LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Chap, Copyright No. 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
^^-6^.^^^?^ 
 
 Zl^J (^^y^^^ytytyl 
 
PETER GRANT 
 
BY HEATH AND PRAIRIE 
 
 (Scottish and American Poems) 
 
 BY PETER GRANT 
 
 As the weaver plied his shuttle 
 Wove he, too, the mystic rhyme; 
 
 And the smith his iron measures 
 Hammered to the anvil's chime 
 
 —Longfellow 
 
 ^l.OO 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 MAGNUS FLAWS & CO., Printers and Publishers 
 
 \„ 
 
93^51 
 
 Library of Conq 
 
 Iwo Cones Received 
 DEC 26 1900 
 
 Copjffight entry 
 
 SECOND COPY 
 
 Oe!;v«r«d to 
 
 ORDER OlYISiON 
 
 DEC 28 ma 
 
 l^ CO 
 
 TO THE 
 CALEDONIAN SOCIETY OF CHICAGO 
 
 Which has nobly stood the test of time and for tuners 
 changes^ zvhose members are banded together for the 
 advancement of Scottish music and poetry^ for the 
 IV ell-being of their brother Scots ajtd the honor of 
 their native land^ this Vohtme is respectfully dedi- 
 cated by its Bard^ 
 
 PETER GRANT. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE desire to express my thoughts in rhyme was 
 first manifested when, as a bare-legged boy I 
 tended cattle and sheep in the valley of the 
 Spey. My youthful mind was keenly sensible of the 
 sublimity of the northern hills, and the varied charms 
 of vale and river. When ten years old I framed my 
 first verses, which I carefully concealed from view. 
 Even at that early age I fully expected to leave my 
 native land, and I often found myself wistfully gazing 
 on the scenes of beauty round me, as on that which I 
 might never see again. So when the ocean rolled 
 between them and me I found the scenes of childhood 
 were imprinted on my memory — that " absence made 
 the heart grow fonder." Constant association with 
 brother Scots served to keep alive in me the 
 patriotic ardor and drew from my pen many 
 of the poems which have appeared in Scottish 
 and American publications. They have all been 
 composed during hours of labor, to the accompani- 
 ment of the clang of hammer and the whirr of belt 
 and wheel. Now, in response to the wishes of many 
 friends, I have made a selection of those which 
 pleased me best, with many others not hitherto 
 printed. Besides those of special interest to British- 
 Americans, there are many which present my impres- 
 sions of life in a Western city. American Scots are 
 so patriotic that they need little incentive to be 
 true to' the traditions of their native land; and men 
 are so learned now that it is hard to bring a smile to 
 their face; but if these simple verses cause a thrill of 
 fond remembrance in an exiled heart, or beguile a 
 weary hour, they shall not have been written in vain. 
 
Entered according to Act ot Congress, in the year 1900, 
 By Peter Grant, 
 In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. 
 
-•-^> 
 
 FAREWELL TO STRATHSPEY. 
 
 THE last rays of twilight are slowly departing, 
 And eventide drawing its pall o'er the earth, 
 While deepest regret wrings my bosom at parting 
 With Scotia, dear Scotia, the land of my birth. 
 
 I weep, for life's tenderest ties shall be sundered 
 Ere hill tops are flushed with return of tiie day; 
 
 I now look my last on the home of my kindred. 
 And scenes of my childhood in bonnie Strathspey. 
 
 The sun has gone down, and the night is advancing. 
 As fondly I gaze on my dear Highland home— 
 
 At dawning of morn I shall see his rays glancing 
 On bill6wy ocean waves, crested with foam. 
 
 Farewell to each kinsman and true-hearted neighbor, 
 On this side the grave we may ne'er meet again; 
 
 No more may I join you in pastime or labor. 
 Or wake the glad echoes that sleep in the glen. 
 
 Here still you may dwell amid scenery's grandeur, 
 Where mountain peaks tovv'r until lost in the sky; 
 
 While I must abide in the land of the stranger 
 With naught of its beauty to gladden my eye. 
 
 A solemn farewell, though in life's sunny morning 
 We look to the future with hearts undismayed; 
 
 Few, few of these friends may behold my returning, 
 And many be numbered, ere then, with the dead. 
 
 Farewell to the noble trees fringing the river — 
 The wide-spreading beech, and the evergreen pine; 
 
 Too soon from my vision they vanish forever; 
 The joys of remembrance, from henceforth are mine. 
 
8 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Farewell to the burnie that sings to the sombre 
 And desolate moor, as it flows on its way; 
 
 No more shall its cheery note soothe me to slumber, 
 Or trill in my ear at the dawning of day. 
 
 Still brown is the heather, and stunted the bracken, 
 And bare are the limbs of the bonnie birch tree; 
 
 Where richest of foliage to life shall awaken, 
 And heather bells bloom, but they bloom not for me. 
 
 Still bare is the sod where, in nature's profusion, 
 The wild flow'rs of summer shall bloom on the lea; 
 
 And gladden the heart; but, afar o'er the ocean. 
 Their fragrance shall never be wafted to me. 
 
 Farewell to the cottage where oft 'mid the bluster 
 Of wild wintry tempests, securely I lay; 
 
 And sweetest of mem'ries shall evermore cluster 
 Around the clay bigging in bonnie Strathspey. 
 
 Farewell to the landscape unrivalled in beauty — 
 The wild, rugged grandeur of mountain and plain; 
 
 Far, far I must roam in the pathway of duty; 
 Farewell to the land I may ne'er see again. 
 
 SANDY JOHNSTON'S DOCHTER. 
 
 w 
 
 HEN Sandy Johnston cam' tae Howe o' Mearns 
 Fowk said he had a muckle kist o' siller; 
 He had ae dochter, an' the neighbors' bairns 
 Soon fand they werena tae be even'd till her. 
 Ae day she lichtit on oor cobbler's den, 
 
 Buskit sae braw in goon o' latest fashion; 
 She brocht a pair o' denty shoon tae men'. 
 Which set oor young hairts in a lowe o' passion. 
 
 The 'prentice laddie wrocht wi' a' his micht; 
 
 O' wax an' elbow grease he wasna sparin', 
 Until thae denty bauchles shone as bricht 
 
 As they'd been destined for an, angel's wearin'. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 The joke was on the bashfu' loon that day, 
 An' yet my ain hairt gied an unco quiver 
 
 At lowsin' time to hear the maister say, 
 "Heh! Jock, the angel's shoon ye maun deliver." 
 
 Sae when I mountit Sandy's muckle stair 
 
 A stylish youth was in the lobby waitin': 
 The auld man cam' an' speer'd oor business there. 
 
 The spruce chap answered, wi' his hairt wild beatin', 
 " I am a suitor for your daughter Belle; 
 
 To win her hand shall be my fond endeavor." 
 "Gang ben the hoose," said Sandy; "see hersel;" 
 
 Then turned tae me wi' little sign o' favor: 
 
 " Anither suitor for my doctor's han' ?" 
 
 "I am a souter," I retortit, grinnin, 
 "But for her feet." He didna understan'. 
 
 An' doon the cauld stane steps he send me spinnin'. 
 Sae I agree it isna safe tae crack 
 
 A joke wi' bumpkin o' the Scottish nation, 
 Unless a surgeon be at han' tae mak' 
 
 Upon his heid the needfu' operation. 
 
 THE HIGHLANDEKS' WRONGS. 
 
 T 
 
 HE Highlander upon his native heather, 
 
 With stalwart form and spirit free as air, 
 Fears not the rude assaults of wind and weather, 
 But tends his plough, his tloeks and herds, with care. 
 
 Upon the barren heath or stony brae, 
 He toiled from morn till night with busy hand; 
 
 Until his ceaseless care, from day to day, 
 Reclaimed and made it fair and fruitful land. 
 
 'Twas watered oft with sweat from off his brow. 
 And in the time of danger has he stood 
 
 To guard that land against a foreign foe. 
 Till it was redden'd with his heart's best blood. 
 
lo ^3' Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Alas! that tyrant Law now stays his arm, 
 When landlords, to all sense of honor dead, 
 
 Evict him from his humble mountain farm 
 To rear the sheep and wild deer in his stead. 
 
 So then he sets his face across the sea. 
 And finds, as settler in the boundless West, 
 
 A home 'mid freedom and prosperity. 
 Where honest industry may yet be blest. 
 
 He had to go, but 'twas-not for transgression 
 
 Of any law, nor for an act unjust; 
 But the accurst rack-renting and oppression 
 
 His spirit crushed and ground him to the dust. 
 
 Let us have Government control of land, 
 
 Peasant proprietors, or what we may; 
 But stay, O! stay the evictor's shameless hand. 
 
 That's ruining our country day by day. 
 
 'Tis true, the landlords raise a mighty fuss 
 
 About their vested int'rest in the soil; 
 And, piteous, cry, " What will become of us 
 
 If our estates are made a public spoil? " 
 
 Why should they not engage in honest trade? 
 
 Why don't they emigrate? I say they should; 
 Then of the rascals it might well be said 
 
 "They left their country for their country's good." 
 
 01 vested int'rests, many a cruel wrong 
 Has oft been perpetrated in their name; 
 
 That this iniquity endures so long, 
 Makes Scottish manhood hide its head in shame. 
 
 To think that laws framed in a barb'rous age 
 Should bind men now— 'tis too absurd to last. 
 
 Does not experience teach both fool and sage 
 To remedy the errors of the past ? 
 
 So let us work to hasten on the hour 
 
 AVhen "landlords rights" shall go for what they're worth; 
 Then, with the downfall of their misspent power 
 
 Shall God's own people dwell on God's own earth. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 1 1 
 
 ONE ON THE TOURIST. 
 
 THE day was hot, the rocky path unshaded, 
 That upward led by Scottish moor and hill; 
 The cold and cultured gentleman from Boston— 
 Though almost tired to death— was captious still; 
 He blandly smiled, in his superior wisdom. 
 
 To hear his guide, a stalwart mountaineer, 
 
 Boast of the distance that his practised eyesight 
 
 Could penetrate the mountain atmosphere. 
 
 He sneered. "Then I suppose you can distinguish 
 
 Columbia's shores afar across the tide." 
 " Oh yes, my man, we see a good bit farther," 
 
 The Highlander, all unabashed, replied. 
 " What can you see beyond that wondrous limitV " 
 
 The tourist asked, with unbelieving smiles; 
 " We see the moon," his rugged guide responded, 
 
 " And faith that's farther nor three thousand miles." 
 
 WHEN I AM FAR AWAY. 
 
 AN exile on a foreign shore,— 
 My heart shall loyal be. 
 With wistful longing evermore, 
 My native land, for thee; 
 My dreams in stillness of the night, 
 
 My fondest thoughts by day; 
 Unbidden still shall wing their flight 
 To Scotland far away. 
 
 By woodland glades I loved to roam. 
 
 Those scenes of beauty rare; 
 The prairie now must be my home. 
 
 All featureless and bare. 
 Dame Nature wakens everywhere 
 
 The buds of early May; 
 But who shall pluck the blossoms fair 
 
 When I am far awayV 
 
I ^ By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 While skylarks sang their tale of love, 
 
 To greet the waking morn, 
 How oft my willing team I drove 
 
 By fields of yellow corn. 
 And I am loath to leave them now, 
 
 The brown mare and the gray; 
 Oh! who will guide my father's plough 
 
 When I am far away V 
 
 I loved to scale, at early dawn, 
 
 The rugged mountain side; 
 To shout the war-cry of our clan, 
 
 My bosom swelled with pride. 
 Now who shall bear our banner high 
 
 Upon the festal day. 
 And who will raise the slogan cry 
 
 When I am far away'? 
 
 No city structures, grim and soiled, 
 
 Can e'er appear so grand 
 As crag on crag majestic piled, 
 
 In my dear native land. 
 Though by Missouri's waters wide 
 
 My wandering footsteps stray, 
 I'll sigh for Aven's crystal tide 
 
 In Scotland far away. 
 
 OhI what can break the filial band, 
 
 That strange and mystic tie, 
 Which binds us to our native land, 
 
 Unchanged until we die? 
 To that fair land from whence we came 
 
 Our hearts beat true for aye, 
 And thrill with joy to hear the name 
 
 Of Scotland far away. 
 
 Sffi WILFRID LAUHIER. 
 
 WHEN the death-shot pours and the heroes bleed. 
 As the war cloud hovers o'er them, 
 Their young hands strike in the hour of need 
 ^ For the mother land that bore them. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 13 
 
 And second to none in the kingly band 
 
 That faces her bearded foes 
 Are the stalwart lads from the northern land 
 
 Where the dear old maple grows. 
 
 Britannia weeps as her sons depart 
 
 To sleep in a foreign grave; 
 And she thanks her God for the loyal heart 
 
 That beats o'er the ocean wave. 
 When the bold and crafty foemen flee 
 
 From the fierce Canadian blows, 
 She bows to the man of destiny 
 
 Who rules where the maple grows. 
 
 The man who holds, with his native grace, 
 
 The reins of a mighty land; 
 And richly blest is the freeborn race 
 
 That trusts to his guiding hand: 
 To steer its course by the stars above 
 
 In the mists of a future day; 
 And he yields to none in his steadfast love 
 
 Tor the home land far away. 
 
 His aims are as pure as his heart is great, 
 
 And his world-wide fame inspires 
 The patriot youth to emulate 
 
 The deeds of their worthy sires. 
 With the love of man and the fear of God 
 
 Enshrined in the nation's breast, 
 The soul of progress finds abode 
 
 In this broad land of the west. 
 
 Which goes ahead with a giant's stride, 
 
 And fire in its youthful veins; 
 Men look to the land that is fair and wide, 
 
 Where a true born statesman reigns. 
 From the fruitful shores of the tideless sea . 
 
 Far back to the trackless snows, 
 There's hope for the sons of industry 
 
 In the land where the maple grows. 
 
1 4 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 MY HIGHLAND MAID. 
 
 AMID the groves of Windsor Park 
 I roved at morning early; 
 The scent of buds, the songster's note, 
 My senses gladden'd rarely. 
 Sweet flowers bloomed by mansion gates, 
 
 By woodland, field and prairie; 
 But ne'er a flower bloomed half so fair 
 As my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 The faint blush of the op'ning rose 
 
 Her dimpled cheek adorning; 
 Her smile, bright as the sun's flrst ray 
 
 Upon a summer morning; 
 Her voice, sweet as the warbling note 
 
 Of bubul or canary: 
 My heart is captive to the charms 
 
 Of my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 By woodland glades we rambled on. 
 
 Our bosoms thrilled with pleasure; 
 And oft I vowed her love I prized 
 
 Above all earthly treasure. 
 The sunbeams kissed the rustling leaves, 
 
 And shed their glory o'er us; 
 And crowned with garlands fair and gay. 
 
 Life's path seemed bright before us. 
 
 At eventide, all crushed and dead. 
 
 Were all our blossoms tender; 
 But Mary's cheeks bloomed fairer still, 
 
 In tints of sunset splendor. 
 We said "Farewell " and homeward sped 
 
 On footsteps light and airy; 
 Though lost to sight, to mem'ry dear. 
 
 Is my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 15 
 
 WHERE HATH SCOTLAND FOUND 
 HER FAME ? 
 
 F 
 
 AR away from bonnie Scotland, in the bright and bound, 
 ing West, 
 Still the pride of Scottish lineage swells within my 
 patriot breast; 
 
 As I wandered 'neath the shade trees, laden with the buds of 
 
 spring 
 While the tints of sunset lingered, I o'erheard a maiden 
 
 sing— 
 
 And she sang with trembling pathos, sang it with her 
 
 heart aflame — 
 "Where hath Scotland found her glory ? Where hath Scotland 
 
 found her fame?" 
 
 And my vivid fancy bore me back o'er history's page sublime: 
 Set in grand array before me, heroes of the ancient time; 
 
 Sons of earth, yet almost God-like, men of more than human 
 
 might. 
 Who, through medieval darkness, blazed a path of living light. 
 
 I beheld the Caledonians brave the conquerors of the world. 
 And their courage never faltered as theflery darts were hurled; 
 
 Hide-bound shields and naked bosoms, mustered in defence of 
 
 home. 
 Matched the brazen-armored legions and the glittering blades 
 
 of Rome: 
 
 Checked at first, those hardy woodmen and their half-forgotten 
 
 kings 
 Ever to the charge returning, clipped the Roman eagle's wings. 
 
 See our stricken nation bending 'neath the English tyrant's heel, 
 Harkl their prayers of faith ascending, as they whet their 
 blades of steel, 
 
 For the wrongs of Scotland righted, for a warrior stout and 
 
 brave. 
 Who should lead the clans, united, on to freedom or the grave 
 
1 6 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Nor in vain, the clouds are breaking at the glorious light of 
 
 dawn, 
 Smoldering fires of wrath awaking, for the hour has brought 
 
 the man: 
 
 Wallace, hero of the ages, master of the art of war; 
 In the fiercest strife that rages, proves her bright and morning 
 star. 
 
 While old Scotland's spirit slumbered he was first to draw the 
 
 blade, 
 Crushed the English host at Stirling, where the waves of Forth 
 
 ran red. 
 
 Victory crowned the rampant lion, and again was Scotland 
 
 free, 
 Till the fruits of war were blighted by the sting of Treachery. 
 
 AVhere King Edward sat in splendor he was borne to meet his 
 
 fate, 
 AVhere the mockery of justice was replaced by cruel hate: 
 
 But his heart was true to Scotland, dearer since her cause was 
 
 lost; 
 He had dared to strike for freedom, so his life-blood paid the 
 
 cost. 
 
 Wallace, day-star bright and glorious, scarce hath sighed his 
 
 spirit forth 
 Ere the sun of Bruce, victorious, gilds the mountains of the 
 
 north. 
 
 Strong in war and wise in council, born to lead his fellow men* 
 And the patriot band, undaunted, buckles to the fight again. 
 
 And they gather 'neath his standard, — all who yearn to be free,— 
 From the rude and brawny peasant to the flower of chivalry: 
 
 Darkly looms the way before him, for his head must wear a 
 
 crown 
 Or be set, with that of Wallace, in the midst of London town. 
 
 Though at first his course is checkered, victory and defeat in 
 
 turn, 
 Soon he shatters England's power on the field of Bannockburn- 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 17 
 
 Peerless leader, prince of patriots, stands he not on higher plane 
 Than the king who wars for conquest, or the chief who rules for 
 gain? 
 
 I beheld the doughty Douglas and his loyal Scottish train 
 Turn aside to fight the Moslem on the sunny fields of Spain. 
 
 When, a thousand foes surrounding, matched against his single 
 
 blade, 
 Douglas took the precious casket where the heart of Bruce was 
 
 laid, 
 
 Flung it 'mid the host of darkness, charged them with the 
 
 deathless cry, 
 "Lead, brave heart, as thou wert wonted, I will follow thee 
 
 or die." 
 
 In the ranks of death they found him, where he cleft his bloody 
 
 way. 
 Two brave hearts at rest forever where the sacred casket lay. 
 
 1 beheld the Covenanters worship on the sloping heath. 
 In the face of persecution, faithful even unto death: 
 
 Heirs of apostolic teaching, they are bold to serve the Lord, 
 On their knees the open bible, by their side the two-edged sword. 
 
 Soon the clash of arms, resounding, shows the hell-hounds are 
 
 in chase, 
 Soon the horrid din of battle drowns the voice of prayer and 
 
 praise; 
 
 Soon the life-blood of the faithful dyes the moss and heather 
 
 brown. 
 Soon their stainless souls ascended to receive the martyr's 
 
 crown. 
 
 Long had reigned the prince of darkness, but the seeds of truth 
 
 are sown, 
 When arose a mighty preacher who defied both priest and 
 
 throne, — 
 
 Knox, who, in his generation, never feared the face of man, 
 He who bade a suffering nation laugh to scorn a E^opish ban; 
 
1 8 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 All the vengeful powers of error launched on his devoted head' 
 Thousands shrank in nameless terror when the fiery churchmen 
 said 
 
 All the world is set against thee." Swiftly his retort was 
 
 hurled. 
 Be it so, I take the issue; then I am against the world." 
 
 Nobly he fulfilled his mission, for his heaven-uplifted hand 
 Rent the web of superstition that o'erhung his native land. 
 
 Scots revere the man who saved them from a spiritual yoke, 
 And the system that enslaved them fell beneath his master 
 stroke: 
 
 For the Romish power so vaunted sank to an inglorious doom 
 While the standard that he planted waves triumphant o'er his 
 tomb. 
 
 I beheld the clansmen gather at the royal Stuart's call, 
 
 From Glenfinnan to CuUoden marked his standard rise and fall; 
 
 And they charged the Saxon foemen with the fire of ages past; 
 Rash and headstrong, if thou wilt, yet brave and loyal to the 
 last. 
 
 And their hunted Prince they guarded with fidelity supreme, 
 Though a word had brought them fortune far beyond their 
 wildest dream. 
 
 I beheld the Ayrshire ploughman teach a nation to be free 
 From the bonds of superstition and of mental slavery; 
 
 Saw him 'neath the cloud of sorrow, cheerful in life's direst 
 
 strait, 
 Pausing by the upturned furrow to lament the daisy's fate; 
 
 Laureate of the toiling masses, fearlessly he led the van. 
 Sang the dignity of labor and the brotherhood of man. 
 
 Genius found his lowly portal, passed the princely dwellings by. 
 And hath made his name immortal, for his verse shall never die 
 
 Girt by ocean billows swelling, Scotia's spirit bursts its bound. 
 And her sons have made their dwelling wheresoe'er the race is 
 found; 
 
By Heath and Prairie, 19 
 
 Here amid the Western prairie, or the far-off Southern isles, 
 And from mines and forests bear the choicest of Dame Nature's 
 spoils: 
 
 Rugged work was pioneering, but though savage tribes oppose 
 Willing hands and hearts God-fearing, deserts blossom as the 
 rose. 
 
 Mingling with the myriad races of the bright and bounding 
 
 West 
 They display the manly graces native to a Scottish breast. 
 
 Send them forth, a noble leaven, leavening a hundred lands, 
 'Neath the favoring smile of heaven all things prosper in their 
 hands. 
 
 Hardy Scotsmen, born to glory, born a race of Nature's kings. 
 And their deeds shall tell the story whence old Scotland's 
 grandeur springs. 
 
 A PAWKY WOOER. 
 
 WE dauner'd 'neath the pale munelicht— 
 Young Kirsty Broon an' me— 
 An' wow, it was a blythesome sicht 
 Beside the River Dee. 
 Quo' I, " My lass, ye're unco fair, 
 
 Ye'd be a bonnie bride." 
 " Na, na," quo' she, " ye're haverin' noo. 
 For that will ne'er betide." 
 
 " Hoot, toot, my lass, ye're far owre young 
 
 Tae think o' sic' a thing; 
 For at yer waddin', weel I wat, 
 
 I'll dance the Highland fling." 
 " Weel, gin it ever come tae pass, 
 
 I promise ye'll be there; 
 But what o' that? I'm boun' tae be 
 
 An auld maid, I declare." 
 
20 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 " A thoosan' thanks, I'll surely come, 
 
 Wi' muckle joy an' pride; 
 An' I will dance owre a' the hoose, 
 
 An' still ye maunna chide " 
 Quo' she, " Fowk mak' allooance on 
 
 Occasions sic' as these; 
 Sae ye may dance wi' a' yer micht, 
 
 An' jist whaure'er ye please." 
 
 " Weel, noo, there's a'e particular spot 
 
 I'd lo'e abune the rest." 
 " Whaur is't, my lad? O' a' oor rooms 
 
 I promise ye the best. " 
 " Weel, lass, tak' tent, ye've gi'en yer wird. 
 
 An' daurna noo refuse;— 
 The place whaur I'm sae fain tae dance 
 
 Is— in the bridegroom's shoes." 
 
 THE PAETING HOUR. 
 
 ONE last glimpse of home and kindred, 
 For the parting hour is come; 
 And the last frail link is sundered 
 'Twixt me and my dear old home. 
 I can feel the ocean heaving; 
 
 Tempests shriek and billows roar, 
 As they bear me, sadly grieving. 
 Far from bonnie Scotland's shore. 
 
 I behold the storm-clouds riven. 
 As the deafening thunders roll; 
 
 And the flery bolts of heaven 
 Terror strike to many a soul. 
 
 Yet in danger's trying hour- 
 Born by hope— I know no fear; 
 
 For I trust iVlmighty power 
 Can uphold me even here. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 21 
 
 Years of happiness unbroken, 
 
 Joys of youth, I'll know no more; 
 And the future gives no token 
 
 Of the fate it has in store. 
 Yet my spirit is not haunted. 
 
 Craven fears will never come; 
 For the wandering Scot, undaunted, 
 
 Finds in every land a home. 
 
 Youthful hope and expectation 
 
 Turn towards the setting sun; 
 Where, in some progressive nation, 
 
 Fortune's favors may be won. 
 There may friendship's charms surround me 
 
 l^et this hour I'll ne'er forget. 
 When the opening voyage found me 
 
 Face to face with unknown fate. 
 
 THE GIRLS GONE BY. 
 
 *AiR— " Nae Luck Aboot the Hoose.' 
 
 A MAN of many loves am I, 
 A dozen less or more; 
 And ofttimes their inconstancy 
 Has vexed my heart full sore. 
 So while at work I daily sang. 
 
 To fan love's fitful flame. 
 The good old Scottish songs which rang 
 With each fair charmer's name. 
 
 Chorus— I love to drive my big machine, 
 I love to sing, the while. 
 In praise of my " Scotch Lassie Jean," 
 Or " Mary of Argyle." 
 
22 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 When first young Mary smiled on me, 
 My feelings all found voice 
 
 In " Af ton Water's " melody- 
 It made my heart rejoice; 
 
 But when she tossed her pretty head 
 And told me to begone, 
 
 Then "Mary, Dear, Departed Shade," 
 I sang in doleful tone. 
 
 Chorus— I love to drive, etc. 
 
 I sang the " Rose of Allandale," 
 
 To pretty Rose Kilgore; 
 It suited her extremely well, 
 
 And so I tried once more, 
 "My love is like a Red, Red Rose," 
 
 From that she cut me dead; 
 She felt insulted, I suppose, 
 
 Because her hair was red. 
 
 Chorus— I love to drive, etc. 
 
 I courted Maggie for a year, 
 
 With all my youthful ardor. 
 And charmed the dusty atmosphere 
 
 By singing " Maggie Lauder." 
 Sweet Jessie vowed she'd be my bride,— 
 
 We both of us were fain; — 
 And then I sang, with joy and pride. 
 
 The " Flower of Dunblane." 
 
 Chorus— I love to drive, etc. 
 
 When Annie vowed she'd love me still. 
 
 Should rivals smile or sigh, 
 I warbled " Annie Laurie " till 
 
 My throat was parch'd and dry. 
 Then charming Hattie captured me, 
 
 Her name perplexed me sore; 
 But I was singing, presently. 
 
 The " Hat my Father Wore." 
 
 Chorus— I love to drive, etc. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 23 
 
 *Tis hard to find, for girls round here, 
 
 Their prototypes in song; 
 And I am fairly stuck, I fear, 
 
 When Beatrice comes along. 
 In thinking of the " girls gone by," 
 
 I often get them mixed; 
 And then I pause and softly sigh, 
 
 " I wonder who'll be next." 
 
 Chorus -I lovo to drive, etc. 
 
 BELOVED SCOTIA I 
 
 COME raise our banner o'er us, 
 And wake the pibroch's strain. 
 And join the swelling chorus 
 We've learnt by hill and glen. 
 Though far across the ocean. 
 
 Our hearts beat strong and free, 
 With fervor and devotion, 
 Our native land, to thee. 
 
 Chorus— The nations quail before thee. 
 In commerce and in war; 
 What wonder we adore thee. 
 Beloved Scotia ! 
 
 The ages tell the story 
 
 Of Scotia's peerless might; 
 Thy sons have earn'd their glory 
 
 In many a hard-won fight. 
 They won their independence. 
 
 And feared no foeman's frown; 
 And we, their brave descendants. 
 
 Inherit their renown. 
 
 Chorus— When freedom needs defenders, 
 Our trusty swords we draw, 
 'Gainst tyrants and pretenders; 
 Beloved Scotial 
 
24 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 When record lies behind us, 
 
 Let human hist'ry say; 
 And future years shall tind us 
 
 Still foremost in the fray. 
 While blooms the purple heather 
 
 Upon the mountain side; 
 The bonnet, kilt and feather 
 
 Shall be our joy and pride. 
 
 Chorus— And thus throughout the ages. 
 Alike in peace and war; 
 Thy sons are aye courageous, 
 Beloved Scotia I 
 
 THE HOSE MY MITHER SPAN. 
 
 SHE fashioned them wi' tenty care 
 Whan I wis but a loon; 
 An' 'deed there wisna sic a pair 
 O' hose in a' the toon. 
 Nae weaver body east or wast 
 Could match her skilly han', 
 An' nocht could turn the wintry blast 
 Like the hose my mither span. 
 
 But chasin' bumbees tae their bykes, 
 
 An' a' the tear an' wear 
 O' heather cowes an' dry-stane dykes 
 
 Soon hashed them unco sair. 
 But in a crack she'd soothe my wae. 
 
 As only mithers can; 
 Till patched an' darned frae tap tae tae 
 
 Were the hose my mither span. 
 
 Whan neighbors' bairns were buskit braw 
 
 Wi' hose new frae the mill, 
 She wadna hae sic trash ava' 
 
 But looped wi' richt guidwill. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 25 
 
 But wi' a touch 0' graceless pride, 
 
 I thocht, " Whan I'm a man, 
 I wuU be blythe tae fling aside 
 
 The hose my mither span." 
 
 But whan I thocht on a' her toil, 
 
 Hoo, mony a weary day. 
 She struggled sair tae fend us, while 
 
 Her hair was growin' gray: 
 The saut tears glistened in my een, 
 
 An' doon my cheeks they ran; — 
 Mair dear than hose o' silken sheen 
 
 Were the anes my mither span. 
 
 Noo far abroad my lines are cast, 
 
 An' I will ne'er repine; 
 But mony a relic 0' the past 
 
 I prize, for auld lang syne. 
 In memory o' the love she gave 
 
 An' o' her eident han', 
 I cherish weel, amang the lave, 
 
 The hose my mither span. 
 
 THE LAND WE LOVE. 
 
 WHERE snow-capped mountains pierce the heavenly 
 blue- 
 Upheaved by Nature in her wildest mood -- 
 Peak over peak obscure the distant view. 
 
 And moorlands stretch in awful solitude. 
 The purple heather crowns the rocky steep, 
 
 The pine tree's giant arms are waving wide; 
 And crystal streams in foaming cascades leap 
 Through mist-clouds clinging to the brown hillside. 
 
 Sweet lakelets sparkle in the sunlight's sheen, 
 
 And breathe, their freshness on the bright blue bell; 
 And graceful birches droop their tresses green 
 
 Hound white- walled cottages where clansmen dwell; 
 Whose deeds are shrined in song and martial tale— 
 
 The home land of romance and chivalry- 
 Then marvel not that Scotsmen love so well 
 
 A land so fair and gloriously free. 
 
26 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 There lived the heroes of the days gone by, 
 
 Who left their footprints on the sands of time; 
 'Twas not where languid southern breezes sigh 
 
 But in that hard and rig'rous northern clime. 
 There, in it's limpid mountain atmosphere. 
 
 We breathe the spirit of the mighty dead— 
 The mail-clad knight and hardy mountaineer 
 
 Who gloried when the fiery cross was sped. 
 
 Now hushed to slumber are the dogs of war, 
 
 And gentle peace reigns in our northern home; 
 En quest of fortune we have strayed afar 
 
 To wider lands across the ocean foam. 
 And as our sires were foremost in the fray 
 
 May we excel in every peaceful art; 
 Through hostile ranks they cleft their bloody way: 
 
 In industry we find the better part. 
 
 We dearly love this broad land of the free — 
 
 Hallowed to fame by many a gallant deed— 
 The land that crowns us with prosperity 
 
 May count upon us in the time of need. 
 But ne'er a lover's love can overthrow 
 
 The love that to a mother dear we bore; 
 The best love of our exiled hearts we owe 
 
 To Scotia, first and last and evermore. 
 
 NO SCOTSxMAN NEED APPLY. 
 
 THE street car rolled upon it's way, 
 The bell rang overhead; 
 As I o'erheard a sweet girl say, 
 " No Scotchman will I wed: 
 The pampered race expect too much, 
 
 And that's the reason why— 
 Unless he be both old and rich- 
 No Scotchman need apply. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 27 
 
 " We girls should teach them duty's path 
 
 In hopes they will reform ; 
 If not, then let our righteous wrath 
 
 O'erwhelm them, like a storm. 
 Of Scottish blood they'd cease to brag, 
 
 If maids like you and I 
 Should wear, engraved upon a tag— 
 
 ' No Scotchman need apply.' 
 
 " So when a Scot from o'er the main 
 
 Fell captive to our charms. 
 And seemed to be unduly fain 
 
 To clasp us in his arms: 
 'Twould warn the poor, misguided elf 
 
 His pride had soared too high — 
 Ambition overleaps itself — 
 
 No Scotchman need apply. 
 
 "' 'Gainst other nationalities 
 
 I have no word to say; 
 For English, Dutchmen and Chinese 
 
 Are all right in their way. 
 We love the courteous sons of. France, 
 
 The Yankees, too, stand high; 
 A colored brother has a chance — 
 
 No S30tchman need apply. 
 
 "So when I get a stylish "hub" 
 
 I'll find him lots to do; 
 He'll wash the dishes, bake and scrub. 
 
 And do the shopping too. 
 Such things don't suit the Scotchman free: 
 
 They'd have to, by and by; 
 If other girls would say with me, 
 
 ' No Scotchman need apply.' " 
 
28 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 THE WAK PIPE OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 PIPE of the warrior race, 
 Wake from thy slumbers; 
 Let freedom's dwelling place 
 Ring with thy numbers. 
 Shrill as the'eagle's cry, 
 
 Heavenward ascending: 
 Echoes from earth and sky 
 
 Cheerily blending; 
 Wild as the thunder's roll 
 Ten times resounded — 
 Wake in our Highland soul 
 Raptures unbounded. 
 
 Pipe of the heather hill, 
 
 Swell on the breezes, 
 Whether 'tis good or ill 
 
 Heaven decrees us. 
 Peal forth the victory, 
 
 Matchless in chorus, 
 When sturdy foemen flee, 
 
 Smitten before us: 
 Sound where the widow's tear 
 
 Falls unavailing; 
 Over the bloody bier 
 
 Coronachs wailing. 
 
 Pipe of my Highland home, 
 
 Charged with devotion, 
 Wake the wild echoes from 
 
 Hilltop to ocean; 
 Peal for the clansmen bold — 
 
 Freedom's avengers- 
 Far in the land of gold, 
 
 Fearless of dangers; 
 Swell where the Modder stream 
 
 Runs red and gory; 
 There let thy warlike scream 
 
 Lead on to glory. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 29 
 
 THE BARLEY BREE 
 
 MY love has got a red, red nose,— 
 Ilelo'es the barley bree;— 
 An' whan upo' the spree he goes 
 He mak's the siller flee. 
 My love is sonsy, big an' braw, 
 
 An' oh, he's kind tae me; 
 But I forbear my horn tae blaw 
 Whan Dauvit tak's the spree. 
 
 Oh! Whan we met at eventide 
 
 Aneath the trystin' tree, 
 Nae lad in a' the kintra side 
 
 Wis hauf sae braw as he: 
 But cursed drink has banished a' 
 
 The love-licht frae his e'e; 
 Oh! but I'm fain their necks tae thraw 
 
 Wha sell the barley bree. 
 
 The gossips' clasli across the way 
 
 Has fient a charm for me; 
 I dicht an' scrub the li'elang day. 
 
 As blythe as wife can be. 
 But eh, hoo aft it mak's discord 
 
 In natur's harmony 
 Whvan lang-tongued neebors bring me word 
 
 That Dauvit's on the spree. 
 
 But whiles my love is unco fain 
 
 Temptation's path tae flee; 
 An' aye my hairt is meltit, when 
 
 He asks me tae forgi'e; 
 But, sittin' by my spinnin' wheel, 
 
 I dry my tearfu' e'e. 
 An' vow that he maun say fareweel 
 
 Tae whisky, or tae me. 
 
30 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 LAND OF THE HEATHER HILL. 
 
 LAND of the heather hill, famous in story, 
 Free as the wild waves that dash on thy shore; 
 Under thy battle flag blazing with glory 
 Nestles the shrine where thy heroes adore. 
 Home of the warrior race, love's chosen dwelling place, 
 
 Bravely thy thistle keen waves on the lea; 
 First on the field of fame, here's to thy stainless name — 
 Land of the heather hill— Freedom and thee. 
 
 Now that the mother land bows in her anguish 
 Say, is the crimson stream pouring in vain ? 
 
 Nay, while her children in bondage that languish 
 Welcome the death-shot that severs their chain. 
 
 Not while the ages tell how noble Wauchope fell. 
 Yielding his life-blood that slaves might be free; 
 
 Pride of his native land, flower of the knightly band- 
 Land of the heather hill -dying for thee. 
 
 Sons of the nations beheld it in wonder, 
 
 Brave days of chivalry dawning again; 
 When Britain's hosts, to the echoes of thunder. 
 
 Smote the usurper afar o'er the main. 
 Sons of the mountaineer smile through their bitter tear, 
 
 Dread though the roll-call of victory be; 
 Heard ye their battle-cry swell to the heavens high? 
 
 "Land of the heather hill— Freedom and thee." 
 
 Scotia, the rage of thy foemen is warded 
 Oft by the glow of thy patriot flres; 
 
 Well be thy charter of liberties guarded. 
 Sealed by the blood of our valiant sires 
 
 So while the gowans bloom over the heroes' tomb, 
 There let the flower of our loyalty be; 
 
 Guarding the flame divine, still be our bosoms' shrine- 
 Land of the heather hill— sacred to thee. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 31 
 
 OOR AIN FOLK. 
 
 WHILE mony men o' mony lan's 
 Forgaither day by day, 
 We lo'e them maist whase kindly ban's 
 Hae helped us on the way; 
 We've wandered mony a kintra side, 
 
 By ocean, bill an' plain; 
 An' noo we say wi' honest pride 
 There's nae folk like oor ain. 
 
 We meet f u' mony a lad o' pairts 
 
 Wi mainners frank an' free; 
 Whase clever heids an' liclitsome hairts 
 
 Mak' kindly company. 
 Though we applaud their foreign wit 
 
 Wi' lauchter's merry strain 
 We lo'e the hamely Doric yet — 
 
 There's nae tongue like oor ain. 
 
 Frae fertile field an' shady tree 
 
 Resounds the songbird's voice; 
 The freshness o' the inland sea 
 
 Gars ilka thing rejoice; 
 While cloudless skies are smilin'o'er 
 
 Columbia's wide domain: 
 An' yet we lo'e Auld Scotia's shore — 
 
 There's nae land like oor ain. 
 
 Whan neebors join in freen'ly crack 
 
 As gloamin' shadows fa'. 
 Afar we roam in mem'ry's track 
 
 Sweet visions tae reca'. 
 Forgetfu' o' the wrinkled brow, 
 
 Oor hairts are young again; 
 We grasp ilk ither's han' an' vow 
 
 " There's nae folk like oor ain." 
 
32 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 VISIONS OF HOME. 
 
 F 
 
 AIREST of gems in the palace of art,— 
 Dearer than all to a patriot heart,— 
 Scenes of my childhood on canvas portrayed 
 Wake fondest mem'ries of days that are fled. 
 Visions of grandeur afar o'er the wave 
 Waft me in spirit to Scotland the brave; 
 Gazing enraptured on mountain and stream, 
 Stretched in their beauty like things of a dream 
 
 There sits the chief in his ancestral hall, 
 Greeting the clansmen who come at his call; 
 Wild sounds the pibroch, it swells loud and long. 
 Fitting refrain to the ancient bard's song, 
 Sing they of glories that long since have flown, 
 When pomp and splendor surrounded our throne; 
 Love, truth and honor our heroes controll'd. 
 Still undebased by the power of gold. 
 
 Those were the days of the brave deeds that crown 
 Scots and their country with deathless renown; 
 Fearless in fight 'gainst invaders they stood; 
 Wrath once aroused was not quenched save in blood. 
 Pride was their garment, and insult or sneer 
 Swiftly repaid by the broadsword or spear; 
 Lions at heart, still their friendship was true; 
 Jealous, yet noble and chivalrous too. 
 
 Here came the Roman with brazen-clad host, 
 World-wide the conquest his legions could boast; 
 Onward through Europe in triumph they swept, 
 Fear smote the nations, their proud spirit slept. 
 Here, too, they triumphed, but short was their reign 
 Red ran the streams in the valley and glen: 
 Back to their homes the invading hosts fled, 
 Leaving no trace save the bones of their dead. 
 
 Ardent in love as undaunted in fight, 
 Tender hearts beat 'neath the Scot's tartan bright; 
 Charm«d he the heart of the witching young maid, 
 Clasped in the folds of his great Highland plaid. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 33 
 
 Woe to the rival who came in his way, 
 Swift flashed their claymores in deadly affray: 
 Sooner he'd die by the bullet or sword 
 Than live bereft of the one he adored. 
 
 Home came our navies when western winds blew 
 Laden with gold from the mines of Peru; 
 High beat the hearts of the youthful and bold 
 As their wild tales of adventure were told. 
 Nobler their conquests than 'gainst armor'd foes — 
 Causing the desert to bloom as the rose; 
 Footprints they left in this land of the west, 
 Deep and enduring, can ne'er be effaced. 
 
 Sheath'd now the steel blades in blood often dyed. 
 Peace and prosperity reign side by side; 
 Church bells are ringing where heroes have bled. 
 Law sits enthroned where the liery cross sped. 
 Sweet was the vision, but short w^as it's stay, 
 Ev'n as I gazed it had melted away; 
 I'roud and serene may the thistle still wave, 
 Emblem of freedom and Scotland the brave. 
 
 THE EVERGREEN PINE. 
 
 T 
 
 HE oaks of old England her children adore — 
 
 Fit type of her gallant hearts, true to the core- 
 That built her those "wooden walls" backward that rolled 
 The tides of invasion in brave days of old. 
 But fairer to me is the one above all 
 That towers in it's beauty o'er cottage and hall; 
 The sw^eet recollections of childhood entwine 
 With wide-spreading boughs of the evergreen pine. 
 
 The southrons recline in the languorous shade 
 Of palm tree and olive that wave overhead; 
 The hardy Canadians that follow^ the plough 
 Hejoice in the shade of the maple tree bough. 
 
34 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 JJut broadly embracing the rock-rifted soil, 
 And swayed by the breeze of my own native isle; 
 My fond heart rejoices in claiming as mine — 
 The cloud-circled land of the evergreen pine. 
 
 In hist'ry it shines as the badge of the Grant, 
 Though " vict'ries of peace " are it's principal vaunt; 
 As straight as an arrow" it pointed our way 
 Aloft to the glorified mansions of day. 
 When rosy young faces were shorn of their bloom, 
 And loved ones appeared to be marked for the tomb; 
 It breathed on their weakness with healing divine, 
 The life-giving balm of the evergreen pine. 
 
 THE GLEN WHERE I WAS BORN 
 
 WHEN the bloom is on the heather 
 And the birch tree clothed in green- 
 When the broad and silv'ry river 
 Flashes back the sunlight's sheen, 
 And the woodbine sweetly trailing 
 
 'Neath the bracken's gentle sway— 
 I return to view the beauties 
 Of my old home in Strathspey. 
 
 When the birdies blythely twitter 
 
 As their callow youngling Hies— 
 When the darkling shadows vanish 
 
 And the early mists arise — 
 While the face of earth rejoices 
 
 In the freshness of the morn- 
 There 's a wonderland of beauty 
 
 In the glen where I was born. 
 
 I behold the noble Grampians 
 
 Fleck'd above with ling'ring snows, 
 And the stately pine tree bending 
 
 To the gentle breeze that blows; 
 Here the wild rose and the gowan,— 
 
 Nature's own bouquets— adorn 
 liosy-cheeked and dimpled maidens 
 
 Of the glen where I was born. 
 
^v Heath and Prairie. 35 
 
 Roaming' in the fraj?rant meadows, 
 
 Sitting by the moss-grown stone, 
 Where, in other years, my sweetheart 
 
 Vowed she would be mine alone; 
 Now, my winsome bride, she sits here 
 
 With her warm hand clasp'd in mine; 
 And our love still true and tender 
 
 As in days of " auld lang syne." 
 
 Where a thousand mem'ries cluster 
 
 Round the dear old woods and braes, 
 Tales of love or wild adventure 
 
 In my boyhood's happy days. 
 When we grasp the hand of friendship. 
 
 Though our misty eyes o'erflow — 
 Oh! 'tis sweet to hold communion 
 
 With the friends of long ago. 
 
 Some are scattered, some are sleeping 
 
 In the kirkyard down the glen; 
 Now our Hearts but cling the closer 
 
 To the few who still remain; 
 And wiien years of toil and struggle 
 
 Leave my spirit faint and worn, 
 I would wait life's evening shadows 
 
 In the glen where I was born. 
 
 A PHILOSOPHIC COW. 
 
 w 
 
 HERE purple heather crowns the rocky height. 
 And Spey's broad waters lave the silv'ry sand; 
 The pawky worthies of the glen delight 
 To sing the praises of their northern land. 
 And there the birch tree droops it's graceful head 
 
 To kiss the foam that dances on the rills, 
 As underneath it's grateful summer shade 
 I sit and sketch the rugged Scottish hills. 
 
 I see an old man lead his speckled cow 
 
 Unto the hillside pasture, scorched and bare; 
 And as he turns away to tend his plow 
 
 He thus comments upon her scanty fare: 
 "Thy situation, bonnie Bess, is meet 
 
 For such a grave and philosophic coo; 
 'Tis true there isn't very much to eat, 
 
 But then ye'll have a most superior view. " 
 
36 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 A HIGHLAND TOCHER 
 
 EVENING shadows were descending in tlie valley of the 
 Spey; 
 - On the towers of Cluny Castle shone the sunset's parting 
 ray ; 
 And it shone on Coll, the henchman, on the turret lingering still, 
 While his eagle eyes intently watched the sunset on the hill. 
 lie beheld a watchiire blinking on the mountain head afar, 
 x\nd he shouted, "Ho, Clan Chattan, warning of the opened 
 
 war" 
 Then the bold retainers gathered, dirk and broadsword by their 
 
 side, 
 And they marked tlie watchfires blazing while the sunset glory 
 
 died. 
 " Ho, Clan Chattan, rouse to battle, let the fiery cross be borne; 
 Let the loyal clansmen gather on the heath ere break of morn; 
 See, the watehhre in the distance warns us of the lurking foe; 
 'Tis the Cameron men who raid us; up, and give them blow for 
 
 blow." 
 Spoke the aged chief of Cluny, and his bold and flashing eye 
 Showed the battle lire re-kindled, ardent as in days gone by. 
 And they brought the fateful symbol, seared with fire and red 
 
 with blood, 
 To arouse their mountain passions, fiercer than the pent-up 
 
 flood; 
 AVhile the summons of the war-pipe swelled on vengeance- 
 laden breath. 
 Forth upon his fateful mission sped the harbinger of death. 
 Why sits Duncan glum and silent? Cluny's heir, Clan Chattan's 
 
 pride; 
 He who tamed tlie westland reivers in the fight by Laggan's 
 
 side: 
 Ah, his heart is pledged in secret to the fair maid of Locheil, — 
 While her image rules his bosom dare he cross her clansmen's 
 
 steel .-^ 
 " Father, ere the Cameron slogan shrills upon the mountain side, 
 I would fain embrace the fair one who is pledged to be my 
 
 bride; 
 Let the loyal clansmen gather, fearless of a foeman's skaith. 
 I shall come in time to lead them to the carnival of death." 
 <' Boy," said Cluny, "Should the wildcat dally with the cooing 
 dove? 
 
By HcafJi and Prairie. 2)7 
 
 Xay, tliere's sterner work before thee, banish thouglits of tlimsy 
 
 love. " 
 "On my bended knees I beg thee, father, do not say me nay, 
 When my blood may stain tlie lieather at the dawning of tlie 
 
 day ; 
 If I fail to keep my promise, fail to bear me as a man. 
 Let my name, dishonored, perish from tlie annals of our clan." 
 "(tO, my son, and God be with thee." Duncan waited for no 
 
 more. 
 Sprang to where liis Highland sheltie pawed the greensward by 
 
 tlie door; 
 And the hoof-sparks flashed and kindled, like the flre-flies of 
 
 the night, 
 As young Duncan urged his war-steed headlong on it's western 
 
 flight. 
 Onw^ard by the rustic shelling, onward by the castle wall, 
 Onward where the calm lake mirrored giant rocks and pine trees 
 
 tall: 
 Careless of the darkling shadows, fearless of the lurking foe, 
 Stumbling on the bowlder'd pathway, panting, breathless, on 
 
 they go; 
 Westward, ever westward hasting, 'neatli the star-bespangled sky 
 Till the walls of Achnacarry gloom against the clouds on high. 
 There his love-born quest was ended, 'neath the frowning castle 
 
 wall; 
 Soon within tlie vaulted chambers rang the lapwing's plaintive 
 
 call: 
 *Twas the preconcerted signal for the secret tryst of love; 
 Soon in gentler tone re-echoed from a latticed tower above. 
 Soon a maiden form, emerging, trembled with untold alarms. 
 As the fair and gentle Margaret sank into her lover's arms. 
 
 Still the cross of fire sped swifter, ever swifter, on it's way: 
 To arouse the slumbering clansmen in the valley of the Spey; 
 And they gathered round their chieftain, sword and buckler 
 
 burnished bright, 
 Flashing like the bolts of heaven, in the torch-beam's dancing 
 
 light; 
 Soon three hundred of the bravest mustered 'neath the castle 
 
 wall : 
 Only Duncan was amissing, and they marvelled, one and all. 
 And they marched to seek their foemen, with the old chief at 
 
 their head, 
 ViVit the grim defile was silent as a city of the dead; 
 
38 ^3' Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Still the watchfiires brightly burning, flashed their message 
 
 down the glen, 
 Signal to the faithful clansmen, "]5e ye ware of Cameron's men.'' 
 But the children of the wildcat watched the mountain pass in 
 
 vain, 
 For the dawning showed the raiders swarming on the eastern 
 
 plain; 
 Hal the Camerons' wiles had triumphed, they had scaled the 
 
 mountain heiglit, 
 Thus outflanked the men of Cluny in the darkness of the night. 
 From the woods and fertile meadows by the broad and silver 
 
 In the cover of the darkness— they had driv'n a noble prey; 
 Many fattened steers and bullocks, many ewes and wethers sleek, 
 And the blush of men outwitted mantled each Macpherson's 
 
 cheek. 
 Yet they knew their 's was the vantage, for the Camerons' way 
 
 was barred, 
 Spent with toil and midnight travel, with their bulky spoil to 
 
 guard. 
 Cluny eyed his hampered foemen. exultation in his breast, — 
 "Shall the carrion crow go scatheless, that has robbed the wild- 
 cat's nest? 
 Nay! our claws, outstretched for vengeance, in his wizzened 
 
 craig he'll feel; 
 Ne'er shall hoof nor horn of Cluny's pass the drawbridge of 
 
 Locheil."" 
 And his eager host he marshalled, where the birk's green tresses 
 
 swing; 
 Resting on the sloping hillside, like a wild beast for the spring- 
 He would sweep the foe before him, or be numbered with the 
 
 dead; 
 Yet a horrid thought unnerved him, filled his warrior soul with 
 
 dread: 
 Where was Duncan? Cluny waited like a statue carved in stone; 
 For the old man's heart was breaking; reason tottered on it's 
 
 throne: 
 "Sound the onset," Cluny shouted; and the war -pipe shrieked 
 
 on higli, 
 And six hundred of the bravest drew their blades to do or die: 
 When two Highland shelties, plunging 'twixt the lines of bur- 
 nished steel. 
 Bore young Duncan of Clan Chattan and fair Margaret of 
 
 Locheil. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 39 
 
 "Sire, I come," spoke Duncan, Hushing 'iieath the old man's 
 
 glance of pride, 
 "And I bring a noble ally in my young and lovely bride; 
 We have come from yonder chapel, where the old priest tied the 
 
 knot; 
 Stav your hands, and at our bridal let your blood-feuds be for- 
 
 'gotJ' ■ . 
 
 Here the bleating of the wethers, and the lowing of the kine 
 Roused old Cluny's heart to fury, and he thundered, "Son of 
 
 mine. 
 Shall we lose our Highland cattle? Nay, I've sworn on naked 
 
 steel. 
 Ne'er shall hoof nor horn of Cluny's pass the drawbridge of 
 
 Locheil." 
 But the wily Cameron answered, "Tak' the beasties, ane an' a', 
 Tiiey be bonnie Margaret's tocher, we hae brocht tae Cluny Ha'." 
 Then the lav'rock in the heavens sang witli blyther note, I ween, 
 As six hundred swords and bucklers clattered on tlie bloodless 
 
 green; 
 Soon six hundred mingled clansmen rent the air with wild 
 
 huzzas, 
 As the erstwhile foemen pledged them brothers in a common 
 
 cause; 
 And the sun in glory breaking, chased the storm-clouds from 
 
 the sky, 
 AVhile six liundred manly voices raised a joyful shout on high: 
 Saying, "Heaven bless their bridal, wha could help but wish 
 
 them weeiy 
 Lang leeve Duncan Oig of Cluny, and fair Margaret of Locheil." 
 
40 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 TO IAN Mac LAKE iV, 
 
 As flits the busy bee by grove and ])asture, 
 The clover blossom and the heather bell: 
 Extracting from Dame Nature's boundless storehouse 
 The clustered sweets that mankind love so well: 
 So thou who reapest in the vales of beauty, 
 
 'Mid sainted lives and tales of ancient lore; 
 Their hidden sweets unf oldest to the nations, 
 Who gladly feast upon thy treasured store. 
 
 With thee we tread again the breezy moorland; 
 
 With thee we snilf the caller mountain air, 
 And clasp the hand of honest toil extended, 
 
 Whose homely comforts we may freely share. 
 AVefeel the impulse of their joys and sorrows, 
 
 Their kind hearts that respond to nature's plea; 
 Their characters by modern culture fashioned. 
 
 Yet based on old-time faith and purity. 
 
 Let others spend their lives in reproducing 
 
 The raven's croak, the howlet's doleful cry: 
 Thou giv'st to us the burnie's rippling music: 
 
 The mavis lilting to the summer sky. 
 Let others tell the littleness of purpose, 
 
 The strifes and jealousies of little men: 
 'Tis thine to paint the truth and leal devotion 
 
 Inherent in the children of the glen. 
 
 The happy days of childhood rise before us 
 
 As backward roll the years that intervene; 
 15eneath the sweet enchantment of thy genius. 
 
 Which glorities each simple household scene: 
 Which stoops not to grotesque imaginations 
 
 To please the critics of irreverent mind; 
 Thy vivid tales, from glowing nature studied, 
 
 In Scottish bosoms long shall be enshrined. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 4^ 
 
 THE HIGHLAND KEUNION. 
 
 THE pibroch's note is swelling high, 
 It thrills our bosom's core; 
 The chins are gath'ring from afar 
 As in the days of yore. 
 But not to harry Lowland plains, 
 
 T<or tight the Sassenach foe; 
 'Tis to enjoy a social eve 
 
 'Mid friendship's kindly glow. 
 
 We come from Scottish heath and glen, 
 
 From Caithness to Argyll: 
 From many a sunny Southland vale, 
 
 And Hebridean isle. 
 :^so flowing tartans we display, 
 
 No target nor claymore; 
 Yet Highland hearts still beat as true 
 
 As e'er they did before. 
 No scent of heath or bonnie broom 
 
 Perfumes the city air; 
 No mountain breezes fan our cheeks, 
 
 Or rustle in our hair. 
 ITet those delights we once enjoyed 
 
 Are shrined in mem'ry dear, 
 Though lost to sight and human sense 
 
 For many, many a year. 
 And has onr spirit not been curb'd 
 
 By exile's chilling breath V 
 Nay! It is still as free as when 
 
 We strode our native heath. 
 Our Highland ardour ne'er shall fail, 
 
 But ever brighter glow; 
 While Highland blood Hows in our veins 
 
 We'll fear no earthly foe. 
 But let us pray that useless strife 
 
 For evermore may cease; 
 And as our sires were great in war 
 
 May we excel in peace. 
 And in this more enlightened age . 
 
 May gentle peace prevail, 
 And may goodwill to all mankind 
 In ev'ry bosom dwell. 
 
42 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 A SPRIG OF HEATHER. 
 
 SWEET-SCENTED missive, winged with love, 
 I gladly greet thee, knowing 
 Thou comest from the shady grove 
 Where grand old Spey is flowing: 
 By Ocean wave, and plain and hill, 
 
 Unscathed by wind or weather; 
 With kindly wish and, dearer still, 
 A sprig of Speyside heather. 
 
 Oft by Loch Angach's mossy dell 
 
 I roved in life's gay morning; 
 Where thou hast bloomed, sweet heather bell, 
 
 The sylvan scene adorning. 
 Now, 'mid the plains of Illinois 
 
 Affection's ties still bind me 
 Unto the scene of early joys, 
 
 And friends I left behind me. 
 
 A Scottish name I'm proud to bear. 
 
 Still prouder to inherit 
 The sturdy Scottish character, 
 
 And independent spirit. 
 I love the bagpipe's stirring strain. 
 
 The bonnet, kilt and feather; 
 And long to set my foot again 
 
 Upon my native heather. 
 
 Oh! here the skies in beauty smile 
 
 On nature's face resplendent; 
 While comfort waits on earnest toil. 
 
 And man is independent; 
 And skies are bright, and hearts are warm, 
 
 Yet all these gifts together 
 My exiled bosom cannot charm. 
 
 Like this wee sprig of heather. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 43 
 
 BY DULNAIN'S TIDE. 
 
 WHERE Dulnain's winding waters glide 
 The gloaming shadows fa', 
 An' Mary strays by Dulnain's side 
 
 Tae meet her laddie braw. 
 She sang tae Dulnain's wimplin' wave, 
 
 She sang richt cheerilie, 
 "I'll lo'e my laddie true an' brave 
 
 Until the day I dee.' 
 Dark nicht cam' on by Dulnain's side, 
 
 The win' blew eerilie; 
 The Dulnain's cauld an' ghaistly tide 
 
 Kan past her tae the sea. 
 An' a' that leelang nicht she sang, 
 
 "My luve is bauld an' free, 
 The nicht is mirk, the way is lang, 
 
 But he'll come back tae me." 
 
 She thocht her Jamie maun be nigh 
 
 At dawin' o' the day, 
 But neebors fand him lyin' by 
 
 The auld gray Brig o' Spey. 
 The hoof-print o' his gude gray mare 
 
 AVas on his noble broo; 
 His life-bluid clotted in his hair, 
 
 An' on his rosy mou'. 
 They bare him owre wi' herts o' stane, 
 
 An' laid him by her side; 
 The waef u' sicht has turned her brain. 
 
 By Dulnain's eerie tide. 
 An' aye she cried in wild despair, 
 
 "Na, na, it isna he, 
 My luve upon his gude gray mare 
 
 Rides owre the hills tae me." 
 They laid him low by Dulnain's side, 
 
 Tae sleep till judgment day; 
 Noo Mary wanders bythe tide. 
 
 An' sings tae bank an' brae; 
 "My Jamie rides a lang, lang gate 
 
 Tae keep his tryst wi' me; 
 He tarries lang, but I will wait 
 
 Until the day I dee." 
 
44 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 SCOTIA S BAGPIPE 
 
 OLD Scotia's wild, romantic pipe, 
 LoiiLT linked with many a stirring' tale; 
 I love to liear thy martial note 
 Come swelling on the morning gale. 
 Pipe of a thousand battlefields, 
 
 The music of the free-born Scot; . 
 The dauntless spirit of the Xorth 
 Is breath'd in thy soul-stirring note. 
 
 WJiat noble deeds it calls to mind, 
 
 Meet to awake a poet's lyre; 
 Deeds that have taught unnumbered foes 
 
 To dread the Highland warrior's fire. 
 And kilted heroes guard our shores. 
 
 Inspired by thy historic strain; 
 A wall of fire, 'gainst which the tide 
 
 Of rude invasion rolls in vain. 
 
 But when the sword again is sheath'd. 
 
 And gentle peace is hailed with glee; 
 Within our chieftain's noble hall 
 
 Thou'rt sweetly tuned in sympathy 
 Thy chanter blows it's merriest note 
 
 When lads and lasses trip the floor; 
 Or wails the mournful coronach 
 
 For those who will return no more. 
 
 Peerless in realms of melody. 
 
 Thou hast a charm that's all thine own; 
 Though feared and hated by our foes 
 
 ■ The Highland heart is still thy throne. 
 Sound the war-note, and kilted clans 
 
 Will gather, eager for the fray; 
 But change it to strathspeys and reels— 
 
 We'll dance from dusk till dawn of day. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 45 
 
 WHEN THE BLOOM IS ON THE 
 HEATHER. 
 
 w 
 
 HEX the sunbeams glint sae bonnie 
 On the burnie's dancin' foam, 
 An' the wee birds' blythesome chorus 
 Tells that simmer days hae come; 
 Then I'm houpin' tae forgaither 
 
 Wi' the freens o' bygane days— 
 When the bloom is on the heather, 
 An' the gowan on the braes. 
 
 Oh I I'll hear the skylark singin' 
 
 As he wakes the caller morn; 
 An' my een sae wistfu' gazin' 
 
 On the glen wiiere I was born ; 
 An' the bluebells saftly noddin' 
 
 Tae the simmer breeze that blows — 
 When the bloom is on the heather, 
 
 An" the blossom on the rose. 
 
 Oh, the neighbors' bairns will gather 
 
 Whaur I sit aneath the trees,. 
 An' I'll tell them wondrous stories 
 
 O' the land ayont the seas; 
 An' their artless wiles shall banish 
 
 A' the sorrows I hae seen — 
 When the bloom is on the heather, 
 
 An' the dewdrop on the green. 
 
 'Mang the scenes o' hame an' childhood 
 
 Mony years shall backward roll, 
 Wi' the rush o' tender mem'ries 
 
 Thrangin' ower my waukened soul; 
 In the hairst o' life regainin' 
 
 A' the freshness 0' the spring, — 
 When the bloom is on the heather. 
 
 An' the bird upon the wing. 
 
46 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 OUK MOTHER ISLE. 
 
 w 
 
 HY sits our mother isle in proud dominion, 
 Peerless among the nations of today? 
 Queen of the ocean, marvel of the ages, 
 Around the earth extends her gentle sway. 
 Fearless in fight, surpassing wise in council, 
 
 On boundless seas her banner reigns supreme; 
 New worlds her enterprising sons have conquered, 
 Beyond great Alexander's wildest dream. 
 
 Vain conquest 'tis that breaks a nation's spirit, 
 
 Turns joy to fear and freemen into slaves; 
 And leaves behind the low, sad wail of anguish 
 
 O'er desolated homes and new-made graves. 
 But peace and plenty follow in the footsteps 
 
 Of each true-hearted British pioneer; 
 The sacred rights of man are still safeguarded. 
 
 And law enthroned, since love has cast out fear. 
 
 Our hands and hearts entwined in bonds of friendship 
 
 With those who, erstwhile, were our deadly foes; — 
 Our banners bring deliv'rance to the captive, . 
 
 The trackless desert blossoms as the rose. 
 Our coming breaks the fetterlocks of darkness. 
 
 Disarms the monster, drunk with human blood; 
 And good engrafts upon the root of evil, 
 
 Till joy-bells ring where sullen headsmen stood. 
 
 Live friends are more to us than slaughtered foemen; 
 
 We aim to save, to civilize and bless; 
 And savage tribes, now in the van of progress, 
 
 Bear testimony to the work's success. 
 Heirs of a thousand bloodstained heathen customs — 
 
 They love the power that bade these horrors cease; 
 That power supreme whole nations hath adopted 
 
 Into the heritage of joy and peace. 
 
 Then marvel not, ye venturesome tail-twisters. 
 
 That whensoe'er the British lion roars 
 His voice of thunder, round the world resounding, 
 
 Wakes answering growls upon a hundred shores. 
 Stands he alone? Nay, 'tis an idle notion. 
 
 His cubs are grown and ready for the fight; 
 Eager to aid their parent in maintaining 
 
 Th' eternal principles of truth and right. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 47 
 
 A STORY OF LIFE. 
 
 IN the home land of the North 
 Sat a widowed mother weeping; 
 Like an angel keeping watch 
 Where her only boy was sleeping. 
 "He has need of rest," she said, 
 
 For his ship sailed on the morrow 
 For a far-off western shore, 
 And her head was bowed in sorrow. 
 
 Guarded by that mother's love— 
 
 AVhich would follow him for ever - 
 He had grown to man's estate 
 
 In the hamlet by the river; 
 liut his little world had been 
 
 By the neighb'ring hilltops bounded; 
 And ambition urged him forth" 
 
 Where the din of life resounded. 
 
 See him now, 'mid city's strife, 
 
 Bearing him with native spirit. 
 Pressing onward to success 
 
 By the force of simple merit; 
 Till a false step laid him low, 
 
 And 'neath grinding wheels he perished; 
 While his last words told the tale 
 
 Of a mother's love still cherished. 
 
 In the home land of the North 
 
 Sits a childless widow mourning; 
 And the lamp of love still beams. 
 
 She had lit for his returning. 
 But her snow-white head is bowed, 
 
 And her aged heart is breaking 
 For the loved one lowly laid 
 
 In the sleep that knows no waking. 
 
48 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 BONNIE SCOTLAND'S SHORE. 
 
 01 I am far frae haiiie, 
 I An' scenes o' infancy; 
 
 Whaur on sunny days I play'd 
 Upon the flowery lea. 
 Oh! for a single hour 
 
 O' the gowden days o' yore, 
 '>lang the bloomin" heather bells 
 On bonnie Scotland's shore. 
 
 O! here the sunbeams droop 
 
 Tae kiss the flow'rets gay; 
 An' the face o' nature smiles, 
 
 J5eneath their ardent ray. 
 But fortune frowns on me, 
 
 An' my hairt is unco sore 
 For the smiles I left behind 
 
 On bonnie Scotland's shore. 
 
 O! here, though gowd an' gear 
 
 Are rife on ilka side. 
 Yet the weary sons o' toil 
 
 Maun pu' against the tide. 
 This is a favored land, 
 
 But naebody favors me; 
 For I'm but a friendless lad 
 
 Frae a far countrie. 
 
 Nature's beauties charm nae mair, 
 
 For, far across the foam, 
 I'm borne in fancy's flicht 
 
 Back tae my dear old home. 
 An' oh! 'tis sweet tae think— 
 
 Ere mony years are o'er 
 Love shall guide me back again 
 
 Tae bonnie Scotland's shore. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 49 
 
 THE PIPER OF DARGAI. 
 
 THERE was a man, to fame unknown 
 Till he braced himself against a stone, 
 And played the charge with all his might 
 While the Gordons stormed the Dargai height. 
 I am that man whom they talk about, 
 And now I am trying to figure out 
 AVhether I'm Irish, French or Scotch, 
 Or part of each in a grand hotch potch; 
 And whether I blew the pibroch grand 
 Or fife or drum or a whole brass band; 
 And whether I lost a leg or wing, 
 Or head or foot or the whole blamed thing. 
 I used to think, in the days of yore, 
 I was a Scotchman to the core, 
 But since I've read the press reports 
 I find I'm a man of a dozen sorts. 
 The Scotchmen claim, wi' a muckle stir, 
 I'm honest Peter Findlater, 
 While others hand, wi' richt guidwill, 
 I'm a' that's left 0' Geordie Milne. 
 Of course they say, wi' one consent, 
 That the bagpipe was my instrument. 
 And kindly they compare my work 
 To the deil that played in Alloway Kirk. 
 The English claim I'm Charlie Green, 
 And played that march on a mandolin; 
 And I neither flinched nor turned tail 
 Cause I swigged all day at Bass's ale. 
 The Irish swear by Saint Pathrick's shade 
 That Barney Flynn was the man that played — 
 On a harp that was decked with shamrocks green. 
 And drank a bottle of ould poteen. 
 The Dutchmen say I'm Yawcob Strouss, 
 And blew a trombone as big as a house; 
 Tbey say no wonder I knew no fear, 
 "Cause I vos drunk mit lager beer. 
 And I suppose that the Yankees want 
 To prove me a cousin to General Grant; 
 They say I sat, with a broken hand, 
 And played that march on a 'cabinet grand.' 
 
50 By Heath and Prairie, 
 
 And now it puzzles my old head 
 
 How many different tunes 1 played: 
 
 At least a score of old strathspeys, 
 
 "God save the Queen,"' and the "Marseillaise." 
 
 I thought 1 blew for all I was worth 
 
 That grand old march, "The Cock O' The Xorth;"' 
 
 But then I'm not supposed to know, 
 
 When the papers have it, it must be so 
 
 And I'm not a bit surprised to hear 
 
 That the bullets chopped away my ear, 
 
 And than my head, and then my nose. 
 
 And then some twelve or fifteen toes. 
 
 I had six bullets through my leg, . 
 
 And forty holes in my philabeg: 
 
 And if they write just a little more 
 
 They'll leave me a grease-spot on the tloor. 
 
 It is a very much mixed affair. 
 
 But this much I can safely swear,— 
 
 That while the Afghan bullets tlew 
 
 I sat and blew, and blew, and blew; 
 
 So when they shot, and shot, and shot, 
 
 And still I blew, the Afghans thought 
 
 I must be a creature of a dream, 
 
 Or some blamed thing that went by steam. 
 
 But whether I lost my foot or head, 
 
 Or whatsoever tune I played; 
 
 And whether I'm Irish, Scotch or Dutch, 
 
 Or piper or drummer, we know this much; 
 
 That the Afghans fled from wild Dargai 
 
 When they had heard the pibroch play: 
 
 That deed is on the roll of fame. 
 
 And the Gordons got there just the same. 
 
 WHERE THE PURPLE HEATHER GROWS 
 
 ON fancy's wings I soar to bonnie Scotland's shore - 
 The hardy mountain land I love the best— 
 Her myriad charms displayed in autumn's mellow shade, 
 And there my spirit finds a grateful rest. 
 AVhere mountain heights sublime defy the hand of Time, 
 
 Their hoary summits crowned with early snows; 
 And nestling close between, in nature's garments green, 
 The valley where the purple heather grows. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 51 
 
 AVhere Xethy's crystal tide leaps high in mountain pride, 
 
 AVhile hurrying- on to join the rapid Spey; 
 Where every rock and tree recall afresh to me 
 
 Sweet memories of many a happy day. 
 While Highland charms abound the fairest scenes are found 
 
 Where 'neath the spreading birch the streamlet flows; 
 Oh, life is wondrous sweet where sparkling waters meet, 
 
 In the valley where the purple heather grows. 
 
 Among those woods and braes I spent my youthful days, 
 
 With ne'er a line of care upon my brow; 
 My boyish heart as light as a swallow in his tlight, 
 
 Their echoes wake within my bosom now, 
 While western plains are bare, and snowtlakes fill the air, 
 
 And from the frozen lake the storm-wind blows; 
 Fthink, with many a sigh, of happy days gone by. 
 
 In the valley where the purple heather grows. 
 
 One hope, above the rest, still lives within my breast — 
 
 Unquenched by years of exile's chilling breath— 
 That, in the time to come, I may recross the foam. 
 
 And set my foot upon my native heath. 
 Though far abroad I rove, I look with yearning love — 
 
 Such love an exiled bosom only knows — 
 To the land that gave me birth, and tlie dear old family hearth, 
 
 In the valley where the purple heather grows. 
 
 THE sweepi:n' o^ the lum. 
 
 T 
 
 HERE'S peat reek in oor mornin' brose, 
 There's peat reek but an' ben; 
 It brings the teardrap tae oor een. 
 Like dule that winna men'. 
 
 The buirdly callans rin at lairge, 
 At hame they downa bide; 
 
 An' sin' the chimla winna draw, 
 Oor mither daurna chide. 
 
52 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Noo rosy-cheekit Jeanie dichts 
 
 The draps frae oot her een, 
 An' says tae mither, "1 jaloose 
 
 The lum is nae ov\re clean. 
 
 "Auld Mistress Broon says that nae mair 
 She'll pass oor auld door cheek; 
 
 'Cause last time she ca'ed in aboot 
 She near-han' smor'd wi' reek." 
 
 "The glaikit hizzie," mither said, 
 
 "I dinna gie a haet; 
 But sin' the cleanin' maun be dune 
 
 We'se better up an' dae't. 
 
 "Whaur's a' thae plaguit callans gane? 
 
 Hey, Jock an' llab, d'ye hear? 
 Gae, get the chimla cleaned at aince, 
 
 An' dinna mak' a steer." 
 
 Sae little Rab brocht heather cowes 
 Tae Jock, sae stoot an' Strang; 
 
 An' wi' a pole they riggit up 
 A besom tvval' feet lang. 
 
 The callans rakit oot the fire, 
 
 An' linkit aft" the crook; 
 Then reeshled in the lum sae heich, 
 
 Till a" the biggin' shook. 
 
 The sooty cluds cam' tum'lin' doon, 
 The hoose wis black wi' stour; 
 
 It lichtit on the white hearth-stane, 
 An' on the sandit flure. 
 
 Sae Jeanie an' oor mither thocht 
 That they could baith be spared; 
 
 An' sae they socht the caller air 
 Oot in the wee kailyaird. 
 
 But noo the soot is in a pock 
 
 Whilk llab has ta'en awa'; 
 The hearth-fire dancin' bricht again, 
 
 An' a'thing snod an' braw; 
 
 Auld Mistress Broon staps in aboot, 
 
 An' unco gled she's come; 
 She says oor hoose looks brichtsome, sin' 
 
 The sweepin' o' the lum. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 53 
 
 BACK FRAE THE AULD HAME. 
 
 s 
 
 (written fok mk. wn. gardnek.) 
 
 IT ye doon, my freen, in the ingle neuk, 
 By the hearth-lire's kindly blaze; 
 For I'm fain tae hear 0' my ain countrie, 
 An' the f reens o' byorane days. 
 
 For ye hae been whaur the heather blooms 
 
 By mony a hill an' howe; 
 Whaur the muircock craws in the early morn, 
 
 An' the birk-tree wags it's povv. 
 
 O, hae ye roved whaur the mornin' dew 
 
 Lay saft on the gowany lea? 
 Whaur the woodbine trails it's witchin' faulds, 
 
 An' the broom waves bonnilieV 
 
 Hae ye seen the burn whaur we aften dook'd 
 When oor herts were free frae care? 
 
 An' w^eel content wi' the sports o' youth, 
 An' oor castles in the airV 
 
 An' ye hae gazed while the sunset glowed 
 
 Like a lowe, in the western sky; 
 When the gloamin' fell on the kintra side. 
 
 An' blythe Nature closed her eye. 
 
 Hae ye heard tlie peewit's plaintive wail? 
 
 The scream o' the wild curlew? 
 An' the lav'rock's sang, like an angel voice, 
 
 Far up in the heavenly blue? 
 
 An' ye hae sat 'mang the ricli and great 
 
 In their lordly ha's, I trow, 
 But speak tae me o' my auld thatched cot 
 
 That stood on the birken knowe. 
 
 An' hoo's a' noo wi' the neebors' bairns. 
 
 An' oor cronies ane an' a'? 
 Dae they sigh tae think o' the guid auld days, 
 
 An' 0' them that's far awa'? 
 
54 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Hoo mony hae gaiie tae their lang, lan<4- haine 
 
 Sin' we crossed the ragin' sea? 
 Hae ye seen their graves in the auld kirkyaird, 
 
 'Neath the weepin' willow tree? 
 
 Hae ye bowed your heid in the auld grey kirk. 
 
 The pride o' the ancient toon? 
 An' raised your voice in the Psalms o' i)raise 
 
 Tae an auld familiar tune? 
 
 Hoo mony a tale o' the olden time 
 
 Did your weel-kent face reca'; 
 An' mony were blythe tae grasp your han', 
 
 An' wae when ye cam' awa'. 
 
 As the needle points aye tae the frozen north, 
 
 Tae guide the mariner's eye, 
 Sae oor herts aye turn tae oor native land, 
 
 Till the springs o' life rin dry. 
 
 DECORATION DAY. 
 
 (A in "SCOTS WIIA HAE.") 
 
 ROUSE, tis Decoration Day. 
 Fellow patriot haste away, 
 And your yearly tribute pay 
 To the mighty dead; 
 To the gallant, true and good, 
 Who to save the Union stood; 
 For it's cause their heart's best blood 
 In battle freely shed. 
 
 Highlanders of Illinois 
 
 Oft have shared this nation's joy; 
 
 Should we not our aid employ 
 
 In it's sorrow too? 
 March w^e then with reverent tread 
 AVhere low lies each warrior's head, 
 AVho have marched and fought and bled 
 
 Clad in loyal blue. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. . 55 
 
 Highlandmen who stood the sliock 
 Of the furious rebel stroke: 
 Stubborn as their native rock 
 
 Ever held their ground: 
 Many a Scot from o'er the wave 
 Fills a Union soldier's grave; 
 On the death-roll of the brave 
 
 Their honored names abound. 
 
 So when other patriots come 
 With cornet and fife and drum, 
 Shall the pibroch's note be dumb? 
 
 Can we thus refrain? 
 No, we shout forever No, 
 AVe shall to God*s acre go, 
 And our tears shall freely flow 
 
 For our noble slain. 
 
 Shades of Wallace and his men 
 Who won Scotland's freedom then, 
 Saw their spirit live again 
 
 In their children here; 
 When through tire and blood they went 
 With the mighty General Grant, 
 A Highland Scotchman by descent, 
 Whose name we all revere. 
 
 Guarded by their valiant hands, 
 Still our Union firmly stands: 
 Envy of all other lands; 
 
 We the blessings reap. 
 Blessings once so dearly bought, 
 Let us prize them as we ought. 
 And adorn each sacred spot 
 
 Where our heroes sleep. 
 
56 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 THE BANNOCKS O^ BONNIE DUNDEE. 
 
 To the Scots of Chicago 'twas Shirlaw that spoke, 
 "Ere clansmen go hungry they must be dead broke: 
 Then brave Caledonians should eat, wi" their tea, 
 The braid, sonsy bannocks 0' William Uur.dee." 
 Come, fill up my cup wi' tea o' the best. 
 An' rax me the bannocks, they suit a Scotch taste; 
 We'll dirl the rooftree wi" mirth an' wi' glee 
 Discussin' the bannocks o' bonnie Dundee. 
 
 Dundee he gets up in the mornin', 1 trow, 
 Tae see that his bannocks are fired through and through' 
 That glum indigestion ihey never may dree 
 Wha feed on the bannocks o' William Dundee. 
 Come, fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 There's mony ane tryin' his goods tae surpass, 
 There's Eraser an' Morrison, Wilson an' Glass; 
 There's Bryce an' there's Deuchars a' strivin', ye see, 
 Tae bake better bannocks than bonnie Dundee. 
 Come, fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 Then awa' wi' your sour krout an' pickles sae braw. 
 Macaroni, limburger an' sausage an' a'; 
 A bicker o' guid, halesome parritch for me. 
 An' weel-buttered bannocks o' William Dundee. 
 Come, fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 IN MY AULD HAME. 
 
 WHEN the early mists are falling by the winding meadow 
 land, 
 And the pine-tree's lengthened shadow tells that 
 gloaming is at hand, 
 I must turn my lingering footsteps to the setting of the sun, 
 From a dream of bliss awakened as the summer day is done. 
 When the wee birds wake the echoes with their songs of blyth- 
 
 est cheer, 
 Erom the birches green with verdure in the glad time of the 
 
 year; 
 Bonnie Scotland's vales are smiling underneath the northern 
 
 sky. 
 But the parting hour approaches when the fount of joy runs 
 drv. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 57 
 
 From the broad land of the prairie 1 returned in summer's 
 
 bloom, 
 When the blush is on the heather and the tassels on the broom; 
 Welcomed by the friends of childhood,— we discourse with 
 
 smiles and tears 
 Of the mingled joys and sorrows of some four and twenty years. 
 O! The tires of youth rekindle with the old-time melodies 
 That the bairnies sing in chorus as they gather round our knees; 
 In their artless glee recalling, through the years that intervene, 
 Other voices that have mingled when my boyish heart was 
 
 green. 
 
 AViien 1 looked unto the future with a child's implicit trust, 
 Ere the scroll of life, unfolding, laid my idols in the dust; 
 When my spirit soared unfettered o'er the marches of the glen, 
 And would fain abide life's issues in the crowded haunts of men- 
 As the callow eaglet Mutters,— from the rock-bound eyrie 
 
 hurled, — 
 So my untried pinions hovered on the threshold of the world; 
 While behind my father's dwelling beckoned, with its door ajar, 
 Bright ahead loomed fame and fortune that were mine to make 
 
 or mar. 
 
 Many dear ones whispered, "Courage, give no place to craven 
 fears," 
 
 Loving parents smiled upon me through the mists of unshed 
 tears; 
 
 "(tO my son, and God be with you, wheresoe'er your footsteps 
 roam. 
 
 For the brave and hardy wand'rer maketh every land his home." 
 
 Words of heartening that refreshed me as the dropping of the 
 dew, 
 
 AVhen the ocean waves were rolling, when the prairie breezes 
 blew: 
 
 And I quailed not in the struggle when life's skies were over- 
 cast, 
 
 For my pathway was illumined with the sunshine of the past 
 
 So 1 come to the fulfilling of the hope that cheered my soul, 
 And in darkest hours inspired me on to many a hard- won goal; 
 Once again I tread the heather and my heart bounds wild and 
 
 free, 
 On the moorlands where my fathers fought for God and liberty- 
 
58 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Gowans deck the fragrant meadows, skylarks pour their song 
 ou high, 
 
 Wavelets sparkle in the sunshine where the burnie wimples by; 
 
 Still the mountain breezes rustle through the pine-tree's sway- 
 ing bough: 
 
 Years have left no deeper impress than the wrinkles on my 
 brow. 
 
 In the dreamy haze of morning by the fields of new-mown hay, 
 I behold the night shades scatter at the coming of tlie day: 
 And no echo of life's tumult may disturb my soul's repose 
 AVhile the blush of dawn is mirrored in the dewdrop on the rose. 
 As my soul drinks in the beauties of historic vale and stream 
 I rejoice in the fruition of an exile's fondest dream; 
 And I wander still enchanted till the last beam fades away, 
 By the mingling of the waters in the bosom of Strathspey. 
 
 Oft 1 scale the rugged hillside where the foaming cascades leap,- 
 Musing o'er departed glories by the frowning castled steep; 
 But the bonnie bluebells cluster where the old-time heroes bled, 
 And the lambkins frisk unhindered where the liery cross was 
 
 sped, 
 For the warrior reigns no longer as the uncrowned king of men, 
 Nor the vengeance-laden slogan wakes the echoes of the glen; 
 Nevermore let hostile breezes fan the smoldering fires to fiame, — 
 Sweeter is the clasp of friendship than the blood-stained roll of 
 
 fame. 
 
 Here no wild unrest is brooding; men accept life's joy and pain 
 As the glowing of the sunshine and the patter of the rain; 
 Taking time to live serenely "all the measure of their days;" 
 JNIorn and eve their voice ascending in a bounteous Father's 
 
 praise. 
 "Peace on earth, good will to mankind," I behold their lives 
 
 fulfil. 
 Things the man of God hath taught them in the old kirk on the 
 
 hill; 
 Men may sway the world of fashion with the words of pomp 
 
 and pride. 
 But the old, old story conquers where our Scottish hearts abide. 
 
 But my brow is darkly shaded when my cottage home appears; 
 Hallowed by the sweetest mem'ries of my boyhood's happy years, 
 AVhere a hundred of the dearest came to speed me on my way, 
 Not a hand is stretched in welcome to the wand'rer of to-day. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 59 
 
 For the door is otf ifs Jiinges and the windows lack their panes' 
 (xaiint and smokeless is the chimney, and unbroken silence 
 
 reigns; 
 And the moss-grown walls are crumbling, and the roof is almost 
 
 gone, 
 AVeeds and nettles only flourish round my mother's dear hearth" 
 
 stone. 
 
 In the old kirkyard I wander, in the moonbeams glistening 
 
 bright, 
 Where the dews of evening sparkle like a million gems of light; 
 By the sculptured stones that awed me while my youthful mind 
 
 was stored 
 AVith the nurture and,— more frequent,— admonition of the 
 
 I^ord. 
 There are loved and lost ones lying underneath each grassy 
 
 mound, 
 In the sleep that knows no waking till the trump of God shall 
 
 sound; 
 O! What boots my wistful gazing on the woodland, plain and 
 
 hill. 
 When the honored head low lieth and the loving heart is still. 
 
 Bonnie Scotland, I have loved thee in the springtime of my days, 
 Dear and dearer still I hold thee in soft autumn's mellow blaze; 
 Fondly would my footsteps linger where I've been so sweetly 
 
 blest. 
 But the voice of duty calls me to the broad land of the west. . 
 I return to gilded exile with the passing of the day. 
 In my life new joys implanted which shall never fade away; 
 Other scenes of earth may charm me, but these golden days shall 
 
 be 
 Aye the fairest page to dwell on in the book of memory. 
 
 Now farewell ye vales of beauty, for my course is nearly done, 
 Field and forest, lake and river, glist'ning in the setting sun; 
 Flowery braes and snow-capped mountains, lowly cot and feudal 
 
 hall. 
 In the secret of my bosom memory hath enshrined you all. 
 Soon we part, my native Scotia, soon my dream of youth is o'er, 
 For I know my mortal vision shall behold thee never more; 
 Let thy heath for ever blossom where the soul of Freedom glows, 
 And thy thistle wave defiance to the raging of thy foes. 
 
6o By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 THE PKIZE BANNER. 
 
 WHEN the Campbells, braw an' leal, 
 Gather 'neath their silken banner^ 
 They salute the sturdy chiel 
 Wha did maist tae win the honor. 
 Whan they march intae the ha', 
 In a gran', inspirin" pageant, 
 They unbonnet, ane an' a', 
 Tae their boss recruitin' agent. 
 
 Bold Chief Anderson, I wat, 
 
 Soun's their praises late an' early. 
 An' the gowden badge he gat 
 
 Has been wrocht for lang an' sairly. 
 He has sped the "Cross o' Fire" 
 
 By the woodland an' the heather; 
 An' the heicht o' his desire 
 
 Is tae see the clansmen gather. 
 
 Mony glib-tongued lads, I ween, 
 
 Sing the praise o' mony orders; 
 But he has nae peer between 
 
 John-o'-Groat's Hoose an' the borders. 
 Let there be a worthy man 
 
 Stan'in' at the ways divergent— 
 He'll be steered intae the clan 
 
 By oor boss recruitin' sergeant. 
 
 THE LION AND THE EAGLE. 
 
 I have seen the red fox prowling, 
 I have heard the jackal howling, 
 Marked the spoiling of the raven, 
 And the lumbering carrion crow; 
 Now they seek their dismal dwelling. 
 And the song-bird's note is swelling, 
 Since the eagle rules the heavens, 
 And the lion roars below. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 6i 
 
 I have seen the captive nations' 
 Thrill with new-born aspirations: 
 1 have seen the dawn, all glorious, 
 Of their day of liberty; 
 Riven are the chains that bound them, 
 Stars of freedom shine around them, 
 Since Columbia stands victorious 
 And Britannia rules the sea. 
 
 British hearts with ardor beating. 
 Send the message of their greeting, 
 From across the tide that rages. 
 In our day of victory; 
 And our land, with pride unbended. 
 Grasps the friendly hand extended 
 By the giant of the ages 
 And the home land of the free. 
 
 Not for flags of conquest streaming, 
 Xor for empire-builders' dreaming, 
 But to sweep aside the barriers 
 In the path of liberty; 
 For the rights of man are shielded, 
 When the sword of fate is wielded 
 By Columbia's peerless warriors, 
 And the men who rule the sea. 
 
 O! The bells of joy are ringing. 
 And the fruits of earth up-springing, 
 And the sors of men partaking 
 Of it's bountiful increase; 
 For the night of strife is ending. 
 And their morning songs ascending, 
 As the day of God is breaking 
 On their heritage of peace. 
 
 May the future ages find us 
 Loyal to the ties that bind us, 
 On which Freedom's hopes are anchored, 
 As we face our destiny; 
 Kindred souls by birth and breeding. 
 In the van of progress leading, 
 Since Columbia stands unconquered, 
 And Britannia rules the sea. 
 
62 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 THE GREAT MACCALLUMMOKE 
 
 MEN of wealth and proud position, 
 Men of rank and high ambition, 
 Pass away, with names untainted, 
 Leaving no one to deplore; 
 But the Campbells true and loyal 
 Pay their homage, just and royal, 
 To the memYy, dear and sainted, 
 Of the great Maccallummore. 
 
 When the gilded world was wholly 
 Wrapped in it's capricious folly — 
 Revelled in it's festive season, 
 Or around the Howing bowl: 
 Far above life's pride and passion, 
 And the flutter of it's fashion. 
 He esteemed the "feast of reason," 
 And the genial "how of soul." 
 
 Neighbor lords were busy shooting, 
 While his pen was contributing 
 To the intellectual treasures 
 Of old Scotia's mountain land; 
 And the rulers of the nation. 
 In the halls of legislation. 
 Smiled approval of the measures 
 Framed by his illustrious hand. 
 
 When the faithless were assailing. 
 His allegiance was unfailing 
 To the kirk of his forefathers, 
 In the good old Scottish style; 
 Highland hearts with joy were swelling 
 When the old chief made his dwelling 
 With his faithful clan, that gathers 
 In the valleys of Argyle. 
 
 For his mind, supremely gifted, 
 For his life, by grace uplifted, 
 Is our noble chief lamented. 
 As for honors that he bore; 
 Till we meet him over yonder 
 Shall the faithful clansmen ponder 
 On the mem'ry, dear and sainted. 
 Of the great Maccallummore. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 63 
 
 THE CITY PAYED \YITH GOLD. 
 
 AFxlR across the foam, in my dear old-country home, 
 Ambition's voice kept ringing in my ear: 
 "My lot has been misplaced, for my talents run to vNast e 
 My energies can tind no outlet here." 
 1 deemed I should be blest in the bright and bounding west: 
 
 And so I crossed the ocean to behold 
 The treasures, rich and rare, of the glorious World's Fair, 
 And splendors of the city payed with gold. 
 
 I mingled in the throng which surged, the whole day long. 
 
 The dreamland city's palaces to view; 
 I joined in song and dance in the world-renowned Plaisance, 
 
 My life a round of pleasures, ever new\ 
 The sun shone overhead, and the wine was rosy red, 
 
 And I exclaimed, "The half was never told 
 Of western power and might, and the fountain of delight 
 
 That sparkles in this city paved with gold." 
 
 Too soon those joys were flown, when, friendless and uaknown. 
 
 To seek my promised fortune I was fain; 
 But hard times pinched me sore as, with many thousands more, 
 
 I strove to find employment, but in vain. 
 Grim famine stalked the land, and, with wealth on every hand, 
 
 I suffered want and misery untold; 
 AVhen, to complete my woe, I w^as force^l to clear the snow 
 
 From thoroughfares I dreamt were paved with gold. 
 
 My dreams of fortune fair gave place to dull despair; 
 
 I saw no hope for me in my distress, 
 But I conquered in the end, for a single-hearted friend 
 
 Has set me on the pathway to success. 
 And now, at last, Fm blest in the bright and bounding west, 
 
 Where Fort.une's favors wait upon the bold: 
 But Fll mind until I die how I dreamt in days gone by 
 
 Of Chicago as a city paved with gold. 
 
64 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 FOR WIVES AN' WEANS AN' A' THAT. 
 
 WHAN Hielan'men, in days bygane, 
 Unsheathed their dirks an' a' that, 
 The daiirin' chiel that crossed their steel 
 Sune turned his tail an' a' that. 
 For a' that an' a' that, 
 
 Their fechts an' feuds an' a' that; 
 Their valiant hand preserved oor land 
 Frae slavery's chains an' a' that. 
 
 Noo far avva' their pibrochs blaw. 
 
 Their slogan peals an' a' that; 
 They ding their foes wi" sturdy blows, 
 For Freedom's sake an' a" that. 
 For a' that an' a' that. 
 
 The Boers are wae for a' that; 
 For weel they ken oor kilted men 
 Will claw their hides an' a' that. 
 
 They fear nae blow frae mortal foe, 
 
 1 hey're true as steel an' a' that; 
 JBut wives an* weans, ahint the scenes, 
 Maun wring their ban's an' a' that. 
 For a' that an' a' that, 
 
 Cauld puirtith's waes an' a' that; 
 The weans wha claim a sodger's name 
 Maun bear the brunt o' a' that. 
 
 Noo far abro-ad we bear oor load 
 
 O' cark an' care an' a' that; 
 But we'll unite an' send oor mite 
 Tae soothe their waes for a' that. 
 For a' that an' a' that. 
 
 Let future years reca' that. 
 We join oor ban's wi' brither clans 
 For Scotland's weal an' a' that. 
 
 Sae let us pray oor Picnic day 
 May cloodless be an' a' that; 
 That God's ain smile may cheer oor toil 
 For widows, weans an' a' that. 
 For a' that an' a' that. 
 
 We'll dae oor best for a' that; 
 AVe'U ne'er be beat whan bairnies greet 
 For parritch, kail an' a' that. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 65 
 
 THE OLD GUARD OF SCOTLAND'S 
 HONOR. 
 
 WHEN the guard of Scotland's glory 
 Tell her fame in song and story, 
 Vowing by their native heather, 
 That "There's nae land like oorain," 
 Many kind and sonsy faces 
 Smile in their accustomed places, 
 And I sadly wonder whether 
 I shall see the like again. 
 
 We have read in hist'ry's pages * 
 
 How the Scot, in former ages. 
 Thrilled the world with deeds of daring 
 In the death-grasp of the foe; 
 AV^orthy sons of valiant fathers 
 Are the patriot band that gathers, 
 Scotia's banner nobly bearing 
 Where the prairie breezes blow. 
 
 Scottish hearts beyond the ocean 
 Thrill with fervor of emotion 
 AVhen MacMillan's voice is ringing 
 In his country's well-earned praise; 
 Mirth and joy attend our meetings 
 In MacEwan's whole-souled greetings, 
 Or a Gardner's tuneful singing 
 Of the songs of other days. 
 
 Loyal clansmen greet with pleasure 
 Fiery Fleming, Highland Fraser, 
 With their forms erect and portly 
 And a word and smile for all; 
 Or, when reason's feast is ended. 
 Grasp a Shirlavv's hand extended; 
 AVhile his noble mien and courtly 
 Graces our assembly hall. 
 
 Gentle Latto's words endear him 
 To the hearts of all who hear him; 
 Bold Buchanan's prove inspiring. 
 With a power of their own; 
 
66 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Pawky Scott, his orbs are shining; 
 Worthy Morrison reclining 
 On the arm of love untiring, 
 Since the light of earth is gone. 
 
 There are men from glen and corrie, 
 Sturdy ]5ain and studious Gorrie, 
 Kindly Spence, whose face is beaming 
 Love to all humanity; 
 Bryce and Deuchars ever vying 
 In their loyalty undying; 
 Forrest's shafts of logic gleaming. 
 And the smiles of a Dundee. 
 
 i There are leal ones gone before us 
 Who have sung in heartsome chorus, 
 "Auld Lang Syne," so grandly swelling, 
 And our martial "Scots WhaHae;" 
 Tender ties that death has broken 
 Fill our hearts with grief unspoken. 
 But they've reached a fairer dwelling 
 In the land of perfect day. 
 
 Just a few more scenes of pleasure 
 In the days no man can measure, 
 And the souls with ardor glowing 
 For their darling Scotia's weal 
 Shall return unto their Giver, 
 To exalt His name forever, 
 Where the stream of life is flowing 
 In the home land of the leal. 
 
 HIGHLAND ASSOCIATION'S KECEP. 
 TION ODE. 
 
 (TUNE: "SCOTS WHA HAE.") 
 
 HIGHLANDERS we welcome you. 
 Sons of Glen and mountain blue. 
 If your hearts fite staunch and true 
 To their memory; 
 Hither come each kilted clan, 
 Noblest of the race of man. 
 Meet to lead the world's van 
 On to libertw 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 67 
 
 Once a month we mingle here, 
 Mirth and song and social cheer. 
 Memories of auld Scotia dear, 
 
 We can them recall; 
 Scottish lads and lassies join 
 In the melody divine, 
 While our hearts and hands entwine 
 
 Welcome one and all. 
 
 BURNS^ ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 As each succeeding year this day returns. 
 The assembled thousands throng in every place 
 To hail the anniversary of Burns, 
 The Poet Laureate of the human race. 
 
 Where'er the friendly English tongue holds sway, 
 And where the Scottish Doric, too, finds voice, 
 
 The sons of freedom celebrate this day, 
 Their pulses quicken, and their liearts rejoice. 
 
 How wonderful, how gentle is the power 
 Of song, by which he charmed the minds of men. 
 
 Through all the years, down to this very hour. 
 When, with new strength, it charms us o'er again. 
 
 And ^yere those wondrous breathings all his own? 
 
 Did not such thoughts each freeborn heart inspire? 
 Yeal verily, but Robert Burns alone 
 
 Could frame, and charge them with poetic tire. 
 
 Here lies the secret of our Bard's success, 
 
 For, in his noblest passages we find 
 'Tis not alone his own thoughts they express; 
 
 They voice the sentiments of all mankind. 
 
 As granite boulders in the cold earth sheath'd, 
 Xo outward mark to indicate their worth, 
 
 Those soul-inspiring strains had ne'er been breath'd. 
 Save for his master-mind that gave them birth. 
 
 Some poets write in polish'd, highflown phrase; 
 
 Though we admire them, they can ne'er control 
 Our sympathies, while Robin's simplest lays 
 
 Yet strike a chord in everv human soul. 
 
68 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Long may his minstrelsy delight the earth; 
 
 In fame's great temple he hath found a place; 
 Then well may we commemorate his birth: 
 
 The Poet Laureate of the human race. 
 
 TEUE TILL DEATH. 
 
 ( 4 npHERE'S gowd an' gear ayont the sea," 
 J_ Said winsome Willie Gray; 
 
 "An', Nannie, will ye wait for me 
 Upon the banks o' Spey? 
 My arm is strong, my heart is true. 
 
 There's Ane abune tae guide; 
 Your gentle faith ye ne'er shall rue 
 The day ye are my bride." 
 
 The lassie vowed that she wad wait, 
 
 In faith an' constancy; 
 An' winsome Willie daur'd his fate 
 
 Afar ayont the sea. 
 An' while he wrocht for gowd an' gear 
 
 On far Columbia's shore. 
 She wrote him words o' love an' cheer. 
 
 An' dreamed o' joys in store. 
 
 But while the bark was on the main. 
 
 That bore him tae her side, 
 The angels cam' tae claim their ain. 
 
 An' wadna be denied. 
 She murmured wi' her partin' breath, 
 
 "My love I ne'er shall see; 
 But tell him I was true till death. 
 
 An' lo'ed nae ane but he." 
 
 Blythe Willie cam' a'e simmer day, 
 
 Wi' gowd an' gear an' a'; 
 They showed him whaur his Nannie lay. 
 
 An' sadly turned awa'. 
 They fand him there at morning tide. 
 
 His een were closed for aye; 
 An' noo they're sleeping side by side 
 
 Upon the banks o' Spey. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 69 
 
 TO AN HONORED SCOT. HON. T. V. 
 
 MacMH^LAN. 
 
 DEAR brother Scots, my muse would fain erect 
 A tribute of regard to one whose name 
 Commands our highest honor and respect, 
 Emblazoned on this nation's roll of fame. 
 A Scot who represents, in highest sphere, 
 
 Their sturdy character, old Scotland's pride; 
 The principles each Scottish lieart holds dear. 
 In which our heroes lived, and martyrs died. 
 For freedom and their God, upon the bleak hillside. 
 
 His lot was early cast among the great, 
 
 And, — conscious of the tierce and searching light 
 That glares on those who steer the ship of state, — 
 
 Was ever found upon the side of right. 
 Aye ready to respond to duty's call. 
 
 He served the nation long and faithfully; 
 And this one service surely crowns them all,— 
 
 Exposed to manifold temptations, he 
 Preserved a spotless name, and strict integrity. 
 
 Since party politics defile the touch — 
 
 A hotbed of corruption undisguised — 
 A statesman wlio has lived above reproach 
 
 Will find his public spirit fitly prized. 
 Men of ability this country needs, 
 
 Combined witli sterling honesty and worth; 
 And here we have a man whose words and deeds 
 
 Do honor to the country of his birth; 
 The land of Bruce and Knox, the lions of the north. 
 
 His kindly nature prompted him to lend 
 
 A helping hand to others in distress; 
 And grateful hearts acknowledge him the friend 
 
 Who set them on the pathway to success. 
 His brother Scots may fitly learn of him 
 
 To stand for principle with all their might. 
 In this fair land which holds in high esteem 
 
 The man who dares for liberty to fight: 
 And honors all who trust in God and do the right. 
 
'O' By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 CENTENARY OF BURNS'S DEATH. 
 
 MY brother Scots, who liail with mirth and glee 
 The day held sacred to our Robbie's fame; 
 The bard of Scotland and humanity 
 Another, sadder tribute now may claim. 
 
 Methinks the conrse of time has backward rolled 
 To old Dumfries, a hundred years ago; 
 
 While summer days their bursting charms unfold, 
 The dew of death is on his noble brow. 
 
 While bonnie Jean watched by his dying bed- 
 Faithful as guardian angel to her vow— 
 
 "When I am dead a hundred years," he said, 
 'tl'U be respected higher far than now." 
 
 Nor have the years betrayed his sacred trust. 
 But more and more have recognized his wortli; 
 
 His body mingled with the kindred dust. 
 His spirit lives in song throughout the earth. 
 
 Too soon, alas, his tuneful lyre unstrung; 
 
 Stern winter's breath to blight the flowers of June; 
 Too soon, alas! We sigh for songs unsung; 
 
 His life's sun set in glory of the noon. 
 
 Was he to blame? Yea, doubtless. Did there live 
 A man exempt from error? No, not one. 
 
 He has atoned— the world may well forgive; 
 Let him who sinless is first cast a stone. 
 
 Let prudes reprove and carping critics rage, — 
 They cannot dim the lustre of his crown; 
 
 His faults were but the fashion of the age. 
 His virtues and his talents all his own. 
 
 Ev'n from his birth the fates appeared unkind,- 
 The world surveying him with hostile glance 
 
 Exemplifies the triumph of the mind 
 O'er grinding toil and adverse circumstance. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 71 
 
 Trained to the plou£?h in nature's solitude,— 
 
 A nobler legacy did Burns bequeath 
 Than conquering hero's, born of fire and blood, 
 
 Who revelled in a carnival of death. 
 
 If Jiruce achieved the freedom of our race, 
 
 And drove th' invaders from his mountain home: 
 
 If Knox, who never feared a human face. 
 
 Upraised his voice, and burst the chains of Home: 
 
 Then Kobert J5urns enshrined in classic song 
 
 The aspirations of the brave and free— 
 The soulful pathos of his native tongue — 
 
 And tore the mask from veiled hypocrisy. 
 
 And whence the potent charm that dwells within 
 Those quaint word-pictures, by his genius drawn? 
 
 'Tis nature's touch, that makes the whole world kin. 
 And binds man's heart unto his brother man. 
 
 His works shall be the Scotsmen's treasure trove 
 Till they forget their country and their God; 
 
 Until tlie youths and maidens cease to love, 
 And freemen bow to kiss the tyrant s rod. 
 
 A Iiundred years ago the funeral knell 
 
 Of Kobert Burns rang on the summer air; 
 Again it rings across the ocean swell. 
 
 Reaches our hearts, and finds an echo there. 
 
 Xow is the time to realise the dream 
 That Scotsmsa here have cherished faithfully; 
 
 Let bronze and marble tell how we esteem 
 The Bard of Scotland and humanity. 
 
72 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 A SONG OF MANHOOD. 
 
 LET magnates rejoice in the pride of tlieir station, 
 Let weaklings repine in the breath of the slums; 
 I deem it unworthy of man's aspiration 
 To reign at the banquet or pick up the crumbs. 
 The spirit may droop though with grandeur surrounded, 
 
 And cotfers o'eitlow with the treasure they hold; 
 The soul has ambitions that may not be bounded 
 By wielding of power or hoarding of gold. 
 
 The chariot may roll on the boulevard, bearing 
 
 The victor of life on his triumphal way; 
 There's naught that appeals to my manhood in wearing 
 
 The tinsel'd regalia of pomp and display. 
 My knee to no Moloch of fashion is bended— 
 
 Serenely contented whate'er may betide, 
 1 mourn not my simple career, unattended 
 
 With fountains of pleasure or trappings of pride. 
 
 1 scorn the gay banquet with kingly attendance. 
 
 My nature was formed for a simpler career— 
 The plowshare upturning my life's independence, 
 
 And pleasures that cost not a sigh nor a tear; 
 The conscience untarnished that calls forth the smiling 
 
 Of Him who abides in the heavens above; 
 The glow of true friendship, life's seasons beguiling, 
 
 The pleasures of home and the sunshine of love. 
 
 GATHER UP THE FINGERS. 
 
 LET us gather up the fingers 
 That are scattered on the green; 
 Let us wrap them up and put them 
 Wliere they'll never more be seen; 
 Let us find a crumb of comfort 
 
 In reflecting— if we can— 
 'Twas his patriotic ardor 
 That has maimed our little man. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. J2> 
 
 He had saved up all ids pennies 
 
 xVnd perhaps a dime or two 
 For the crackers and the fireworks 
 
 And the nigger chasers, too; 
 To do honor to the nation 
 
 In his simple, boyish way. 
 He would join the noisy racket 
 
 Held on Independence day. 
 
 He was rosy with excitement, 
 
 And his childish glee we shared 
 Till one pesky thing exploded 
 
 AVhen he wasn't quite prepared. 
 Now his little hands are bandaged 
 
 And he's lying very still; 
 And he wonders why it happened 
 
 To a boy that meant no Ul. 
 
 Strange we never prized those fingers 
 
 Till the giant cracker's roar 
 Stripped them from the hand they grew on, 
 
 And we'll never squeeze them more; 
 And they'll never pull our whiskers 
 
 Nor be thrust into our eyes; 
 For to patriotic ardor 
 
 They have fallen a sacrifice. 
 
 BETTER DAYS. 
 
 IN the dim and distant future, when creation moves aright. 
 Sons of men shall live as brothers, and the clans shall cease 
 to fight; 
 AVhen tlie useful plough is guided by the hand that drew the 
 
 blade 
 Men of peace sliall sit serenely, 'neatli their vine and fig-tree's 
 
 shade. 
 Peace on earth, goodwill to mankind ruling to earth's utmost 
 
 end — 
 Hate and strife shall be forgotten, every man his neighbor's 
 
 friend; 
 And the sun of bliss shall cheer us with it's glad, effulgent light. 
 In the dim and distant future, when creation moves aright. 
 
74 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 In the dim, uncertain future, when the power of love shall rule, 
 'Men shall hail the day with gladness, and tlieir cup of joy be 
 
 full; 
 Honesty and upright dealing shall transform the marts of trade, 
 When the greed of gold is vanished, and the golden rule obeyed. 
 Mother earth producing plenty for the use of man and beast- 
 Half the world shall cease to famish, and the other cease to 
 
 feast; 
 Happy mortals shall be students, learning truths in God's own 
 
 school. 
 In the dim and distant future, when the power of love sliall rule 
 
 In the bright and happy future, when the mists that cloud our 
 
 eyes 
 Shall be scattered by the sunbeams, falling softly from the 
 
 skies — 
 Then our foes shall cease to hate us, and our friends be still 
 
 more dear, 
 When within our happy circles perfect love sliall cast out fear. 
 Thus emerging from the shadows which the deadly war-clouds 
 
 cast- 
 Since the new light of the ages sliows the errors of t!ie past — 
 Vice and crime, alone, shall murmur, as they shun ifs blessed 
 
 ray, 
 In the bright and happy future, when the mists shall tiee away 
 
 In tliat bright, enchanting future, when the bondmen shall be 
 
 free. 
 Songs of praise shall rise to heaven from tlie hosts of liberty; 
 When the human mind and muscle stoop not to the galling 
 
 chain, 
 Brotherhood of men and nations shall begin it's gentle reign. 
 Breaking down the old-time barriers 'twixt the tyrant and the 
 
 slave. 
 With their mutual hatred buried deep in dark oblivion's grave: 
 Ev'n the heavenly liost shall envy earth it's sweet felicity, 
 In the dim and distant future, when the bondmen shall be free. 
 
 Thus the up to date reformers their ideas have outlined, 
 They who seek a panacea for the ills of all mankind: 
 And they paint us roseate pictures, but accomplish little more. 
 For the right and wrong shall struggle, as they've ever done be- 
 fore. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 75 
 
 They are oftentimes discouraged, for the task is all too hard, 
 Yet their single-hearted efforts fail not of their due reward; 
 When our sisters and our brothers do their duty as they see. 
 They are treading in the footsteps of the Man of Galilee. 
 
 Many consecrated spirits, who address the heedless throng 
 AVith unswerving resolution to annihilate the wrong, 
 Point the way of life, with fingers manicured and undehled: 
 Better bear a cup of water to a tired and tiiirsty child. 
 Where the hand of God is heavy there is suffering to allay, 
 In the homes, by sorrow shaded, there are tears to wipe away; 
 Whatsoe'er we find of service let us do it with our might: 
 'Tis by units, not by masses, that the world shall move aright. 
 
 A FAKEWELL. 
 
 T 
 
 HE sun has arisen, the shadows have fied. 
 
 And thrills my young heart with an infinite dread; 
 For fate, all relentless, is beckoning me 
 
 A journey, the end of which none can foresee. 
 
 Farewell, my dear parents, your hearts must be sore 
 To think you may look on your daughter no more; 
 
 When far from your presence, with dangers beset. 
 Your kindness and love I will never forget. 
 
 I go for an object I mean to attain. 
 
 Though in the pursuit I may chance to be slain: 
 For why should not woman, so frail and so fair, 
 
 Accomplish, like man, just whatever she dareV 
 
 For love of a man they will face every woe, 
 For love of the heathen the dear ones will go 
 
 And serve the good cause just as well as they're able^ 
 Till served up themselves on a cannibal's table. 
 
 I go not to preach to the heathen afar, 
 Xor yet as a nurse to the African war: 
 
 I go not to be an adventurer's bride: 
 Fm going upon my first bicycle ride. 
 
76 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 MELODIES OF HOME. 
 
 COME hither, love, while twilight falls around us, 
 The stars shine out as day's bright glories fade, 
 And from the oity's fevered pulses stealing, 
 We'll lose ourselves in evening's gentle shade. 
 While others in the playhouse sit enchanted, 
 
 Or tread soft measures in the gilded hall. 
 Here, hand in hand, we'll stray as in the morning 
 Of love's young dream, the sweetest time of all. 
 
 Sing to me, love, the dear old songs of childhood, 
 
 Their sweet simplicity hath power to please 
 When the proud world of talent cannot charm me 
 
 With all its wealth of hireling melodies. 
 Though loftier strains enthrall the gay assembly. 
 
 Thy dear, familiar voice I love to hear; 
 For fraught it is with household memories tender, 
 
 Attuned to soothing a distracted ear. 
 
 I care not for the artificial twitter 
 
 Of painted cage birds, sighing to be free. 
 While wood and vale resound with grander chorus, 
 
 I^nstinted Hoods of soulful melody. 
 The voice of nature soothes my toil-worn spirit; 
 
 I breathe the lingering fragrance of tlie flowers; 
 What need to plunge in fasliion's heartless flutter 
 
 To speed the passing of the honeyed hoursV 
 
 Those garden walls inclose a little kingdom 
 
 Where love is throned, and here our lives are blest; 
 While hurrying throngs awake our soul's compassion — 
 
 Wan victims to the demon of unrest. 
 Our loving hearts in unison still beating. 
 
 Unto the last link of life's golden chain, 
 We'll pluck the roses from their thorny setting. 
 
 And, dying, feel we have not lived in vain. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. ^jj 
 
 MY BROTHER BORE. 
 
 WHILE valiant Stead, who raised the mask of evil 
 And probed it's graceless secrets to the core, 
 Inflames the English temper with his pamphlet 
 Entitled "Shall I Slay My Brother Boer?" 
 We rustic bards who strive with desperation 
 To emulate the fame of Burns and Moore 
 Are oft constrained, by sense of rank injustice. 
 To question "Shall we slay our brother bore?" 
 
 We sing our sweetest songs, we write our sonnets, 
 
 To charm our fellow men; and if we fail, 
 Why, there are others. Take the man, for instance. 
 
 Who keeps on telling "good things" that are stale: 
 Then he resents our vain attempts at laughter 
 
 O'er jokes we've heard a thousand times before; 
 And as we sadly mourn a ruptured friendship 
 
 We wonder should we slay our brother bore. 
 
 Then there are those who urge with hery ardor 
 
 A scheme to banish every human ill; 
 Who yearn to usher in on suifering mankind 
 
 A rosy-tinted era of goodwill. 
 We justly dread the fourth-rate politician 
 
 Who tells how "other fellows" cheat and rob; 
 Although we venture not to contradict him. 
 
 We know he merely talks to hold his job. 
 
 Then some insist on telling us their troubles 
 
 Which Kipley's stalwart men are paid to heed; 
 And others claim the right to give us volumes 
 
 Of friendly counsel which we do not need. 
 Oh, blest is he who has no cherished weakness 
 
 Which causes men to clamor for his gore; 
 Who has not set his best friends to debating 
 
 The question "Shall we slay our brother boreV" 
 
yS By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 THE MAN WITH THE STUFF. 
 
 LET the nobles brave and fearless 
 Boast of lineage long and peerless 
 With unbounded zeal and vigor, 
 For they mean it right enough; 
 But we find throughout the nations, 
 In the bulk of life's relations, 
 That the man who cuts the figure 
 Is the one who's got the stuff. 
 
 Men have seldom controverted 
 What the sages have asserted, 
 " 'Tis not wealth nor lofty station 
 
 That should win the world's regard;" 
 In our circles democratic 
 Its endorsement is emphatic, 
 Yet its daily application 
 May be found a trifle hard. 
 
 Let them try life's earnest battle, 
 And go tending sheep and cattle, 
 On tlie prairies wide and lonely, 
 Or get down to chopping wood; 
 And an overseer's flouting 
 Soon would set their minds to doubting 
 The old bard who sang, " 'Tis only 
 Noble to be pure and good." 
 
 Honest worth and noble breeding 
 Evermore should do the leading; 
 AVe proclaim it long and sweetly; 
 Yet ii's something of a bluff; 
 In a sentimental ditty 
 '•Nature's nobleman" sounds pretty; 
 But he's handicapped completely 
 If lie hasn't got the stuff. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 79 
 
 CATS THAT WAIL IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 I have lieard the voice of thunder when the hery bolts were 
 sped, 
 I have heard the din of battle when the bravest blanched 
 witli dread; 
 And have lieard the tempest howling as our good ship plowed 
 
 the wave, 
 And the savage echoes mutter in some subterranean cave; 
 But no sound has so appalled me as the histrionic might 
 Of the cats that wail in concert in the watches of tiie night. 
 
 Oh! I liate tlie man who borrows what he never will repay, 
 And the wretch tliat stole my raiment while 1 bathed one morn 
 
 in May; 
 But there rankles in my bosom hatred more pronounced and 
 
 dee]), 
 Of the feline host of darkness which conspires to murder sleep; 
 Though from melodies artistic I derive extreme delight, 
 I despise sucli serenading in the middle of the night. 
 
 I have slain the tleeing roebuck with a single well-timed shot. 
 But 'twas child's play to pursuing stray cats in the vacant lot; 
 As they scurry 'neath the sidewalk all my old-time valor fades. 
 And I heartily consign them to the diabolic shades; 
 Though tlie language I indulge in is more forceful than polite, 
 Can they chide me who have listened to these voices of the 
 nighty 
 
 VISIONS OF THE PAST. 
 
 9 'T~^IS but a little book, all soiled and faded, 
 
 J[_ The record brief of half -forgotten days; 
 
 Long hidden in a heap of musty volumes, 
 
 That suddenly arrests my wandering gaze. 
 Lightly at first, and then with rapt attention, 
 
 I turn the leaves with mingled joy and pain; 
 As in the midnight stillness of my chamber 
 
 I live those days, in fancy, o'er again. 
 
8o By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Spellbound, I gaze upon the quaint life pictures 
 
 Snatched as by magic from oblivion's shade; 
 More thrilling than romance's brightest pages, 
 
 A problem solved, a riddle that is read. 
 My tear-dimmed eyes, my bosom wildly heaving, 
 
 lie-echo the emotions of the past: 
 Of hope and joy when life's glad sun was beaming, 
 
 Of doubt and fear when skies were overcast. 
 
 Once more I join the eager rush of business. 
 
 Where countless thousands strive for mastery; 
 Again, within the gilded halls of pleasure, 
 
 I join the mazy dance with careless glee: 
 Again I face the men of wind and muscle 
 
 In fiercest contests on th' athletic ground; 
 Or wander vvith my loved one in the gloaming 
 
 While weird, fantastic shadows fall around. 
 
 How vain and fruitless were the hopes I cherished- 
 
 On which the searchlight of my memory plays — 
 And oh, how baseless were the fears that haunted. 
 
 Viewed from the vantage ground of later days. 
 The future, bright with promise, was before me, 
 
 Now, looking back on stern reality, 
 I sigh, "How much of evil were averted 
 
 If I had only known what was to be." 
 
 What mingled feelings rise within my bosom 
 
 As memory's checkered vistas I retrace; 
 Henceforth among my dearest cherished relics 
 
 This little book shall find an honored place: 
 Type of a greater book of human record, 
 
 A diary inscribed by angel pen; 
 Alas! how much that I have here omitted 
 
 That scroll of truth eternal will contain. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 8i 
 
 MY BROTHEK JACK. 
 
 WHEN Brother Jack came home to-day 
 His clothes were soiled with mud, 
 And on his rosy face appeared 
 A speck or two of blood. 
 He looked just like he had been through 
 
 A cyclone or a fight; 
 And so ma asked him tenderly 
 What caused his sorry plight. 
 
 " 'Twas this way, ma; the gang an' me 
 
 Wus comin' home from school, . 
 An' played that we were breakin' in 
 
 A stubborn Texas mule." 
 "Well, did your little band subdue 
 
 The savage creature's pride?" 
 "You bet your boots they broke him in," 
 
 My brother Jack replied. 
 
 "Well, since your friends came out ahead, 
 
 My boy, why do you cry? 
 Your little comrades laugh and joke." 
 
 He answered, with a sigh: 
 " 'Twas easy for the otlier kids 
 
 To thump, an' haul, an' pull; 
 An' so they've got no call to cry. 
 
 But, ma, I was the mule." 
 
 DEATH IN LABOR'S WAR. 
 
 WHEKE the Lincoln Park lagoon 
 Kolls it's mimic waves, foam-crested, 
 1 beheld an outcast swoon 
 On the park bench where he rested. 
 Soon recalled to life again 
 
 By our hands, unskilled but tender, 
 We inquired, with inward pain, 
 
 What assistance we could render; 
 Then he spoke; "There's death afar, 
 
 Where the shot and shell are flying; 
 But right here, in labor's war. 
 Men are dying, dying, dying. 
 
82 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 "I was bom beyond the brine, 
 
 In a continental region, 
 Where the tyrant's right divine 
 
 Was a part of my religion. 
 There they praised Columbia's hand 
 
 Which the bondman's chain had riven; 
 And I hastened to the land 
 
 That is freest under heaven, 
 To the land so wide and fair, 
 
 Where the starry flag is flying; 
 Now^ in darkness of despair 
 
 I am dying, dying, dying. 
 
 "Here I wrought for daily bread 
 
 From the dawn till sunset's glowing; 
 And my little ones were fed 
 
 With the goods of God's bestowing: 
 Till one day the builder prince 
 
 To his men denied admittance; 
 And— I've hardly eaten since, 
 
 For I seldom asked a pittance; 
 Oft my humble suit was spurned, 
 
 And, Oh God of love! 'tis trying, 
 When in midst of bread unearned 
 
 I am dying, dying, dying. 
 
 "I have walked the marbled pave 
 
 In the midst of wealth unbounded, 
 Yet denied the right to slave. 
 
 Where the bells of joy resounded; 
 Turned adrift to starve and die,— 
 
 On my knees so humbly bended 
 I have prayed to God on high 
 
 That this cruel strife be ended. 
 Now the answer I await. 
 
 In my weakness, hoping, sighing; 
 God,— Oh! (iod, -'twill be too late. 
 
 For I'm dying, dying, dying. 
 
 "Plead, oh plead then, in my name. 
 That ihe day of peace be hasted; 
 
 Let them stay their hands in shame 
 Ere another life be wasted. 
 
 Message of my parting soul,—" 
 Here his breath came faintly, slowly; 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 83 
 
 "Let a brothers love control, 
 In the name of all that's holy." 
 
 'Tis the message of the dead; — 
 For in potter's field he's lying;- 
 
 When in midst of gold and bread 
 He was dying, dying, dying. 
 
 AN UNTIMELY JOKE. 
 
 ONE day of late I chanced to hear 
 Expressed, a rather witty sneer 
 Of singers, who, in quaveriug strain, 
 Have tried to charm us, but in vain: 
 "Swans sing before they die; 'twere no bad thing 
 Should certain persons die before they sing." 
 
 The hall was small, the audience few, 
 
 The singer was a girl in blue; 
 
 Her voice was harsh and unrefined, 
 
 Her song a chestnut of its kind; 
 I thought: "A glorious chance, I do declare. 
 To spring that joke upon my neighbor there." 
 
 He seemed a farmer, brown and tanned, 
 
 With bulging chest and horny hand, 
 
 I chuckled, as with inward glee, 
 
 I whispered, confidentially: 
 "Swans sing before they die; 'twere no bad thing 
 Should certain persons die before they sing." 
 
 Then I got whipped; for why, you know 
 
 The husky fellow was her beau; 
 
 First with my form he wiped the floor, 
 
 Then fired me headlong through the door. 
 When next I criticise a girl in blue, 
 Be sure I'll know first whom I'm talking to. 
 
84 By Heath and Frame. 
 
 SOMEWHERE BETWEEN 
 
 SOMEWHEJIE between the poles and the equator— 
 The strenuous extremes of cold and heat- 
 Lies the fair clime whose soft and balmy breezes 
 Makes every hour of man's existence sweet. 
 No scorching suns oppress the frame with languor, 
 
 The storm king's icy breath is never blown; 
 And gentle spring, with fadeless flowers adorning, 
 Sits evermore upon i)er vernal throne. 
 
 Somewhere between the breathless rush of business 
 
 And the ignoble ease that sluggards find 
 Lie the activities of earnest manhood, 
 
 Which an all-wise ('reator has designed. 
 Some hoard their golden gains to the uprearing 
 
 Of marbled tombs to hide tlieir senseless clay; 
 A\n»ile others spend their lifetime in devising 
 
 How they may shirk the duties of the day. 
 
 Somewhere between the zealot's blind obedience 
 
 xVnd halls of unbelief where scoffers rave 
 There lies tlie shining way of truth eternal. 
 
 Which leads men to the rest beyond the grave. 
 Vain hope, to spread God's truth by sword and fagot. 
 
 And doubly vain the teaching that designs 
 To lower mankind to the brute's condition, 
 
 And rob the world of every light that shines. 
 
 A CHICAGO KICK. 
 
 WHERE the dizzy footlights llared, 
 And the spangles gleamed resplendent^ 
 There a famous actor shared 
 The applause with his attendant: 
 Who, in course of mimic war, 
 
 Sowed the seeds of disaffection; 
 Till by the aforesaid star 
 
 He was kicked into subjection. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 85 
 
 Now the actor, as ise ought, 
 
 Tried to cut a dashing figure; 
 And his body servant thought 
 
 lie was kicked with too much vigor. 
 So he fixed a board, you see, 
 
 Wiiere it hung for the protection 
 Of his dear anatomy 
 
 In the liour of liis correction. 
 
 So the cheerful curtain rose, 
 
 And the actor man was spunky, 
 As his softly slippered toes 
 
 Sought the coat tails of his Hunkey: 
 Then he hopped across the stage 
 
 On his one uninjured member, 
 And his howl of pain and rage 
 
 AVas a something to remember. 
 
 THE EGOTIST. 
 
 WHILE lovers around us are sighing, 
 Despairing, and breaking their hearts, 
 And losing their senses, and dying, 
 Beneath Cupid's merciless darts — 
 AVhen balked in their fondest endeavor,— 
 
 There's one imperturbable elf 
 Who basks in the sunshine of favor — 
 'Tis the man who makes love to himself. 
 
 Some lovers are bashful to show it. 
 
 In secret their young hearts rejoice; 
 But he lets the universe know it. 
 
 That all may applaud his wise choice. 
 He's never remiss in his duty, 
 
 The public parade he selects, 
 Where, to his own virtues and beauty. 
 
 He pays his profoundest respects. 
 
86 By Heath and Prairie, 
 
 While others dejected, are toiling, 
 
 He's in a fool's paradise blest; 
 Our consciences smite us for spoiling 
 
 His hand-painted haven of rest. 
 And yet poor unfortunates, chasing 
 
 Fair visions that baffle our search, 
 Are driven by his vain self-embracing 
 
 To call such a man off his perch. 
 
 Secure aj.':ainst inward dejection, 
 
 He's monarch of all he surveys, 
 For naught but his matchless perfection 
 
 Comes under the autocrat's gaze. 
 With ardor that knows no abating 
 
 He'll never be laid on the shelf, 
 For certain success is awaiting 
 
 The man who makes love to himself. 
 
 BROTHER JACK'S PUNISMENT, 
 
 MY Ikother Jack was plaguing Ma 
 AVith all his little might; 
 He'd slipped an onion in the tea, 
 AVhich spoiled her appetite; 
 He had upset the parrot's cage, 
 And tumbled from the swing; 
 So Ma opined that it was time 
 To stop that sort of thing. 
 
 x\nd so she reached for little Jack, 
 
 And laid him on her knee. 
 And then applied her slipper, where 
 
 It hurt his dignity. 
 Jack struggled in her grim embrace, 
 
 And tried to make excuse; 
 And so Ma sternly said, to point 
 
 A moral for his use. 
 
 "Now Jack, don't think it pleases me 
 
 To punish you, I pray; 
 For why, I feel it just as bad 
 
 As you do, anyway." 
 "Well maybe that is so," Jack said. 
 
 While tears ran down his face; 
 "It hurts you just as much as me, 
 
 But— in a different place.'' 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 87 
 
 HONOR THY FATHER. 
 
 WHEN the sweet breath of roseate childhood flutters 
 A little breast, untouched by earth-born fears; 
 AVhen the small voice its plaint of weakness utters 
 The embodied innocence of angel spheres:— 
 Who can portray the joy with which a mother 
 
 Marks the unfolding of the infant mind? 
 Unmatched her yearning love is by another 
 Affection in the ken of human kind. 
 
 And in the days when childish footsteps faltered, 
 
 The parents' first delight was watching o'er 
 Those budding lives, their tender care unaltered, 
 
 Their hearts unchanged, except to love the more. 
 The depth of their affection what can measure? 
 
 Constant to us, alike, in sun and shade; 
 We bear the record in fond memory's treasure. 
 
 Graven in characters that will not fade. 
 
 Then let our warmest sympathies be glowing, 
 
 As heavily upon the staff they lean; 
 'Tis theirs to reap sweet fruit of bitter sowing; 
 
 'Tis ours to love and serve for what has been. 
 When, spent with age and untold burdens bearing. 
 
 They near the outlet of life's tangled maze; 
 May we our noblest mission find in cheering 
 
 The gloom that haunts the evening of their days. 
 
 Then say not, with the worldling, shallow-hearted, 
 
 "They shall receive their due reward on high;" 
 Who write their filial love to the departed 
 
 On marbled tombs, their name to glorify. 
 But let our kindlest feeling find expression 
 
 Ere tyrant Death has reaped the bearded grain; 
 Too soon the cold earth-chamber claims possession, 
 
 When flowers are strewed, and tears are shed, in vain. 
 
88 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 THE POET A^^D THE FUNNY MAN. 
 
 THE flowers on the prairie are blooming, 
 The woodlands with melody ring; 
 But the poet is slow in recording 
 The advent of "beautiful spring." 
 His muse is asleep, and his verses 
 
 Unformed, for he knows they would be 
 The butt of the funny man's satire, 
 And ridiculed mercilessly. 
 
 I know not why humorous writers 
 
 Should deem them legitimate prey, 
 For naught of a magazine's pages 
 
 Can be more inspiring than they. 
 Who sings of the beauties of nature. 
 
 By riverside, valley and fell. 
 And praises those wondrous creations, 
 
 Thus lauds their Creator as well. 
 
 They soothe us in anguish of spirit, 
 
 Our troubles arise and depart; 
 And they voice, in their smooth-flowing cadence, 
 
 The noblest impulse of our heart. 
 But the funny man's jokelets are bitter. 
 
 The charm of his wit they destroy; 
 When his pencil is pointed with venom, 
 
 His pen dipped in gall, to annoy. 
 
 Then rouse from thy lethargic slumber, 
 
 Thou poet of nature, awake 
 And tell us of beauties abounding 
 
 By mountain and woodland and lake. 
 Sing on, for thy sweet, tuneful measures 
 
 May live in the ages to come, 
 When the funny man's jokes are forgotten. 
 
 And the voice of the scorner is dumb. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 89 
 
 SONG OF THE TRUSTS. 
 
 BROTHERS, shall we place reliance 
 On the men of modern science, 
 Who commend great corporations 
 To subserve the public good? 
 Or bewail their power controlling, 
 As the knell of freedom tolling 
 And the children of the nations 
 Born to hopeless servitude"? 
 
 Ne'er before has time recorded 
 Such Increase of millions hoarded, 
 Such a fierce and bitter struggle 
 Of the weak against the strong; 
 Men with itching palms unheeding 
 Preeman's right or poor man's pleading 
 As their stocks and shares they juggle, 
 In a carnival^of wrong. 
 
 Must the fiend of gold be sated, 
 With the wealth our hands created? 
 Unopposed be its endeavors 
 To intrench its power and pride V 
 And the old things that we cherish. 
 Must we calmly see them perish. 
 And accept the niggard favors 
 That monopolists provide? 
 
 They will be our friend and neighbor, 
 They will let us live and labor, 
 15y renouncing all pretension 
 To possession of a soul; 
 If we yield all God's resources. 
 All our great industrial forces, 
 All the triumphs of invention. 
 Into their supreme control. 
 
 They are loud in admiration 
 Of this free, enlightened nation. 
 Watch and ward eternal keeping, 
 Lest the state be overthrown; 
 
90 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 For they bask in fortune's shining, 
 In their gilded halls reclining, 
 And their hands, outstretched, are reaping 
 AVhat their fellow-men have sown. 
 
 BROTHEK JACK'S PIETY. 
 
 WHEN Jack came home from Sunday School, 
 With prim and pious air. 
 You'd reason that no better boy 
 Existed anywhere. 
 Ma looked at him witli fond regard 
 And thought, no doubt, that she 
 Was greatly favored to possess 
 So good a boy as he. 
 
 At length she asked her hopeful son, 
 
 "Jack, dear, what did you say 
 When Billy Jenkins tackled you 
 
 Upon the road today?" 
 "I did'nt say a word," said Jack, 
 
 "I kept quite nice and cool, 
 Although the snoozer roasted me 
 
 For gvvine to Sunday School." 
 
 Then Mamma smiled and said to Jack, 
 
 "That boy is very rude; 
 Don't mind him when he mocks at you 
 
 For trying to be good." 
 "Well, he's a bigger boy than me. 
 
 Or else Fd ha' got back 
 By thunipin' blazes outen him," 
 
 Said pious Brother Jack. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 91 
 
 THE RETURNED HERO. 
 
 I'VE felt the jar of the opening war, 
 When the big guns boomed lil^e thunder, 
 And I meant to tell of what things befell 
 When the Spanish lieet went under, 
 I craned my neck on McCulloch's deck. 
 
 And saw the dons get roasted; 
 But the men I meet on Chicago street 
 
 Are vastly better posted. 
 'Twas little I knew of the eastern war. 
 
 To tell on my returning; 
 But, now I've come where the wise folks are, 
 I tell you, boys, I'm learning. 
 
 I had little to say when, at lunch, to-day 
 I was asked to tell the story. 
 
 While others could speak, like a flowery streak, 
 Of those "deeds enshrined in glory.'' 
 
 So the tale was told by a hero bold. 
 Who had read the war news daily, 
 
 While he wined and dined and— in his mind- 
 He licked the Spanish gayly, 
 
 lie kept as still as a man could be 
 While the shot and shell were flying; 
 
 But now for the cause of liberty 
 He wants to do some dying . 
 
 I knew no fear when the foe was near, 
 
 And the death hail poured around me; 
 And each command of our leader grand 
 
 At my post of duty found me. 
 But my head is bowed in the social crowd. 
 
 Where my name aud fame are toasted: 
 Small heed they pay to to the words I say. 
 
 For they think they're better posted. 
 This warrior talk comes hard to me, 
 
 And my salt I'm scarcely earning; 
 But since I've come where the hot ones be, 
 
 I tell you, boys, I'm learning. 
 
92 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 CHICAGO TO DEWEY. 
 
 HAIL to the chief of our soul's adoration, 
 Great in his manhood, to liberty true; 
 Bravest and best of the sons of the nation, 
 His was the portion to dare and to do. 
 Foes of his fatherland reeled from his mighty hand, 
 
 Shorn of their pride by our man of the sea; 
 Guard of his people's fame, praise to his honored name, 
 George of the iron hand, greeting to thee. 
 
 Hearts of the nations are thrilled with his story, 
 
 Laurels undimmed in the years that are run; 
 Freemen exult in the tale of his glory, 
 
 Sacred to fame are the deeds lie has done. 
 Swelled not our bosoms when he and his merry men 
 
 Stood to their colors that men might be freeV 
 Bringing surcease of strife— crown of a warrior's life — 
 
 George of the iron hand, welcome to thee. 
 
 Once 'twas the carnage that reddened the waters, 
 
 Fired his bold heart at the dawning of May; 
 Anthems of joy from Columbia's daughters 
 
 Ring in his ear with return of the day. 
 Nor in his cup we mix statecraft and politics; 
 
 Straight from the people's hearts greeting shall be; 
 Voice of the mighty west hails thee its honored guest; 
 
 Flower of the warrior race, welcome to thee. 
 
 Hovering unpinioned in gay, gilded cages, 
 
 Long had the way of his coming been barred, 
 But as the vintage improves while it ages, 
 
 So is the flow of our pent-up regard. 
 Then while the buds of May smile on our holiday, 
 
 Making the face of earth fairer to see, 
 Join we the loyal throng, singing both loud and long, 
 
 "George of the iron hand, welcome to thee." 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 93 
 
 JACK 01^ A TEAR. 
 
 MY Brother Jack had dropped into 
 A misanthropic mood; 
 He said, "I don't see any use 
 In trying to be good 
 I can be bad at any time, 
 And do not need to try; 
 And 'tis the meanest boy that gets 
 The biggest piece of pie. 
 
 "You know my Ma had company 
 
 To tea, the other day; 
 And as 1 listened at the door 
 
 They gave the snap away. 
 They all agreed that punishment 
 
 Should be the last resource; 
 It's apt to make a good boy bad, 
 
 And make a bad boy worse. 
 
 "My Mamma and her chums agreed 
 
 Theres more contrairy chaps 
 Reformed by cakes and sugar plums 
 
 Than by maternal straps. 
 And so I've started raising Cain 
 
 With all my might, for why, 
 The meanest boy 'most always gets 
 
 The biggest piece of pie.'' 
 
 THE MAN ON THE FENCE. 
 
 WHEN tlie parties meet in battle, 
 And their wordy volleys rattle. 
 And the common herd are drinking 
 At the candidates' expense; 
 Silver tongues may briefly charm us, 
 Tessimistic bores alarm us, 
 Jiut the man that does the thinking 
 Is the man upon the fence. 
 
94 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 They may howl in wild derision 
 O'er the shortness of his vision, 
 Even old friends join their flouting 
 To the burden of his grief; 
 But his spirit is unbending; 
 In his quiet way contending 
 "There's more faith in honest doubting 
 Than in insincere belief." 
 
 His support was ever hearty 
 In the councils of his party, 
 Till its rule appeared a fetter 
 On a freeman's sovereign mind; 
 And unworthy seemed the actions 
 Of the legislative factions. 
 Each proclaiming they were better 
 Than the rest of human kind. 
 
 On the eve of an election 
 How they talk with circumspectioni 
 "Equal justice to the toilers" 
 Is the burden of their song; 
 But whene'er the votes are counted 
 And the chair of state is mounted, 
 Then the motto of the spoilers 
 Is "My party, right or wrong." 
 
 When the voters take for granted 
 All the patriot zeal that's vaunted, 
 'Tis the future days that tell us 
 If their words were all pretense; 
 And in post-election slighting 
 Of the men who did the fighting. 
 Many a partisan is jealous 
 Of the man upon the fence. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 95 
 
 BROTHER JACK IN TROUBLE. 
 
 MY Brotlier Jack dropped in to see 
 His comrade Billy Gray; 
 "Sit down," said Billy, cordially, 
 Jack said, "No, not today; 
 Your chairs, I know, are soft as silk, 
 
 The best I ever saw; 
 But— sitting is no comfort since 
 I disagreed with Ma. 
 
 "I started early in the week 
 
 To raising Cain, you see; 
 Which raised some welts and bruises on 
 
 My own anatomy; 
 I ran things for a day or two — 
 
 My hopes were all surpassed — 
 Then Ma spoke something of the worm 
 
 That turns around at last. 
 
 "Then she let up on sugar plums. 
 
 And grabbed her strap again; 
 So mem'ries of that interview 
 
 Are fraught with grief and pain. 
 No, thank you. Will, I'll take a seat 
 
 Next time I come, we'll hope 
 That bad boy racket's all right if 
 
 You know just when to stop." 
 
 A PASSING BIRD. 
 
 T 
 
 HOU untamed bird above the dust clouds soaring, 
 An angel visitant, with circling tlight, 
 I marvel what strange fancy led thee hither. 
 Gainst smoke-grimed walls to dash thy plumage bright. 
 
96 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Like sons of earth who come to seek their fortunes 
 And find a grave, art thou, by discontent, 
 
 Impelled afar from purer haunts of nature? 
 With noxious vapors tliou'rt already faint; 
 Thou'rt out of harmony with thy environment. 
 
 lleturn, O! wanderer, ere foes assail thee, 
 Ere thou art blinded with the city's glare; 
 
 Turn thou again while spotless is thy plumage, 
 Thy feet untangled in the subtle snare. 
 
 And wing thy rapid flight where golden sunbeams 
 Fall unobscured on forest, stream, and plain; 
 
 The green grass watered by the dews of heaven; 
 And tell thy feathered mates who there remain 
 They're vastly wiser than the sordid sons of men. 
 
 THE AGE OF SLAISTG. 
 
 IN times of old, and even somewhat recent. 
 The gifted scribe who wrote for human kind 
 His best ideas couched in language decent. 
 Befitting products of a cultured mind. 
 So an admirer of the old-time breeding 
 
 May clasp his hands in horror and amaze. 
 To find the language of the slums succeeding 
 The polished courtesies of earlier days. 
 
 And marvel not if he inclines to quarrel 
 
 With public taste. Dejectedly he sees 
 Word-counterfeiters wear the modern laurel, 
 
 Their contributions never fail to please. 
 They write not, they, to aid the mind's progression, 
 
 But for the delectation of the "gang," 
 Whose spurious "coin" they put in circulation; 
 
 A ribald riot of unmeaning slang. 
 
 If some Napoleon awaits a mission. 
 
 His fame by grateful thousands shall be sung. 
 Who'll place beneath the ban of prohibition 
 
 This wholesale murdering of the English tongue. 
 Should flowers of language bloom and die neglected 
 
 While fair ones wear bouquets of noxious weed? 
 Nay, then, the printed page must be protected. 
 
 Or self-respecting ones shall cease to read. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 97 
 
 THE PENALTY OF FAME. 
 
 WHEN lion-hearted Dewey at Manila 
 Applied the strap to Spain's unruly boy, 
 . And sent a hostile navy to the junk heap, 
 His grateful countrymen went wild with joy; 
 But deeds of knightly fame are overshadowed 
 
 By idle gossip; shame it is to tell 
 That shafts of vain detraction pierce the bosom 
 Which braved unscathed the Spaniards' shot and shell. 
 
 His ears assailed by mingled praise and censure 
 
 Of those who would control his aims and ends, 
 He sadly meditates: "My foes were easy, 
 
 But, Lord of mercy, save me from my friends." 
 The friends who yearn to hold in social fetters 
 
 The nation's hero, and his charming wife; 
 And cheerfully aspire to superintending 
 
 Each thought and word and action of their life 
 
 We cannot but despise these things of evil 
 
 That hover round him like the carrion crow, 
 And perch upon his back yard fence, observing 
 
 The tides of household life that ebb and flow; 
 And whatsoe'er they find to call in question 
 
 With zeal unholy they communicate 
 To the ill-favored votaries of scandal. 
 
 From Coney Island to the Golden Gate. 
 
 Our hero's modest dignity appeals not 
 
 To jealous rival, or censorious dame, 
 Wlio stoop to slander and misrepresent him; 
 
 And thus he pays the penalty of fame. 
 But he may well ignore the paltry errors 
 
 Laid to his charge by those of little mind; 
 By their unworthy action emphasizing 
 
 The fact that there's no bigger fault to find. 
 
98 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 BROTHER JACK IN COMPANY. 
 
 THE house was very quiet and prim, 
 For ma had company, 
 And she was saying nice things to 
 The ladies after tea; 
 When Brother Jack came bouncing in 
 
 And shouted: "Ma, I say, 
 I've lost the buttons off my blouse. 
 Please fix them right away." 
 
 Then ma was very much displeased, 
 
 And said: "Why Jack, you're rude; 
 It matters not how much I try, 
 
 You never will be good. 
 I cannot hope to entertain 
 
 My company, you know, 
 If you bring all your troubles here 
 
 And interrupt me so." 
 
 Then, in maternal way, she stooped 
 
 To give the boy a kiss; 
 And as she stroked his golden curls 
 
 She said, "Remember this. 
 Don't ever speak till I get through." 
 
 Here Jack began to w^eep; 
 "I'll have to wait, then, mamma dear, 
 
 Until you go to sleep." 
 
 THE GLAD TIME OF THE YEAR. 
 
 WHEN the leaf is on the shade tree 
 And the bird is on the wing, 
 Andourthawed-out hearts rejoicing 
 In the "fullness of the spring;" 
 We may wander on the prairie, 
 
 As the early flowers appear, 
 And adorn our heads with garlands. 
 In the glad time of the year. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 99 
 
 From above the mellow sunbeams 
 
 Shed their radiance on the scene; 
 Merrily they skim the wavelets, 
 
 Flashing back their silv'ry sheen; 
 To the west the glad Haymarket 
 
 Spreads its busy mart of trade; 
 Rich with squash and beet and carrot, 
 
 And the luscious cabbage head. 
 
 Now the coy and graceful maiden— 
 
 Up to date from plume to heel — 
 In abbreviated costume 
 
 Whizzes past upon her wheel; 
 And the lovesick couples linger 
 
 In the park's recesses, where 
 They select the benches furthest 
 
 From the arc-light's chilly glare. 
 
 Verdant lawns and hanging blossoms 
 
 Now refresh the weary heart; 
 Nature's beauties, supplemented 
 
 By the busy hand of art. 
 Yet I know of maids and matrons 
 
 AVho prefer the winter drear, 
 Since the nightmare of house-cleaning 
 
 Mars the glad time of the year. 
 
 DRIFTING APART. 
 
 DKIF riNG apart; our pulses start, 
 Our eyes are fain to weep 
 For those who sailed life's stormy tide, 
 Smoothly and gently side by side, 
 
 Now tossed upon the deep: 
 Drifting apart, drifting apart. 
 
 Drifting apart; the poisoned dart 
 
 Has entered a loving soul. 
 And rude and angry passions rise. 
 Swiftly o'ercast the smiling skies. 
 
 While love has lost control; 
 Drifting apart, drifting apart. 
 
 L«fC, 
 
loo ^3' Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Drifting apart; a broken heart, 
 
 A world of vain regret; 
 Two sundered lives now tell the tale 
 Of fond hopes wrecked amid the gale; 
 
 Pursued by angry fate; 
 Drifting apart, drifting apart. 
 
 THE OMNISCIENT MAN. 
 
 THERE are cranks of every fashion. 
 And our souls are stirred to passion 
 By the pessimists' decrying, 
 And the cheerful idiot's bawl; 
 Eusybodies try to serve us, 
 And their efforts make us nervous; 
 But the one that is most trying 
 Is the man who knows it all. 
 
 Though he never went to college 
 He has boundless stores of knowledge. 
 Quite a mine of information 
 To impart to you and me; 
 If the helm of state were guided 
 By his counsels, (now derided). 
 He would steer this mighty nation 
 To untold prosperity. 
 
 While the midnight oil is burning, 
 And the men of science learning 
 Secret facts of our existence, 
 AVith their causes and effect: 
 He expends his time in guessing. 
 And his fancied skill expressing 
 To a crowd that sometimes listens 
 With appearance of respect. 
 
 Though the bulk of his predictions 
 Prove unsound and baseless fictions, 
 Yet at times his errant judgment 
 Makes a hit; and then we laugh. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. loi 
 
 For he'll cause a mild sensation 
 By his self-congratulation, 
 That a grain of wheat found lodgment 
 In the bushel of his chaff. 
 
 Though he's sadly inconsistent 
 Yet he's tirelessly persistent, 
 Though his light is oft extinguished, 
 There are more to take its place; 
 Facts may put him to confusion, 
 But he clings to the delusion 
 That his name will be distinguished 
 In the annals of our race. 
 
 BKOTHER JACK'S CHOICE. 
 
 THE boys were playing pirates in 
 The vacant lot, one day; 
 But Brother Jack was in the sulks, 
 And so he would'nt play. 
 Their swords and spears were sticks of wood, 
 
 Their faces daubed with black; 
 And the first captive that they took 
 Was little Brother Jack. 
 
 A clothes line bound his slender limbs, 
 
 A napkin stopped his squeals; 
 A brace of pirates at his head— 
 
 Another at his heels. 
 Then spoke the bold, relentless chief. 
 
 With fiercely bated breath; 
 "AVhat say you, shall we let him choose 
 
 The nianner of his death? * 
 
 The men were silent for a space— 
 
 A trying time, indeed — 
 Then one by one they answered him, 
 
 "Why, yes, Ave are agreed." 
 The pirate chief removed the gag, 
 
 Jack said, 'mid snorts of rage, 
 "All right, ye murderous band, I choose 
 
 To die of sheer old age." 
 
I02 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 MY LADY LOVE. 
 
 M 
 
 Y lady love is not divinely fair, 
 As gem of Grecian sculpture, chaste and rare; 
 Nor graceful as a flow'ring tropic plant, 
 J5ut then she loves ine— that is all I want. 
 
 Nor does she bear a name of high renown; 
 'Tis commonplace as Smith, or Jones, or IJrown; 
 Unknown in science, politics or war; 
 But then she loves me- that is better far. 
 
 She has no hoarded wealth at her command, 
 No acres broad of fertile prairie land. 
 Nor herds that roam afar on plain and hill; 
 But then she loves me -that is better still. 
 
 Her looks discount my own, so people say; 
 Her name— well, she's to change it anyway; 
 AVe'll have enough, 1 ween, and some to spare; 
 We love each other - that is all I care. 
 
 A GAME OF HEARTS. 
 
 A 
 
 bouncing grocer's clerk am I, 
 
 Employed in Thompson's store; 
 1 tend to the delivery 
 Twelve hours a day, or more. 
 
 A little way along the street 
 Lives charming Beatrice May; 
 
 I pass her home— 'tis on my beat,— 
 A hundred times a day. 
 
 She loves to sit upon the stoop. 
 
 Beneath the summer sky; 
 The center of a merry group 
 
 Of numbskulls, such as I. 
 
 I dearly loved to pause awhile — 
 When driving up and down — 
 
 And talk with her; sometimes she'd smile, 
 But oftentimes she'd frown. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 103 
 
 One day I stopped my jaded beast, 
 
 Some stupid things to say; 
 That bored her, for it was, at least 
 
 The twentieth time that day. 
 
 For lack of news in meeter strain, 
 
 I asked, "Do you play euchreV" 
 "Why, yes, at times," she said, and then 
 
 A fit of laughter shook her. 
 
 1 asked, "What knowledge of the art 
 
 My rivals would outclass?" 
 She said, "The most important part 
 
 Is— knowing when to /«.<>.'' 
 
 This hit me hard; I drove away — 
 
 My youthful ardor checked — 
 And then, a hundred times a day 
 
 I'd pass, with head erect. 
 
 She seemed to half repent the joke 
 
 That put me in the dumps; 
 And as I passed one day she spoke, 
 
 "Well, Richard, -v/iat is trumps r^ 
 
 "A heart ^^ I answered, mournfully, 
 "A broken one, alas I 
 
 This game haS flayed the deuce with me. 
 
 So I believe I'll pass." 
 
 "AVhy, no," she said, "the -vinuing card 
 
 May well be in your hand," 
 Her hidden meaning was not hard 
 
 For me to understand. 
 
 "Come, be my partner, Beatrice May, 
 
 My queen of hearts ^^^ I cried; 
 
 "And all. the knaves and bowers may play 
 Upon the other side." 
 
 "I'm queen of hearts^"' exclaimed the maid; 
 
 "The king, then, looks like you; 
 This takes me, for the king, 'tis Said, 
 
 Is stronger of the two" 
 
 This trick won the eventful game: 
 
 My rivals put to rout: 
 In two weeks she will change her name — 
 
 Our wedding cards are out. 
 
I04 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 AT THE WALL. 
 
 THE friend that turns his back in time of trouble 
 Has ever been a subject for reproach, 
 By men who always seem upon the outlook 
 
 For some kind-hearted citizen to "touch/' 
 'Tis true that such remarks are not uncalled for— 
 
 Misfortunes come alike to great and small; 
 The friends who flattered, when the sun was shining, 
 
 Neglect us when our back is at the wall- 
 Yet men of feeling have been blamed unjustly, 
 
 When unsuccessfully besieged for aid 
 By victims of the 'long vacation'' habit, 
 
 Whose hard-luck stories are their stock in trade. 
 Who look for some one else to do the hustling; 
 
 They never prospered and they never shall; 
 The fellows they appeal to for assistance 
 
 Have got no time to loiter by the wall. 
 
 Though kind hearts often prompt to heedless giving, 
 
 Or to get rid of importunity, 
 The beggars' trust,. that shuns investigation, 
 
 Reveals a state of things that should not be. 
 The sons of men are not so misanthropic 
 
 That each in his own strength must stand or fall; 
 Yet many choose what calls for least exertion — 
 
 To loaf around and lean against the wall. 
 
 JACK AT THE THEATER. 
 
 MY Brother Jack had passed the day 
 Without a single tight, 
 And so our Mamma took him to 
 The theater at night. 
 It cost her fifty cents or so, 
 
 But Mamma felt resigned, 
 Because the evening's show was of 
 The realistic kind 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 105 
 
 And, happily, the villain was— 
 
 In progress of the play- 
 Consigned to the infernal pit 
 
 AVhere Satan holds his sway. 
 The brimstone blazed up from beneath, 
 
 The demons danced in rage 
 Around the mouth of hell, which was 
 
 A trapdoor in the stage. 
 
 The villain was extremely stout, 
 
 The trapdoor none too wide; 
 They could not get him down below, 
 
 No matter how they tried. 
 The youngsters clapped their hands in glee 
 
 To see him wriggle back; 
 "Oh, goody, goody, hell is full," 
 
 Screamed little Brother Jack. 
 
 FIFTY YEARS MORE. 
 
 FIFTY years longer of franchise. 
 Truly a modest demand; 
 Mark how the bosses of transit 
 Stretch their monopolist hand 
 Towards the throat of the public; 
 
 Striving, by every known means, 
 That they for another half-century 
 May pack us in cars like sardines. 
 
 Last night when, in pushing my way out. 
 
 My overcoat buttons came off. 
 Some swear words were yearning for utterance, 
 
 I smothered them down with a cough; 
 But even young ladies seemed anxious 
 
 To talk back— I wonder they don't— 
 To hear the conductor's "Step forward, 
 
 There's plenty of room up in front.'' 
 
io6 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 We counted the billowy horse car 
 
 The worst of humanity's ills, 
 But the trolley by screw pressure loaded 
 
 The cup of our bitterness fills. 
 Our tempers are ruined in the jostling; 
 
 Our bodies are battered and sore; 
 And yet, with this record of service, 
 
 They ask us for fifty years more. 
 
 LETTERS OF THE DEAD. 
 
 As the silv'ry mists on the meadow 
 Disperse with the glow of the sunrise. 
 As the bubbles that foam on the river, 
 In the swirl of the perilous rapid: 
 As the raindrop that falls in the desert, 
 So perish the words that are spoken. 
 
 Like winds in the treetop that rustle, 
 The fond lover's passionate breathing, 
 The sulphurous accents of evil, 
 xVre past, and they leave in our bosom 
 The mystical balm of the healer, 
 The sting of the serpent that rankles. 
 
 But love and devotion recorded 
 
 On pages for ever held sacred 
 
 Endure 'mid the wreck of my day-dreams. 
 
 And open the fioodgates of memory, 
 
 While shadows of midnight are round me, 
 
 And sleep hath deserted my chamber. 
 
 I gaze on a packet, unfolded. 
 Of missives that postmen deliver 
 To hearts that are heavy with waiting 
 For tidings of good or of evil: 
 Whose whistle presages the coming 
 Of light in the hour of their darkness. 
 
 The joy and the sorrow long hidden. 
 The story of friendship imprinted 
 On sheets that are musty and mildewed. 
 Their characters faded and yellow, 
 Recall to my memory the writer 
 Now far in the mansions of glory. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 107 
 
 The fond heart is stilled in its beating, 
 
 The fingers in kindred dust molder, 
 
 The red lips, whose accents inspired me 
 
 With courage, are silent forever; 
 
 The bright eyes that shone like the starlight 
 
 Are sealed now in darkness eternal. 
 
 How oft in the stillness of evening 
 She sat in the home of her childhood 
 While others were softly reposing, 
 And out of her heart's sweet abundance 
 She fashioned the message of greeting 
 Which gladdened my heart on the morrow. 
 
 Like rains on the shadowless prairie. 
 That nourish the flowers to their blooming. 
 Her love-begot message inspired me 
 With zeal in the pathway of duty; 
 Possessed me with courage that failed not 
 When dark was the future before me. 
 
 The simple delights of the village, 
 The sports of the young men and maidens. 
 The coming of bud and of blossom; 
 The welfare of friend and of neighbor 
 Beloved in the days of our childhood, 
 I find in these pages recorded. 
 
 The clangorous hum of the city 
 
 Is hushed, as the storm-wind that passes; 
 
 I stand wiiere the wild flowers are springmg, 
 
 1 drink in the breath of the rosebud; 
 
 I list to the voice of my old friends 
 
 Like far distant music that echoes. 
 
 Together we walk in the green fields 
 And sit in the shade of the woodland; 
 They tell of their joy and their sorrow, 
 Their pioneer struggle and triumph: 
 I speak of the marvellous city. 
 The daughter of numberless nations. 
 
 The song-birds have folded their pinions 
 And hushed are their notes in the twilight; 
 We join in the home circle gathered 
 Around the red glow of the hearth-fire 
 To hear the instruction of scripture. 
 And raise the sweet psalm of thanksgiving. 
 
io8 By Heath and Prairie, 
 
 Our spirits ascend witli the prayer 
 That falls from the lips of the aged, 
 Commending our ways to the guidance 
 Of Him who abides in the heavens; 
 Ere yet we retire to our chamber 
 To dream of new joys for the morrow. 
 
 AlasI for the joys of our being, 
 Like fire-flies they flash on our vision 
 Then vanish, to mock our pursuing: 
 Though sweet was the dream I indulged in 
 Yet sad the awaking which finds me 
 Alone in untold desolation. 
 
 Alone with the wrack and the ruin 
 Of air-castles fancy had builded: 
 Still grasping a handful of letters. 
 With characters faded and yellow; 
 Scarce seen in my dimness of vision 
 Through fountains of sorrow o'erflovving. 
 
 O! Thou who wert dear to my bosom, 
 
 AVho blessed my young life with thy friendship 
 
 Whose missives I tenderly cherish; 
 
 Couldst thou not across the dark border 
 
 One message of comfort convey me? 
 
 From regions by mortals untrodden. 
 
 The postman's shrill whistle resounding 
 Hath oft brought delight to my bosom: 
 And now it would welcome with rapture 
 The trump of the heavenly bearer: 
 If thou, by Omnipotence guided, 
 Couldst bridge the dark gulf that divides us 
 
 My soul is consumed with impatience, 
 And yearns, with unspeakable longing, 
 If but for one moment's communion 
 With one who abideth in glory; 
 A sunbeam to lighten the shadows 
 That compass my mortal existence. 
 
 Nay! then, we must sleep with our fathers 
 Ere yet the bright dream is unfolded; 
 But oft shall these letters remind me. 
 Through years so uncertain in number, 
 Of fond and undying affection 
 That brightened my life in its springtime 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 109 
 
 USE OF THE TRUCE. 
 
 WHEN the clouds of war are rolling 
 Upward from the field of fame; 
 And the batteries on the hilltop 
 Belch their sheets of living flame; 
 Foemen press the bitter struggle 
 
 With the rage of fiends let loose, 
 Only pausing when exhausted 
 For a few short hours of truce. 
 
 To the hero of the trenches 
 
 'Tis a welcome breathing space, 
 And he wipes the smoke of battle 
 
 From his grim, unshaven face. 
 For a time the hardy foemen 
 
 Mingle in the neutral zone; 
 While the rifle's crack is silent, 
 
 And no screaming shells are thrown. 
 
 Then they speak of friends far distant, 
 
 Children dear and faithful wives; 
 And bewail the strife that causes 
 
 Men to seek each other's lives. 
 But their judging of the distance 
 
 Shall be put to deadly use, 
 When the warriors sight their rifles 
 
 At the ending of the truce. 
 
 JOYS OF HOLIDAY. 
 
 WHEN the poplar flings it's shadow 
 Far across the village street. 
 And the tinkling of the cow-bell 
 Wakes the echoes low and sweet; 
 I forsake the haunts of Nature, 
 
 And the joys of holiday; 
 To resume life's weary burden 
 In the city far away. 
 
no By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Here I wandered, like a pilgrim 
 
 Seeking for a better land; 
 And the townsmen, free and hearty, 
 
 Took me warmly by the hand: 
 And 1 joined in sport and pastime 
 
 With their sons and daughters fair, 
 'Neath the apple blossoms dancing 
 
 In the balmy summer air. 
 
 Oft upon the river's bosom 
 
 We embarked, a merry throng; 
 While our feathered oars were flashing 
 
 To the measure of our song: 
 Oft on airy wheels we glided 
 
 By the fields and woodlands green — 
 Swiftly flashing on our vision 
 
 Like a panoramic scene. 
 
 Oft our hearts were thrilled with mem'ries 
 
 Of fair Scotia's mountain land. 
 As we scaled the heights of "Bald Head," 
 
 With its wastes of silv'ry sand: 
 But with cheeks and temples glowing 
 
 We attained the crest at last; 
 And, reposing from our labors, 
 
 Viewed a prospect unsurpassed. 
 
 Oh! how gladly would I linger 
 
 In the sunny vales of rest; 
 But I hear the call of duty 
 
 From the bright and bounding west: 
 Soon the wavelets gently lapping 
 
 'Gainst the rowboat's painted keel 
 Must give place to clang of hammers, 
 
 And the whirr of belt and wheel. 
 
 Many snap-shots we have gathered - 
 
 That delight the artist's gaze,— 
 To be scanned with yearning fondness 
 
 In the mists of future days: 
 And no fairer page to dwell on 
 
 Than these golden days shall be, 
 AVhen our thoughts retrace the vistas 
 
 Of awakened memorv. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 1 1 1 
 
 TALE OF A ROSE. 
 
 THEY strolled on the Lincoln Park driveway, 
 J3eneath the pale light of the moon; 
 On one side the lake's heaving bosom, 
 On the other the slumbering lagoon. 
 A rose in his buttonhole blooming 
 
 Attracted her eyes, large and bright; 
 And she asked, in a voice of entreaty: 
 "Dear George, may 1 wear it to-nightV" 
 
 He stooped to inhale of its fragrance 
 
 iiefore he replied, with a sigh: 
 ''My dearest Clarinda, it grieves me 
 
 Your simple request to deny; 
 For the sake of the maid who bestowed it, 
 
 And the words that she spoke in my ear; 
 Had you seen and heard, you would know, love, 
 
 The reason I hold it so dear." 
 
 Now she's tortured with fears of a rival- 
 Ne'er dreaming that he would deceive - 
 
 And she hates the rose and its giver; 
 So her mind it would greatly relieve 
 
 To know that he got it that evening 
 In the little store under the trees, 
 
 From the freckle-faced florist's assistant. 
 And her words were, "Twenty cents, please." 
 
 THE WINTER CYCLIST. 
 
 A wintry chill is in the atmosphere, 
 As from the heaving lake the storm wind blows; 
 And weak-kneed brethren of the cycle fear 
 That brings the riding season to a close. 
 Jack Frost assails us with his wicked thrusts; 
 
 Our polka-dotted mufflers are on guard; 
 And many a good wheel in the basement rusts 
 Which should be speeding down the boulevard. 
 
112 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 And shall we join the patient, suffering throng, 
 
 Which crowds the rumbling street cars to the door? 
 Which kicks against the service loud and long, 
 
 But keeps on riding as it did before? 
 Nay! Perish such a thought. On every street 
 
 The hardy wheelman has the right of way; 
 No ancient female comes to claim his seat; 
 
 No cable breaks, no lumbering teams delay. 
 
 Our hearts beat high, our life-blood dancing Hows, 
 
 Though ice-flakes sparkle in the biting air; 
 Wliile street-car heaters, every patron knows, 
 
 Are but a vain delusion and a snare. 
 The steed that bore us through the woods, aglow 
 
 With sunshine, where the morning-glories creep, 
 AVill bear us safely through the mud-streaked snow 
 
 Until it lies at least five inches deep. 
 
 THE LIGHT OF LOVE. 
 
 w 
 
 HEN shadows gloom upon our earthly way 
 The light of love turns midnight into day; 
 Restores the ring of gladness to the voice, 
 And bids oppressed and careworn men rejoice. 
 
 When joys of love in human hearts abide 
 The common things of earth are glorified; 
 They cheer our lives throughout the passing days, 
 And wrap the future in a golden haze. 
 
 The joybells ring with impulse born of love — 
 A foretaste, here, of better things above,— 
 But care and sorrow with the hearts abide 
 That only look upon its darker side. 
 
 The eye of love is swift to read mischance 
 In clouded brow, or half averted glance; 
 And to the ear of love a word or tone 
 Speak volumes, in a language all its own. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 113 
 
 Where tiow'rs the rose of love the way is spanned 
 By thorns that pierce the bold and careless hand; 
 But who of love, sweet love, would live forlorn 
 Through dread of his impalement by the thorn? 
 
 And ev'n the fairest of the fair will own 
 That love was never meant to pine alone; 
 Forth from the throne of God 'twas sent, to share 
 The matchless sweetness of its blossoms fair. 
 
 THE CROWN OF IKDEPEISIDENCE. 
 
 Aiu;-"STAK span(;led banner." 
 
 01 say, have you seen, at the dawning of day, 
 I The smoke wreaths of industry heavenward ascend- 
 ing? 
 And bright is the gleani'of the sun's early ray. 
 On sons of the Nation to business attending. 
 But four years ago, my friend, 'twas not so, 
 
 The chimneys were smokeless, for business was slow; 
 Then praise to the man who prosperity gave 
 To the land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
 While brightly the sun of prosperity beams — 
 Though sweet, silv'ry tongues may create a sensation— 
 
 ()! say, should we turn to the dreamer of dreams. 
 And trust to his guiding the course of the nation? 
 
 We may tind it once more, as in days gone before. 
 No work for our hands, and the wolf at the door; 
 
 For tlie bondman of debt must be somebody's slave, 
 
 In the land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
 Let princes exult in their right so "Divine,'' 
 The crown of their pride and the joys in attendance; 
 
 Nor gems of the ocean, nor gold of the mine 
 Compare with the crown of a man's independence. 
 
 We are learning at last, by mistakes of the past. 
 That the tiag of our sires should be nailed to the mast; 
 
 O! say, are we tired of prosperity's wave? 
 
 In the land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
114 ^y i^^^^t^"^ ^^^d Prairie. 
 
 GILHOOLY'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 OCH, sure I'm bouncin' Barney M'Tartar 
 A roUickin' Oirish bhoy; 
 I loved ould man Gilhooly's daughter, 
 
 She was me pride an' joy. 
 But me an' the ould man didn't agree— 
 
 I had licked him wanst or twice— 
 An' so he thought to get square wid me 
 
 By givin' her this advice, 
 "Oh! Kit, steer clare ov Barney 
 He's nuthin' but blow an' blarney; 
 The young spalpeen aint fit to be 
 
 A son-in-law of mine; 
 So give the could shouldher to Barney 
 Or there'll be trouble, I warn ye; 
 I'm goin" to kape ye at liome, bedad, 
 
 To feed me cows an' swine." 
 
 1 worked for a docthor in ]5allymacorry, 
 
 The nearest market town; 
 An' Kitty tould me all her story 
 
 Nixt toime that she cum down, 
 An' so I gave her some innocent shtuff 
 
 To put in the ould man's tea; 
 She said she'd do it sure enough, 
 
 An' lave the rist wid me. 
 Siz I to her so swately, 
 ''I love yez most complately, 
 An^ sure an' I have got manes enough 
 
 To kape ye in iligant shtyle." 
 Siz she, "Me jewel, Barney, 
 I loike that kind av blarney, 
 Bedad you're the swatest an' bouldest bhoy 
 
 That stips on the Oirish soil." 
 
 That blissid night Gilhooly got sick, 
 
 An' I was'nt a bit surprised: 
 They sint for the docthor double quick, 
 
 An' I wint in his place disguised. 
 Siz he, "Oh! docthor, must I die? 
 
 I'm sound in fiish an' bone" 
 
By Heath mid Prairie. 
 
 ^'Indade it's hard to tell,"' siz T, 
 "Your nirves are almost gone, 
 
 You've got to take things aisy; 
 
 Why should it drive ye crazy 
 
 Because your iligant daughter's bound 
 To marry just wliom she plazeV 
 
 Siz he, "I dont loike Barney," 
 
 Siz I, "Quid man, 1 warn ye, 
 
 Dont let it excite ye or you're apt 
 To die av heart disase" 
 
 The innocent slitutf soon lost it's power, 
 
 He paid me the docthor's fee; 
 1 got him to slape in half an hour, 
 
 Then danced a jig wid glee. 
 An' nixt toime that I met the ould man 
 
 (I was Barney M 'Tartar again) 
 Siz he, "That boss av yours is wan 
 
 Av the smartest kind av men. 
 Now Barney though it grieve me 
 That Kit should go an' lave me - 
 Since I am thratened wid heart disase 
 
 I will not shtand between." 
 So since the ould man's relinted 
 My Kitty has consinted 
 To marry me nixt spring 
 
 Whin the dear ould sod is green. 
 
 I I 
 
ii6 By Heath and Prairie, 
 
 MoKINLEY AND PROSPERITY. 
 
 AlK:— "MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA." 
 
 LET Parties sliout their battles cries, made up of empty- 
 bluff, 
 The wise man backs the policy that brings him in the 
 stuff; 
 "McKinley and Prosperity," I guess that's good enough, 
 While we are marching to glory. 
 
 Chorus:— 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah, it got us there before, 
 Hurrah, hurrah, it's good for four years more; 
 McKinley and Prosperity one more success shall score, 
 AVhile we are marching to glory. 
 
 It was the battle cry that paralysed the "popocrat," 
 And let the records tell if we were talking through our hat; 
 McKinley and Prosperity, we'll let it go at that, 
 While we are marching to glory. 
 
 Chorus: — 
 
 It takes the boys of Illinois to lead the Western States, 
 We march again to vict ry, 'neath the banner of a Yates; 
 McKinley and Prosperity, they are our running mates, 
 While we are marching to glory. 
 
 Chorus:— 
 
 The Populist of Kansas, with his whiskers made of hay, 
 
 Has paid his debts and mortgage, 'cause he couldn't have his 
 
 way; 
 "McKinley and Prosperity," he's shouting night and day, 
 While we are marching to glory. 
 Chorus:— 
 
 If we support the other side we hit ourselves a blow, 
 For every time they rule the land, our trade is bad, we know; 
 McKinley and Prosperity has brought us in the dough, 
 While we are marching to glory. 
 Chorus:— 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 117 
 
 ONE ON THE TEACHER. 
 
 I'^HE morning breezes blew both loud and shrill, 
 And beat against the schoolhouse on the hill; 
 Frost-pictures sparkled on the window panes; 
 Tlie hoof-beats thundered in the frozen lanes: 
 A hundred little heads were bended low, 
 Though twinkling eyes and rosy cheeks aglow 
 Belied the solemn, reverential air 
 With which they listened to the morning prayer. 
 The old familiar prayer the teacher said, 
 With folded hands and meekly drooping head; 
 His mild gray eyes were closed, or seemed to be, 
 And yet they watched him most suspiciously; 
 J'or, though he had a sympathetic heart, 
 He dearly loved to make the youngsters smart 
 Whene'er they bade detiance to his rule, 
 Or hindered the decorum of the school. 
 The prayer is done, and all, with solemn faces, 
 Betake themselves to their accustomed places; 
 •But as the echoes of their childish steps resound 
 The teacher's glance, which follows them around 
 To see that none engage in youthful tricks. 
 Just rests upon a little chap of six: 
 With eyebrows elevated in surprise 
 The teacher beckons to the lad, and cries, 
 ^'Here, Johnnie, how did you come down today? 
 Come to my desk, I want you right away." 
 The boy approached, as oft he'd done before, 
 Mistrusting that a licking was in store. 
 "John," said the teacher, with a solemn face, 
 ■^'This morning as 1 passed your father's place, 
 The doctor's rig was standing by the door, 
 Now can you lell me what they brought him forV" 
 "Naw," said the boy, whose fears had vanished quick, 
 "They did'nt tell me any one was sick." 
 The teacher said, "Then, John, my liltle man. 
 Just you run home as quickly as you can; 
 Find out directly what ihe matter is, 
 And then come back and tell me, if you please; 
 JFor if it is of an infectious kind 
 You cannot come to school, now Johnnie mind." 
 
ii8 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 The boy put on his hat and trudged away; 
 The teacher called the lessons for the day, 
 Instructing them with all his mental power. 
 JUit every head was raised when, in an hour, 
 The door was opened and the boy drew nigh, 
 A gleam of mischief in his bright blue eye; 
 When, with suppressed impatience in his tone, 
 The teacher asked, "Well, what's the matter, JohnV"^ 
 "Teacher," said John, "The cause of all the fuss 
 Is that new boy the doctor fetched to us. 
 A little thing, he cannot even creep, 
 1 think they must have got him real cheap; 
 Or course you know ma's feelin' kind of blue, 
 ]5ut dad, he thinks that need'nt worry you. 
 So, boss, you can go right on with your teachin', 
 The doctor savs the trouble is'nt ketchin'."' 
 
 THE LADIES^ CANDIDATE. 
 
 w 
 
 AlH:— ''VANKEK DOODLE." 
 
 HEN party bosses pay their court, 
 You do their bidding blindly. 
 So when the ladies ask support. 
 We hope you'll give it kindly. 
 
 Chorus: 
 
 For we have got a candidate, 
 
 And we are bound to land her, 
 For we're to vote as sure as fate, 
 
 For Mrs. Alexander. 
 
 Although we're new to politics, 
 The world you know is moving; 
 
 Already we have learned some tricks. 
 And all the time improving. 
 Chorus:— 
 
 Her nomination's no mistake, 
 
 Her very rivals own it; 
 She's business-like and wide awake. 
 Her own affairs have shown it. 
 Chorus:— 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 119 
 
 She will not stand for party "pull,'' 
 
 And all the ills attendant: 
 For why, she owns no boss's rule, 
 She's free and independent. 
 Chorus:— 
 
 And if you men of common sense, 
 
 Your manly votes accord her, 
 She'll justifj' your conlldence, 
 And keep the men in order. 
 Chorik:— 
 
 IN THE SPRING. 
 
 THE snow^ lay deep on the bare hillside, 
 And the fountain slept beneath; 
 It's ripples that flashed in their wilful pride 
 Congealed by the storm-king's breath. 
 The mist clouds drooped till the mountain head 
 
 Was lost in their clinging fold: 
 All nature seemed to be lying dead, 
 And its shroud was white and cold. 
 
 But the sunbeams pierce, with their kindly ray, 
 
 Through storm clonds dark and drear; 
 And the fountain sings on it's joyous way 
 
 In the glad time of the year. 
 The trees awake and with blossoms choice 
 
 Their shapely limbs array; 
 And the hearts of careworn men rejoice 
 
 In the glow of the summer day. 
 
 My way was drear and my life blood chilled 
 
 By the cold world's pomp and pride; 
 And the fount of love in my bosom stilled, 
 
 And 1 walked on the shadowy side. 
 The night winds thrilled with my desolate cry 
 
 That sighed in the leafless tree,— 
 "I care for nobody, no, not I, 
 
 Since nobodv cares for me." 
 
I20 'By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 But sovereign Love assumes control 
 
 By the sway of its magic wand; 
 And new hope thrills in my darkened soul 
 
 To the clasp of a gentle hand. 
 Fair earth proclaims to the azure skies 
 
 That the summer of life is come: 
 As I read my fate in the love-lit eyes 
 
 That speak when the lips are dumb. 
 
 THE AULD HOOSE AT HAME. 
 
 01 I'm far frae the land whaur my walie cronies bide, 
 I Whaur I roved wi' neebors' bairns ower a' the kintra 
 side; 
 Sae I sigh for auld lang syne, an' my hert is aye aflame 
 Wi' the mem'ries o' Auld Scotland, an' the wee hoose at hame, 
 'Tvvas a laigh an' lanesome biggin' theckit ower wi' heather 
 
 Whaur ray held wis bienly happit whan the cauld blasts sough'd 
 
 aroon'; 
 But 'twas brawer than a palace tae the een o' infancy, 
 An' the dearest spot o' ony in my ain countrie. 
 
 AVhan the lav'rock liltit blythely at the dawin' o' the morn, 
 An' the sunbeam kissed the dewdrap frae the blossom on the 
 
 thorn,— 
 I wad tryst wi' neebor laddies, an' we'd vow wi' muckle glee 
 There wis nae Ian' under heiven like oor ain countrie. 
 Whiles we spiel'd the blrks sae soople, wiiiles we guddled in tine 
 
 burn; 
 Whiles we gar'd oor faithf u" collie gie the sheep an' kye a turn ; 
 There wis rowth o' halesome parritch for a laddie's hungry 
 
 wame 
 Whan oor sonsy mithers beck'd us tae the auld hoose at hame 
 
 But the glint o' gowd wis bonnie, an' the warld wis fair an' gay' 
 An' they waled me frae the biggin' that had fen'd me mony a 
 
 day; 
 Sae wi' ither rovin' callans I wad up tae dae or dee, 
 x\n' wad seek a Ian' o' promise in a far countrie. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 121 
 
 Tiiere were gowans on the lea rig, there wis sunshine on the 
 
 brae, 
 There wis mither's rede an' fairfa' that should liclit me on my 
 
 way; 
 JUit the tear wis in my e'e, an' what saul o' man wad blame, 
 Whan I stuid an' look'd mv hin'maist on the auld hoose at hame. 
 
 Koo the hairst 0' life is here, an' my hair is streek'd wi' gray, 
 An' my haffets sairly runkl'd wi' the steer 0' mony a day; 
 But I've tauld my kith an' kin that they downa steek my e'e 
 Till I've heard the mavis singin' in my ain countrie. 
 For my fit maun pree the heather on my native Scotia's shore. 
 An' my auld hert sing the ovvrecome o'the gowden days o' yore; 
 01 the freens 0' auld langsyne, wull their cracks be aye the same 
 As in days whan they forgaithered in oor auld hoose at hame? 
 
 'Tis a snod an' canty hald that my mem'ry fain reca's, 
 
 Ne'er ootshone by hames 0' plenty whaur the great folk match 
 
 their braws; 
 An' mair precious tae me shall that lanesome biggin' be 
 Than the stately ha's they boast o' in a far countrie. 
 An' whan clans o' earth shall gaither as the cross o' fire is sped, 
 An' the King in a' His glory comes tae judge the quick an' 
 
 dead,— 
 At the richt han' 0' grace, cleansed frae a' oor guilt an' shame,. 
 We shall bide tae life eternal in oor New Hoose at Hame. 
 
22 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 MEMORIES OF VAN CLEAVE. 
 
 WHEN the party chiefs are prating, 
 And their heelers speculating 
 On the post-election favors 
 They are likely to receive; 
 We've a feeling vague and haunting . > 
 Tliat there is a something wanting, 
 And we wonder much whatever's 
 Come of James R. B. Van Cleave. 
 
 He was full of vim and vigor 
 When of yore his portly figure 
 Swayed the councils of the nation. 
 In the old convention hall; 
 AVhen his name and fame were toasted, 
 And his posters widely posted 
 Where unstinted admiration 
 They evoked from one and all. 
 
 Freed from cares of state involving. 
 He may safely leave the solving 
 Of the vexing silver question 
 To the idols of the hour; 
 He escapes the formal dinners 
 That were tendered to tlie winners, — 
 And were ruinous to digestion,— 
 In the zenith of his pow'r. 
 
 Now the golden days are waning 
 Of the picturesque campaigning. 
 And the strifes and sores of party 
 Make the gentler spirits grieve; 
 There was less of plain mud-slinging 
 When the crowded halls were ringing 
 With the pleasant-toned and hearty 
 Voice of J. li. V). Van Cleave. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 123 
 
 THE CREED AND THE DEED. 
 
 These verses were written in answer to an address recently delivered by 
 M. AI. Manfi;asarian before the Society of Ethical culture in Steinway Hall, 
 Mr. Mangasarian was formerly a Presb>terian minister. His subject was 
 "The Creed and the Deed," and in course of his address he assailed the 
 Christian doctrine of the atonement. While acknowledging the pre-eminence 
 of Jesus as an ethical teacher he denied His Christly mission as a Saviour of 
 men. While esteeming Him as a leader in earthly things, and professing to 
 model his life after the example of Jesus, Mangasarian disavowed any belief 
 in His divinity Three days later these verses were sent to the society through 
 an adherent, with a re<iuest for a reply, but none was forthcoming. 
 
 I. 
 
 The prophet spoke. I heard with expectation, 
 
 'Twas Mangasarian in his brightest vein; 
 His logic trained to the emancipation 
 
 Of warped and clouded minds from error's chain. 
 
 II. 
 < 
 
 'It is enough to set our lives in order, 
 If heaven there be we'll lind an entrance there; 
 
 liut what exists beyond earth's troubled border 
 We neither speculate, nor know, nor care. 
 
 III. 
 
 "The earth-born Jesus, in his generation, 
 
 Taught earthly men to live from error free; 
 But we reject the fable of his passion, 
 
 His Christly mission, and divinity. 
 
 IV. 
 
 "'Jesus,' the man,' we follow in his teaching. 
 
 Our perfect lives denote a perfect guide; 
 His Christly calling, theme of faith and preaching, 
 
 With modern science does not coincide. 
 
 " 'Jesus,' the friend of man, is emblematic 
 Of the best joys our mortal nature craves; 
 
 'Christ' is intolerant, austere, schismatic; 
 His dupes drag out their lives in open graves. 
 
124 ^y Heath and Prairie. 
 
 VI. 
 
 *'Jesus, his love and goodness are unbounded, 
 His syinpatlietic kindness overflows: 
 
 But, as a 'Christ,' with priestly bonds surrounded 
 He only shines where hell-fire redly glows." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yain man, his self-delusive views I sighed for, 
 As he proclaimed the ethics of his faith; 
 
 The truth that David sang, and Jesus died for. 
 He deemed he had demolished at a breath. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Such specious logic faithless ones rely on 
 To controvert the truth of Scripture's page; 
 
 Yet stands unmoved the holy hill of Zion, 
 In majesty serene, from age to age. 
 
 IX. 
 
 What says he ? "Christian doctrines are corroded 
 With rust and mildew of the ages gone; 
 
 And Christ's alleged divinity exploded: 
 From Jesus' grave we'll roll away the stone." 
 
 X. 
 
 Rail, Mangasarian, in thy cold derision, 
 Close thou thine eyes, and vow there is no day; 
 
 Yet, as it smiles on my unclouded vision. 
 Thou canst not intercept a single ray. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Where is the warrant for thy devious teaching? 
 
 Is it a revelation from— below? 
 Or but the ebbtide of thy former preaching, 
 
 Like captured ordnance trained upon the foe? 
 
 XII. 
 
 The flimsy structure of thy mind's creation— 
 In days of Christian zeal— thou may'st undo, 
 
 But tamper with the rock of its foundation. 
 And thy temerity thou'lt surely rue. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 125 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Take thou our Jesus for thy Lord and Master, 
 But rob Ilim of His attributes divine, — 
 
 Wliy, then: Mohammed, Buddha, Zoroaster, 
 Offer attractions far discounting thine. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Jesus is Christ, or nothing. Freely given 
 By His own lips, the evidence we gain: 
 
 "If I be not the Christ come down from Heaven 
 Then hear me not, for all my words are vain."' 
 
 XV 
 
 Wouldst thou appropriate His truth and beauty? 
 
 Bask in His smiles, and yet ignore His frown? 
 Canst thou accept the hire, and shirk the duty? 
 
 Reject the cross, and yet attain the crown? 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Then may'st thou claim, while summer flowers are blowing. 
 The storm-king's breath their petals shall not blight; . 
 
 Thou may'st affirm, while noontide beams are glowing, 
 That tliere exist no shadows of the night. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 "God cannot justly doom the souls he gave us," 
 Say'st thou, "to an eternity of pain." 
 
 But if there be no hell from which to save us 
 Then verilv hath Jesus died in vain. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 H Heaven be worth our preaching, singing, praying,- 
 
 The best devotion of enlightened man- 
 Give us a good, old-fashioned hell, worth staying 
 As far awav from as a mortal can. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Should I embark with thee on life's vast ocean? 
 
 No pilot save thy self-sufficient crew. 
 No helm to guide thy vessel's wayward motion; 
 
 Without a compass, nor a port in view? 
 
126 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Destroy the beacon light my course that guided, 
 And cast away the anchor of my soul: 
 
 And whither should I steer, all undecided, 
 While controversial billows round me roily 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Thy faith is built on Jesus' life and teaching, 
 Absorbs His person, but rejects His creed; 
 
 But ours, more comprehensive and far-reaching. 
 Embodies Jesus in both word and deed. 
 
 xxir. 
 
 Take thou the husk, and cast aside the kernel. 
 
 Take thou the body, pass the spirit by; 
 But both are ours, His life and truth eternal, 
 
 To teach us how to live and how to die. 
 
 XXIIT. 
 
 Our ancient faith is born of revelation, 
 
 It's claims historic cannot be gainsaid; 
 Thine is the fruit of dubious contemplation; 
 
 Doubt and denial are thy stock-in-trade. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 "We know no future state of good or evil;" 
 "We know not whence we came, nor whither bound;" 
 
 Such teaching lowers mankind to the level 
 Of the dumb animals that browse around. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The scope of thy self-culture is too narrow: — 
 With all the ethics faithless man has taught 
 
 Thou mayest cultivate, and plough, and harrow;— 
 Without the seed thy labors come to naught. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 What seed should germinate unto our saving, 
 And yield our industry its due increase? 
 
 Look on the Christ-sown fields; their harvests waving 
 Betoken seeds of love, and joy, and peace. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 127 
 
 XXVIF. 
 
 Are we of those who walk 'mid shadows gloomy? 
 
 Who "merit Heaven by making earth a hell?" 
 Nay, then, until the mother earth entomb me 
 
 I'll sing, for Jesus doeth all things well. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 I know He'll keep that which I have committed 
 Unto his care; and Peace reigns in my breast; 
 
 Then are thy followers rather to be pitied, 
 Who strive to lull their consciences to rest. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 We render homage to our God in spirit— 
 The Lord of Hosts, unseen, but not unknown- 
 
 The call to worship sounds and all men hear it, 
 Yea, even those who bow to wood and stone; 
 
 XXX. 
 
 In face of this you raise your idol, saying, 
 "Love is my creed, my god humanity;" 
 
 Go, learn thou logic of that infant praying, 
 With folded hands, beside a mother's knee. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Thy faith unworthy seems of my embracing,— 
 With an immortal soul to lose or save,— 
 
 ^Tis but a broken reed to mortals facing 
 Eternity, with all its issues grave. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Nay, Mangasarian, vain is thy endeavor, 
 My simple faith is proof against thy blow; 
 
 Rather it is more firmly fixed than ever, 
 Since I have seen the weakness of it's foe. 
 
128 ^3^ Heath and Prairie. 
 
 THE SUMMER GIRL. 
 
 SHE is dainty as a rose 
 In a sunny arbor blooming, 
 AVhere it's sweetness overflows, 
 All the neighborhood perfuming. 
 And what though some hours of time 
 
 Have been spent in her adorning? 
 The effect is just sublime 
 
 As a glorious summer morning. 
 
 Let the critic shake his head — 
 
 On life's ceaseless duties harping — 
 Still the fin de siecle maid 
 
 Turns a deaf ear to his carping. 
 As a "thing of beauty" rare 
 
 She will find her style in favor, 
 \Vhile her youthful friends declare 
 
 That slie is a "joy for ever." 
 
 Sober thoughts may ne'er control 
 
 Her impulsive word and action, 
 But she envies not a soul, 
 
 In her own self-satisfaction. 
 Thougli her frolics be unwise. 
 
 And her mirth at times uproarious; 
 Yet with her we sympathize 
 
 Rather than with prudes censorious. 
 
 AVe uphold her cause with zeal- 
 Fairest product of the nation— 
 
 On the golf links or awheel 
 She commands our admiration. 
 
 Let St. Joe. across the lake. 
 Boast of peach trees bravely laden; 
 
 But Chicago takes the cake 
 
 With her glorious summer maiden. 
 
By Heath and Prairie, 129 
 
 TO MRS CATHARINE YATES.. 
 
 A MONARCH may bestride a royal saddle, 
 And hold the reins of power uncontroll'd; 
 But the maternal hand that rocks the cradle 
 Still rules the world as in the days of old. 
 The giant oak tree stands with limbs extended, 
 A tower of strength, impervious to the storm; 
 But when at first its sapling stem was bended 
 The forest king received its graceful form. 
 
 So they who train the rising generation 
 
 Should lead them in the paths of rectitude, 
 Presenting, for their zealous emulation. 
 
 The bright examples of the pure and good. 
 'Tis the reward of long and faithful training 
 
 To see the seeds of virtue taking root; 
 'Tis pleasant to behold, when life is waning, 
 
 Thy noble precepts bearing noble fruit: 
 
 When citizens who seek a standard bearer 
 
 For this, the proudest of our sovereign States, 
 Exclaim, with one accord, "No name is dearer 
 
 To loyal hearts than that of Richard Yates." 
 They who have marked his youthful life unfolding,— 
 
 His faithfulness alike in storm and shine, — 
 Look to his stainless honor for upholding 
 
 The best traditions of a noble line. 
 
 When uprightness prevails in state transactions: 
 
 When truth and justice rule our western land— 
 Which ofttimes groaned beneath unjust exactions— 
 
 Our citizens shall bless thy guiding hand, 
 By which of old the sapling stem was bended, 
 
 Which rears its form in strength and majesty; 
 Whose zeal and upright manhood are commended 
 
 To lead the phalanx of the brave aad free. 
 
130 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 THE SUICIDE CRANK. 
 
 HE was a man of up-to-date ideas, 
 AVho nurtured every fad that warps the mind, 
 And had imbibed materialistic notions, 
 Or gave folks an impression of the kind. 
 When last we met he glowingly unfolded 
 
 The most beneficent design of all— 
 I groaned to think another wheel was spinning 
 Beneath the roof of his "machinery hall." 
 
 He said, "I am convinced that when a mortal 
 
 Is old, and sick, and broken down with toil, 
 It should be bounden on the state to aid him 
 
 In gently shuffling off the mortal coil. 
 When his career of usefulness is ended: — 
 
 Debarred alike from business and from sport: — 
 Don't you agree 'twould be an act of mercy 
 
 To interfere, and cut life's journey short?" 
 
 I said, "For horses, mules, and faithful canines 
 
 This fate has hitherto been set apart; 
 But if you vvish to rank with beasts of burden. 
 
 My friend, I coincide with all my heart. 
 As for myself, I've always lacked ambition 
 
 To class myself with creatures such as these; 
 So I propose to leave the brute creation 
 
 To argue out the matter as they please." 
 
 BY THE BROAD ST. CLAIR. 
 
 AGAIN I come to taste the joys of friendship — 
 From business cares a little while set free — 
 Where broad St. Clair, with commerce heavy laden, 
 Flows southward in unruffled majesty. 
 A peerless river, on whose placid bosom 
 
 The navies of the continent might ride; 
 O'er which two nations clasp their hands in friendship, 
 Their pennants floating proudly side by sid.e 
 
By Heath and Prairie, 131 
 
 While summer days oppress the soul with languor— 
 
 A wearied citizen— I seek repose 
 Where in the freshening breeze the wheat fields rustle, 
 
 And shady woodlands where the maple grows. 
 Where wild flowers bloom in Nature's rich profusion 
 
 The wavelets kiss the green Canadian shore; 
 Sweet odors of the northern lakes ditf using, 
 
 The glow of health and vigor to restore. 
 
 Like uncaged bird exults my careworn spirit, - 
 
 I bid the ghosts of care and sorrow flee; 
 On every spray the feathered songsters warble, 
 
 And fill the air with joyous melody. 
 Tar hence the tide of life is fiercely surging, 
 
 No echo, here, disturbs my bosom's calm; 
 I listen to the still, small voice of nature. 
 
 To overburdened hearts a healing balm. 
 
 Where hospitality is still a virtue 
 
 There dwells a people of the good old kind. 
 Who in their busy lives can still find leisure 
 
 To cultivate the graces of the mind. 
 They prize their heritage of independence. 
 
 And— children of the hardy pioneer— 
 They breathe the bold and self-reliant spirit 
 
 That permeates the limpid atmosphere. 
 
 Where souls expand beneath the glow of friendship 
 
 And loving kindness rules the heart supreme. 
 All things are fair to my enchanted vision, 
 
 And life is happy as a fairy dream. 
 And when, in days to come, my heart is weary. 
 
 And nature droops amid the city's glare; 
 I'll sigh for just one hour of sweet seclusion 
 
 Beside the sparkling waters of St. Clair. 
 
132 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 THE CHEAPEST FUEL. 
 
 THOUGH a bard of unknown name 
 Finds it hard to get a hearing, 
 I set out in quest of fame, 
 And my progress was quite cheering. 
 When an editor, one time. 
 Forwarded an invitation 
 That I write some things in rhyme 
 For his weekly publication. 
 
 So I wrote, and wrote, and wrote, 
 
 Verse enough to fill some volumes. 
 But of all that stuff he's not 
 
 Printed one word in his columns. 
 Now I do not like to shout. 
 
 But this hope deferred is cruel; 
 And I wonder if he's out 
 
 For the cheapest kind of fuel. 
 
 It has put me in the blues; 
 
 And I'll wager cash upon it, 
 That he never meant to use 
 
 Either tale, or poem, or sonnet: 
 I believe upon my soul — 
 
 In the light of these conditions — 
 That the man is saving coal. 
 
 Burning up my compositions. 
 
 GOD DEFEND THE RIGHT. 
 
 RED run the sluggish streams of the Transvaal^ 
 Where hostile legions gather for the fight; 
 And listening nations hear Paul Kruger call 
 A God of justice to "defend the right.*' 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 133 
 
 What is the right those burghers would possess? 
 
 The fruit of honest toil to confiscate, * 
 They claim the rijjht to plunder and oppresss 
 
 The strangers that sojourn within their gate. 
 
 The right to boast, through many a peaceful year. 
 
 Of Britons slaughtered on Majuba steep; 
 The right to goad, with ceaseless taunt and jeer. 
 
 The mighty power that let her vengeance sleep: 
 
 Though well they know that on that fatal day 
 The British were outnumbered five to one; 
 
 Exhausted with the perils of the way. 
 Their slender stock of ammunition done. 
 
 Their precious right to slaughter and enslave 
 
 The helpless, dispossessed aborigine; 
 While kindly Britons civilize and save, 
 
 And treat the native as their kith and kin. 
 
 Let those who laud the burgher's pious zeal 
 
 Excuse his vain, discreditable boast; 
 And show, while urging on his vengeful steel, 
 
 Why those who know him least respect him most. 
 
 Vain is his hope, to curb the lion's might, — 
 Can shifting sands resist the ocean flood? 
 
 Nayl Though they struggle till Majuba's height 
 Is red with Boer, as once with British, blood. 
 
 THE MAN BEHIND THE BOWLDER. 
 
 BKITAIN'S heart is sad today 
 O'er her army's brief reverses: 
 Bloodier still must be the fray 
 Ere the cloud of war disperses. 
 Her defeat is no disgrace- 
 Let the world forbear to scold her, 
 Eor it knows she's face to face 
 With the man behind the bowlder. 
 
134 -^3' Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Take a soldier brave and true 
 
 On the open plain advancing, 
 With his foe concealed from view 
 
 Save the eyes of fury glancing: 
 When they aim the deadly gun, 
 
 It would seem to a beholder 
 That the odds are ten to one 
 
 On the man behind the bowlder. 
 
 Six feet odd of British height, 
 
 And the Boer as many inches. 
 And what boots the soldier's might 
 
 When his foes avoid the clinches? 
 Let them meet him hand to hand, 
 
 Nor by skulking foes surrounded, 
 And what power on earth can stand 
 
 When the British "charge" is sounded? 
 
 Jingo writers shriek for gore 
 
 In their editorial columns, 
 But experience teaches more 
 
 Than their theoretic volumes: 
 And their little minds might change, 
 
 And their fiery souls grow colder; 
 If they stood in easy range 
 
 Of the man behind the bowlder. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S LASS. 
 
 A soldier brave and gay 
 Is the lad I love; 
 I was happy many a day 
 With the lad I love; 
 But now he's far away 
 In the thickest of the fray, 
 And I can only pray 
 For the lad I love. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. i35 
 
 It grieved me sore to part 
 
 From the lad I love, 
 But I knew the faithful heart 
 
 Of the lad I love; 
 When he weighed his loyalty 
 'Twixt his native land and me,— 
 I said, "Go, and angels be 
 
 With the lad 1 love." 
 
 Lord God of Hosts, be near 
 
 To the lad I love, 
 And I will have no fear 
 
 For the lad I love; 
 Where the death shot pours like rain 
 Still Thy shield is not in vain; 
 And I'll hope to meet again 
 
 With the lad I love. 
 
 TOMMY ATKINS. 
 
 HE is brave and he is true. 
 If a trifle absent-minded; 
 But what can a soldier do 
 When his leaders' eyes are blinded? 
 When he gets them hand-to-hand; 
 With their bayonets on the level. 
 Tommy Atkins can withstand 
 Frank or Russian, Boer or devil. 
 
 Fighting puffs of smoke and flame. 
 
 From the rock and brushwood flashing 
 Is an uncongenial game 
 
 To the soldiers gay and dashing. 
 They despised their rustic foes; 
 
 Now they see their error clearly; 
 Smarting underneath the blows. 
 
 They have learned the lesson dearly. 
 
 But the stern, unquestioned grit 
 
 Of the Anglo- Saxon nation. 
 With their ablest leaders' wit. 
 
 Shall retrieve the situation; 
 Till the British skies are clear 
 
 And the hour of danger passes; 
 And disprove the ancient sneer, 
 
 "They are lions led by asses.' 
 
136 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Dodging 'mong the trees and rocks, 
 
 Baffled in the act of striking^; 
 Crouching with the hunted fox 
 
 Isn't much to Tommy's liking. 
 Let him get them hand-to-hand, 
 
 With their bayonets on the level, 
 And he'll fearlessly withstand 
 
 Frank or Russian, Boer or devil. 
 
 THE BIGGEST FOOL. 
 
 HE was just a spring-time poet 
 With his glossy bangs uncurled 
 And his genius undervalued 
 By the cold and cruel world; 
 And he shouted on the curbstone, 
 
 "Friends, the most consummate fool 
 Is the editor who edits 
 
 With a square and six inch rule. 
 
 "For the poem that I consigned him 
 
 Was a masterpiece sublime. 
 Which would send my fame resounding 
 
 Down the avenues of time. 
 But his highness has declined it, 
 
 Placing, where it might have been, 
 This forlorn and stilted sonnet, 
 
 Product of some verse machine. 
 
 "Thus he snips and pastes and edits 
 
 By his mathematic rule; 
 What recks he of mind or matter 
 
 If he gets his spaces full? 
 Measuring inherent talent 
 
 By his sordid ells and feet; 
 Soulless as the swarthy pavier 
 
 Laying blocks upon the street. 
 
 "There you see the slangy hustler 
 
 Sitting in the judgment seat. 
 And the polished laureate making 
 
 Footprints on the muddy street. 
 Yet I'd rather be the student 
 
 Learning truths in nature's school, 
 Than the editor who edits 
 
 With a little six inch rule." 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 137 
 
 THE DUTCH-IRISH RAID ON CANADA. 
 
 BRAVE Canadians, stay at home, 
 Shun the far imperial battle; 
 With the bursting of the bomb 
 And the Mauser's dangerous rattle. 
 Having raised the Fenian ghost, 
 
 You will need your strength and science. 
 When Van Splutter's furious host 
 Joins the Caseys, Quinns and Ryans. 
 
 Irish "bhoys,"I understand. 
 
 Have been patiently awaiting 
 To go in with any land 
 
 That would give John Bull a "bating." 
 They will set their iron heel 
 
 On your land left unprotected,— 
 If some patriot doesn't steal 
 
 All the funds they have collected. 
 
 Now that Britain's hands are full. 
 
 As the outcome of her quarrels, 
 Colonies that own her rule 
 
 Must be looking to their laurels. 
 Then entrench your battle lines 
 
 Or your foes may force a passage. 
 When the ould potheen combines 
 
 With the sour krout and the sausage. 
 
 They are slow to cross the lakes 
 
 For they know the job is risky. 
 And respect the land that makes 
 
 Such superior brands of whiskey. 
 But the nation's course offends. 
 
 And the boys resolved to spank her; — 
 Judging by the stuff it sends 
 
 'Tis a goodly land to conquer. 
 
 Fighting men can ill be spared 
 
 To go forth in search of trouble. 
 When the whoop of war is heard 
 
 In your fields of yellow stubble. 
 You'll remember "Sixty -six" 
 
 When a thousand stars shall twinkle 
 As you feel the vengeful licks 
 
 Of McCarthv and Van Winkle. 
 
138 ^3^ Heath and Prairie. 
 
 KIPLING AND BOBS. 
 
 ( {, 4 ITTLE Bobs is brave and wise," 
 
 J ^ Says the poet in his raptures; 
 
 Though he does not advertise, 
 Fortune's brightest smiles he captures. 
 When his countrynien he leads — 
 
 Britain's foes intent on routing — 
 He performs tlie gallant deeds; 
 Other men may do the shouting. 
 
 But in social spheres we find- 
 Though their standards they are raising- 
 Many a man of shallow mind 
 
 Taken at his own appraising. 
 With a tongue tliat seldom fails, 
 His assumption is unbounded; 
 Though the trickster never tells 
 Just on what his claims are founded. 
 
 Men who listen day by day 
 
 Would delight to prick his bubble, 
 But they know the world would say, 
 
 "They are jealous- that s the trouble." 
 So they do not call his bluff 
 
 Nor disturb his smooth haranguing, 
 For he'll soon have rope enough 
 
 To insure his autohanging. 
 
 True, they say the tempest's weight 
 
 Will undo the flimsy building. 
 And men's eyes will penetrate 
 
 Masks of superficial gilding. 
 Modest worth may win tlie game. 
 
 But I have my spells of doubting, 
 When I see it put to shame 
 
 By the man who does the shouting. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 139 
 
 BOER AND BOXER. 
 
 J'T^WAS young Dennis McNamara, of St. Patrick's jovial 
 X race, 
 
 Wid a chip upon liis slioullher wliin he sees an Eng- 
 lish face; 
 An' he said, '"Tis only changin' av a letter in the name, 
 But I don't like our indorsement av the Boxers, just the same. 
 They say our only chance av gettin' even wid John Hull 
 Is treadin' on his coat tails ivery toime his hands are full: 
 To throwin' bricks at English heads we claim a right divine, 
 So whin the B3er is soundly licked the Baxer's nixt in line. 
 
 "The Boers were stout an' sturdy, an' we backed thim tooth an' 
 
 nail 
 Whin they were bouldly twistin' av the British Lion's tail; 
 Av coorse they kill the black men off save thim they want for 
 
 slaves, 
 An' white men have no loife at all where'er their banner waves. 
 But then they checked the English in their conquerin' career, 
 Which gives them licence to be called our frinds an' brothers 
 
 dear; 
 To help them in their fight we sint our comrades o'er the brine, 
 An' now our leaders have decreed the Boxer's nixt in line. 
 
 "The frisky Ashantee, I see has jumped into the ring. 
 
 All ready for a bloody war or anny other thing; 
 
 He cannot cut off heads enough whin bossed by Ikitish laws, 
 
 An' so to give him back his rights we have indorsed his cause. 
 
 His country was a slaughter pen ere John began his rule, 
 
 Which his'try has recorded to the credit av J. Bull; 
 
 An' so it rather goes against a natur' such as mine 
 
 To see the cut-throat niggers placed on freedom's fightin' line. 
 
 "Thim Boxers are the latest ones to try the murderin' trade. 
 
 In favor of the haythen chaps I can't say much indade; 
 
 The papers all describe thim as a vile an' savage crew, 
 
 But for our purpose they are boomed as patriots bould an' 
 
 true. 
 We're bound to show our inmity to England, I suppose, 
 By blowin' up canals at home an' helpin' foreign foes; 
 Our glorious record in the past our future \\\\\ outshine 
 If we can kape our dacint bhoys on freedom's fightin' line." 
 
140 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 WHERE THE UNION JACK IS FLYING. 
 
 IN the city's restless swim 
 Where the thousands pass unheeding 
 Many eyes with tears are dim, 
 Many loyal hearts are bleeding. 
 For their thoughts are far away, 
 With the heroes who are dying 
 In the foremost of the fray, 
 Where the Union Jack is flying. 
 
 With their brothers and their sons 
 
 All the brunt of war abiding, 
 Facing rows of deadly guns 
 
 And the foes that skulk in hiding. 
 To their fierce, destructive hail 
 
 British bullets swift replying; 
 There is no such word as 'fail' 
 
 Where the Union Jack is fiying. 
 
 Outraged Freedom, in her plight. 
 
 Looks to Britain as avenger, 
 And her sons go forth to fight, 
 
 Fearless of surrounding danger; 
 In the midst of wounds and death 
 
 And the blame that's far more trying. 
 They uphold the British faith 
 
 Where the Union Jack is fiying. 
 
 While, of all a nation's woes, 
 
 War remains the worst infliction. 
 Yet humanity bestows 
 
 On our arms its benediction. 
 For it knows our aims are pure, — 
 
 Grateful hearts alone enslaving, — 
 And the rights of man secure 
 
 Where the Union Jack is waving. 
 
 Onward, heroes of the north, 
 Till the bondsmen's chains are riven, 
 
 Lead the wretched captives forth 
 To the glorious light of heaven. 
 
 Till the hosts of liberty- 
 All the powers of hell defying — 
 
 Raise the chorus of the free 
 Where the Union Jack is flying. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 141 
 
 I WOULDN'T WONDER. 
 
 IF Britain were a tyrant state 
 That ground her subjects under, 
 And they objected forcibly — 
 Why, then, I wouldn't wonder. 
 But as her equitable laws 
 
 Discredit this contention, 
 
 The sullen hatred of the Boer 
 
 Is hard of comprehension. 
 
 If Kruger were a youthful brave. 
 
 His threats of blood and thunder 
 The outcome of his bumptiousness — 
 
 Why, then, I wouldn't wonder. 
 But hoary hairs and psalms of praise 
 
 Have strangely ill accorded 
 With greed of gold and lust of power, 
 
 His bloody rule recorded. 
 
 Or if the Afrikanders yearned 
 To burst the bonds asunder 
 
 Imposed by foreign force or fraud- 
 Why, then, I wouldn't wonder. 
 
 But Britain reigned as suzerain 
 On their own invitation; 
 
 When native hordes had threatened them 
 With swift extermination. 
 
 The liberty their leaders claim 
 
 They have denied to strangers, 
 Who dug their mines and made them rich, 
 
 In face of death and dangers. 
 An oligarchy organized 
 
 To tyrannize and plunder — 
 Their plea of injured innocence 
 
 Makes thinking nations wonder. 
 
142 By Heath and Prairie, 
 
 FEEEDOM'S BATTLE LINE. 
 
 ON the battle line of Freedom, in the brave days of the 
 past, 
 Heroes of the fighting ages stood uneonquered to the 
 last; 
 And their names shall be remembered to an everlasting day, 
 When consigned to cold oblivion are the ones of common clay. 
 There are Washington and Lincoln, liobert Bruce and William 
 
 Tell, 
 And undaunted William Wallace, whose renown we've cher- 
 ished well; 
 And in Fame's majestic temple where their names immortal 
 
 shine, 
 * Fighting Mac" and noble Wauchope stand on Freedom's 
 battle line. 
 
 When our negro was regarded as a thing to sell and buy, 
 
 And the sunny south was ringing with the horror of his cry, — 
 
 On the honor of the nation 'twas a black and blighting stain. 
 
 Till the glorious host of freedom burst his medjeval chain. 
 
 But the infamies recorded in the country of the Boer 
 
 Would discount the darkest mem'ries of our Mississippi's' 
 
 shore; 
 So the great voice of the people, wiiich is called the voice 
 
 divine, 
 Places French and Baden Powell in the van of Freedom's line. 
 
 But the little politicians and their office hunting friends 
 
 Would distort the facts of hist'ry for their little aims, and ends; 
 
 So the hypocrite and bully, crazed by wild, fanatic pride. 
 
 Is a Christian and a hero with the angels on his side. 
 
 But the men who hold the balance of their mental faculties 
 
 Turn the searchlight of their knowledge on transparent frauds 
 
 like these. 
 And this gem of truth unvarnished they have dug from false- 
 hood's mine, — 
 Little Bobs, and not Paul Kruger, leads fair Freedom's battle 
 line. 
 
 Ho! then, for the blessed era that with victory has dawned 
 Where the slaver held dominion and the servile masses fawned; 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 143 
 
 There the sands of gold are reeking with the blood of heroes 
 
 slain, 
 But the glorious flag they planted shall for evermore remain. 
 And the men who do the thinking — where the soul of freedom 
 
 glows — 
 Drink success to British banners and confusion to their foes; 
 Glorious names that miss the roll-call future ages shall enshrine, 
 Who, when blood and death surrounded, fought on Freedom's 
 
 battle line. 
 
 THE LION OF SOUTH AFRICA. 
 
 WHEN the wandering delegation 
 Of the Afrikander nation 
 
 Told of glorious hopes extinguished 
 At the hostile cannon's mouth. 
 They referred in accents tender 
 To their country's bold defender,— 
 Gallant Cronje, — now distinguished 
 As the "Lion of the South." 
 
 While his present plight bewailing. 
 They have missed their mark in failing 
 To appreciate the lesson 
 Taught by his captivity, — 
 That a nation's surest trust is 
 In the principles of justice. 
 And whoe'er may bear oppression, 
 Sturdy Britons shall be free 
 
 Anglo Saxons' skill and daring,— 
 Joined with industry unsparing,— 
 Foremost were in contributing 
 To the infant nation's growth; 
 As the pick and spade resounded 
 They developed wealth unbounded. 
 
 Though they spent less time in shooting 
 Than the "Lion of the South." 
 
 But the Boer despised their leading. 
 For their fault of alien breeding; 
 And received them not as brothers 
 But to fill the bondsman's place; 
 
144 ^y Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Pity that a valiant nation 
 Should inflict such degradation 
 On the sons of British mothers, 
 And Columbia's freeborn race. 
 
 By this gracele>s course pursuing 
 They have wrought their own undoing; 
 Tottering is their cause unholy, 
 And their back is at the wall; 
 And the price their land is paying 
 Calls to mind the ancient saying, 
 "Though the mills of God grind slowly 
 Yet they grind exceeding small." 
 
 THE BKIGHTEE SIDE. 
 
 A POET sat in his chamber lone, 
 And sadly mused on the days bygone; 
 On bright hopes scattered like leaves in the blast: 
 On roseate skies by clouds o'ercast; 
 How briars flourished, and wild weeds grew, 
 Where flow'rs should display their brilliant hue. 
 He heaved a weary and mournful sigh, 
 And wrote, with a tear-drop in his eye, 
 "Of all sad words of tongue or pen 
 The saddest are these, 'It might have been.' " 
 
 I walk in the sunshine of life today, 
 The light of love on my earthly way; 
 And, looking back on the past, I find 
 O'erruling fate has been wondrous kind. 
 AVhat dangers 'scaped, what plots laid bare. 
 How oft delivered from tempter's snare; 
 My path illumined in darkest night: 
 And so, with thankful heart, I write: 
 "Of all glad words of tongue or pen 
 The gladdest are these, 'It might have been.' 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 145 
 
 THE LIONVS CUBS. 
 
 9 'T^IS the lion's foes that quail, 
 
 J[ 'Spite of all their deadly engines; 
 
 Twisters of the family tail 
 
 Must abide the family vengeance. 
 They are troubled in their souls, 
 
 All their foolish boasts deploring; 
 And the boldest hunt their holes 
 
 yow the lion's cubs are roaring. 
 
 Long unknown their rugged strength. 
 
 And untrained their youthful voices; 
 But they thunder forth at length, 
 
 And the king of beasts rejoices. 
 For his powT seemed on the wane, — 
 
 They will aid in its restoring; 
 And his foes may rage in vain 
 
 Now his valiant cubs are roaring. 
 
 From the broad Canadian land^ 
 
 From Australia's sun-baked regions, 
 ^^'e behold the white man's hand 
 
 .Joined with India's dusky legions. 
 Filial love their only tie,— 
 
 They have never known subjection; 
 And they go to fight and die 
 
 As a token of affection . 
 
 When the fur begins to tly 
 
 It will cheer the grizzled tighter 
 That his valiant cubs are by, 
 
 And will make his burden lighter. 
 Where the vengeful blades are bared 
 
 And the crimson streams are pouring; 
 There the lion's praise is heard 
 
 In his cubs' spontaneous roaring. 
 
146 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 CHINEE AND TURK. 
 
 i 4 /'^ AX you give a chap a pointer,'' 
 l^ Said the Chinee to the Turk; 
 
 "That will keep the nations guessing 
 While I finish up my work? 
 There's John Bull, and Billy Kaiser, 
 
 Uncle Sam, and Miss Paree, 
 And the Bear, and Jap, and Dago, 
 Want to thump me, don't you see?" 
 
 "Just keep cool, my friend, and bluff them," 
 
 Said the Turk to the Chinee; 
 "You've but one chance in a million 
 
 If the nations all agree. 
 Set the one against the other, 
 
 Probing some old-standing sore; 
 They may hate you good and plenty, 
 
 But theyjiate each other more." 
 
 "That's all right,"' the Chinee grunted, 
 
 "But remember this, old chap. 
 They're aware, by long experience. 
 
 That you're handy in a scrap. 
 For your men have proved their mettle 
 
 On a hundred fields of fame, 
 But they snicker at the mention 
 
 Of the Chinese warrior's name." 
 
 Said the Turk, "Then up and show them 
 
 You can quit yourselves like men; 
 And it's harmless ultimatums 
 
 They'll be firing at you then. 
 Look at me, I smoke in comfort 
 
 While the nations howl and rage; 
 And ere they get down to business 
 
 I'll be dying of old age." 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 147 
 
 THE MODERN HERO. 
 
 WHILE those who labored for the souls of mankind 
 Attain the martyr's crown, for which they've striven, 
 And from the rice fields of the tlowery kingdom 
 Their blood cries out for vengeance unto heaven: 
 Enveloped in the flames of persecution, 
 
 The death wails of the innocent ascend; 
 And yet the fiendish glee of the assassin 
 Betokens the beginning of the end. 
 
 When ancient Nero, in his zeal unholy, 
 
 Had glutted his desire for Christian blood - 
 Tlie minds of men revolted, and the monster 
 
 ^^'as borne to swift destruction in the fiood. 
 And so today the heathen Oriental — 
 
 Whose measure of iniiiuity is full — 
 Must cease his course of bloodshed and oppression. 
 
 Beneath the iron heel of foreign rule. 
 
 What though the fierce, misguided Boxers brandish 
 
 Their murderous weapons, dyed in Christian gore; 
 Believing that their actions do good service 
 
 Unto the puppet gods which they adore 
 They who would supersede the light with darkness,— 
 
 The laws of states with the barbaric deed,— 
 Shall find the hand of civilized advancement 
 
 Is also strong to smite, in time of need. 
 
 THE LUCKY HORSE SHOE, 
 
 SOME people who firmly believe 
 In witchcraft and magical rings. 
 The veil of the future would lift 
 By spells and enchantments and things. 
 There's luck to the person that finds 
 
 A rusty old horse shoe, they say: 
 And when they're so signally blest 
 Rejoicing they go on their way. 
 
14S By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Of course there are all kinds of luck — 
 
 The good, the indifferent, and bad; 
 And I will recall with dismay 
 
 The latest experience I had : 
 For more of that species of luck 
 
 1 haven't the faintest desire, 
 Por my bicycle made the pick-up, 
 
 And the shoe nails punctured my tire. 
 
 JACK AS A CORONEK. 
 
 MY little Brother Jack forgot — 
 In midst of boyish play— 
 The lessons that he should have learnt 
 To take to scliool next day, 
 Then, hot and tired, lie wandered in. 
 
 And rummaged here and there 
 To find the things that he required. 
 His essay to prepare. 
 
 He nosed around a little while 
 
 AVith various smothered sighs. 
 And then into the kitchen came 
 
 AVhere JMa was baking pies: 
 "Oh, ma, I am a coroner. 
 
 And some one must be dead," 
 "Land sakes! my child," poor Mamma cried, 
 
 i)Ut Jack serenely said, 
 
 "I've found the paper and the pens. 
 
 The blotter, too, is here; 
 Xow you may come and see me hold 
 
 An ink-quest, Mamma dear." 
 Then Ma applied her vengeful strap; 
 
 Jack howled remorsefully, 
 "Oh! Ma, let up. or soon they'll hold 
 
 An inquest over me." 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 149 
 
 A NICIIT AT HAME. 
 
 IN the hall of assembly wliere Scotsmen forgather 
 To cherish the mem'ry of Scotland tiie brave, 
 And lassies as fair as the brig-Iit. blooming heather, 
 Their hearts beating true to the land o'er the wave: 
 I sat with the lave, and, with raptures unbounded, 
 
 I listened the songs of the mountain again; 
 The "J5anks 0' Loch Lomond"' so softly resounded. 
 Or "Robin Adair," like an angel's sweet strain. 
 
 The old Scottish melodies fondly we treasure. 
 
 We list with delight to the pibroch's wild note; 
 Oh! these are the seasons of unalloyed pleasure 
 
 That brighten the path of the wandering Scot. 
 No rumors of war can disturb our enjoyment - 
 
 Though traitors may plot, and alarmists may rave, 
 Serene, amidst all, we shall find sweet employment 
 
 In singing the praises of Scotland the brave. 
 
 And, grandest of all in that patriot meeting, 
 
 The banner of peace that was lioating above; 
 The hearts that were sundered, in unison beating. 
 
 And hands clasped in token of brotherly love. 
 Then shame on the firebrand who'd use his position 
 
 To drag our revered Scottish name in the mire, 
 AVould sacrifice all to his puny ambition. 
 
 And, for his own ends, set the iieather on tire. 
 
 Still fiery the Scot, as in barbaric ages: 
 
 At times, with dissension, our councils are torn; 
 AVhile rivals exult o'er the warfare tliat rages. 
 
 And point at our clansmen the finger of scorn. 
 Then wake the bold spirit of Scotia from slumber — 
 
 A spirit so proud that the world could not tame — 
 .<-ome, true-hearted Scotsmen, and add to our number; 
 
 United we'll stand for her honor and fame. 
 
1 5 ") By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 GETTING A IIEST. 
 
 YOUNCI Bridget from the kitchen caine- 
 'Twas on a morn in June— 
 And said, "Oi'm givin" notice, sor, 
 Oi'm to be married soon, 
 Oi'll bake an' wash, an' scrub no more, 
 
 Get some wan else instade; 
 Me weary bones will get a rist 
 Whin Tim an' me are wed." 
 
 In midst of an October shower 
 
 We chanced to meet again: 
 And as we stopped to chat awhile 
 
 I asked, in merry strain, 
 "Well, l^-idget, how's your weary bones? 
 
 Have they got rest?" She said, 
 "Och, yis, me jaw-bones, jje the pow'rs 
 
 They're risted now indade." 
 
 EVIL TIDINGS. 
 
 A SHADOW amid life's sunshine, a cloud in the azure sky^ 
 And I pause amid toil and tratlic, where the pulse of 
 life beats high; 
 My spirit is sorely crushed, as by an o'erwhelming blow, 
 For the bearer of evil tidings has brought me a message of woe. 
 
 Then away, in trembling haste, from scenes of bustle and riot, 
 [ speed to the home of the mourner, where reigns sepulchral 
 
 (luiet: 
 Where How the unbidden tears, that ease our bosoms' pain, 
 A little while, ere we join in the contiict of life again. 
 
 A solemn warning we read in the snapping of life's frail bond-,. 
 And we seem to be closer drawn to the world that lies beyond; 
 So let us fuHill our vows while yet it is called today, 
 For the bearer of evil tidings is ever upon the way. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 151 
 
 ANGUS MACLEAN. 
 
 LAY the worthy chinsman low 
 With the honors of liis station, 
 ]5orne to rest by comrades true 
 Of his kindred and his nation. 
 Gone from us in manhood's prime — 
 
 He was happy in possessing 
 Tlie regard of honest minds 
 And the poor man's fervent blessing. 
 
 Nevermore tlie genial smile 
 
 Shall o'erspread his kindly features, 
 And the leal heart beats no more 
 
 For his burdened fellow creatures: 
 ]Jut the good deeds he has done 
 
 In their grateful mem'ries cluster; 
 And the world finds ne'er a spot 
 
 That would dim liis manhood's lustre. 
 
 AVhen the clansmen meet again 
 
 We shall miss his hearty greeting. 
 While his vacant chair proclaims 
 
 That the days of earth are Meeting. 
 One by one they pass away, 
 
 And our i)atriot circle narrows, 
 As the ring on Flodden held 
 
 Shrank beneath the English arrows. 
 
 Sons of Scotland mourn his loss — 
 
 Vain regrets our bosoms swelling — 
 As we sadly turn away 
 
 From his desolated dwelling. 
 And we mourn the blighted home 
 
 Where the heart of love is breaking 
 For the one who lies so low 
 
 In the sleep that knows no waking. 
 
152 ^3' Heath and Prairie. 
 
 BROTHER JACK AT SCHOOL, 
 
 WHEN foreign foes, by force of arms. 
 Would overthrow our rule, 
 A company of volunteers 
 Marched past our village school. 
 Our hearts with youthful ardor lired,— 
 
 We cheered the little band 
 That boldly marched to light the foes 
 Of their dear native land. 
 
 And when their train had steamed away, 
 
 And we were left behind; 
 The teacher labored to impress 
 
 Upon the youthful mind. 
 That freeborn hearts are ever lired 
 
 With patriotic zeal; 
 And bravely stand in freedom's cause 
 
 To wielding of the steel. 
 
 He said it was a glorious thing 
 
 To fight and win the day; 
 And then he paused and asked the boys— 
 
 In his impressive way, - 
 "What motives took those men afar. 
 
 To die beyond the tideV" 
 IT think 'twas locomotives, sir," 
 
 My Brother Jack replied. 
 
 THE REASON Wt[Y. 
 
 HK was an aged nuin of courtly breeding, 
 Whose pen had won him worldwide recognition; 
 His witching tales men never tired of reading; 
 To charm their minds appeared to be his mission; 
 Yet, in his native modesty, scarce heeding 
 
 The i)laudits that bespoke his high condition; 
 The heroes of his pen pliilosophize 
 And live and move, in all but human guise. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 153 
 
 She was an authoress, a hij^h-strung creature, 
 
 Who fairly doted on lier avocation; 
 Jler characters were false to art and nature, 
 
 And noticeably lacked in animation; 
 ^0 point, no moral, nor redeeming feature, 
 
 So critics showed but small appreciation; 
 And yet the lady wanted to make sure 
 Her name and fame forever should endure. 
 
 And so she sought this wisest of the sages, 
 And thus inquired, her conhdence abated, 
 
 ''Dost ihou opine that men, in future ages, 
 Will still admire the heroes I've created? 
 
 And shall they ever speak from printed pagesV 
 To cold oblivion, sure, they are not fated." 
 
 "Nay, madam, nay," the master made reply, 
 ,They never lived, so they can never die." 
 
 IN MEMORIAM— GEORGE DRYSDALE 
 
 GONE to his rest in the fullness of days, 
 E very one loved him, they say in his praise; 
 O nward the path of the Christian he trod, 
 11 ichly endowed with the grace of his God. 
 G ently released from its dwelling of clay— 
 E nters his spirit the mansions of day. 
 
 D eath and the grave liave been robbed of their sting, 
 
 II ichest reward for his service they bring; 
 
 Y ears may elapse but they cannot remove 
 
 S weet recollections of one whom we love. 
 
 D eeply we grieve, for he showed in life's span 
 
 A 11 that was noblest and sweetest in man; 
 
 L oving and true,— when the last ties were riven 
 
 E arth was reluctant to vield him to heaven. 
 
154 ■^3' Heath and Prairie. 
 
 THE RULING OF THE ROOST. 
 
 COME all ye blioys of Oirish blood, lift up your voice an' 
 sing 
 The praises av this glorious land, where Paddy rules 
 as king; 
 Though England's got her iron hoof upon our eounthry's. 
 
 breast, 
 'Tis we that do the thramplin' in this Oireland av the West. 
 We hould the reins of governmint, and dhraw the biggest pay, 
 For when we first were organized I've heard our leaders say, 
 "We'll live to see tlie triumph av the cause we've introduced; 
 In days to come our byes will have the rulin' av the roost." 
 
 What though we're true to freedom an' the cause av Erin's isle; 
 Why should it make some paiple mad, an' cause their blood to 
 
 boil? 
 With foes four thousand miles away we are the byes to fight. 
 We sind some omadhaun to blow thim up wid dinnymite. 
 We own the public sarvice for we run the city hall, 
 The police force, the public schools, the fire brigade an' all; 
 An' green ones landin' ivery day to give our cause a boost; 
 They know there's always spoil to grab where Paddy rules the 
 
 roost. 
 
 We make proceedings lively whin the city council meet. 
 For we have got a solid gang that niver met defeat; 
 Av coorse their argymints are those av might instade av right, 
 An' show to best advantage in a rough-an'-tumble fight. 
 We've Caseys, Burkes an' Soolivans, an' Murphys an' 
 
 JVJcdanns, 
 On pay day we are trated to a gatherin' av the clans; 
 An' tliough the civil sarvice rules our numbers have redooced^ 
 AVliin they're repaled, you bet yure loife we'll rule the city 
 
 roost. 
 
 This is a grand an' glorious land, the counthry av the free. 
 The very kind av place, bedad, our native sod should be; 
 Why should our dacint byes remain at home to slave an' toil,. 
 Whin they may cross the ocean an' get rich on public spoil? 
 An' if they make the best av things they aint so much to blame, 
 The city's bound to go ahead an' prosper, just the same; 
 For you'll obsarve it ivery toime, where great things are pro- 
 
 dooced, 
 The Oirish byes are sure to have the rulin' av the roost. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. i55 
 
 TRAGIC. 
 
 ? rriWAS an old horse, lean and shaggy, 
 I Led there by untoward fate; 
 
 * And a hitching strap attached him 
 To a rusty iron weight. 
 There old Tom was left enjoying 
 
 Peace, that nothing could disturb; 
 And the weight lay on the sidewalk. 
 Forty inches from the curb. 
 
 Soon approached a fair young couple- 
 She was dressed in latest style. 
 
 And the city's fog seemed lifted 
 By the brightness of her smile; 
 
 He appeared a youth of promise, 
 Noble mien and cultured mind; 
 
 Striving to impress his virtues 
 On this best of womankind. 
 
 In that strap his foot was tangled, 
 
 Down he fell like one surprised, 
 With his silk hat in the gutter, 
 
 And his eyeglass pulverized, 
 And the swear word that escaped him 
 
 Made his fair companion sore, 
 Now the young man and the maiden 
 
 Strangers are forever more. 
 
 TO MISS HELEN J. STEVEN. 
 
 BLEST be the Scottish tongue that sings tae me 
 The auld Scots sangs I've lo'ed frae infancy 
 An' blessin's on the hamely Scottish pen 
 Whase wit an' humor bear me back again 
 Tae scenes that charmed me i' the early days, 
 When pu'in' go wans on my native braes; 
 Which mak's the flooers o' springtime bloom anew, 
 
156 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 An' smooths the gatherin' wrinkles frae my broo: 
 Tae withered leaves restores the simmer's green, 
 An' mak's the years as they had never been. 
 
 In fancy I can feel the norlan' breeze 
 Come gently soughin' through the birken trees, 
 Wi' a' the freshness o' the lakes an' rills 
 An' brawly scentit frae the heather hills. 
 I hear the hummin' o' the busy bee, 
 The neighbors' bairns are sportin' on the lea; 
 An' nestled 'mang the openin' buds o' spring 
 Abune oor heids the bonnie birdies sing; 
 Their melodies that on the breezes swell 
 Blend wi' the pealin' o' the Sabbath bell. 
 
 Fu' blythe we daun'er doon the village street 
 An' crack wi' ilka crony wham we meet; 
 While foamin' yill the couthie carles pree 
 The auld wives gossip ower their cupo' tea; 
 The lads an' lasses tell the tender tale 
 Whan gloamin' shadows darken i' the vale; 
 The stars in heaven look doon an' smile tae see 
 The licht 0' love that kindles i' their e'e. 
 
 O! never while sic couthie tales are tauld 
 Shall Scotsmen's patriotic zeal grow cauld; 
 An' ilka day they live 'twill be their care 
 Tae prove them worthy o' the name they bear. 
 
 I dearly lo'e the land that speaks tae me 
 O' truth an' valor linked wi' modesty; 
 Her pine trees rooted i' the rocky heicht, 
 Her thistles keen that daur the nations' micht; 
 Her wild rose blushin' i' the shady dell, 
 The modest droopin' o' her sweet blue bell, 
 An' a' the beauties o" the woods an' braes 
 Which glorious Robbie sang in bygane days. 
 
 May genius hre the children o' the glen 
 Tae wieldin' 0' her auld historic pen; 
 Lest the traditions 0' oor warlike fame 
 In future days, be naething but a name. 
 Unkent the glamour 0' the Doric tongue, 
 It's witchin' tales untauld, it's sangs unsung; 
 
 Anither prayer is answered ere 'twas breathed 
 Anither Scottish name wi' laurels wreathed: 
 Oor patriot hairts ha'e nae excuse for grievin' 
 Sin' we ha'e writers sic as Helen Steven. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 157 
 
 WHAT WORRIED HIM. 
 
 EARTHLY shadows round me hover, 
 Clouds of grief are on my brow, 
 Roseate tints of sunset linger, 
 But they cannot charm me now. 
 And my vexed and troubled features 
 
 Tell the tale of inward pain, 
 Woeful as the old-time monarch 
 When lie "never smiled again." 
 
 Sorrow and humiliation 
 
 Mingle in my cup of woe, 
 For a fair and gentle maiden's 
 
 AVas the hand that struck the blow. 
 Few her words, and softly spoken; 
 
 Yet they cause my heart to grieve. 
 And have turned to gall and wormwood 
 
 All the pleasures of the eve. 
 
 'Twas no fair and fickle charmer 
 
 Who has spurned my tender tale- 
 Made me feel as cheap as remnants 
 
 In some "inventory sale." 
 *Twas the girl that waits the tables 
 
 In the lunchroom where I sup. 
 And her words were: "Late as usual, 
 
 For the pie is all et up." 
 
15^ J^y Heath and Prairie. 
 
 VISION OF A WANDERER. 
 
 As on Lake Michigan's bright shore I stood at close of day, 
 Watching the gentle waves roll in, each crowned with 
 silv'ry spray, 
 My thoughts turned fondly to my home and kindred, far away, 
 Who dwelt 'mid Scotia's heather hills, beside the rapid Spey. 
 
 Though all around, in gay attire, the pleasure-seekers strayed, 
 And on the beach, in youthful glee, the merry children played; 
 I saw them not, for other scenes were to my mind portrayed, 
 And other groups, of childhood's friends, in Scotia's kilt and 
 plaid. 
 
 The merchant vessels gaily plowed the waters, far and near. 
 Till on the blue horizon line 1 marked them disappear; 
 But fancy pictured other lakes, whose waters, crystal clear — 
 That mirrored Scotia's rugged hills— were to my heart more 
 dear. 
 
 Behind me rose majestic piles of editices tall, 
 
 The mansions of the rich and great, with many a church and 
 
 hall;— 
 I only saw an old thatched cot, with homely, turf-built wall, 
 Though humble, "twas my childhood's home, and dearer than 
 
 them all. 
 
 Around me grew, in stately rows, the richly foliag'd trees, 
 And 'neath their grateful, cooling shade tired groups reclined 
 
 at ease; 
 But these groves, with their beauties tame, my fancy could not 
 
 please, 
 I sighed for Scotia's noble pines, swayed by the mountain 
 
 breeze. 
 
 But not more dear is Scotland's shore than this fair land must 
 
 be, 
 For they have each, in turn, proved a pleasant home for me; 
 And this they have in common, though divided by the sea,— 
 Each nobly bears the honored name, "land of the brave and 
 
 free." 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 159 
 
 THE STORM KING. 
 
 WHEN the snovvrtakes shoot from the clouds above, 
 And their legions bold assail us; 
 We find relief by the red-hot stove, 
 In the wraps that never fail us. 
 For the storm king rides in the icy breeze, 
 
 And his captives pose as martyrs; 
 And they fret and fume, but the wise man sees 
 
 That his ears are in winter quarters. 
 And young hearts long for the wintry time 
 
 For the pleasures it is bringing; 
 Their joy resounds with the sleighbells' chime, 
 And the ice skates sharply ringing. 
 
 The storm king comes from the frozen north. 
 
 And he sometimes raves and blusters; 
 Earth's beauties fade, and he drives them forth 
 
 By the countless host he musters. 
 He rules the land in his might supreme, 
 
 But we owe him blythe allegiance 
 When the ice bridge forms on the silent stream. 
 
 And the waste and watery regions. 
 Our young cheeks glow and our hearts are warm, 
 
 Though the wintry blasts are stinging. 
 And we find that life has a fadeless charm, 
 
 While the skates are sharply ringing. 
 
 The storm king comes with a despot's might, 
 
 But he rules us not in anger. 
 When footsteps bound and the eye is bright. 
 
 And the life stream knows no languor. 
 The air so pure is a priceless boon. 
 
 Ere the wintry siege he raises; 
 'Way 'long in the sultry days of June 
 
 We'll know to sing his praises. 
 When the sodden folds of our summer wear 
 
 To our forms are closely clinging, 
 We'll sigh for a whiff of the frosty air, 
 
 And the din of the ice skates ringing. 
 
i6o By Heath and Prairie, 
 
 THE ROAD EACER'S FOE. 
 
 A MAN may be strong and atliletic, 
 Astride of a sixteen-pound wheel; 
 His bosom be tired with ambition, 
 His muscles trained finer than steel. 
 He may be a dark horse unfolding, 
 And careful of setting tlie pace; 
 Yet numberless are the mischances 
 May lose him the coveted race. 
 
 He may lose his head at the corners, 
 
 Or in a collision be thrown; 
 Or if he's asleep when the sprint comes 
 
 He'll find himself riding alone. 
 The scratch men may come at tlie finish 
 
 And frustrate his fondest desire; 
 But far more effective and deadly 
 
 Is the nail that punctures his tire. 
 
 MY NINETY-NINE WHEEL. 
 
 WHEN cyclists were flaunting their colors 
 On parkways and boulevards gay, 
 Comparing new models and fashions 
 AVith those that were passing away; 
 I cheerily joined the procession, 
 
 Astride of my ninety-nine wheel; 
 Though winter's neglect had corroded 
 The surface of nickel and steel. 
 
 But, carefully dusted and polished, 
 
 I thought the effect rather nice. 
 Till a gamin who sat on the corner 
 
 Surprised me by bellowing "Ice." 
 Then, struck with confusion, I hurried 
 
 To a friend in the bicycle line. 
 Who sold me an up-to-date model 
 
 And purchased my old "ninety-nine." 
 
By Heath and Prairie. i6i 
 
 Thus mounted, I thought of the youngster 
 
 Whose shrill voice had warned me in time; 
 So I leaned from my saddle and gave lum 
 
 A volley of thanks and a dime. 
 "Say boss, you're all right," said the urchin, 
 
 "But, land sakesi that's payin' me twice, 
 For the wheel feller gives me a quarter 
 
 For sittin' and hollerin 'Ice.' " 
 
 THAT BOY OF MINE. 
 
 HE'S rosy as the summer sky 
 At dawning of the day; 
 His little "Goo-goo's" signify 
 The things that he would say. 
 He's innocent of all desire 
 
 In babyland to shine, 
 And yet the neighbors all admire 
 That little boy of mine. 
 
 Like many other baby boys 
 He dearly loves a row, 
 
 And oft I wish he'd stop his noise, 
 And smooth his troubled brow. 
 
 But when his little eyes are dry- 
 Where tiny sparkles shine — 
 
 The wealth of Klondike would not buy 
 That little boy of mine. 
 
 His faults are few— if faults they be— 
 
 I tell them in a joke 
 To visitors, but generally 
 
 Feel sorry that I spoke, 
 For ere they have a chance to laugh 
 
 His grandma cries, "Why! Joe, 
 You used to make more noise by half 
 
 Some thirty years ago." 
 
1 62 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Then as we lay him down to rest, 
 
 In childhood's snowy bands, 
 And fold upon his little breast 
 
 His chubby little hands; 
 In pure and perfect innocence 
 
 He looks almost divine;— 
 The sweetest gift of Providence 
 
 Is that wee boy of mine. 
 
 THE MAN BEHIND THE SEARCHLIGHT. 
 
 SAINTS above would scarce excel us 
 If we'd do what parsons tell us, 
 With our lights all shining brightly 
 By the lessons they instill; 
 Then unlocked would be our purses, 
 And we'd bless the folks that curse us; 
 For the joy of doing rightly 
 We'd return them good for ill. 
 
 When a smoothly shaven pastor — 
 With the air of lord and master- 
 Turns the ministerial searchlight 
 W^here it makes our conscience sting; 
 And with sad and bitter wailings 
 Sits in judgment on our failings. 
 Men should call him olf his perch, right 
 At the starting of the thing. 
 
 He insists upon perfection; 
 Not content with our correction 
 AVhen afar from grace we've wandered 
 In the quest of power or pelf; 
 But to judge by words and actions 
 In his various lay transactions, 
 Vastly easier is the standard 
 He is setting for himself. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 163 
 
 There is lots of dirty weather 
 When his leaders get togetlier; 
 Fierce and stormy are their sessions 
 With a wondrous waste of breath; 
 Their debates are loud and scrappy, 
 And they're never quite so happy 
 As when spying out transgressions 
 Of a brother in the faith. 
 
 Though his stern rebuke may shock us 
 When he's got us in the focus 
 Of his searchlight glare, relentless, 
 He has troubles of his own; 
 So if we'd exchange positions — 
 I have got my own suspicions— 
 Many shrines would soon be saintless: 
 Manv idols overthrown. 
 
 BROTHER JACK IN FINANCE. 
 
 MY brother Jack is rather short 
 On learning, I suppose, 
 And yet he turns to good account 
 The little that he knows. 
 He has ideas of his own 
 In matters of finance; 
 And I believe he'll run a bank 
 If e'er he gets the chance. 
 
 Today he asked the grocer man 
 
 Who runs the corner store 
 To change a dollar for his ma, 
 
 As oft he'd done before. 
 Now Hobbs is an obliging man, 
 
 We've known these ten years back; 
 And so he counted out the change 
 
 And handed it to Jack, 
 
164 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Wlio straightway started for the door 
 
 As lively as coHld be; 
 But this displeased the grocer man 
 
 Who shouted anxiously, 
 "Come, Where's the dollar, little boy?" 
 
 Jack turned around to say, 
 "You'll get the dollar just as soon 
 
 As Papa gets his pay." 
 
 THE POET'S REWAED. 
 
 A HOMESPUN bard within the sphere 
 Of various lodge-room meetings, — 
 I charm the smoky atmosphere 
 With high-strung, flowery greetings. 
 I'd given the best at my command 
 
 Upon a late occasion. 
 When a young clubman shook my hand 
 And said in hearty fashion: 
 
 "How do, my literary friend? 
 
 Still spinning rhyme, I see; 
 Must have it at your fingers' end 
 
 In wholesale quantity. 
 You're like that instrument of note, 
 
 With notices displayed 
 To "drop a nickel in the slot. 
 
 And be correctly weighed." 
 And so, young seeker after fame, 
 
 Another style you show 'em; 
 'Tis 'drop a nickel,' just the same, 
 
 'And you receive a poem.' " 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 165 
 
 I answered with a heavy heart, 
 "You're right in many ways; 
 But in the most important part 
 
 It does not suit my case. 
 That slot machine, I've always found, 
 
 Has quite a business head; 
 And will not weigh a single pound 
 
 Until the money's paid. 
 But when they would my muse inspire 
 
 My vanity they tickle; 
 I spin them rhyme at their desire, 
 But ah, I get no nickel." 
 
 MY WRITING MACHINE. 
 
 IT stands on my desk in the corner,— 
 A delicate framework of steel; 
 To which, as the muses inspire me. 
 My innermost thoughts I reveal. 
 And many a passionate love tale 
 
 And sonnet might never have been. 
 Except for the comfort unbounded 
 I tind in my writing machine. 
 
 My penmanship ne'er was commended, 
 
 It is but a scrawl, I'm afraid, 
 'Twas harder than solving a puzzle, 
 
 The editors solemnly said. 
 But now that my copy is plainer 
 
 Than wandering scribe ever penned, 
 They'll have to invent new excuses 
 
 For burning the stuff that I send. 
 
 My pens are neglected and rusty, 
 
 My blotters are spotless and white; 
 My letters are promptly replied to. 
 
 And absent friends grin with delight. 
 And now I am earning the praises 
 
 Of those whose reproaches were keen; 
 The pleasures are mine, but the credit 
 
 I give to my writing machine. 
 
1 66 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 THE MODERN EXCELSIOR 
 
 WHEN shades of night have flown away, 
 And brightly beams the opening day, 
 'Tis then I ardently desire- 
 To help me start the kitchen fire- 
 Excelsior. 
 
 Our little girl is -wondrous bright, 
 She often crows in pure delight 
 As she proceeds to analyze 
 The make-up of her doll, and cries, 
 Excelsior. 
 
 I got a present from a friend, 
 A large sized box; and it contained 
 Some crockeryware— not of the best — 
 A glass or two, and all the rest 
 Excelsior. 
 
 We've broken glass and crockeryware, 
 But, cushioning my rocking chair, 
 One gift endures— and one alone — 
 I sit in solid comfort on 
 
 Excelsior. 
 
 For packing things it Alls the bill— 
 And various nooks and corners— still 
 Our goat, that feeds when'er it can, 
 Likes hay for packing better tluin 
 Excelsior. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 167 
 
 THE EDITOR'S CHAIR. 
 
 HE turned from a desk that was littered 
 With papers from every clime, 
 And bowed in response to my greeting, 
 Nor deemed my intrusion a crime. 
 His sanctum looked perfectly harmless: 
 
 The waste basket empty and bare: 
 So the aspect of things reassured me 
 As I stood by the editor's chair. 
 
 The great gilded throne that he sat on, 
 
 The sceptre the autocrat swayed, 
 The devil that stood by his elbow^ 
 
 And all his injunctions obeyed: 
 The scalps that he prized as mementoes 
 
 Of victims by editors slain. 
 I thought, must be fancy's creations 
 
 Evolved from the funny man's brain. 
 
 And when I presented my copy 
 
 In rather a diffident style. 
 His features relaxed in a manner 
 
 That almost suggested a smile. 
 He scanned it with business attention, 
 
 And not like a lion at bay; 
 So all of my preconceived notions 
 
 Were rapidly fading away. 
 
 He said, "I believe I can use it, 
 
 'Twill need some retouching, I find; 
 But that I will do if you'll leave it." 
 
 I murmured, "You're awfully kind." 
 And when I went out from his presence 
 
 I seemed to be walking on air; 
 So pleasant, indeed, are the mem'ries 
 
 That cling round the editor's chair. 
 
1 68 By Heath and Praixje. 
 
 RAID OF THE FIVE HUNDRED. 
 
 WHILE the Union Jack is floating in the country of the 
 Boer, 
 And the burghers' best and bravest penned on St. 
 
 Helena's shore; 
 While the freedmen speed the passing of the horrors that have 
 
 been, 
 Singing loud, exultant praises to the soldiers of the Queen: 
 Mem'ry echoes back the war note that our British bugles blew 
 When the bearded host surrounded, and the deadly bullets flew; 
 Shows in vivid panorama the adventures that befell 
 When with Jameson I galloped to the very srates of hell. 
 Hear me, ye whose minds are doubtful of the justice of our 
 
 raid: 
 As the Bull Run of the Yankees, so our latter-day crusade 
 Roused John Bull to do another of his thoroughgoing jobs; 
 As John Brown to Grant and Lincoln so was Jameson to Bobs, 
 'Tis not our success or failure that should win the world's 
 
 applause. 
 But the height of our endeavor, and the justice of our cause; 
 Judged by such unfailing standard our unhappy raid might be 
 Glorified as a revival of the days of chivalry. 
 AVe had heard the fateful message pulsing o'er the livened 
 
 wire, 
 "Come and save the helpless infant, strike the fetters from the 
 
 sire; 
 Save the flag of your forefathers from the taint of open shame, 
 Save our lives from murderous bullets and our roof trees from 
 
 the flame." 
 Thus our kinsmen in Johannesburg flashed their message of 
 
 complaint. 
 And the son of far Orcadia knew just what that message 
 
 meant; 
 Thus his mission was unfolded. He who hesitates is lost, 
 And the bluff, great-hearted Doctor staid not to compute the 
 
 cost. 
 And he chose him trusty comrades, men who feared not wound 
 
 nor scar. 
 Veterans in the various branches of the deadlv art of war; 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 169 
 
 And he spoke, while manly bosoms yearned to join the distant 
 
 strife, 
 *'Men, ye shall not lack a leader while I draw the breath of life." 
 Well we knew his dauntless courage, proven in the time of 
 
 need, 
 And we vowed that we should follow wheresoever he might 
 
 lead . 
 "To Johannesburg," he commanded, "At the glimmer of the 
 
 dawn. 
 Strike a blow for British honor and the sacred rights of man; 
 Tell yon sanctimonious tyrant shrinking from your battle 
 
 stroke, 
 British shoulders are not fashioned for the bearing of a yoke." 
 And we cheered our gallant leader, and we bounded on our 
 
 way 
 As the pent-up schoolboy rushes forth into the summer day. 
 Onward in the dewy morning, onward in the burning noon, 
 Hunger and fatigue forgotten— night descended all too soon; 
 Onward, ever onward pressing, still beneath the midnight skies 
 We could read stern resolution gleaming in each others' eyes. 
 Onward till the cloud of battle o'er us flung its shadow grim. 
 And no soldier's heart misgave him, for we trusted Doctor Jim. 
 Then our bearded foemen mustered to o'erwhelm our little 
 
 band, 
 Every tried and skillful marksman with his rifle in his hand; 
 And they gathered in their thousands, fierce as wild beasts from 
 
 the lair. 
 As the horrid vultures gather when the carrion scents the air,"*' 
 And their bullets fell like hail showers when November blasts 
 
 are blo^vn, 
 But our trusty weapons answered in a fashion of their own. 
 And we fought from dawn till darkness, tliough outnumbered 
 
 ten to one. 
 In the dreamy haze of morning, in the blazing midday sun; 
 And the shadows of the evening by the fiery bolts were torn, 
 And still fiercer raged the conflict when another day was born. 
 Worn with toil and faint with hunger, forty hours of ceaseless 
 
 strife. 
 But my comrades never murmured as they yielded up their life, 
 Like their ancestors at Flodden, as the archers laid them low 
 "Grimly dying, still unconquered, with their faces to the foe.' 
 One by one my comrades perished on the parched and blood- 
 stained sod, 
 
1 70 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 One by one fair Freedom's warriors going home to Freedom's 
 
 God; 
 And the only wish we cherished as each comrade bit the dust 
 Was to meet them with the bayonet, and exchange them thrust 
 
 for thrust. 
 For our f oemen skulked in ambush by the brushwood and the 
 
 rock, 
 So we faced not men nor demons, only little puffs of smoke; 
 Why did we not take to cover? Ah! the time we could not 
 
 spare. 
 For our mission was to rescue, not to crouch like foxes there. 
 And they gathered in their thousands with the waning of the 
 
 day, 
 From Pretoria and Johannesburg, just a few short miles away; 
 And the hillside and the valley, belching fire, and shot, and shell, 
 Seemed to our imagination as the very mouth of hell. 
 Sleepless, wearied unto fainting, comrades envied those who lay 
 In the sleep that knows no waking; yet we kept those hounds 
 
 at bay 
 While a shot was in our locker; though we showed the white 
 
 flag then 
 Ev'n our foemen bore us witness we had quitted us like men. 
 Need we mourn our purpose thwarted? Need we mourn the 
 
 loss entailed? 
 When it took the might of Britain to succeed where once we 
 
 failed? 
 Yet our efforts were not fruitless, though the barriers hurled us 
 
 back. 
 For we blazed the glorious pathway trod by Bobs and "Fight- 
 ing Mac." 
 Where they wrote in blood of heroes, "British hearts shall aye 
 
 be free," 
 While the nations gazed in wonder on our glorious unity; 
 And the bristling guns proclaimed it through the lowering 
 
 battle smoke, 
 "British shoulders are not builded for the wearing of a yoke." 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 17^ 
 
 THE LAST FLY OF SUMMER. 
 
 ? rpIS tlie last fly of summer 
 I That flits on the wing, 
 
 * And my heart almost bleeds for 
 The poor, lonesome thing. 
 No mate of his old age, 
 No comrade has he, . 
 To stick in my jelly 
 Or drown in my tea. 
 
 I know if 1 spare him 
 
 He'll roost on my nose. 
 Or, perched on my bald spot, 
 
 Disturb my repose. 
 Bereft of his vigor. 
 
 And shorn of his pride— 
 1 11 send him to rest, where 
 
 The good flies abide. 
 
 So (swipe) let me finish 
 
 His earthly career; 
 When crash 1 goes a globe from 
 
 My best chandelier. 
 Then (swipe) and my weapon 
 
 Is launched on his head: 
 Alas! 'tis a flower vase 
 
 I've shattered instead. 
 
 But (swipe) in my hurry 
 
 I miss him once more, 
 And the evening's destruction 
 
 Is making me sore. 
 And now that securely 
 
 He hides from my gaze, 
 I guess that I'll leave him 
 
 To live out his days. 
 
172 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 PASSING OF OOM PAUL. 
 
 4 t A FRIC for the Afrikander," 
 £^_ Said the modern Alexander 
 
 From the railroad car he rode in. 
 "Drench the land with British gore; 
 See the fruits of patient scheming; 
 We'll be rich beyond our dreaming 
 When we rule from sands untrodden 
 To the ocean's sounding shore." 
 
 So this would-be empire builder 
 Strove men's senses to bewilder; 
 And forthwith, at his jackass-call, 
 Burghers gathered for the fray; 
 And they rushed the Queen's dominions, 
 And for weary months the minions 
 Of the hoary-headed rascal 
 Kept the British troops at bay. 
 
 He exclaimed in tones of rapture, 
 "Ere Pretoria's forts they capture 
 All the sons of earth shall stagger 
 At the deadly game we'll play." 
 British legions scaled victorious 
 Kroonstadt's heights and eke Pretoria's; 
 And the world, despite his swagger. 
 Went serenely on its way. 
 
 But the land with brave blood streaming 
 Through his pestilential scheming— 
 Pounded 'neath war's murderous pestle — 
 Now bewails its sorry plight 
 As the legacy he willed her; 
 While this would-be empire builder 
 Steals aboard an alien vessel 
 Like a robber of the night. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 173 
 
 Dire disaster and confusion 
 Make a pitiful conclusion: 
 Lo! the dreamer's disenchanted 
 And the puppet king uncrowned; 
 But one ray of hope's afforded 
 In the millions he has hoarded, 
 By his minions safely planted 
 In the land to which he's bound. 
 
 BKOTHER JACK'S GENIUS. 
 
 MY Brother Jack came home from school 
 With a self-conscious air, 
 And to his Ma and all her guests 
 Proceeded to declare, 
 Tve always heard that young folks should 
 
 Be proud of honest praise; 
 Now I'm the genius of the school. 
 For so the teacher says." 
 
 "Why I Jack," said Ma, "Such pleasing news 
 
 I'm very proud to hear; 
 Now tell the ladies just what form 
 
 Your genius takes, my dear." 
 "Well Ma," said Jack, while busy tongues 
 
 Ceased their accustomed chat, 
 "She says I'm an inventor, so 
 
 What do you think of that?" 
 
 Then Ma was just in ecstacy; 
 
 The handsome ladies smiled 
 And asked, "What things do you invent, 
 
 You dear, precocious child?" 
 "The teacher says she just admires 
 
 How very quickly I 
 Invent new ways of spelling words." 
 
 AVas Brother Jack's reply. 
 
174 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 THE BRIGHT ONES OF LIFE. 
 
 WHERE ardent sunbeams kiss the buds of May, 
 And streams recede beneath their glance of fire; 
 The butterfly, fair as the summer day, 
 Disports the charms that heedless men admire. 
 Where beauty claims its homage, few desire 
 
 To mark the busy bees with laden wing; 
 Yet shall their praise be infinitely higher 
 
 When to our feasts their honeyed stores they bring: 
 And honored far above that aimless, fluttering thing. 
 
 'Tis thus with creatures of a higher race: 
 
 Alas! The fairest mortals spend their days 
 Selecting gems and fabrics that may grace 
 
 Their fairy forms, to please the transient gaze. 
 In rustling silks and clustered diamonds' blaze 
 
 They rule, the uncrowned monarchs of their sphere; 
 But future days shall have no word of praise 
 
 Eor drones who feast while busy bees uprear 
 This hive of industry, that stands without a peer. 
 
 We turn from these vain flutterers of the hour, 
 
 The homage of our grateful hearts to pay 
 To that bright band, whose intellectual power 
 
 To fields of higher culture pave the way: 
 The literary giants of the day. 
 
 Who burn the midnight oil, and not in vain: 
 With busy pen recording, as they may, 
 
 The thoughts that elevate the minds of men. 
 For fair humanity, and not for sordid gain. 
 
 Let fools pursue their trifles light as air:— 
 
 Give me the man of elevated soul, 
 Whose sovereign mind is still his chiefest care, 
 
 And holds unworthy matter in control: 
 The better to attain his promised goal, 
 
 By the enlightenment of human kind; 
 Or by the sick bed makes the sufferer whole: 
 
 With superhuman skill who has designed 
 Ears for the deaf and vision for the blind. 
 
By Heath and Prairie, 175 
 
 BROTHER JACK IN CHURCH. 
 
 WHEN Brother Jack came home from church 
 On Sunday afternoon, 
 He looked quite worried as he tried 
 To hum a sacred tune. 
 He didn't have the restful look 
 
 That church folks should enjoy; 
 So Ma was bent on finding out 
 What ailed her hopeful boy. 
 
 She said, "A penny for your thoughts. 
 
 That seem too deep for speech," 
 Jack said, "I think that parsons ought 
 
 To practise what they preach. 
 Ours took an hour or two to tell 
 
 How very, very bad 
 It was to covet, in our hearts. 
 
 The things our neighbors had." 
 
 Then Mamma answered, earnestly, 
 
 "Why! Jack, that's very true." 
 J3ut Jack replied, "He queered himself 
 
 Whenever he got through: 
 For then he sent four men around, 
 
 Each with a landing net. 
 Who fished up all the nickels, dimes 
 
 And pennies they could get." 
 
 THE MODERN PHARAOH. 
 
 As on the Egyptian nation 
 Eell the plagues without cessation, 
 Till the marble-hearted Pharaoh 
 Set the Hebrew children f ree - 
 Shall the whole wide world indict us? 
 Must the plague of death requite us 
 Ere our hawk release its sparrow 
 In the islands of the sea? 
 
176 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Men emblazon on our banner 
 Stars that witness to dishonor, 
 Dreams of empire they unfold us 
 Where the thoughtless masses throng; 
 But true patriots have attested 
 That the nation's gold invested 
 In the rights that tyrants sold us 
 Does not serve to right the wrong. 
 
 As our line of battle closes 
 On the bands that would oppose us 
 Many a conscience, interceding, 
 Would restrain a murderous hand; 
 And the men who do the shooting 
 Tell the tale there's no disputing — 
 There are guileless bosoms bleeding 
 For the freedom of their land. 
 
 By the "rebels' " definition 
 Local rule is their ambition, • 
 AVith their infant legislature 
 Sheltered 'neath the eagle's wing. 
 In the lack of this assurance 
 Men admire their brave endurance, 
 Trusting that our better nature 
 Some relief shall surely bring. 
 
 Shame on the enlightened nation 
 That would crush such aspiration; 
 Better let our bounds be narrow 
 Than be false to liberty; 
 Shall the whole wide world indict us? 
 Must the plague of death requite us 
 Ere our hawk release its sparrow 
 In the islands of the sea?. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 177 
 
 BROTHER JACK'S LOGIC. 
 
 MY Brother Jack was playing ball 
 In Murphy's vacant lot 
 When he and Willie Cook fell out 
 And had it pretty hot; 
 When little Jack impatiently 
 
 Called to the barefoot throng, 
 "Boys, send that nasty thing away, 
 He quarrels right along." 
 
 Now little Will was scandalized, 
 
 And, squeezing out a tear. 
 He ran along the avenue 
 
 To tell his mother dear; 
 Who came along just hopping mad 
 
 And said to Ma, by jing 
 She didn't want her hopeful boy 
 
 Referred to as a "thing." 
 
 So Jack was sent for by the twain. 
 
 And sharply brought to book; 
 And ordered to apologize 
 
 To irate Mrs. Cook. 
 "It's true I called her boy a thing; 
 
 Well then, I take it back; 
 That makes him 'nothing,' don't it, MaV" 
 
 Said friskv Brother Jack. 
 
 VOTE AS YOU SHOT. 
 
 vv 
 
 HEN the men of light and leading 
 '^' Strive to win you with their pleading, 
 
 Pause and think, my burdened brothers, 
 Ere you sign your rights away; 
 Party ties may claim obedience, 
 But the man that owes allegiance 
 To himself before all others 
 Is the king of men today. 
 
178 By Heath and Prairie, 
 
 Still they strive in ancient fashion 
 To awake long-buried passion, 
 To the present evils blind us 
 And arrest the course of thought; 
 But the lawless combinations 
 They neglect in their orations, 
 Though they ardently remind us 
 Of the way our fathers shot. 
 
 But our fears they cannot quiet 
 While monopoly runs riot; 
 Earnest thinkers pause and wonder 
 What the end of it shall be; 
 'Tis a despot's power unblushing. 
 Hearts and lives serenely crushing. 
 As it tramples millions under 
 In this land of liberty. 
 
 Though the fetterlocks have vanished 
 And the slaver's whip is banished — 
 While the trust-fiends override us 
 In control of nature's dower; 
 When the tyrants hold the giving 
 Of the means to earn a living 
 We are theirs, and woe betide us 
 If we dare resist their power. 
 
 OhI they tell the same old story 
 And they wave the same Old (^lory. 
 That our minds may be distracted 
 From their fraud and knavery; 
 But while Freedom's self is lying 
 In our midst despairing, dying, 
 What reck we of wrongs enacted 
 In the islands of the seaV 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 179 
 
 THE MODERN HERO. 
 
 FACTS of history are repeated, so the modern writer says; 
 So the latest fad may point us back to old heroic days 
 When the heroes of the tourney won the hearts of 
 maidens fair, 
 While the man of peace subsided in the darkness of despair. 
 
 But the black mask and revolver have replaced the helm and 
 
 lance, 
 'Tis the burglar of Chicago, not the cavalier of France; 
 And the lists are musty court-rooms where is heard the tale of 
 
 shame, 
 And the heroes' wrists are handcuffed, but they get there just 
 
 the same. 
 
 For the maidens' hearts are meltei by their melancholy plight; 
 Wondrous tales the grave historians of these latter days will 
 
 write — 
 ( Lancelot and brave Du Guesclin now outdistanced in the race — ) 
 Of the long man and the short man and the man of pimpled 
 
 face. 
 
 We were taught in childhood's days, "'tis only noble to be good," 
 And in consequence we languish on in hopeless bachelorhood; 
 Hoi then, for the trusty sandbag, modern heroes let us be, 
 :Since the fair sex put a premium on unblushing infamv. 
 
 STOOP TO CONQUER. 
 
 WHILE base self-seekers tell a doubting nation 
 Its course is fixed by the decrees of fate. 
 Let those who still respect the voice of conscience 
 Pause and consider ere it be too late. 
 To change the course wherein we were mistaken 
 
 Is noble even in humility; 
 To do the right is better than uprearing 
 An empire in tlie islands of the sea. 
 
1 80 By Heath mid Prairie. 
 
 And are we worse than tools, we slaves to culture? 
 
 That sad experience points the way in vain; 
 And must we take for guiding of our footsteps 
 
 Example from the bloodstained rule of Spain? 
 She slew her thousands and our minds revolted; 
 
 We drew the sword to set the sufferers free; 
 We slay our tens of thousands; then we marvel 
 
 That nations tax us with hypocrisy. 
 
 And though our statesmen, urged by dreams of empire,. 
 
 Reverse the policy that made us great. 
 Let not their actions savor of oppression 
 
 Which early sows the seeds of future hate. 
 Thus in expanding let not fruitful acres 
 
 Bnt human hearts, be our desire to win; 
 The time is past when men were sold and traded 
 
 By reason of the darkness of their skin. 
 
 We want no bleeding hearts in our dominion 
 
 To cherish vengeance 'gainst a future day; 
 The joys of life can scarce attend a union 
 
 When the unwilling bride is borne away. 
 Let our misguided nation stoop to conquer, 
 
 Recall the hand she sent forth to destroy. 
 That warrior spirits who went forth in sorrow 
 
 To home and kindred may return with joy. 
 
 WHEN JACK WAS ILL. 
 
 M 
 
 Y Brother Jack was pretty sick 
 He'd et too much, 1 guess— 
 And so Ma sent for Dr. Banks 
 To come down by express. 
 The Doctor came and found the boy 
 
 Stretched on his little bed. 
 And, bending down, he felt his pulse, 
 And held his little head 
 
By Heath and Prairie. i8i 
 
 Then he looked wise and wrote some things 
 
 Down in a little book, 
 And said to little Brother Jack— 
 
 AVith an engaging look, — 
 "Now Johnnie, let me see your tongue 
 
 And I'll relieve your pain." 
 But Jack exclaimed, "Not on your life, 
 
 I don't get caught again." 
 
 "Now Jack, be good;" said Mamma, while 
 
 The tears stood in her eyes. 
 "Why won't you let me see your tongue?" 
 
 Doc asked in some surprise. 
 "Today in school I stuck it out 
 
 At teacher, don't you see? 
 And, Doc, I aint done smarting yet." 
 
 Jack answered mournfully. 
 
 GETTING DOWN TOWN 
 
 WE'RE tempted oft to dally o'er 
 Our simple morning meal, 
 Or linger by the open door 
 A kiss or two to steal. 
 And then we tear along the way 
 
 Like sprinters of renown, 
 AVith one idea — "Come what may 
 We've got to get down town." 
 
 A trolley car goes speeding by, 
 
 All crowded front and rear; 
 AVe heave a sad and mournful sigh 
 
 To see it disappear. 
 AVe vow another shall not vex 
 
 Us as it comes along, 
 So at the peril of our necks 
 
 AVe join the clinging throng. 
 
1 82 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 When cars are stuffed in such a way 
 
 'Tis very hard indeed, 
 And we who use them day by day 
 
 I tell you what we need: 
 Two hands of pow'r by which to cling. 
 
 One for our lunch, as well, 
 And one to pass our fare to ring 
 
 The car conductor's bell. 
 
 It isn't much to brag about, 
 
 But what can fellows say? 
 They must be good, or else get out 
 
 And walk the whole blamed way. 
 Mile after mile of bumping rails: 
 
 It often makes us frown 
 To hang by toes and finger nails 
 
 But — we must get down town. 
 
 And now we're hoping, in our liearts. 
 
 That when life's woes are o'er, 
 And when the last lone trolley starts 
 
 To reach the golden shore: 
 When street- car magnates wildly hail 
 
 'Twill pass them just the same; 
 And victims whom they squeeze today'll 
 
 Get even on the game 
 
 MY TYPEWRITER. 
 
 WHEN I was a youngster at school long ago, 
 I hated my task, so my progress was slow; 
 I loved to play football, to wrestle and fight,. 
 But found little pleasure in learning to write. 
 
 And so when I strayed from the friends I held dear, 
 And thought how they yearned of my welfare to hear,. 
 I found tribulation enough, now and then, 
 In guiding the course of my wavering pen. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 183 
 
 A specimen reaching a charming young miss, 
 Her guileless conclusions ran something like this: 
 "A bluebottle fly must have stepped in the ink, 
 Then wandered around on the paper, I think." 
 
 And so in despair 1 concluded to stop, 
 
 Wlien something occurred to inspire me with hope; 
 I heard with amazement what wonders had been 
 Performed by the newfangled writing machine. 
 
 I straightway procured one, and soon, by its aid, 
 My fair correspondents were amply repaid; 
 O! Who would go skating, to fall and to freeze? 
 'Tis jollier pounding the typewriter keys. 
 
 My bicycle rusts in the basement so damp, 
 My rifle sounds not in the forest or swamp; 
 I sit in my parlor in comfort serene 
 And tell wondrous tales to my writing machin e. 
 
 SUITED. 
 
 BESIDE a Halsted street saloon 
 There stood a chimney sweep. 
 Begrimed with soot from head to foot,— 
 I saw this at a peep. 
 "Hello, friend Thomas," he exclaimed, 
 And slapped me on the back; 
 
 When with a start I recognized 
 My old friend Billy Black. 
 
 "Why! Bill," I said, "You've changed your trade. 
 
 This fact has puzzled me; 
 I knevv you'd been apprenticed to 
 
 A down-town bakery: 
 Was it for love of novelty 
 
 You broke indenture's fetter? " 
 "Why! no," he said, "I turned to this 
 
 Because it soots me better." 
 
184 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 A CANADIAN TALE. 
 
 This Is a true story. The world is so full of tales of horror that I would 
 take no credit for inventing more. I have reproduced it as nearly as may be 
 in the words in which it was told me by one who took part in the tragedy. 
 But no printed words can give any idea of the terribly dramatic earnestness 
 with which It was told me many years ago. The actor in this sad tragt^dy is 
 still a respected resident of Chicago. 
 
 T 
 
 ' nr^i^ noontide, and the whistle shrill has hushed the din and 
 noise, 
 And brought surcease of labor to five hundred men and 
 boys; 
 Has stilled the clanging hammer blow, the whirr of belt and 
 
 wheel, 
 And swarthy craftsmen stop to eat their hurried midday meal. 
 
 The craving of the inner man had scarce been satisfied 
 AVhen rose a universal cry, that could not be denied, 
 "A story, Jake, there's no one here can tell one half so well; 
 We young 'uns like the stirring tales that you old-timers tell.' 
 
 Jake Durward was Canadian born, of French and Scottish 
 stock, 
 
 Tall and erect, of sinewy limb, and rugged as a rock; 
 
 He glanced around and cleared his throat, his shopmates clus- 
 tered near, 
 
 And waited the accustomed yarn they so much wished to hear. 
 
 "Well, boys," said Jake, "I guess you've heard the most of mine 
 
 before, 
 But no, there's one I've never told, 'twould make my heart so 
 
 sore; 
 A tale of thirty years ago." He brushed away a tear; 
 His comrades urged him to proceed, with words of hearty cheer- 
 
 "'Twas down in quaint old Linville by Ontario's shimmering 
 
 lake, 
 And I was foreman of the works, though but a lad," said Jake; 
 >'Our boss was Raymond Aldervvood, the mayor of the town, 
 A bluff and hearty Englishman whose face ne'er wore a frown. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 185 
 
 ' lie had a thriving business, a fair and loving wife, 
 
 Two girls of twelve and fourteen years, the comfort of their 
 
 life; 
 The elder, Olive, tall and slim, was wondrous fair to see, 
 And little fairy Ethel was as sweet as child could be. 
 
 *'We'd all have died to serve our boss save drunken Joe Leclair 
 Who was a man of no account, and surly as a bear; 
 His friends had washed their hands of one so mean and ill- 
 disposed, 
 But Alder wood employed him when all other doors were closed. 
 
 ' We met at Mayor Alderwood's upon Dominion Day, 
 
 But Joe was drunk as usual and so he stayed away; 
 
 There we partook of dainties rare, with welcome warm and 
 
 kind, 
 And pledged him in the cup that cheers but leaves no sting 
 
 behind. 
 
 "The merry little maidens to the old churchyard had gone 
 With summer flowers to decorate the plot they called their own; 
 The parents looked for their return our simple joys to share,— 
 Just then a childish scream rang out upon the summer air: 
 
 *' Oh! Mamma, Mamma,' little Ethel's voice I knew right well, 
 And forth we rushed to meet her quicker than it takes to tell; 
 'Oh! Mamma, Mamma', screamed the child as to her side we flew 
 'A bad man's taken Olive, and he tried to steal me too.' 
 
 "Slie fainted in her mother's arms, I waited for no more, 
 But to that cemetery sped as ne'er man sped before; 
 The others followed in my train, their bosoms filled with dread» 
 Resolved the living child to aid, or to avenge the dead. 
 
 "The grave their little hands adorned with clustered flowers we 
 
 found. 
 And near it Olive's form was stretched beside a grassy mound: — 
 Outraged, and all but murdered: 'Oh! my God.' i heard them 
 
 say, 
 *Could one of human kind abuse a child in such a way?' 
 
1 86 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 "We bore her home as tenderly as angels could have done, 
 But onl> once her eyes unclosed unto the summer sun; 
 And each resource ot human skill we tried; alas, in vain; 
 For she would never recognize a human face again. 
 
 "Then drops of grief flowed uncontrolled from grizzled sire and 
 
 son, 
 When Alderwood removed his hat and said, "God's will be done, 
 Though when I look upon my child— by human flend destroyed— 
 I feel I'm just the kind of man that fiend had best avoid.' 
 
 "Then to avenge the horrid deed our hearts with ardor burned, 
 To ferret out the graceless wretch we left no stone unturned; 
 Yet though we brought suspected ones to task, time after time , 
 Nor law nor justice could connect the prisoners with the crime. 
 
 "To tell you of poor Olive's fate I scarce can find my breath. 
 For fourteen days she lingered on the borderland of death; 
 The fifteenth day she passed away— folks said that it was best — 
 Her stainless spirit fied to tvhere the weary are at rest. 
 
 "Dominion Day had come and gone: two years were passed 
 
 away: — 
 And freshened in our memories the horrors of that day: 
 And when we met at morning-tide each fellow-craftsman swore 
 Our thirst for vengeance on the fiend should burn for evermore. 
 
 "The whistle blew, the din was hushed, our midday meal 
 
 consumed, 
 And as the conversation of the morning was resumed 
 A shuffling and uncertain step was heard upon the stair, 
 The door creaked on its hinges and in staggered Joe Leclair. 
 
 "He leaned against a pillar, but we paid him little heed, 
 
 The while, with bated breath we spoke of that mysterious deed; 
 
 And though a mumbling, battered wreck, and gone from good 
 
 or ill. 
 The name of murdered Olive seemed to interest him still. 
 
 "At length he spoke, 'I wonder, boys, how thoughts of ven- 
 geance live, 
 
 AVhen fallen mortals should forget and Christians should for- 
 give; 
 
 They never caught the fellow yet, and as he paused awhile 
 
 Upon his bloated features played a most repulsive smile. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 187 
 
 "No one had deigned to answer him, and so he spoke again, 
 AVhom do you think the fellow was they hunted for in vain? 
 I could have told you long ago, but no one asked me to; 
 I s'pose you thought that drunken Joe was telling all he knew.' 
 
 "Then up spoke Walter Ferguson, 'Why yes, we'd like to know 
 The secret of the matter if you'll favor shopmates so.' 
 'Perhaps you may not credit me,' the drunkard made reply, 
 'I know vou'U be astonished when I tell you it was I.' 
 
 "We heard his tale in wondering doubt, spellbound with horror 
 
 too, 
 And hurriedly I whispered, 'Men, be careful what you do.' 
 And surely ne'er before was heard a tale of blacker slmme 
 As he avowed himself a fiend and gloried in the name: 
 
 " 'I had got drunk at Murphy's place quite early in the day; 
 They left me sleeping in the yard, upon a pile of hay; 
 But 'long about the afternoon I rose and wandered out; 
 With liquor in my brain I scarce knew what I was about. 
 
 " 'I reached the cemetery gate and saw the children there, 
 
 And as they were engaged I stole upon them unaware; 
 
 They looked so sweet and pretty in their summer garments 
 
 dressed 
 The devil just got hold of me and— well you know the rest. 
 
 " 'I hurried back to Murphy's place before the news got round, 
 And in the dusk of evening by the searchers I was found 
 Still stretched in drunken slumber on that selfsame pile of hay, 
 And Murphy swore 'be hivina' that I hadn't been away. 
 
 " 'And for two years or so I've borne the secret in my breast, 
 But now it's out,'and I may hope 'twill set my mind at rest; 
 VoY two long years I've baffled all the bloodhounds of the law; 
 Now am I not the 'cutest cuss youse fellows ever sawV 
 
 "Was this some madman's tale we heard? We did not dare 
 
 decide. 
 Which fact impelled young Ferguson his story to deride; 
 'Why Joe, that deed was never done by coward such as you, 
 Have you no other proof to show that what you say is true? 
 
1 88 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 '' 'Why, yes 1 have,' replied Leclair, and then with nervous 
 
 haste 
 He fetched a silver bracelet from the pocket of his vest; 
 'See, tliere's her bracelet, just as when L took it from her wrist, 
 You'll recollect when she was found that one of them was 
 
 missed.' 
 
 "A wave of wrath o'erswept my soul; 1 sprang up with a shout, 
 'There stands the villain, boys, beyond tlie shadow of a doubt; 
 That's murdered Olive's bracelet, I can swear to it myself, 
 1 siw its mate but yesterday upon her father's shelf.' 
 
 ''That moment's calm before the storm 1 can remember still, 
 I marked a big blue-bottle lly upon the window sill; 
 The clock ticked softly overhead, all nature seemed at rest 
 As tvventy men sprang forward with one purpose in tlieir breast. 
 
 ^'He seemed to scent the coming storm, and sobered into shapes 
 
 And swiftly glanced around him for a pathway of escape; 
 
 I)Ut ere a purpose could be formed we came with vengeance- 
 thirst. 
 
 And 'At him, boys,' our only thought was who should be the 
 lirst. 
 
 "His shrieks for mercy but inflamed the passions of iiis foes, 
 And down the villain went beneath an avalanche of blows; 
 One moment in his nerveless grasp we saw a dagger gleam, 
 A strong hand wrenched the blade away and turned the edge 
 on him. 
 
 "The lire of wrath was quenched in blood, our fury passed 
 
 away, 
 And what was left to look upon? A mass of shapeless clay, 
 The soul that knew but to destroy the beauties God had given 
 Was gone to meet the Judge of all before the bar of heaven 
 
 ■a n^ 
 
 Twas over, and with sinking heart I gazed around again; 
 The big fly in his struggles had attained the topmost pane; 
 The clock ticked on, the second hand hut once around had spun. 
 And now our hands were stained with blood, a dreadful deed 
 was done. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 189 
 
 "They took the ghastly thing away and some inquiry made, 
 J^ut every man of them agreed the wretch was better dead; 
 And till the place went up in flame, ten years ago or more, 
 No art of man could e'er remove those bloodstains from the 
 floor 
 
 "What caused him to confess? God knows. I fear it would be 
 
 vain 
 To analyse the workings of a whiskey-sodden brain; 
 Perhaps he thought, since vengeance slept, 'twas buried in her 
 
 tomb, 
 It must have been resistless fate impelled him to his doom. 
 
 ''Next morning when our boss came down he stopped and said 
 
 to me, 
 ' 'Twas simple justice, Jake, although you acted hastily; 
 The wicked men join hand in hand, and flee by paths untrod, 
 liut no offender can escape the 'venging law of God.' 
 
 "Young Ethel, in the course of time, became my winsome bride. 
 
 And of my fair Chicago home she is the joy and pride; 
 
 We oft recall the murdered maid since time has healed our 
 
 pain, 
 And in our fair Olivia she seems to live again. 
 
 "My friends, I would not harm a fly, and yet I can't begin 
 
 To think that graceless ruflian's blood has stained my soul with. 
 
 sin: 
 Nor shall I when, on that great day, 1 meet my judge on high, 
 Whose Word proclaims on every page, 'the soul that sins shall 
 
 die.'" 
 
190 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 THE LEAGUE OF DEATH AND HELL. 
 
 AWAKE the song of Freedom, boys, tlie trump of war is 
 blown, 
 The sword of Freedom in our hand a friendly world 
 looks on. 
 We'll hurl the Spanish tyrant from his bloodstained island throne 
 And Cuba shall be free. 
 
 Where'er the sun of Freedom shines the nations wish us well, 
 The God of battles surely with our venging host shall dwell; 
 Our foes are Spain and 'Yellow Jack', the league of death ancl 
 hell. 
 
 But Cuba shall be free. 
 
 We draw ihe sword our warrior sires had sheathed in Sixty-tive, 
 To slay the vampire hordes that on the Cuban life-blood thrive; 
 We'll drive them forth in tire and blood, like drones from out 
 the hive. 
 
 For God and Liberty. 
 
 We go to bring the tortured ones a glad surcease of pain, 
 We bring the Cuban patriots peace and freedom in our train; 
 We go for vengeance on the base destroyers of the Maine, 
 In name of Liberty. 
 
 Let foemen fling their ramparts high and let their cannon boom; 
 The sullen trenches that they dig shall serve them for a tomb; 
 We're out to tight all summer, aye, or till the crack of doom, 
 But Cuba shall be free. 
 
 That relic of barbaric age is tottering to its fall. 
 It trembles, like Belshazzar, at the writing on the wall; 
 The mills of God grind slowly but they grind exceeding small, 
 And Cuba shall be free. 
 
 The fair ones of posterity shall weave a stainless wreath 
 For those who prove their valor to the passing ot their breath- 
 Then forward. Christian warriors, to the carnival of death 
 For God and Libertv. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. ^9^ 
 
 VACATION TIME. 
 
 •> ^T^lS the era of good feeling 
 
 I For the engine bell is pealing, 
 
 And the" frisky Doys stop singing 
 Long enough to pay their fares; 
 For we're out for recreation 
 In the days of our vacation, 
 From our wearied shoulders flinging 
 AH the burden of our cares. 
 
 Now farewell to square and angle, 
 Building plan and labor tangle, 
 Business deal and legal quibble. 
 We have studied week by week; 
 Where the summer birds are mating 
 AVe shall sit serenely, waiting 
 For the shy, elusive nibble 
 Of the catfish in the creek. 
 
 Though our host may kick at trifles 
 Like the popping of our rifles 
 When at times our random bullets 
 Perforate the family wash; 
 We'll devote ourselves with ardor 
 To the products of his larder. 
 
 When fresh fruits and roasted pullets 
 Take the place of prunes and hash. 
 
 Morning hours are calm and restful 
 And an extra nap seems wasteful 
 When the birds are sweetly singing 
 By the brushwood and the rock; 
 But it proves a great temptation 
 In the days of our vacation, 
 With no loud alarum ringing 
 In our ears at six o'clock. 
 
192 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 WAR TIME. 
 
 LET us pause in rejoicing, for ringing in our ears 
 Are cries from bleeding hearts and sore; 
 Still stedf ast and loyal,— they murmur through their tears, 
 "O! War times, come again no more." 
 
 We shout in our triumph, "The conquering heroes come;'' 
 
 Our joy resounds from shore to shore; 
 But the orphans are wailing, the widow's heart is dumb, — 
 
 O! War times, come again no more. 
 
 Where pride and ambition have reared their altars high 
 
 Our blood in sacrifice we pour; 
 The flower of our nation are going forth to die, 
 
 O! War times, come again no more. 
 
 The death-shot is speeding this happy Christmas time, 
 
 It echoes from a distant shore, 
 And makes sad discord with the joy-bell's merry chime,— 
 
 O! War times, come again no more. 
 
 If statesmen who quarrel should have to fight it out 
 
 The dogs of war would howl no more; 
 And bloodthirsty jingoes would be the first to shout, 
 
 "()! AVar times, come again no more." 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 of Martha Baker, who died in Chicago. March 22, 1S90, aged IG years, G months 
 an active member of the Scotch Church Christian Endeavor Society. Respect- 
 ed and beloved by all who knew her. 
 
 G 
 
 OD's hand in sore affliction hath been laid 
 Upon a household we all know and love; 
 And hath removed a bright and winsome maid 
 From earthly trials to the joys above. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 193 
 
 A young believer, scarce more than a child, 
 Her sixteenth year on earth but lately run, 
 
 By life's corrupting forces undefiled, 
 Pure as the first beam of the morning sun. 
 
 Too soon, alas, her gentle spirit lied. 
 Yet many hallowed mem'ries hath she left, 
 
 "The good die young," a wise man rightly said, 
 So from our midst she early hath been reft. 
 
 As tender flower, nipped by the frost at night, 
 
 Its opening petals not yet fully blown. 
 Her life's sun early shed a dazzling light. 
 
 But long ere noontide it is set and gone. 
 
 Not unprepared was she when called to go. 
 She wished not to be well and strong again; 
 
 She hath done more in her short time below 
 Than many do in threescore years and ten. 
 
 So young, and yet how faithfully she wrought 
 Within the vineyard of her Lord and King; 
 
 And now gone home to meet him, she hath brought, 
 Of human souls, a royal offering. 
 
 Her thoughts were of her Savior, day by day, 
 To love the Lord all hearts she did incline; 
 
 Yea! those she touched along life's thorny way 
 Were made to feel the power of love Divine. 
 
 Her labors here a noble harvest show, 
 Which at her Savior's feet she now lays down; 
 
 Of human sheaves, redeemed from sin and woe 
 To shine as gems in God's eternal crown. 
 
 Although disease her earthly frame oppressed, 
 And though her pain and suffering here were great 
 
 They but prepared her for the eternal rest 
 That waits for all within the Golden Gate. 
 
 May her example help to give us strength 
 To serve our Master in life's conflict hard. 
 
 Then shall our greeting be in Heaven at length. 
 Come, faithful servant, enter thy reward. 
 
194 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Her whole life witnessed for her Savior dear, 
 Her peaceful end still stronger witness bore; 
 
 Let this thought comfort us who linger here, 
 "She is not lost, she is but gone before." 
 
 With our departed sister may we stand, 
 When Jesus in his glory we shall see, 
 
 Among the ransomed ones at His right hand 
 To praise His name to all eternity. 
 
 SONG OF VICTOEY. 
 
 HAIL to Columbia! Let joyful huzzas 
 Peal for the champion of liberty's cause; 
 Crowned is her brow with the conqueror's wieath, 
 Red is the blade she returns to its sheath. 
 Isle of the ransomed, still reeking with gore. 
 Shout for the tyrant shall vex thee no more; 
 Pearl of the Antilles and gem of the sea,— 
 Cuba! our mandate proclaims thou art free. 
 
 Shades of the heroes of ancient Castile 
 Blushed for their sons, with their time-honored steel 
 Sheathed in the proud hearts they could not subdue: 
 ^"aior and old age and maidenhood too. 
 Craven hearts quaking on tyranny's throne, 
 Bondsmen, awaking to win back their own. 
 Strove till their death-gasp to sever the chain 
 Bound on their wrists by the minions of Spain. 
 
 But when the Author of liberty gave 
 
 Charge to this nation a remnant to save— 
 
 Red ran the streams, and the craven ones tied. 
 
 Leaving, as token, the bones of their dead. 
 
 Seared by their firebrands and scarred by their steel,— 
 
 Soon may the wounds of captivity heal; 
 
 Envied of nations again shalt thou be, 
 
 Cuba! fair Cuba! the radiantly free. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 195 
 
 Now that the tyrants have loosened their hold, 
 Stoop not thy neck to the bondage of gold; 
 <xuard that no vampires shall reap for their own 
 Harvests of wealth from the blood we have sown. 
 Chastened in mind by the tale of thy woes,— 
 So may thy children enjoy their repose; 
 Glorious days hath the future for thee— 
 Cubal fair Cabal that dared to be free. 
 
 THE VILLAGE TERKOR. 
 
 Scene.— Parlor of the Dead Shot Hotel, Prairieville, Kansas. Three east- 
 ern drummers sitting round a table drinking. Another young drummer asleep 
 in a corner. Enter Bill Bluffer, the village terror.— 
 
 Bill. 
 
 OH! I'm Bill Bluifer, a-gittin' roun', 
 The greatest terror in all the town; 
 When I git on a tear 'tis said 
 That most folks wants ter get tew bed: 
 cVn' them I meet when in my spells 
 They wish they had been somewhere else. 
 I m off again; I aint half done, 
 Though I'll allow I've had some fun: 
 Three tough saloons an' a dry goods store 
 I emptied clar tew the outside door. 
 Gee whiz, but didn't the loafers skip 
 When they saw Bill's fighting blood was up; 
 An' so I've come as ye may suppose. 
 Tew give youse fellers the self -same dose: 
 Bill Bluffer, ready fer anything, 
 I shy my caster inter the ring : 
 Ef some one wants to be took sick 
 They've just to give thet hat a kick. 
 
 No one takes up the challenge^ so he turns axvay in 
 apparent di^.g-nst. 
 
 Wall, not a move, ef that aint good; 
 They caint be in a fightin' mood, 
 I guess they seen me nearlv kil 
 
19^ By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 That big-mouthed terror from Snoozerville, 
 
 When he put the marshal's force ter rout 
 
 An' they sent fer me-e ter lay 'im out; 
 
 I knew jest what I was about, 
 
 Fer the doctor what patched his battered face 
 
 He pays me commission on every case. 
 
 Then there was Thompson of Stonefield Ranch 
 I swooped on him like an avalanche, 
 An they'll remember when I got through 
 He stayed in bed for a month or two. 
 But time is passin', I must get roun', 
 There's lots o' more tough joints in town. 
 Hey! what's the matter, boys? Wake up; 
 Who wants a man of my size ter whip? 
 I'm all wound up, so here's yer chance; 
 Jest kick thet hat an' see me dance. 
 
 Still no response^ so he savs in a fierce voice^ aside, 
 
 A lot o' chumps, they aint half game, 
 I'll try another tack with them. 
 
 Turns forvard them. 
 
 Skin out o' here yew measly crew, 
 
 I don't waste no more breath on yew; 
 
 I'll count a hunderd. an' when I'm done 
 
 Ef one is left -look out fer fun. 
 
 One, two, three, four five, six, seven, eight,—" 
 
 Keeps on counting. Sleeping drummer starts up 
 and says: 
 
 Drummer. 
 
 "Who's countin' up at such a rate? 
 Why, boys, I must have been asleep, 
 Whatever makes you look so cheap?" 
 
 2nd Drummer. 
 
 "That there Bill Bluffer, he's on a tear, 
 An' spreadin' terror everywhere; 
 He's countin' up a hundred now, 
 An' when he's done there's to be a row." 
 
 Vonng drummor looks at Bill in contempt. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 197 
 
 1st Drummer. 
 
 "What! that onairy-lookin' cuss? 
 That thinks he's goin' to make a fuss; 
 Well, I'm Tom Toughnut, out on a spree, 
 An' layin' for terrors such as he; 
 I've spanked such guys as that before." 
 
 Bill tears ronnd fnadly hovjliug ivith rage^ as he counts 
 
 Bill. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 "Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four." 
 
 *'SayI hayseed, you had better crawl. 
 You and your greasy hat, and all; 
 Or I'll wipe up the floor with you," 
 
 Kicks the hat. 
 
 Bill, (ferociously). 
 
 "Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two." 
 
 Tom. 
 
 "He looks like business, Well, all right, 
 Now boys, we'll have a rousing fight: 
 I'm champion boxer of my State," 
 
 BilVs rage is checked. He continues rather dubiously 
 
 "Seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven, 
 seventy-eight." 
 
 Tom. 
 
 "Well, go ahead, and I'll get ready, 
 My arm is strong my eye is steady; 
 I'm up to pugilistic tricks." 
 
 Puts off his coat. 
 
 Bill (slowly). 
 
 "Eighty-three, eighty-four,— eighty-five, — 
 e-i-g-h-t-y-s-i-x." 
 
.19^ By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 "He's getting rattled now. No wonder, 
 He's met his match at last, by thunder." 
 Bill, (very slow). 
 
 "Ninety-two, ninety-three; ninety-f-o-u-r, 
 n-i-n-e-t-y-fi-v-e," 
 
 Tom. 
 
 "He's nearly done. Now, sakes alive, 
 I'll do him up in latest style. 
 And yet it's hardly worth my while, 
 
 Squares uf to BUI. 
 
 Put up your dukes, or I'll be bound, 
 I'll knock you out in half a round 
 Then kick you clear across the State." 
 
 BiLL^ (in terror). 
 
 "I haven't said a hunderd yet." 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Bill. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 Bill. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 "Then hurry up, 'twill settle you. 
 And keep my hand in practice too. 
 But never mind, you'll have a show. 
 Well, have you said a hunderd?" 
 
 'No." 
 
 "When will you, then? I ask a favor." 
 
 "Mebbe next week, and mebbe never." 
 
 "Well, here we have a warrior bold, 
 A terror of heroic mold; 
 He'd fear to tackle, I suppose, 
 A fly that crawled across his nose. 
 I think 'twould fitly end the row 
 To pitch him through that window now." 
 
 Lays hold of Bill. 
 
Bill. 
 
 By Heath and Prairie, 199 
 
 "Say! mister, you had best take care, 
 You'll spoil your hands on that grease-spot there." 
 
 Tom, (in scorn). 
 
 "Bill Bluffer, you're a sorry sight, 
 'Tis with your tongue you best can fight; 
 You aint fit for a circus clown, 
 You half-baked terror of the town. 
 And yet I don't care what you say, 
 I guess I'll kick you anyway, 
 The biggest coward I have met." 
 
 Bill. 
 
 "I haven't said a hunderd yet." 
 
 Tom turn^ tozvards the other druimners and says: 
 
 "Well, gentlemen, I leave him here. 
 The varmint's nearly dead with fear; 
 Completely cowed; why, see him shiver; 
 Just take and drop him m the river; 
 But tie him up before you start 
 In case the pieces fall apart. 
 
 Lo^ks at his xvatcli. 
 
 Gee-whilikinsI it's half past ten 
 
 And I must run to catch my train; 
 
 Bill Bluffer, keep as quiet's you can 
 
 For when you run against a man 
 
 You'll find too late that you have blundered." 
 
 Exit Tom. When //e is fairly out of sight Billj zvho 
 has been 8'cvelling up again thundered out : 
 
 "Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, 
 ONE HUNDERD!!! 
 Neaw Where's the man says Bill's afraid? 
 Jest gimme a chaince an' I'll bust his head." 
 
 The other drummers jump up and chase Bill into the 
 street. 
 
200 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 LAST WliSTTER'S OVERCOAT. 
 
 WHEN the stormy breezes bluster 
 Through the shade trees lank and bare, 
 And the tiny f rost Hakes sparkle 
 In the chilly morning air. 
 And we take an inventory 
 
 Of the useful things we've got — 
 Naught can wake our tender interest 
 Like last winter's overcoat. 
 
 Tenderly we pick the moth balls 
 
 From the pockets where they've lain, 
 And with sponge and brush we labor 
 
 To remove each spot and stain; 
 Mourning o'er the frequent tokens 
 
 Of our hungry friend the moth. 
 Where he foraged at his leisure 
 
 On the sleek, imported cloth. 
 
 But at length with some misgivings 
 
 We pronounce it fit to wear; 
 Yet we shun our dude companions, 
 
 And resent their haughty stare. 
 And we're apt to lose some slumber 
 
 Envying the happy lot 
 Of the man who need not worry 
 
 O'er last winter's overcoat. 
 
 TO MR. PETER KINNEAE. 
 
 MY honored friend and brither Scotsman true, 
 A Highland greeting I extend to you. 
 To show that in the bright and bounding AVest 
 Auld Scotia's spirit lives within my breast; 
 To show the wreath of fame to which aspire 
 Each bard of Scottish birth, our hearts' desire. 
 Now, reproduced by photographic art, 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 201 
 
 Behold where it reposes near my heart; 
 
 While as a fitting bodyguard appears 
 
 Full many a trophy of my earlier years, 
 
 Whose clustered beauties point my memory back 
 
 To the athletic field and cycle track, 
 
 Where rivals, college-trained till they were "fit," 
 
 Were overthrown by simple Scottish grit. 
 
 And now all clustered round your matchless wreath 
 
 Judge how my modest bosom swells beneath. 
 
 Our hardy forefathers in days gone by, 
 
 "Were foremost in the fray, to win or die; 
 
 And we, inheriting their spirit free, 
 
 In manly sports seek bloodless victory . 
 
 The men of one idea love to tell 
 
 The way to do one thing and do it well: 
 
 The only way to reach the highest rank — 
 
 In other words, it pays to be a crank. 
 
 And yet a higher power counsels me, 
 
 ''Develop each God-given faculty." 
 
 So mind and muscle I resolved to train 
 
 In some degree, nor did I strive in vain. 
 
 Amid the city's din we live so fast 
 
 Night chases day into the shadowy past; 
 
 And in the intervals of toil we find 
 
 But little time to cultivate the mind. 
 
 Yet though the way to higher fame is barred 
 
 Our little deeds fail not of their reward, 
 
 Though other toilers reap their harvests fair. 
 
 And we but glean our handf uls here and there. 
 
 I dearly love to sing old Scotland's praise. 
 
 The dim traditions of heroic days; 
 
 The gallant tartans waving wild and free; 
 
 The pipe that played us on to victory; 
 
 One thing I lack to make a Scotsman .true,— 
 
 Alas! I dp not love the mountain dew, 
 
 Full many a braw lad from our mountain land 
 
 Find fame and fortune on Columbia's strand; 
 
 Whose kindliness of heart and modest worth 
 
 Do honor to the country of their birth. 
 
 And thou, Kinnear, who wrought for Scotia's weal 
 
 Whose laurel'd trophy fires our minstrel zeal. 
 
 Thou doest credit to thy lofty post 
 
 As worthy chief of Scotia's banded host. 
 
 Long may you live, and happy may you be. 
 
202 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 Your home life blest with sweet felicity; 
 Beside your way the flowers of summer bloom, 
 Your girnal and your greybeard ne'er be toom; 
 May joy attend the evening of your days, 
 With friends to speak your meed of honest praise; 
 And all good things a sturdy Scot can want: 
 I am, yours most sincerely, Peter Grant. 
 
 BACK FROM THE COUNTRY 
 
 I'VE wandered where the bullfrog sings 
 To greet the early riser; 
 And now I'm back to men and things, 
 A sadder man and wiser: 
 To tan and freckles on my face 
 
 I've got a few objections;— 
 Chicago as a dwelling place 
 Stands first in my affections. 
 
 I took a notion once to branch 
 
 Forth into tracks unbeaten; 
 To start a model chicken ranch, 
 
 AVhere fresh-laid eggs are eaten. 
 But sitting on the kitchen stoop 
 
 Was lonesome work and lazy; 
 The bold hawks robbed my chicken coop, 
 
 And drove me nearly crazy 
 
 The air is very pure, 'tis true. 
 
 But tell me, what the dickens 
 Have men of business got to do 
 
 With mixing feed for chickens? 
 We have exhausted corn and hogs. 
 
 And every country topic;— 
 Left to himself— and cats and dogs — 
 
 A man gets misanthropic. 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 203 
 
 I'm sure that no one but a chump 
 
 Would fix on that location,— 
 No place except the village pump 
 
 To go for liquidation. 
 A wheelman makes the ponies bolt 
 
 And dump us. Oh! 'twas charming: 
 May I be pulled up with a jolt 
 
 Next time I go a-farming. 
 
 And so you see I'm back again- 
 Forsaking stumps and boulders — 
 
 To mingle with my fellow men, 
 And rub their friendly shoulders. 
 
 The country air dont suit my case 
 Nor yet my wife's complexion: 
 
 Chicago as a dwelling place 
 Stands first in our affection. 
 
 THE SCOT IN BASEBALL. 
 
 WHEN Dutch and Irish players scrapped 
 About the baseball game, 
 Each with unbounded vigor rapped 
 The other fellow's fame. 
 But when at last the thing was squared, 
 
 'Twas plainly to be seen 
 That baseball laurels all were shared 
 Impartially between. 
 
 But when McFarland's name was read 
 
 On Erin's jovial list, 
 Bold Dexter kicked and promptly said, 
 
 "He's Scotch, I will insist." 
 But Donahue, impatiently 
 
 Ejaculated, "What? 
 He cannot be a Scotchman, see, 
 
 He plays too well for that. 
 
204 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 "The Scotchman is at home in 'gowff,' 
 
 Perhaps in football too: 
 But on the diamond he's 'way off; 
 
 And trouble would ensue 
 When he appeared upon the field 
 
 In all his native rig; 
 For every time the war pipe squealed 
 
 He'd stop to dance a jig. 
 
 "And when he'd jump to catch a fly 
 
 That sailed above his head, 
 His kilts might bob unduly high, 
 
 And scandal thus be made. 
 And when his validly swinging bat 
 
 Got tangled in his plaid, 
 I've known a simple thing like that 
 
 To make him hopping mad. 
 
 "In demonstrating that no race 
 
 Is equal to the Scotch, 
 He'd thoughtlessly forsake his base, 
 
 To argue with the coach; 
 And when the umpire called him out, 
 
 He'd draw a ten-inch dirk; 
 And, with a savage clansman's shout, 
 
 ,Go in for deadly w^ork. 
 
 "The Scotchman's hits, though full of steam, 
 
 Are frequently misplaced; 
 And clearly, on a baseball team. 
 
 He isn't at his best. 
 Although we've tried him once or twice, 
 
 Our pains we had to rue; 
 Without offence it will suffice 
 
 To say he wouldn't do." 
 
By Heath and Prairie. 205 
 
 THE LIGHTNING-CHANGE EMPRESS. 
 
 WORD comes from China, in the east, 
 "The empress still survives;" 
 No cat nor dog nor other beast 
 Has half as many lives. 
 She was reported put to death 
 
 Six weeks ago or more, 
 For stopping the young Emperor's breath 
 A day or two before. 
 
 But much enraged by this abuse 
 
 A swift revenge she found; 
 For then she turned the Boxers loose 
 
 To kill the people round. 
 Next came the melancholy tale, 
 
 By letter of advice, 
 That Boxers had her put in jail, 
 
 And killed her once or twice. 
 
 Then, scared to nervousness, she fled 
 
 As swiftly as could be; 
 The Emperor, risen from the dead. 
 
 Went with her duteous! y. 
 But Prince Tuan relieved their pain 
 
 With poison that he had; 
 And so the Emperor died again 
 
 And she went raving mad. 
 
 And now the ancient dame declares 
 
 On her we may depend. 
 For she adores the foreigners 
 
 And was their stedfast friend 
 In palace or in prison cell. 
 
 Or buried now and then; 
 And all the time she strove to quell 
 
 The friskv Boxer men. 
 
2o6 By Heath and Prairie. 
 
 THE BOXER. 
 
 w 
 
 HO holds the stage of life today, 
 And fills the world with wild dismay, 
 And holds it's allied force at bay? 
 The Boxer. 
 
 Who started out with guns and knives 
 To take the 'foreign devils'" lives? 
 Who boils the envoys and their wives? 
 The Boxer. 
 
 Who makes a sport of horrid crime? 
 Who would, in ignorance sublime 
 Eeverse the dial hand of Time? 
 The Boxer. 
 
 Who makes the nations all agree 
 And work along in harmony 
 To wipe him off the earth? 'Tis he,— 
 The Boxer 
 
 Who's made a most atrocious break 
 By starting in to burn and wreck ? 
 Who'll promptly get it in the neck? 
 The Boxer. 
 
 AVho yells for murder and revenge? 
 Whose views of things are apt to change 
 When U. S. gunners get his range? 
 The Boxer. 
 
iistiz)H>:>c. 
 
 A Canadian Tale 184 
 
 A Chicago Kick 84 
 
 A Farewell 75 
 
 A Game of Hearts 102 
 
 A Highland Tocher 3G 
 
 A Passing Bird 9^ 
 
 A Pawky Wooer 19 
 
 .A Philosophic Jow 35 
 
 A Song of Manhood 72 
 
 A Sprig of Heather 4-2 
 
 .A Story of Life 47 
 
 AtThe Wall 1C4 
 
 An Untimely Joke 83 
 
 A Nlcht at Hame 149 
 
 Angus MacLean 151 
 
 Back Frae the Auld Hame 53 
 
 Back From the Country 202 
 
 Beloved Scotia! ~3 
 
 Better Days 73 
 
 Boer and Boxer 139 
 
 Bonnie Scotland's Shore 48 
 
 Brother Jack's Choice lOi 
 
 Brother Jack in Company 98 
 
 Brother Jack in Trouble 95 
 
 Brother Jack's Piety 90 
 
 Brother Jack's Punishment 8G 
 
 Brother Jack's Logic 177 
 
 Brother Jack in Church 175 
 
 Brother Jack at School 152 
 
 Brother Jack's Genius 173 
 
 Brother Jack in Finance 1G3 
 
 Burns' Anniversary 67 
 
 By Dulnain's Tide 43 
 
 By the Broad St. Clair 130 
 
 Cats that Wail in the Night 79 
 
 ■Centenary of Burns' Death 70 
 
 Chicago to Dewey 92 
 
 Chinee and Turk 146 
 
 Death in Labor's War 81 
 
 Decoration Day 54 
 
 Drifting Apart 99 
 
 Farewell to Strathspey 7 
 
 Fifty Years More 105 
 
 For Wives an' Weans an' a' That. 64 
 
 Freedom's Battle Line 142 
 
 Gather Up the Fingers 72 
 
 Getting Down Town 181 
 
 Oilhooley's Daughter 114 
 
 God Defend the Right 132 
 
 Getting a llest .150 
 
 Higliland Association's Reception 
 
 Ode 66 
 
 Honor Thy Father 87 
 
 In Memoriam 192 
 
 In My Auld Hame 56 
 
 In the Spring 119 
 
 I Wouldn't Wonder 141 
 
 In Memoriam- George Drysdale..l53 
 
 Jack at the Theatre 104 
 
 Jack on a Tear 93 
 
 Jack As a Coroner 148 
 
 Joys of Holiday 109 
 
 KipUng and Bobs 138 
 
 Land of the Heather Hill 30 
 
 Letters of the Dead 106 
 
 Last Winter's Overcoat 200 
 
 McKinley and Prosperity 1 IC 
 
 Melodies of Home 76 
 
 Memories of Van Cleave 122 
 
 My Brother Jack 81 
 
 My Brother Bore 77 
 
 My Highland Maid 14 
 
 My Lady Love . . . . • 102 
 
 My Writing Machine 165 
 
 My Typewriter 1S2 
 
 My Ninety-Nine Wheel 160 
 
 No Scotsman Need Apply 26 
 
 Oor Ain Folk 31 
 
 One on the Tourist il 
 
 One on the Teacher 117 
 
 Our Mother Isle 46 
 
 Passing of Oom Paul 172 
 
 Raid of the Five Hundred 168 
 
 Sandy Johnston's Dochter 8 
 
 Scotia's Bagpipe 44 
 
 Sir Wilfrid Laurier 12 
 
 Somewhere Between 84 
 
 Song of the Trusts 89 
 
 Stoop to Conquer 179 
 
 Suited 183 
 
 Song of Victory 194 
 
 Tale of a Rose m 
 
 The Age of Slang 96 
 
 The Auld Hoose at Hame 120 
 
 The Bannocks o' Bonnie Dundee.. 56 
 The Biggest Fool 136 
 
The Brighter Side 144 
 
 The Cheapest Fuel 132 
 
 The Crown of Independence 113 
 
 The Creed and tlie Deed 123 
 
 The City Paved with Gold 63 
 
 The Dutch-Irish Raid on Canada.. 137 
 
 The Evergreen Pine 33 
 
 The Egotist 85 
 
 The Great MacCallummore 62 
 
 The Glen Wliere I was Born 34 
 
 The Parting Hour 20 
 
 The Girls Gone By 21 
 
 The Glad Time of the Year, 98 
 
 The Highland Reunion 41 
 
 The Hose My Mither Span 24 
 
 The Land We Love 25 
 
 The Highlander's Wrongs n 
 
 The Ladies Candidate lis 
 
 The League of Death and Hell .... 190 
 
 The Light of Love 112 
 
 The Lion and the Eagle 60 
 
 The Lion of South Africa 143 
 
 The Man Behind the Bowlder 1 33 
 
 The Man on the Fence 93 
 
 The Man With tlie Stuff 78 
 
 The Modern Hero 179 
 
 The Old Guard of Scotland's Honor 
 
 65 
 
 The Omniscient Man 100 
 
 The Penalty of Fame 97 
 
 The Piper of Dargai 49 
 
 The Poet and the Funny Man 88 
 
 The Prize Banner 60 
 
 The Soldier's Lass 134 
 
 The Suicide Crank 130 
 
 The Summer Girl 128 
 
 The Sweepin' o the Lum 51 
 
 The Returned Hero 91 
 
 The War Pipe of Scotland 28 
 
 The Barley Bree 29 
 
 The Winter Cyclist Ill 
 
 To Ian McLaren 40 
 
 To An Honored Scot— Hon. T, C. 
 
 MacMillan g9 
 
 Tommy Atkins 135 
 
 To Mrs . Catharine Yates 129 
 
 To Miss Helen J. Steven 155 
 
 To Mr. Peter Kinnear 20O 
 
 True 1 ill Death 68 
 
 The Lion's Cubs 145 
 
 The Modern Hero 147 
 
 The Lucky Horse Shoe 147 
 
 The Reason Why 152 
 
 The Ruling of the Roost 154 
 
 Tragic h5 
 
 The Village Terror 195 
 
 The Scot in Baseball 203 
 
 The Lightning-Change Empress.. 205 
 
 The Road Racer's Foe 160 
 
 That Boy of Mine I6I 
 
 The Man Behind the Searchlight . . 162 
 
 The Poet's Reward 164 
 
 The Modern Excelsior . , , , 166 
 
 The Bright Ones of Life 174 
 
 The Modern Pharaoh 175 
 
 The Editor s Chair 167 
 
 The Last Fly of summer 171 
 
 The Storm King 159 
 
 The Boxer 206 
 
 Use of the Truce 109 
 
 Vacation Time 191 
 
 Visions of the Past 79 
 
 Visions of Home 32 
 
 Vote as You Shot 177 < 
 
 Vision of a Wanderer 158 
 
 War Time 192 
 
 When I am Far Away 11 
 
 When Jack Was 111 .180 
 
 When the Bloom is on the Heather 45 
 Where the Purple Heather Grows 50 
 Where the Union Jack is Flying.. l4o 
 Where Hath Scotland Found Her 
 
 Fame 15 
 
 What Worried Him 157 
 
DEC 26 1900 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 905 511 5