there's a God, He sure will screen it, 
 If there's a God, He did na mean it. 
 
 He was but talkin' : — 
 This is their craft, how they careen it, 
 
 To gie it caulkin'. 
 
 It whips auld Clootie round the stump. 
 While he exclaims, ' ' Why, that's my trump ! 
 The nose well in, soon comes the rump." 
 
 This new departure ! 
 An' ye maun tak it sans a humph ! 
 
 Nor let it start ye. 
 
 They quote for this, th' Apostle Peter, 
 A blund'rin', heady, swearin' creature. 
 
FAIR ANDOVER! ANCE HALIE SCHULE. 181 
 
 Wha'd prove the Lord's best man, short meter, 
 But, quick foreswore Him : — 
 
 Bootless, a very proper preacher, 
 With them afore him. 
 
 For Peter-Uke, they swear it o'er, 
 Though cock may crow as ne'er before : 
 " This they beheve, nor less, nor more! " 
 
 Wi' reservation ! 
 Leavin' wide open, a back door: 
 
 To 'scape damnation. 
 
 They've found new veins o' precious gold, 
 An' ha'e their dreams o' vaults untold : 
 Whilk maun prove, when they're gane to 
 mould. 
 
 The devil's metal : 
 An' many a weak one o' the fold 
 Craze or unsettle. 
 
 Like ither miners they may learn 
 A thing or twa, by lesson stern: 
 An' wiser men at length return, 
 
 Though hard they blink it; 
 While gowd ; — ^they for their wages earn 
 
 Hole, where they sink it. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! thou sacred place ! 
 
 Fair fount o' learnin', truth and grace, 
 
 That thou sud come to sic' disgrace, 
 
X82 POEMS, 
 
 I'd scarce believe it : 
 Oh ! could'st thou yet f ause steps retrace :— 
 The past retrieve it ! 
 
 They've bound thine ankles fast in blocks, 
 They've sheared thee o' thy gowden locks, 
 Gi'en thee, at par, their fancy stocks, 
 
 Or German siller ! 
 A black sheep now 'mong the Lord's flocks. 
 
 We ha'e to bill thee. 
 
 They say the thing is nowise worse 
 Than funds John Harvard did disburse, 
 The land to save frae error's curse, 
 
 And found a college : 
 For, while he sleeps, they steal his purse. 
 
 As a' acknowledge. 
 
 These folk still flaunt the lib'ral name, 
 
 And mild morality proclaim : 
 
 Their words a' plausible, though tame, 
 
 Smack sweet as honey : — 
 They gi'e the Lord awa, the same, 
 
 And tak' His money. 
 
 Ye chiels, wha sacred funds pervert, 
 Whose waters cast up mire and dirt, 
 Wha still maun grind, meanin' na hurt, 
 
 Your hurdy-gurdies : 
 Plain Yankee dames stand ready-girt 
 
 To spank your hurdies. 
 
FAIR ANDOVER! ANCE HALIE SCHULE. 183 
 
 They dinna want this German dish, 
 They dinna want scorpion for fish : 
 God's word is bread ; 'tis what they wish 
 
 Their lads to study : 
 If not, they'll send them with a pish ! 
 
 To Dwight L. Moody. 
 
 Fair Andover ! gaun is thy light, 
 
 Mid mirk and darkness, wae and blight, 
 
 Thou hast mis'rere morn and night : — 
 
 Thy pray 'rs diurnal : 
 Pray'rs for the dead! Well, 'tis thy right: — 
 
 Death's na eternal ! 
 
 Here lies Fair Andover stone dead ! 
 Whilk is her fit, and whilk her head, 
 The men wha gi'e us stone for bread, 
 
 An' min' their pay-days, 
 Ha'e never yet, by stone-mark said : — 
 
 Her soul's in Hades ! 
 
 If there's a God, and there's a hell. 
 These men, on Pisgah's top wha dwell, 
 Sud they pursue their purpose fell, 
 
 Their high-toned tenor, 
 Are like in English phrase to smell 
 
 What is Gehenna ! 
 
134 POEMS. 
 
 What shall be said of the Trustees 
 Wha whustle roun' and tak' their ease, 
 And "Rabbis! " say, "just as you please, 
 
 We put no word in " ? 
 To keep them oot, a sword sud bleeze, 
 
 0' yonder Garden I 
 
i