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 THE LIBRARY 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 

 
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 DORIC LAYS: 
 
 BEING 
 
 SNATCHES OF SONG AND BALLAD. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN CRAWFORD. 
 
 ■" Let me but list the melodies 
 O' some o' Scotia's sangs, 
 
 And I will a' forget my waes. 
 Will a' forgle my wrangs." 
 
 Jmlach. 
 
 EDINBURGH: 
 PRINTED BY MACPHERSON & SYME. 
 
 M.DCCC.LX.
 
 ©0 tljt Ptmorg of 
 
 THE LATE 
 
 LORD COCKBURN, 
 
 ONE OF THE SENATORS OP THE COLLEGE OF JUSTICE, 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS 
 
 REVERENTIALLY DEDICATED, 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 

 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 SIMMEK FLOWERS, . . . PAGii 1 
 
 THE LAST OF THE DORIANS, . . 6 
 
 KATIE GLEN, . . . . 12 
 
 THE BRIDE O' ASHENTRIEL, . . .19 
 
 THE DOCKAN GROWS ASIDE THE NETTLE, . 24 
 
 THE sailor's WIDOW, . . .27 
 
 THE AVANDER'd BAIRN, ... 31 
 
 THE LYART AND LEAL, . . .36 
 
 THE WAES O' EILD, ... 39 
 
 OUR BONNY GREEN AIK TREE, . . .42 
 
 CAKES AND BARLEY BREE, , . 45 
 
 THE WIFIE TO HER WEANS, . . .49 
 
 MY LADDIE WEAN, ... 53 
 
 MARY, . . . . . 55 
 
 MIND WHAT YE HA'e BEEN, . . 67 
 
 MY MOTHER, CAN I e'eR RETURN, . . 60 
 
 A SCOTTISH mother's ADDRESS, . . 63 
 
 HE THAT THOLES OWRECOMES, . . .66 
 
 .lESSIE, . . . . 69
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 72 
 
 74 
 
 79 
 82 
 86 
 
 93 
 95 
 
 97 
 100 
 102 
 
 MOTHER 8 PET, 
 
 THE SLEEPY BAIRN, 
 
 LIGHTLY GOT SILLER GANGS LIGHTLY AWA' . 77 
 
 MY AULD WIFIE JEAN, 
 
 YE NEEDNA CRAW SAE GROUSE, 
 
 MY MARY DEAR, 
 
 "WE ne'er WERE MADE TO MOURN, ... 88 
 
 grannie's BAIRN, 
 
 HAPPY HARVEST, 
 
 A DYING MOTHER TO HER CHILD, 
 
 THE DYING BOY, 
 
 LEAH, .... 
 
 ANN O' CORNYLEE, .... 105 
 
 FLORA STEEN, .... 107 
 
 O GIE ME A COGGIE O' ALE, • • .110 
 
 CAUSEY COURTSHIP, . . • 113 
 
 A Fu' man's soliloquy, . . . 117 
 
 we'll a' BE BRAWLEY YET, . . 122 
 
 PEASE CHARLEY, . . . .126 
 
 THE LAND o' THE BONNET AND PLAID, . 128 
 
 MARY smiles ON ME, . . .130 
 
 SING ON, FAIRY DEVON, . . . 132 
 
 THE LASS O' LOGIE, . . . 134 
 
 THE OCHIL MAID, . . . 137
 
 CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 THE ANSWER, . . . PAGE 139 
 
 AE BTARNIE, . . . . 141 
 
 AN AULD SCOTTISH SANG, . . . 143 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN COTTAGER, . . . 151 
 
 THE POOR OLD MAN, . . . 155 
 
 IN MEMORY OF MRS JOHN MOL'BRAY, . . 158 
 
 THE DEATH OF SAUL, . . . 161 
 
 AUTUMNAL STANZAS, . . . 163 
 
 RESIGNATION AMID POVERTY, . . 166 
 IMMORTALITY, .... 168 
 
 FLOWERS, .... 171 
 
 THE BEATIFIED BOY, . . . 174 
 
 THE GATHERIN' O' THE BARDS— BURNS' CENTENARY, 177
 
 DOEIC LAYS. 
 
 limran .flnniBri 
 
 Ye come and gang sweet simmer flowers, 
 
 And laicli ye may be laid, 
 But weel I ken ye'll blume again 
 
 Whatever may be said. 
 
 Tine as ye will your silken claes, 
 
 The bonniest o' ye a', 
 Tho' ye but tell the nitherin' tale 
 
 That sae I'll slip awa'. 
 
 Yet, idols o' ray hamely hearth, 
 
 Ye're aye the same to me 
 As when, wi' steekit een, I coor'd 
 
 Aside my mither's knee ;
 
 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 When that fond inither bent aboon 
 
 Her tottin' daw tit bairn, 
 Aye claspin' my wee ban's in hers, 
 
 My prayers a' to learn. 
 
 Sic happiness shall come nae mair, 
 For, oh, that mither's smile 
 
 Micht mak' an aulder head believe 
 This earth was free o' guile. 
 
 Sweet simmer flowers ye mind me o' 
 
 Anither hame o' bliss, 
 Where pairted frien's shall meet again, 
 
 In nae cauld world like this. 
 
 I kenna how ye ever bring 
 
 Sic pleasure aye to me, 
 Nor how your leesome whisperin's 
 
 Aye mak' me like to dee,
 
 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 Ye mak' me like to dee wi' joy, 
 And, lang tho' life may run, 
 
 I'll loot aside ye as afore. 
 And worship as I've done. 
 
 Years hinna a' gaen laiichin' by 
 
 Since owre ye first I hung. 
 When holiest dreamin's calm'd ilk care 
 
 That canna noo be sung. 
 
 Sae thochtless o' anither day. 
 
 Or what ye hae to dree, 
 Ye licht us but to where ye cam'. 
 
 To wither and to dee. 
 
 Ye tell us ne'er wi' murmurin's 
 
 To hallow grief and care, 
 For saikless eild and frien'less worth 
 
 Shall live for evermair.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 I've wearied lang to lea' this warld, 
 
 This eerie warld o' ours, 
 "Where sin has breath'd on a' thing fair 
 
 But you, my darlin' flowers. 
 
 And when my hinmost race is run, 
 
 The only boon I crave — 
 That for ae simmer lovingly 
 
 Ye'll blossom owre my grave. 
 
 Fair fondlin's o' ilk riven heart, 
 
 When Eve in PMen lay, 
 A' thochtless o' a waefu' Aveird 
 
 Or what micht lead astray j 
 
 I wonder if in bridal white 
 
 Ye then were a' arrayed. 
 To busk your fiurest sister's bower, 
 
 Earth's first unspotted maid.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 5 
 
 I wonder if ye cam' and gaed 
 
 As noo ye corae and gang, 
 When at the star-lit porch o' heaven 
 
 Your births the laverocks sang. 
 
 Unscaith'd by death's cauld ban's were ye, 
 When mune and stars were young, 
 
 When frae our first fair mither's breist 
 In silken buchts ye hung. 
 
 And when the gates o' bliss were closed. 
 
 The glories that ye wear 
 A wilderin' flood o' beauty came 
 
 Her stricken heart to cheer.
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE LAMENTED DEATH OF LORD COCKBL'BN. 
 
 " It has often struck us that had it been an object in Scotland to keep 
 up our accent, as separate from that of England, pursuing a competition 
 with it for superiority in good taste, Cockburn's accent should have been 
 the model for his country to adopt — and it would have driven our south- 
 ern neighbours hard to excel it in easy grace. It sat on him like the old- 
 fashioned costume, which, as he wore it, seemed neither obsolete nor 
 eccentric, but precisely the dress in which a gentleman ought to be 
 clothed." — Scotsman. 
 
 Spring jimply roun' her rokely gray 
 A flowery wreath had twisted, 
 Nor had the gowan's loe'some lips 
 Ae drap o' May-dew tasted. 
 
 The primrose and the meadow-spink 
 In husky shades reposin', 
 To raptured nature's worshippers 
 Their sweets were but disclosin'.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 'Twas then by Devon's tliymy knowes 
 I early went a rovin', 
 To hear the linties wooin' sang 
 Sae sinless and sae levin'. 
 
 It wasna that I thoucht the days, 
 Thou dear romantic river, 
 When like the birds by thee I woo'd 
 Had pass'd awa' for ever. 
 
 It wasna that an angel flew 
 Frae thy fair banks to heaven. 
 Nor that the holy and the pure 
 Had frae thy bowers been riven.* 
 
 • An allusion is here made to a lady, who was bom, lived, and died on 
 the banks of the Devon. 
 
 " To show us how divine a thing 
 A woman may be made."
 
 8 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 It couldna be that care and toil 
 Had frozen ilka feelin', 
 That glowed wi' fervid friendship's fire, 
 A heaven within revealing. 
 
 Nor was it freitfu' bairnhood's lear, 
 Sae fu' o' wilderin' story, 
 That gied a tale to cairny brae, 
 And ilka biggin hoary. 
 
 I kentna ought o' sleepless hours 
 Thro' early love's forsakin', 
 Nor had my faith in sacred things 
 A moment ere been shaken. 
 
 But ill befa' the waefu' day, 
 
 0' dool an' melancholy, 
 
 I dander'd 'neath the plantin's shade 
 
 Doon by yon dreary holly.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 For there a tale nae mortal tauld, 
 0' sadness and o' sorrow, 
 That never mair my listless lyre 
 A lilt frae mirth shall borrow. 
 
 A buirdly wight lang lyart grown, 
 Sae waebegane and weary, 
 A duddie carl bleer'd an' held, 
 Wi' eldritch mane drew near me. 
 
 A Patriarch o' the past I ween, 
 His grey hill plaid flung ower him, 
 Sae silken and sae saft his beard, 
 A snaw wreath hung afore him. 
 
 What means thae tears thou man o' eild, 
 Hae frien's forsook ye fairly, 
 What means thae sichs, auld carl, quo I, 
 That wrings thy heart sae sairly ?
 
 10 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 What means my grief, ye needua speir, 
 When heatherie brae and valley, 
 Their beauties shade in misty veils 
 To mourn wi' thee Bonaly.* 
 
 The win' souch's eerie doon thy glen, 
 Noo lanesome and forsaken, 
 For last o' a' the Doric train, 
 Thy lord nae mair shall waken, f 
 
 The nitherin' bands snell winter weaves. 
 May a' be burst asunder, 
 Thro' frozen tears the smiles o' spring 
 May lure the bee to wander. 
 
 * The country residence of the beloved and lamented Judge, near 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 t With every forbidding feature, characteristic of a former rge, polished 
 into perfection, Lord Coekburn, it is here presumed, was the last repre- 
 sentative of the fine old Scottish gentleman of the latter part of last 
 century.
 
 DORIC LATS. 11 
 
 Sweet simmer In her kirtle green, 
 Wi' wanton hairst may dally, 
 And scatterin' perfume In their glee. 
 May scent ilk holm and valley. 
 
 But ne'er again the kindly heart 
 A kindred core will rally, 
 To feast on nature's rip'nin' charms, 
 In thy lov'd shades, Bonaly !
 
 IctlB #Uh. 
 
 Nae silks nor satins I'll put on, 
 
 Nae flowers shall bloom for me — 
 
 But Lady Alva's snawy web* 
 
 My winding-sheet shall be. 
 
 The fruits o' sinfu' lemanry, 
 
 The wiles o' weirdless men, 
 
 Hae sear'd the heart an' turn'd the head 
 
 0' bonny Katie Glen, 
 
 * Ladt Alva's TVeb,— a stripe of snow which may often be seen when 
 summer is far advanced, on the slope of one of the Ochil Hills, above the 
 village of Alva ; and so called from its resemblance to a web of linen un- 
 dergoing the process of bleaching.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 13 
 
 The plantin's eerie shade I'll seek, 
 Aboon the Fairies' Burn, * 
 For there my maiden vows I brak, 
 And there I'll sit and mourn — 
 Where frien' nor fae may pity me, 
 For nane on earth shall ken 
 The waefu' tale o' lemanry, 
 0' bonny Katie Glen. 
 
 My Willie lo'ed me lang an' weel, 
 And fain my han' wad hae ; 
 Alake for woman's fickleness 
 To mak' a fond heart wae. 
 
 * The Fairies' Burn — a streamlet in tbe vicinity of Alloa, where, ac- 
 cording to tradition, Queen Mab and her elfin train were wont 
 " To pu' the roses braw, 
 And tbe blossoms that hing frae the rowan tree 
 As white as the drifted snaw."
 
 14 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 Kilbagie's goud bad glamour in't, 
 His cozie but and beu — 
 A lyart lairdie's sinfu' love, 
 Was a' to Katie Glen. 
 
 Alake for woman's fickleness I 
 Alake that love should dee ! — 
 Aneath the cauld an' cruel scorn 
 0' witchin' woman's ee. 
 The gray clud hovers on the brae, 
 An' owre the buskie den, 
 Where Willie brak his manly heart 
 For love o' Katie Glen. 
 
 We parted on the broomie Arns, * 
 Nae mair to meet on earth ; 
 
 * Arns-Brae. — The ingenious James Kennedy, author of " Glenochil," 
 in a note to that poem, hints at tlie possibility of Alloa having derived
 
 DORIC LAYS. 15 
 
 Oh, wha wad marry sin an' shame, 
 
 To lo^'altj and worth ? 
 
 We parted at nicht's mirkest hour, 
 
 But we shall meet agen. 
 
 Where sin an' sorrow winna scaith 
 
 The joys o' Katie Glen. 
 
 its name from Aloa, an Autumnal feast observed by tbe Romans ; and as 
 there is a mount at the west end of " Arns-Brae " bearing some resem- 
 blance to those at Dunipace, and e\ideutly artificial, it may not perhaps 
 be going too far to suppose that the appellation was derived from an altar 
 wliich might have been erected at this place to one of the rural deities, to 
 commemorate the first observance of a Country Kirn in this part of Scot- 
 land. Be that as it may. Historians and Antiquaries concur in making 
 one division of the Roman Army, a.d. 83, cross the Firth of Forth at the 
 Throsk Ford, about two miles west from Alloa, and as the line of march 
 observed by Agricola, in this memorable campaign, is conjectured by the 
 learned to have been regulated by the course of the Devon, the Arns-Brae 
 and the Gubber being the nearest rising grounds east of the Throsk Ford, 
 from which an idea of the adjacent country could be obtained, we may 
 conceive that the prospect from either elevation must have struck the Ro- 
 man soldiers as possessing charms which perhaps no other country could 
 boast of ; and cold indeed must his temperament be whose heart does not 
 glow with patriotism and devotion to
 
 16 DORIC lATS. 
 
 Yestreen I dreamt we met aneath 
 Our bonny trystin' tree,* 
 An' vvaefu' waefu' was the look, 
 My lost love cuist on me. 
 
 " the virgin land 
 
 Of the fearless heart and the fetterless hand," 
 on beholding the rich and varied scenery of the Valley of the Devon, and 
 the silvery and serpentine windings of the Forth from the rising grounds 
 above Alloa. And he who could return from a day's ramble among our 
 ever green Ochils, ere 
 
 " Autumn has laid her sickle by," 
 without having fancied he had enjoyed a glimpse of a fairer scene than 
 even this beautiful world can afford, may be great in many respects, but it 
 is humbly presumed that he must be a stranger to those joys which the 
 lovers of nature can, at all seasons, and under every visitation of Provi- 
 dence, partake of. 
 
 * Katie Glen^s Tree — which stood on the Arns-Brae, was cut down 
 some years ago, to the regret of a considerable number of the lovers of an- 
 tiquity. From its proximity to the pleasure-grounds of Alloa House, the 
 all-accomplished, but ill-starred, Mary Queen of Scots, who, it is well 
 known, passed some of her early years at this ancient seat of the Mar 
 family, might have under the branches of the wnerable " trystin' tree," 
 imbibed that love for the beautiful which so much adorned her character 
 in after life.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 17 
 
 The het tears trickled owre my cheek, 
 As frae yon buskie den. 
 My Willie pu'd a wither'd flower 
 To gie his Katie Glen. 
 
 We daunder'd 'neath the craw-trees' shade, 
 
 Nae mair to taste o' bless — 
 
 For caulder than the Ochil breeze 
 
 Was Willie's partin' kiss ; 
 
 Nae caulder is a sinfu' warl, 
 
 Where leal hearts canna fen ; 
 
 But death 'ill mak a cozie bcil 
 
 For bonny Katie Glen. 
 
 Ilk scented bower blooms bonnily, 
 Wi' sangs the woodlands ring 1 
 But ne'er again I'll set a fit 
 Where nettles dinna spring. 
 
 B
 
 18 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 I fain wad hear the dead-bell's soun', 
 Its welcome sough I 'd ken, 
 An' soon the gloomy grave will close 
 Owre bonny Katie Glen.
 
 (SljB fonh n' :^3!initriBl. 
 
 A LAY OF THE COVENANT. 
 
 Theue's joy aud social happiness 
 
 Ovvre a' the vale o' Devon — 
 Such joy as sainted spirits prove 
 
 When leaving earth for heaven. 
 There's joy in mony an Ochil cot — 
 
 Such joy as lovers feel 
 When Gloamin's starnie blinks aboon 
 
 The braes o' Ashentriel.* 
 
 * In the county map it 13 designated Askentrool ; but the more aneiont 
 appellation is here preferred.
 
 20 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 There's gladness in the hazel glen, 
 
 Frae whence sweet sounds ascend, 
 And to the brattlln' burnie's din 
 
 A soothin' saftness lend. 
 The lyart and the light o' heart 
 
 Frae glade and coppice pour, 
 To raise the sang o' prayer and praise 
 
 At midnight's eerie hour — 
 
 The youth frae Devon's rashy dell- 
 
 The matron dim and auld — 
 The stalwart frae the heatherie hut- 
 
 The shepherd frae the fauld. 
 The warder frae the feudal tower 
 
 Unfaulds nae bluidy brand, 
 But seeks the muirland solitude 
 
 To join a saikless band,.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 21 
 
 And ane is there ia youthfu' blurae, 
 
 Whase silken ringlets wave, 
 As gentie harebell bends aboon 
 
 The lane forsaken grave. 
 A tear glints in her saft blue e'e, 
 
 Whare joy alane should live, 
 And smothered sighs a voiceless tongue, 
 
 To hidden sorrows give. 
 
 But why has beauty left her bower 
 
 And sought the lanely glen. 
 When rustles in the mountain breeze 
 
 The din o' armed men ? 
 And why has age his ingle left — 
 
 The hoary and the leal. 
 When death and sorrow brood aboon 
 
 The braes o' Ashentriel ?
 
 22 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 There's wae in mony an Ocliil bower, 
 Aboon the vale o' Devon, * 
 
 For ae pure spirit gane awa' 
 To seek a hame in heaven. 
 
 * About the end of the year 1677, when what is called in the annals of 
 the period the " Highland host" descended like an avalanche upon the 
 western counties of Scotland, a party of this ruthless and dreaded horde, 
 as related by tradition, bound on a tour of extermination to the beautiful 
 vale of Devon, having discovered that the marriage ceremony was about 
 to be celebrated in the lonely situated house of Ashentriel, the site of 
 which is now distinguished by a clump of trees on a slope of the Ochils a 
 short distance north from Dunmyet. Several of the Highlanders having 
 intercepted the biidegroom's party near Menstry, without the sacrifice of 
 life or limb on either side, the others, unobserved and unopposed, made 
 good their approach to the place of meeting, drove away the cattle, and set 
 the house on fire. On this occasion booty seemed to be more the object of 
 the mountaineers than the lives of the persecuted Presbyterians ; for at 
 the dawn of morn, the lifeless and unmutilated body of the bride alone 
 was found at the bottom of Menstry glen. 
 
 In our well kept and deeply interesting parish records no reference is 
 made to the persecution ; nevertheless it may not be uninteresting to 
 those taking an interest in local antiquities to know that in the " Session 
 Book of the Kirk of Alloa " of the same year in which the incident is sup-
 
 DORIC LAYS. 23 
 
 There's wae in mony a heatherie cot, 
 In mony a shepherd's shiel, 
 
 For ae fair flower untimely pu'd 
 Frae sunny Ashentriel. 
 
 posed to have occurred that occasioned the above verses, It is ordered 
 to be recorded that the sacrament was celebrated on the 29th of October 
 and 5th of November." On the 29th of May, following, it was likewise 
 ordered " To be recorded that two large silver cups were gifted by Lady 
 Marie Areskine to the Kirk of Alloa," from which circumstance we may 
 infer that our good town took no active part in the politics of those 
 perilous times.
 
 4^t DnrkaE grams mh tjjj jihlilt 
 
 " We shall always find mercy behind a cloud, if we look for it. 
 
 My guidame noo lang i' the yird, 
 Tho' unco gi'en to tittle tattle, 
 When aught gaed wrang aye said to me 
 The dockan grows aside the nettle. 
 
 We ha'e a joy for ilka wae — 
 The very gorbals when they keckle, 
 A tait o' parritch mak's them fain, 
 And dockans grow aside the nettle. 
 
 The mirkest mornin' e'er cam' yont, 
 Wi' threatenin's keen to try our mettle, 
 Gaed clean awa' just as it cam' 
 And left the dockan 'side the nettle.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 25 
 
 We ken fu' brawly ilka hour, 
 
 Wi' gruesome girn brings something fatal, 
 
 But never heed as lang's we see 
 
 The dockan grow aside the nettle. 
 
 See ye yon carle wi' eldrich een, 
 Wha's grunstane face micht sharp a whittle — 
 Wha's glower micht skin a taid — ne'er thinks 
 The dockan grows aside the nettle ; 
 
 Tormentin' a' wi' fractious wheems, 
 That sauntly soberness micht kittle, 
 While no a sookin' calf but kens 
 That dockan 3 grow aside the nettle. 
 
 The sorrows that we a' maun thole, 
 Ilk donnert fool maun hand in pickle, 
 But folk and dogs aye hae their day 
 While dockans grow aside the nettle.
 
 26 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 For clasbin' faes, and velvet frein's, 
 What need we care a 'bacco spittle — 
 Ne'er claw your haffets, nor your head, 
 The dockan grows aside the nettle. 
 
 We camna here to glunsh and gloom, 
 But manly out to fight life's battle, 
 And should we fa' we'll rise again, 
 The dockan grows aside the nettle.
 
 €)^i laiUr'g ilHhitr. 
 
 I'm weary o' the lang niclits, 
 
 0' winter's frost an' snaw ; 
 I'm weary o' the whistlin' winds, 
 
 That round our biggin blaw. 
 I'm weary o' the brattlin' blast, 
 
 Wi' wailin's loud an' deep ; 
 That bends the saplin' to the swaird, 
 
 And breaks my bairnie's sleep. 
 
 Oh when will summer come again, 
 
 Wi' warblin's saft an' sweet — 
 To hymn a spirit worn wi' care. 
 
 To sorrow's last retreat ? 
 Fu' fain I'd bid the flowers fareweel — 
 
 The bushes clad in green ; 
 I'd tell the tale o' what I've tyned — 
 
 The happy days I've seen.
 
 28 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 I'm weary o' the lang nichts, 
 
 0' winter's wind and weet ; 
 I'm weary o' the stormy blast, 
 
 0' winter's snaw an' sleet ; 
 For fain I'd lay my sorrows down, 
 
 AVhen gowans clead the dell. 
 Three summer's flowers hae bloom'd an' died. 
 
 Since I hae been mysel'. 
 
 I'm weary o' the lang nichts. 
 
 They bring sae sair to rain', 
 The day my Willie gaed awa. 
 
 An' a' I've tint sin' syne; 
 Sae lang an' lanesome is the nicht— 
 
 The doolfu' nicht to me. 
 That frae the gloarain' to the dawn 
 
 I canna bou an ee.
 
 DORIC I AYS. 29 
 
 Oh weary fa' the reivers, 
 
 Wha reft me o' my love ; 
 They kentna o' the constancy 
 
 A woman's heart can prove ; 
 They hadna seen the burnin' tear, 
 
 In secret sorrow shed, 
 Nor kent they o' the thorns that strew 
 
 The wae-worn widow's bed. 
 
 To share the weird o' war wi' them, 
 
 They forced my love to sea ; 
 And ye are a', my saikless wean. 
 
 They've left to lanely me. 
 But soon the sod will cover me, 
 
 Nae mair thy bread to earn — 
 Then wha on earth will care for thee ? 
 
 A puir wee friendless bairn !
 
 30 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 Then wha will tent thee, winsome dear, 
 
 Thy fairy footsteps lead ? 
 Then wha will hap an' hand thee hale, 
 
 When I am wi' the deid ? 
 Then wha will watch when thou art wae. 
 
 To dry my dautie's ee ? 
 I maun gie o'er sic sinfu' thochts — 
 
 I'll live, my bairn, for thee I
 
 B ilTnEkr'li f^mu. 
 
 The moon gaed wadin' owre the lift, 
 
 The snaw In divots fell, 
 An' like the wull-cat's dreesome din, 
 
 The lura gl'ed mony a yell ; 
 An' waukrlfe scream'd the bieldless bird, 
 
 An' flaff't its flaket bouk, 
 An' whirrin' thro' the leafless trees, 
 
 The frozen brake forsook ; 
 " Guld guide us aye ! " quo' auld Dunrod, 
 
 " An' shield us a' frae harm, 
 I hear a ylrmin' I' the blast ! — 
 
 ' Let In a wander'd bairn 1' "
 
 32 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 *' tak' the puir wee wand'rer in !" 
 
 Was heard frae ilka tongue. 
 While frae the bairnie's tautit hair 
 
 The frozen crystals hung. 
 An' cauld an' blae her gentie han's, 
 
 Her feet a' tash'd an' torn, 
 An' duddie bare her brats o' claes, 
 
 Unlike a nicht o' storm. 
 An' 'wilder'd rovv'd her watery een, 
 
 That nane the tale could learn 
 That tauld o' chillin' scaith an' wae, 
 
 To that wee wander'd bairn. 
 
 The auld guidwife, wi' kindly words, 
 The hameless wand'rer cheer'd, 
 
 An' frae the cozie ingle neuk 
 The grumblin' collie steer'd. 
 
 Ilk sough that shook the lanely bield, 
 The smorin' cluds sent down,
 
 DORIC LAYS. 33 
 
 That gar'd the kludly wifie's heart 
 Wi' kindlier feelin's stoun ; 
 
 For artless was the sonsie face, 
 'Twad thow'd a heart o' airn, 
 
 To see the trinklin' tear-draps fa' 
 0' that wee wander'd bairn. 
 
 But nane e'er kent the wand'rer's tale, 
 
 Tho' months an' years gaed past, 
 Sin' first the lanely muirlan' bield 
 
 Had screen'd her frae the blast ; 
 An' wooers cam' to seek the han', 
 
 The lilv han' that strove 
 To niak' her foster-father's hame 
 
 The hame o' peace an' love ; 
 But aye the tear-di-ap dimm'd her ee, 
 
 Tho' ne'er a ane could learn 
 The saikless sorrows that oppress'd 
 
 Dunrod's wee wander'd bairn. 
 
 C
 
 34 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 Now simmer clad ilk bower and brake ; 
 
 An' thirlin' owre the lea, 
 The lintie sang a lichtsorae lilt 
 
 0' love an' liberty. 
 To roam amang the snowy flachts 
 
 That spairged the speckled lift, 
 The lav'rock left its leesome lair, 
 
 An' bathed its head in licht ; 
 An' sweetly smiled the loved o' a', 
 
 Nae mair wi' thocht forfairn, 
 For lady o' Ardgowan ha'* 
 
 Was now the wander'd bairn. 
 
 • The view from Dunrod Hill, on the estate of Ardgowan, is allowed by 
 travellers to be unsurpassed for sublimity and grandeur. By antiquaries 
 the writer has often heard it stated, that the tottering old bridge across 
 the ravine was the only vestige of Roman architecture in Scotland, after 
 the demolition of Arthur's Oven, on the banks of the Carron.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 35 
 
 Saft pity aft a balm has brocht 
 
 To lanely wiJow'd grief, 
 An' kindred waes ha'e aften socht 
 
 In kindred tears relief. 
 Wi' fortune's favours aft comes pride, 
 
 Wi' fortune's frowns despair, 
 An' aften has the pauchty breast 
 
 Been torn wi' grief an' care ; 
 But ne'er the kindly feelin' hearts 
 
 That could owre sorrow vearn, 
 Had cause to rue the love they show'd 
 
 To that wee wander 'd bairn.
 
 €1)B ITprt null Xnl, 
 
 A LAY OF THE COVENANT. 
 
 " GuiDMAN," quo' the wifie, the cauld sough blaws eerie, 
 
 Gae steek ye the winnock, for danger I dree ; 
 
 The bluidhounds o' Claver'se, forebodin' an' dreary, 
 
 I've heard on the blast owre the snaw-covert lea — 
 
 A stranger I 've seen through the dusk o' the gloamiri', 
 
 Uncovert I saw the auld wanderer kneel ; 
 
 My heart fill'd, as waefu' 1 heard him bemoanin' 
 
 The cauld thrawart fate o' the lyart and leal." 
 
 The bleeze frae the ingle rose sparklin' an' cantie, 
 The clean aiken buffet was set on the floor ; 
 She thoughtna her ai-k o' the needfu' was scanty, 
 But sigh'd for the wanderer she saw on the moor.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 37 
 
 " Ahl wae for the land where the cauld cliffs maun shelter 
 The warm heart that wishes our puir kintra weel ; 
 In thy bluid, bonny Scotland, the tyrant maun welter, 
 The faggot maun bleeze roun' the lyart an' leal." 
 
 The tear owre her cheek rowed — the aumry stood open — 
 
 She laid out her sma' store wi' sorrowfu' heart — 
 
 The guidraan a grace owre the mercies had spoken, 
 
 Whan a tirl at the door made the kind wifie start. 
 
 " I'm weary," a voice cried, " I'm hameless an' harmless. 
 
 The cauld wintry blast, oh 1 how keenly I feel — 
 
 I'm guiltless, I'm guileless, I'm friendless an' bairnless, 
 
 Nae bluid 's on my hands," quo the lyart an' leal. 
 
 " Ye 're welcome auld carle, come ben to the ingle. 
 For snell has the blast been, an' cauld ye maua be ; 
 In the snaw-drift sae helpless ye gar'd my heart dinle — 
 Ye '11 share our puir comforts, nae dainties hae we.
 
 38 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 A warm sowp I've made ye, expectin' your comin', 
 Like you for the waes o' puir Scotland we feel, 
 But death soon will end a' our wailin' an' moanin', 
 An' youth come again to the lyart an' leal." 
 
 She dichted a seat for the way-wearit stranger, 
 An' smilin' he sat himsel' down by the hearth — 
 " The Man wha our sins bore was laid in a manger, 
 Nae Prelate proclaim'd the mild innocent's birth," 
 Thus spak' the auld wanderer, his een glist'n't wildly, 
 A sigh then escaped for the cause he lo'ed weel — 
 The wifie drew closer, and spak' to him mildly, 
 But breathless an' cauld was the lyart an' leal.* 
 
 * A clump of trees, west from the Shaws' Farm House, above Green- 
 ock, indicates the spot where the incident occurred on which the fore- 
 going ballad is founded.
 
 fFor an old Gaelic air.) 
 
 The cranreuch's on my heid, 
 The mist's now on my een, 
 A lanesome life I lead, 
 I'm no what I hae been. 
 They're runkles on my broo, 
 They're farrows on my cheek, 
 My wither'd heai-t fills fu' 
 Whan o' bygane days I speak. 
 
 For I'm weary, 
 
 I'm weary, 
 
 I'm weary o' care, — 
 
 Whare my bairnies ha'e gane, 
 
 Oh, let me gang there.
 
 4 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 I ance was fu' o' glee, 
 And wha was then sae gay, 
 Whan dreamin' life wad be 
 But ae lang simmer day ? 
 My feet, like lichtnin', flew 
 Roun' pleasure's dizzy ring, 
 They jimply staucher noe> 
 Aneath a feckless thing. 
 
 For I'm weary, 
 
 I'm weary, 
 
 I'm weary o' care — 
 
 Whare my first luve lies cauld, 
 
 Oh, let me lie there. 
 
 The ourie breath o' elld 
 Has blawn ilk frien' frae me ; 
 They comena near my beild 
 I ha'e dauted on my knee ;
 
 DORIC LAYS. 41 
 
 They baud awa their heids, 
 
 My frailties no to see ; 
 
 My blessing on thera ane and a' — 
 
 I've naething else to gie. 
 For I'm weary, 
 I'm weary, 
 
 I'm weary and worn — 
 To the friens o' my youth 
 I maun soon, soon return.
 
 RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE " GREENOCK FOLK." 
 
 Gae sing o' saunts an' seers o' auld — 
 
 Nae patron saunt hae we — 
 Our faithers maskt their hamert maut, 
 
 An' drank its halesome bree ; 
 An' as their drouth they slokent down, 
 
 They sang wi' cantie glee — 
 " Oh ! stately fair may flourish aye, 
 
 Our bonny green aik tree." 
 
 An' 'neath its spreadin' branches wide, 
 When storms our lift o'ercast. 
 
 May buirdly chiels for aye be rear'd 
 To brave ilk threaten'd blast ;
 
 DORIC LAYS. 43 
 
 An' when a foreign soil they tread, 
 
 Or stem the briny sea, 
 The homely chorus let them raise — 
 
 Our bonny green aik tree. 
 
 Oh ! ne'er may pleasure warm the heart, 
 
 Nor beauty smile to bless 
 The bairn wha slights a mlther's hearth, 
 
 Nor langs her han' to press — 
 Wha thinks na o' his kindly hame, 
 
 Tho' distant far be he. 
 That wadna then the chorus raise — 
 
 Our bonny green aik tree. 
 
 Our faithera drank their nappy yill, 
 
 Our gaucy mithers span ; 
 Ilk lassie busket trig and braw. 
 
 To win a young guderaan ;
 
 44 DORIC lAYS. 
 
 An' as they trippet fair an' fond, 
 They sang wi' lightsome glee — 
 
 Our sunny shore, our broomy braes. 
 An' bonny green aik tree. 
 
 A crooket steeple tower'd na then 
 
 Aboon our neighbour toun ; 
 The bairnies toddled thro' the glen 
 
 To pu' the gowden broom, — 
 Whan circlin' roun, ilk grassy knowe. 
 
 They sang wi' blithesome glee — 
 That ne'er a pottet hell wad hing 
 
 Aneath their green aik tree.* 
 
 * For an elucidation of the above verses, " Young Greenock" must con- 
 sult the works of the highly accomplished author of " Annals of the 
 Parish," « Lowrie Todd," &c.
 
 €akn null ^nrlq %xn. 
 
 MUSIC BY WILLIAM MUIL. 
 
 When "wintry winds 
 Blaw loud and shrill, 
 And streamers spang the lift ; 
 When ower Demyat's* craigy crest 
 The frosty vapours drift, 
 
 Sae vauntingly, sae wantonly, 
 We'll ca" the bicker roun', 
 
 Till 'neath the soothin' spirit's spell, 
 The cares o' life gae down : 
 
 Then hey the quaich, auld Scotland's quaich, 
 A ream in' quaich for me ! 
 A canty frien' 
 To meet at e'en 
 Ower cakes and barley bree. 
 
 • One of the Ochils noar Stirling.
 
 46 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 The balmy breeze 
 Amang the trees, 
 May win our hearts to love ; 
 
 And beauty's power, in evil hour, 
 May weighty woes remove : 
 
 But when misfortune's bitin' blast 
 Wad freeze the warmest heai*t. 
 
 The reamin' quaich, the beamin' quaich, 
 Can other joys impart : 
 
 Then hey the quaich, auld Scotland's quaich, 
 The cantie quaich for me 1 
 A couthie frien' 
 To meet at e'en 
 Ower cakes and barley bree. 
 
 My heath'ry hame 
 
 Nae slavish strain 
 Shall waken frae the lyre — 
 
 The lyre that gars ilk carkin' care 
 Wi' melody expire ;
 
 DORIC LAYS. 47 
 
 Thy thistle waves aboon the graves, 
 "Where sleep the honour'd dead ; 
 The heroes o' the covenant, — 
 For Scotland's weel wha bled. 
 
 Then here's a health, my mountain land, 
 A health, my hame to thee, 
 Auld Scotland's hills, 
 Her siller rills, 
 Her cakes and barley bree. 
 
 Weel may we sing 
 
 0' crystal spring, 
 0' lake and mountain blue ; 
 
 Our heath-clad hames hae happy hearths, 
 Whilk freemen weel may lo'e. 
 
 And wild and free for aye shall be 
 The theme o' Scottish lyre, 
 
 And soft shall be its melody. 
 When tuned to chaste desire.
 
 48 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 Then here's a health, my heather land, 
 A reamin' health to thee I 
 And ne'er may tyne, 
 Ae son o' thine. 
 His cakes and barley bree. 
 
 Our lassies leal, 
 
 In ha' or shiel', 
 
 A fairy-footed train, 
 
 Forever may their virtues blend 
 Wi' Scottish minstrels' strain. 
 
 Should foes invade, in glen and glade 
 They'll find a bluidy grave ; 
 
 Our " altars and our hearths" shall be 
 The vi'atchward of the brave. 
 
 Then here's a health, my fatherland, 
 A health, my hame to thee, 
 Auld Scotland's hills. 
 Her siller rills. 
 Her cakes and barley bree.
 
 €^t llHliB in Ijrr IUhes. 
 
 A NURSERY RHYME. 
 
 My bairnies, we've a weary fecht 
 
 In this fair warl' o' ours, 
 
 Where some are born to sleep on thorns 
 
 And ithers amang flowers ; 
 
 And where the worthless o' the earth 
 
 Are owre us aften set, — 
 
 Sae, dearies, when ye've bite an' bield, 
 
 The poor, oh ! ne'er forget. 
 
 We envy aft the pauchty proud 
 
 Wi' a' their gaudy gear. 
 
 And aften, 'midst our ceaseless toils, 
 
 The road to fortune spier. 
 
 D
 
 50 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 But, shooting wi' a feckless bow, 
 The mark we seldom hit, — 
 Sae, dearies, when ye've bite and bleld. 
 The helpless ne'er forget. 
 
 It is na aye the eident han', 
 
 Nor willin' wight, that wears 
 
 The best days o' a waesome life 
 
 In sorrow, toil, and tears — 
 
 Wha gets the butter'd cake to eat, 
 
 The honey pats to lick, — 
 
 Sae, dearies, when ye've bite an' bield, 
 
 The poor, oh 1 ne'er forget. 
 
 The fool, a' taivert fools aboon, 
 By silly snools ador'd, 
 Wha clavers an' wha clashes to 
 My lady and ray lord.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 51 
 
 For a' his fraiks an' wylie gaits 
 Gets owre the shins a kick, — 
 Gif e'er he asks ye for a bite 
 His failin's a' forget. 
 
 The fykie aften mak' a din 
 
 About — they kenna what — 
 
 An' aye their fingers they maun hae 
 
 Into ilk neighbour's pat ; 
 
 Tho' aft their souple tongues they scaud 
 
 When till't they gang owre het, — 
 
 In pity let their fauts abee 
 
 And ne'er their wants forget. 
 
 We hae a tangled hasp to win' 
 
 In this auld-farrant warl', 
 
 Where wylie louns maun frae the leal 
 
 Aye tak' the ither harl,
 
 52 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 Till mourning owre a waefu' weird 
 The kindly heart maun break, — 
 Noo, dearies, when ye've bite and bield, 
 The poor ye '11 ne'er forget.
 
 A NURSERY RHYME. 
 
 Dauted dearie, round me toddlin', 
 Fu' o' fun, sae fond o' hobblin', 
 Wha your like has ever seen ? 
 Smear'd wi' candy owre the een. 
 Caiklin', wheetlin', glaikit thing, 
 Fond to hear thy raither sing, 
 Kiss me, kiss me ; oh to be 
 Half as free o' care as thee 1 
 
 Teasin', pleasin' butterba', 
 Wi' a bosie like the snaw, 
 Een as gleg as keerie hawk, 
 And a brow as white as caulk ;
 
 64 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 Aft I think when we 're our lane, 
 What I'll mak' my laddie wean, 
 Kissin', blessin', fond to prove, 
 A' a mither's care and love. 
 
 Craw, wee cockie mak' a din, 
 Fools think less o' wark than win. 
 Crack your fingers, dauted toddler. 
 Kiss me, kiss me, bonny cuddler ; 
 When ye grow a muckle man, 
 Gatherin' a' the gear ye can, 
 Will ye think how fond how fain, 
 " Mam" was o' her laddie wean ?
 
 A NURSERY RHYME. 
 
 Baulie loo ! wee waukrife peerie, 
 
 Naething ill shall ever steer ye ; 
 Dream o' lilies, dream o' roses, 
 
 Sunny flowers and scented posies, 
 'Neath a sky o' cloudless licht, 
 
 Where the saikless ken nae nicht. 
 Baulie loo I wee winsome fairy, 
 
 Dream o' heaven, my bonnie Mary. 
 
 Baulie loo ! thy mararaie near ye, 
 What ava can fash or fear ye ? 
 
 Fain to see my lassie sleepin' 
 
 Doon ilk starny's kindly keekin',
 
 56 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 Drowsie bum-bees vvinna sip 
 Hinnie frae the gowan's lip, 
 
 For the sun has gaen to harry 
 
 Govvden warld's for my dear Mary. 
 
 Baulie loo 1 thy mither's bozie 
 
 For her wean aye warm and cozie, 
 Kens nae wealth it wouldna gie 
 
 For the tottie on her knee. 
 Weary hours she aft has haen 
 
 Ere her lammies gaed their lane, 
 Yet her back the lade shall carry 
 
 A' for thee my darling Mary.
 
 A NURSERY RHYME. 
 
 Air—" The Miller of Dee." 
 
 Now, bairnies, mind your mither's words, 
 
 For kind to you she's been. 
 And raony a waukrife night she's had 
 
 To keep ye tosh and clean — 
 And mony a shift she 's ta'en to mak' 
 
 Her sonsie stouries braw ; 
 For through her lanely widowhood 
 
 Her back 's been at the wa'. 
 But ye '11 yet cheer the widow's hearth. 
 
 And dry her watery een. 
 And when ye 've bairnies o' your ain. 
 
 Ye '11 mind what ye ha'e been.
 
 58 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 The bitter sneer o' witless pride, 
 
 In sorrow ye maun thole, 
 Sae lang as poortith on our hearth 
 
 Cowers owre a cauldrife coal ; 
 But when yeVe brought your heads aboon 
 
 Your dour, your early lot, 
 And rowing grit wi' happiness. 
 
 Your cares ye've a' forgot ; 
 Then cozie mak' the widow's hearth. 
 
 And dry her tearfu' een. 
 And when ye've plenty o' your ain. 
 
 Oh, think what ye ha'e been. 
 
 What's fortune but a passing gleam 
 Of pleasure, toil, and care ; 
 
 The stanie heart, o' warldly gear 
 Gets aft the better share ;
 
 DORIC LAYS. 59 
 
 But gi'e ye aye wi' •willing heart 
 
 What Mercy sends to cure 
 The troubles o' the lowly cot, 
 
 The sorrows o' the poor. 
 Then warm the widow's lanely hearth, 
 
 And dry her tearfu' een. 
 And when your cup o' pleasure's fu', 
 
 Oh, think what ye ha'e been.
 
 Air — " Coming through the Rye."' 
 
 My mother, can I e'er return 
 
 The love I owe to you ? 
 Can I forget the smile that burst 
 Frae 'neath thy cloudit brow ? 
 Whan todlln' round thy widow'd hearth 
 
 Ilk thoughtless tottie's tongue 
 Had music in 't to charm the dool 
 That owre thine ingle hung. 
 
 Then let me kiss the pearlie draps 
 
 Frae aff that sunken e'e, 
 An' press to mine thae wither'd lips 
 That aft ha'e prayed for me.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 61 
 
 A wearie weird yeVe had to dree, 
 
 An eerie lot was thioe ; 
 A cauldrife warld was laith to gl'e, 
 
 It left thee lane to pine. 
 Sair scrimp't aye o' fortune's gifts, 
 Ye 've toil'd baith late and ear' ; 
 And strove to lift our youthfu' hearts, 
 Aboon this warld o' care. 
 
 Then let me kiss the pearlie draps, 
 
 Frae aff that sunken e'e, 
 An' press to mine thae wither'd lips 
 That aft ha'e prayed for me. 
 
 The fleichin' tongue was never thine. 
 That laithsome falsehood wears ; 
 
 The warldlin' kentna what I ken. 
 For secret were the tears
 
 G2 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 That waukrife mem'ry bade to flow 
 
 Owre love's untimely urn, 
 That scaith'J the lentryne o' thy life, 
 An' left thee lane to mourn. 
 
 Then let me kiss the pearlie draps 
 
 Frae aff that sunken e'e, 
 And press to mine thae wither'd lips 
 That aft ha'e prayed for me.
 
 % ^rottisli Bntjin's "Rlhtm 
 
 TO HER CHILDREN ON THE APPROACH OF WINTER. 
 
 A BURNING sua nae langer shines aboon the greenwood shaw, 
 For cauldrife winter's keeking down through clouds o' sleet 
 
 and snaw ; 
 And the chirping o' the robin gars thy mother's heart be wae 
 For the sailor on the sea, and the shepherd on the brae. 
 
 The cuckoo lang has ta'en his flight for warmer climes than 
 
 ours, 
 The nipping blasts ha'e reft us o' our sweetly scented flowers ; 
 I'm glad to see my totties weel, but, oh ! my heart is wae 
 For the sailor on the sea, and the shepherd on the brae. 
 
 The swallow's sought a shelter in some sunny southern nook, 
 For weel it likes to skim aboon the sparklin' siller brook ;
 
 64 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 Aye when it leaves our hills behind, my heart is ever wae 
 For the sailor on the sea, and the shepherd on the brae. 
 
 The corncraik now is never heard aniang the rip'ning corn ! 
 The lintie limps sae listlessly beneath the leafless thorn, 
 That its chirping and its chinning gars thy mother's heart be 
 
 wae 
 For the sailor on the sea, and the shepherd on the brae. 
 
 The bat has made a cozie bield in yon auld castle wa', 
 
 To dream through lang and eerie nights, if dream it can ava' ; 
 
 And the snell and crisping cranreuch gars thy mother's 
 
 heart be wae 
 For the sailor on the sea, and the shepherd on the brae. 
 
 The bee, the bumming bee, nae mair is heard wi' chrery din, 
 Like summer breezes murmuring outowre the foaming linn ; 
 The window's spraing'd wi' icy stars, sae weel may we be wae 
 For the sailor on the sea, and the shepherd on the brae.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 65 
 
 The butterflee nae mair is seen amang the woodland bowers ; 
 Auld baudrons, purring pawklly, ayont the ingle cowers. 
 I like to see ilk creature weel, and, oh ! my heart is wae 
 For the sailor on the sea, and the shepherd on the brae. 
 
 We fret at what we ne'er can win, and yaumer at our lot, 
 And fractious folk would fractious be, tho' half the world 
 
 they got ; 
 But let us aye contented be, as weel, my bairns, we may, 
 When we think upon the sailor, and the shepherd on the brae. 
 
 E
 
 In tljiit €\)\i\n (DmrBtnmjs. 
 
 Air — " Auld Langsyne." 
 
 A CANTiE sang, my auld guidman, 
 
 I '11 lilt wi' lichtsome glee, 
 We winna, shanna yaumerin' yirm, 
 
 Though fortune's freaks we dree. 
 Sae, starap your foot — mak' sorrow flee, 
 
 And blythely crack your thums I 
 We've fouchteu sair, baith late an' ear' — 
 
 But he that tholes owrecomes. 
 
 We've been thegither, man an' wife. 
 
 For forty years an' mair. 
 An' leal we've warsled through the warld, 
 
 An' gi'en our bairnies lear.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 6 7 
 
 An' aye ye've muckle thocht o' me, 
 
 Tho* mony hicks an' hums 
 Ye've war'd owre poortith's antrin dauds— 
 
 But he that tholes owrecomes. 
 
 Sax buirdly chiel's, baith stark and steive, 
 
 And bonny dochters three, 
 As e'er drew huik owre harvest rig, 
 
 Or blest a mither's ee. 
 We've rear'd an' lear'd; an' weel may we 
 
 Think muckle o' our sons, 
 For aft their kindness to us proves 
 
 That he who tholes owrecomes. 
 
 Our dochters, women-muckle grown, 
 
 Wi' a' their winnin' airts. 
 Can thow the icy tags that hing 
 
 About our wallow't hearts.
 
 68 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 They bind wi' flowers our wrinkled brows- 
 Eke out life's brittle thrums, 
 
 An' tell us, by their smiles o' love. 
 That he that tholes owrecomes. 
 
 Sae round about, an' round about. 
 
 We'll jump an' dance an' sing; 
 Noo, up an' till't, my auld guidman. 
 
 We '11 gar the kebars ring. 
 Sae, stamp your foot — mak' sorrow flee, 
 
 An' gaily snap your thums, 
 A guid life mak's a happy death, 
 
 An' he that tholes owrecomes.
 
 (For a Gaelic Melody). 
 
 Oh the days o' fairy drearaln's ! 
 Days again I ne'er shall see, 
 Blissfu' moments, hours o' pleasure, 
 Jessie then was a' to me. 
 Oh the days o' sunny bairnhood I 
 Gaen awa' for evermair, 
 When at beauty's altar kneelin' 
 Jessie's smile was a' my prayer. 
 
 Saftly, wimplin', murmurin' music, 
 Finnart's burn gaed by us twa, 
 Daunderin' doun its braes o' breckan, 
 Buttercup and flakie haw.
 
 70 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 Oh the days o' saikless wanderin's I 
 Stolen by I kenna how, 
 When I faund my weird was written 
 On my lassie's stainless brow. 
 
 Thochtless aye and careless ever, 
 Ne'er I dream'd an angel's tongue, 
 Whisperin' o' the bliss aboon us, 
 Could this heart sae lang hae wrung. 
 Never on the braes o' Finnart, 
 Where the bumbee hinney sips. 
 Shall I pree the joys o' heaven, 
 Frae my Jessie's balmy lips. 
 
 Oh the hours o' leesome daffin ! 
 Oh the moments I hae seen ! 
 When some glaiket spirit lauchin', 
 Glamour cuist frae Jessie's een.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 71 
 
 Oh the days o' fairy dreamin's 1 
 Days again I ne'er shall see, 
 Blissfu' moments, hours o' pleasure, 
 Jessie then was a' to me.
 
 Bntjin's f tl 
 
 A NURSERY RHYME. 
 
 Mother's bairnie, mother's dawtie, 
 Wee, wee steering, stumping tottie, 
 Bonnie dreamer, — guileless glee 
 Lights thy black and laughing e'e. 
 Frae thy rosy dimpled cheek — 
 Frae thy lips sae saft and sleek, 
 Aulder heads than mine might learn 
 Truths worth kennin', bonnie bairn. 
 
 Gabbing fairie ! fondly smiling I 
 A' a mother's cares beguiling ; 
 Peacefu' may thy fortune be, 
 Blythsome braird o' purity.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 73 
 
 Ne'er may poortith cauld and eerie, 
 Mak' thy heart o' kindness wearie ; 
 Nor misfortune, sharp and stern, 
 Blight thy bloom, my bonny bairn. 
 
 Stourie, stoussie, gaudie brierie ! 
 Dinging a' things tapsalteerie ; 
 Jumping at the sunny sheen. 
 Flickering on thy pawky een. 
 Frisking, lisping, fleeching fay, 
 Dinna towt poor baudrons sae ! 
 Frae her purring kindness learn 
 What ye owe me, bonny bairn.
 
 €\}t $\n^ %mn. 
 
 A NURSERY RHYME. 
 
 The buds now open to the breeze, 
 
 The birds begin to sing, 
 The go wan 's keeking thro' the sod, 
 
 To hear the voice o' spring. 
 
 Fu' blythe the maukin mumps the swaird, 
 
 Wi' pleasure in his e'e, 
 Or pu's the budding heather bell, 
 
 A type, my wean, o' thee. 
 
 Unnuraber'd webs o' fairy weft, 
 
 Wi' pearlie dew-drops weet, 
 Are spread owre sprouting furze and fern, 
 
 To bathe my bairnie's feet.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 75 
 
 Then dinna dicht, my drousie tot, 
 
 The silken fringe awa', 
 That shades the bonniest e'e o' blue 
 
 That ere fond mother saw ! 
 
 Twa hours an' mair the gouldie's lilt 
 I've heard sae shrill and sweet ; 
 
 And mony a thistle tap has fa'n 
 Beneath the sangster's feet. 
 
 Then rise, ye roguie 1 — dinna think 
 That mither means ye harm, 
 
 Saft kisses for your smiles she '11 gi'e, 
 My sweet, wee, sleepy bairn 1 
 
 Down by the burnie's brierie banks, 
 
 Where water-lilies blaw, 
 Nae mair is seen the dazzling sheen 
 
 Of sheets o' frost and snaw ;
 
 76 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 But flowers and bowers, wi' balmy showers, 
 
 Are budding in the breeze ; 
 Nae mournfu' wail o' dowie bird 
 
 Is heard amang the trees. 
 
 Then rise, my wee, wee winsome wean ! 
 
 This lesson ye maun learn, 
 That spring-time winna bide for thee, 
 
 Nor me, my bonny bairn.
 
 rirjitlti gat lilln gnngs liriitlii ninii'. 
 
 Be thrifty, be eident, and save a' ye can, 
 For bain weel, and guide weel, is aye the best plan. 
 Syne ne'er wi' a toom pouch your hafFets ye'll claw, 
 For lichtly got siller gangs lichtly awa'. 
 
 The ne'er-do-weel dandy, the trump o' his pack, 
 Wha carries the feck o' his gear on his back, 
 Gets an antren bit groat for his sangs and guffjui. 
 But his ill gotten siller gangs lichtly awa'. 
 
 I ance kent a doctor, sae daidlen and drucken, 
 That thro' a haystack a hale browst he'd a sucken ; 
 Aff swine- seam and water he made his gear a', 
 It lichtly cam' till him, an' sli])pet awa'.
 
 78 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 A lawyer I kent, at the head o' his claith, 
 Wha 'd gar ye clink doon for a pluff o' his breath ; 
 He harried the poor, and the upshot o' a' — 
 His son got his siller, and gamed it awa'. 
 
 They hae an auld bye- word — the folk in the south — 
 " Ne'er let the nose blush for the sins o' the mouth ;" 
 To tak' and to gi'e is the best plan o' a'. 
 An' ne'er let a bare back the belly misca'. 
 
 Be thrifty, be eident, and save a' ye can, 
 Nor let ye the beast tak' amends o' the man ; 
 A wee drap may do w^hen your friends on ye ca', 
 But dinna let a' your means flee to the wa.'
 
 m^ ^ulh Wih Sunn, 
 
 Air — " There''ll never he peace till Jamie comes hame.'' 
 
 My couthie auld wifie aye blythesome to see, 
 
 As years slip awa' aye the dearer to me ; 
 
 For ferlies o' fashion I carena ae preen, 
 
 When I cleek to the kirk wi' my auld wifie Jean. 
 
 The thoughts o' the past are aye pleasin' to me. 
 And mair sae when love lights my auld wifie's e'e ; 
 For then I can speak o' the days I hae seen, 
 "When care found nae hame i' the heart o' my Jean. 
 
 A hantle we've borne since that moment o' bliss, 
 Frae thy lips breathin' balm when I stole the first kiss ; 
 When I read a response to my vows in thy een, 
 And, blushin', I prest to my bosom my Jean.
 
 80 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 Like a rose set in snaw was the bloom on thy cheek, 
 Thy hair wi' its silken snood glossy and sleek, 
 When the Laird o' Drumlochle, sae lithless and lean. 
 Wad hae gaen a lang mile for ae glisk o' my Jean. 
 
 Thy mither was dead, and thy faither was fain 
 That the lang-luggit lairdie wad ca' thee his ain ; 
 But auld age and frailty could ne'er gang atween 
 The vows I had uiffer't wi' bonnie young Jean. 
 
 I canna weel work, an' ye 're weary an' worn, 
 The gudes and the ills lang o' life we hae borne ; 
 But we hae a hame, an' we 're cozie and bien," 
 And the thrift I've to thank o' my auld wifie Jean. 
 
 Baith beddin' an' cleadin' o' a' kind ha'e we, 
 A sowp for the needy we've aye had to gie ; 
 A bite and a drap for baith frerait an' frien'. 
 Was aye the warst wish o' my auld wifie Jean.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 81 
 
 The puir bleldless body has scougg't the cauld blast, 
 'Yont our hallan he's houf't till the gurl gaed past, 
 An' a bite aff our board, aye sae tidy an' clean, 
 He's gat vvi' gude will frae my auld wifie Jean. 
 
 Our hopes we ha'e set where our bairnies ha'e gaen ; 
 Though lyart we've grown since they frae us were ta'en. 
 The thoughts o' them yet brings the tears to our een, 
 And aft I've to comfort my auld wifie Jean. 
 
 The paughty and proud ha'e been laid i' the dust, 
 Since the first hairst I shore, since the first clod I cuist ; 
 And soon we'll lie laigh ; but aboon we've a Frien', 
 And bright days are comin' for me an' my Jean.
 
 ^i 3hi\u Crnin m Crnust. 
 
 MUSIC BT D Taylor. 
 
 Ye needna craw sae crouse, ray jo, 
 
 For a' your wanton wiles, 
 May gar some witless lassie greet, 
 
 Or win anitlier's smiles. 
 Ye 're no what ye wad ha'e us think, 
 
 Altho' ye 're mither's pet — 
 There's just as gude fish i' the sea, 
 
 As e'er cam' out o't yet ! 
 
 Sae dinna let a tear-drap tash 
 Your honnie ruffled sark ; 
 
 For, Bobbie, it would grieve me sair, 
 To gie your mither wark.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 83 
 
 But tak' your staff an' toddle hame. 
 Whene'er you think It fit — 
 
 There's just as gude fish i' the sea, 
 As e'er cam' out o't yet ! 
 
 Put on your bonnet, Bobbie, lad, 
 
 An' dinna hing your brow ; 
 But learn to time your tongue awee. 
 
 Ere ye come back to woo. 
 An' dinna hing your head sae laich. 
 
 Nor be sae laith to flit— • 
 There's just as gude fish i' the sea. 
 
 As e'er cam' out o 't yet ! 
 
 Confound thae dauted mither's weans, 
 They fain would bear the bell. 
 
 An' my bright beau amang the lave, 
 Thinks muckle o' himsel'.
 
 84 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 But wi' his havers ne'er again, 
 
 At our fireside he'll sit — 
 There's just as gude fish i' the sea, 
 
 As e'er cam' out o't yet ! 
 
 Nae doubt he'll gang an' tell thro' a', 
 
 How favour'd he has been. 
 And how he cuist the glamour owre, 
 
 A witless lassie's een. 
 But if he taks his ain way o 't, 
 
 He'll no dee in the pet — 
 There's just as gude fish i' the sea, 
 
 As e'er cam' out o't yet 1 
 
 He's noo awa' for gude an' a' — 
 
 I wish him muckle luck, 
 Altho' I '11 never lout sae laich, 
 
 To lift sae little up !
 
 DORIC LATS. 85 
 
 Some ane may try my bauchels on- 
 
 I carena tho' they fit — 
 There's just as gude fish i' the sea, 
 
 As e'er cam' out o't yet !
 
 Tune — " Annie Laurie." 
 
 The gloamin' star was show'rin' 
 
 Its siller glories doun, 
 
 And nestled in its mossy lair 
 
 The lintie sleepit soun' ; 
 
 The lintie sleepit soun', 
 
 And the starnies sparkl'd clear, 
 
 When on a gowany bank I sat 
 
 Aside my Mary dear. 
 
 The burnie wanders eerie 
 Roun' rock and ruin'd tower, 
 By mony a fairy hillock, 
 And mony a lanely bower ;
 
 
 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 87 
 
 
 Roun' mony a lanely bower, 
 
 
 
 Love's tender tale to hear, 
 
 
 
 Where I in whisper'd vows ha'e woo'd, 
 
 - 
 
 
 And won my Mary dear. 
 
 
 
 Oh, hallow'd hours o' happiness 
 
 
 
 Frae me for ever ta'en I 
 
 
 
 Wi' summer's flowery loveliness 
 
 
 
 Ye come na back again ! 
 
 
 
 Ye come na back again, 
 
 
 
 The waefu' heart to cheer, 
 
 
 
 For lang the greedy grave has closed 
 
 
 
 Aboon my Mary dear. 
 

 
 Wi nr'n* mtxt mnh tn 3^ntini. 
 
 A NURSERY RHYME. 
 
 The sultry, sunny summer months 
 
 Are come wi' joy and glee, 
 And furzy fell, and rashy dell, 
 
 Are fill'd wi' melody ; 
 The roving rae, frae break o' day. 
 
 Now roams frae brake to burn. 
 Then wha would think, my bairnies dear, 
 
 That we were made to mourn ? 
 
 The butterflee has flung awa' 
 
 The shell that bound it fast. 
 An' screen'd it frae the chilling breeze — 
 
 The winter's bitter blast ;
 
 DORIC LAYS. 89 
 
 How like some moths o' mortal mould, 
 It flutters round its urn ! — 
 
 But dlnna think, my bairnies dear, 
 That we were made to mourn. 
 
 The lav'rock frae his dewy bed, 
 
 Wi' lilts o' peace and love, 
 The cottar tells, wi' a' his toils, 
 
 How lightsome life may prove ; 
 Nae care kens he but sings the joys 
 
 That in his breastie burn, — 
 Then wha would say, my bairnies dear, 
 
 That we were made to mourn ? 
 
 The song of nature's happiness 
 Is heard o'er meadows green, 
 
 And opening to the fresh'ning breeze 
 The blawart's bell is seen ;
 
 90 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 » 
 
 The fragrance o' some Eastern clime 
 Is frae our plantin's borne, — 
 
 Then wha can think, my bairnies dear, 
 That we were made to mourn ? 
 
 The kye in languid listlessness 
 
 Now seek the caller brook, 
 The streamlet's speckled citizens 
 
 Now shun the barbed hook. 
 Oh ! wha would grasp a gilded lure, 
 
 And nature's riches spurn ? 
 We camna here, my bairnies dear, 
 
 For goud and gear to mourn. 
 
 The lambkins o'er the flowery dell, 
 
 In gambols wild and free, 
 Enjoy the sweets, the halesome sweets, 
 
 0' blissfu' liberty ;
 
 DORIC LAYS. 91 
 
 The fetters o' the prison-fauld 
 The fleecy wanderers spurn, — 
 
 Oh ! never think, my bairnies dear. 
 That we were made to mourn ? 
 
 The raiser kensna o' the joys 
 
 That nature's riches bring — 
 He dreamsna o' the happiness 
 
 That frae pure feelings spring ; 
 Amidst his golden heaps he pines 
 
 To grasp a gilded urn. 
 Nor thinks he that tho' Fortune frowns 
 
 We ne'er were made to mourn. 
 
 Oh 1 wha would weary life wi' sighs, 
 For what they ne'er may hain, 
 
 Or scrimp the needfu' o' a bite 
 A safter couch to gain,
 
 92 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 And leave this warld o' loveliness 
 
 Unfriended and forlorn ; 
 Tho' such we see, my bairnies dear, 
 
 We ne'er were made to mourn.
 
 (0rntin{E'3 ^airn. 
 
 A NURSERY RHYME. 
 
 Wee, bonnie, dimpled clieekit Jeanie, 
 Sae proud about your braw new peenie ; 
 Beetliu' \vi' thae baffie feet 
 Till ye 're in a pour o' sweat ; 
 Touslin' a' that clew o' yairn, 
 No ava like grannie's bairn. 
 Afif my head the mutch ye '11 harl, 
 Thou wee conceitie, waukrife baiTcl. 
 
 Hand doun your ban's, it ill besets 
 The bairn to break her grannie's spec's ; 
 For ken, my dear, tho' ithers see 
 Their neighbour's faixts wi' naked e'e,
 
 94 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 It tak's me whiles an unco pokin' 
 To find a loose loop in my stokin' 1 
 We 've failin's a', and aye may ye 
 Your ain afore anitlier's see.
 
 23ii|t|it[ iJnrnnl 
 
 A NURSERY RHYME. 
 
 Again has happy harvest come to cheer ilk cottage hearth, 
 To sweeten lowly labour's toils wi' happiness and mirth ; 
 For lightsome hearts are owre the lawn, and plenty owre 
 
 the lea, 
 Sae ye shall welcome harvest in, my bonnie bairns, wi' me. 
 
 The garden's tint its gaudy garb, the glebe its robe o' green, 
 For summer's sun the glade and glen another shade has gi'en ; 
 But love nae season kens but ane, then come, my bairns, 
 
 wi' me. 
 And welcome merry harvest in wi' a' its mirth and glee.
 
 96 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 The lily's lost its loveliness, the thistle sheds its down, 
 The tulip's tint its summer braws, the buttereup its crown ; 
 But fairer flowers are in the bowers o' love and charity, 
 Sae welcome merry harvest in, my bonnie bairns, wi' me. 
 
 The nut and slae, owre bank and brae, in rip'ning clusters Ling, 
 And happy hearts, wi' harmless glee, now gar the welkin ring ; 
 The reapers reap, the gleaners glean, a cantie sight to see. 
 Then welcome merry harvest in, my bonnie bairns, wi' me. 
 
 The wren has left her cozie cot, aboon yon siller spring, 
 And haps in eerie laneliness, a waesome wearied thing ; 
 But natm-e feeds wi' open hand ilk birdie on the tree, 
 Sae ye shall welcome harvest in, my bonnie bairns, wi' me. 
 
 The squirrel springs frae tree to tree ; the eident ant has gaen 
 To sip the balmy sweets o' thrift, and share the joys o' hame ; 
 And ye shall share a mother's care, an' a' she has to gi'e — 
 Sae welcome merry harvest in, mv bonnie bairns, wi' me.
 
 1 Diling Blatjin in jifr €\}\\l 
 
 AiK— '• Caledonia.'"' 
 
 I'm wearing aff this weary vvarld 
 
 Of trouble, toil, and tears, 
 But thro' the dusk of death the dawn 
 
 Of happiness appears. 
 And, oh ! wi' a' I lo'ed sae weel 
 
 It's sair for me to part. 
 The bairnie at my breast who clung. 
 
 The treasure o' my heart. 
 
 Who fondly toddled round my knee, 
 When cauld misfortune's blast 
 
 In eerie soughs gaed thro' my breast, 
 And laid my bosom waste. 
 
 G
 
 98 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 I 'm wae to leave the friends T lo'e, 
 
 In tearfu' grief forfairn, — 
 Oh I who can tell a mother's thoughts 
 
 When parting wi' her bairn I 
 
 The tender twig, by nursing care, 
 
 Will grow a stately tree. 
 But who will turn the withering blast 
 
 Of warldly scorn frae thee ? 
 The stranger's hand may cnish my flower. 
 
 May scaith its earthly peace ; 
 But we shall meet to love for aye, 
 
 Where toil and troubles cease. 
 
 Ae kiss, a last fond kiss, my bairn. 
 
 And then, oh then we part ! 
 Ae kiss, my ain, my only bairn ! 
 
 Ere breaks mv widow'd heart.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 99 
 
 I m laith to leave ilk lovesome thing 
 Thro' life I 've ca'd mine ain ; 
 
 Oh ! who can read a mother's heart 
 When parting wi' her wean !
 
 (^\}t Di|ing 1Jni[, 
 
 Mother ! dear mother ! baud up ray held, 
 Put the claes on my feet, sae cauld and deid, 
 And I'll kiss your broo, and I'll daut your neck — 
 But, oh ! dinna tell me your heart will break. 
 
 Mother I dear mother 1 I 'm gaun awa', 
 Where the mists o' the gloamin' never fa', 
 And where nae kind hearts wi' grief are riven ; 
 When ye greet then ye grudge me the joys o' Heaven. 
 
 Mother 1 dear mother ! when I 'm awa'. 
 
 Ye '11 gie my wee brither my bools and my ba', 
 
 And when my schule-copy or books ye see. 
 
 Ye '11 think ye ba'e word, my ain mother, frae me.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 101 
 
 Fareweel, dear faither I aye dear to me, 
 Tho' the tear winna come to your sorrowfu' e'e — 
 I fain would bide wi' ye, while fears I hae nane 
 To gang to the gloomy kirkyard my lane. 
 
 My mother shall pass some nichts o' pain. 
 Syne her grief will calm in her love for the wean : 
 But your heart's in the mools, and ye '11 weary to be 
 In a happier hame wi' my sister and me. 
 
 My dearest, my darling, the father said, 
 (And no tear fell on that loved one's bed,) 
 The fountains of sorrow may deluge mine heart. 
 But in Heaven we '11 meet never more to part.
 
 r^ii. 
 
 Music by D. T kitOVi— Symphonies and Accompaniments for the 
 Pianoforte by M. Wilson. 
 
 Blaw, win'try winds blaw, 
 
 Ye but echo my strain, 
 Your murmurings are music 
 
 To hearts torn wi' pain ; 
 And sad shall my sang be, 
 
 For, oh 1 I am was 
 For Leah, the lovely. 
 
 Now cauld in the clay. 
 
 The spring time may come, 
 Wi' the hum o' the bee, 
 
 The sang o' the lintie 
 May ring owre the lea ;
 
 DORIC LAYS. 10. J 
 
 But naething can cheer me, 
 
 For, oh I I am wae 
 For Leah, the lovely, 
 
 Now cauld in the clay. 
 
 Sweet summer ye '11 come, 
 
 Wi' your blossoms an' bloom- 
 Thy banks, bonny Devon, 
 
 To bathe in perfume ; 
 Nae pleasure ye '11 bring me. 
 
 For, oh ! I am wae 
 For Leah, the lovely. 
 
 Now cauld in the clay. 
 
 The hairst, yellow hairst, 
 In its gladness and glee, 
 
 May sprinkle wi' gowd draps 
 The fruit-laden tree ;
 
 104 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 But sad shall my sang be, 
 For, oh I I am wae, 
 
 For Leah, the lovely, 
 Now cauld in the clay.
 
 Gaelic Air — " Soraiadh slan do'un Ailleagan." 
 
 Ill twine a gowany garland 
 
 Wi' lilies frae the spring ; 
 The fairest flowers by Clutha' side 
 
 In a' their bloom I'll bring. 
 I '11 wreath a flowery wreath to shade 
 
 My lassie's scornfu' e'e — 
 For oh, I canna bide the frown 
 
 0' Ann o' Cornvlee. 
 
 Nae gilded ha', nae downie bed 
 My lowly lot maun cheer, 
 
 A sheilin' on the banks o' Gryfe 
 Is a' my worldly gear ;
 
 106 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 A lanely cot, wi' moss o'ergrown, 
 
 Is a' I ha'e to gie ; 
 A leal heart, sinking 'neath the scorn 
 
 0' Ann o' Cornylee. 
 
 The linty 'mang the yellow broom, 
 
 The laverock in the lift 
 Ha'e never sang the waes o' love 
 
 0' hope and joy bereft ; 
 Nor has the mavis ever sang 
 
 The ills I ha'e to dree. 
 For lovin' o' a paughty maid, 
 
 Fair Ann o' Cornylee.
 
 Muxic It/ W. M'Lay, 
 
 WEEL I lo'e the mountain's broo 
 
 Where blooms the heather bell, 
 weel I lo'e ilk broomy knowe 
 
 Adoon yon flowery dell — 
 Where wand'ring, natal Clyde, to thee 
 
 In a' its silvery sheen 
 The burnie rows roun' fairy bowers, 
 
 Where won sweet Flora Steen. 
 
 • The above verses were suggested by the unfortunate issue of a friend's 
 courtship, and written in the winter of 1842.
 
 108 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 wcel I lo'e the mountain's broo 
 
 When summer days grow lang. 
 weel I lo'e ilk heath 'rie howe 
 
 Ardgowan's hills amang. 
 For there, when gleam'd the gloarain' star, 
 
 When bower an' brake were green. 
 Like spirit frae some sinless warl', 
 
 I 've met fair Flora Steen. 
 
 But days an' years ha'e gaen sin'syne, 
 
 An' painfu' nights ha'e pass'd ; 
 An' flatt'rin' frien's ha'e turn'd my faes, 
 
 An' a my hopes o'ercast — 
 Sin' 'neath the thorn aboon the mill, 
 
 By mortal e'e unseen, 
 When wild flowers shed their scented sweets, 
 
 I woo'd fair Flora Steen.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 109 
 
 Oh, Love ! ye 're like the glimmering light, 
 
 That flickers o'er the fell, 
 To wile the weary wand'rer where 
 
 Nae tongue his tale may tell. 
 And fickle as the fitfu' lowe, 
 
 That runs the rigs between. 
 Was she, the lassie o' my love. 
 
 The faithless Flora Steen !
 
 dD gu mi a Cnggij n' %[t. 
 
 GiE me a coggie o' ale, 
 
 Or a reamin' het bicker o' toddy, 
 
 And far frae ray door keep the deil. 
 The beagle, the lawyer, and howdie. 
 
 A leg o' guld mutton or lam', 
 
 An' a cantie auld frlen for to sair wi't. 
 The kebbars weel plenished wi' ham. 
 
 An' a heart leal and willin' to pairt wi't. 
 
 The wheels o' Affection would rust, 
 Could glunchin' Austerity pairt us ; 
 
 Clish-clashin' owre congo and crust 
 
 Nae mair than cauld kail can divert us.
 
 DORIC LAYS. Ill 
 
 Gie me a big ark o' guid meal, 
 
 And an auinry just fu' to the bursting, 
 
 And gie to ilk honest young chiel 
 The lass o' his love for the asking. 
 
 Syne ne'er would the poor man compleen 
 When he cam to my door for a mouthfu'. 
 
 And ne'er would a cantie auld frien' 
 
 Lament owre no getting his " toothfu'.^' 
 
 Snell winter might come wi' a birr, 
 On his whirlwin' chariot careerin', 
 
 And dreesorae our auld lum might whirr, 
 The ghaists and the rattans a' fearin'. 
 
 The hailstanes the windows might smash — 
 Sae Lang's we had shutters within 
 
 I'd carena, they're auld rotten trash, 
 And the laird be't to put new anes in.
 
 112 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 The lum tap might flee owre the street, 
 And daud up the whisky shop door — 
 
 I'd laugh till the tears wet my cheek, 
 At the win' breedin' sicna splore. 
 
 The sheugh at the stairfoot might moan, 
 Like a man wi' the nightmare oppress't- 
 
 I'd trouss out ilk bannock and scone, 
 And a greybeard o' Cambus the best. 
 
 I'd Stan' at the head o' the stair 
 
 Wi' a tankard o' guid reekin' toddy. 
 
 Should there come up a dozen or mair, 
 I'd welcome ilk puir drooket body. 
 
 I'd stir the fire up till it bleezed. 
 And tak a bit whiff and a drappie ; 
 
 I'd spier how my balsam had pleased. 
 Till ilk ane lay cozie and happy.
 
 €un]\ c!^ntirti5lii|i; 
 
 A DIALOGUK BETWEEN A BESOM CADGER AND A FISIIWOilAN. 
 
 Scene— The Auld Brig, Alloa. 
 
 CADGER. 
 
 Lassie wi' the creel, 
 
 Can ye lo'e a cadger, 
 Licht o' heart an' heel. 
 
 Fain to be your lodger ? 
 Wooers like yoursel' 
 
 Ye may hae in dizcns, 
 Nane my wealth may tell — 
 
 Wh-a-'ll buy besoms ? 
 
 H
 
 114 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 FISHWOMAN. 
 
 Gruesome, auld an' lame, 
 
 Dinna fleitch an' flatter, 
 Siller I hae nane 
 
 In your gaet to scatter. 
 Up an' doun I gang 
 
 'Mong the gentle bodies, 
 Roariu' loud an' lang — 
 
 Wh-a-'ll buy baddies ? 
 
 CADGER. 
 
 Let me pree 5' our mou' ; 
 
 Dinna fidge an' switber, 
 Time enougb to rue 
 
 Wben we gang tbegitber j 
 Come, ye dorty tbing. 
 
 Let us weet our wizens, 
 Owre our drappie sing — 
 
 Wb-a-'ll buy besoms ?
 
 DORIC LAYS. 115 
 
 FISHWOMAN. 
 
 Toucli me for your life ; 
 
 Dinna pu' my apron ; 
 A' the fools in Fife 
 
 Couldna match your cap'rin. 
 Gang ye to the bent, 
 
 Cuddle wi' your cuddies, 
 There ye 're better kent — 
 
 Wh-a-'ll buy baddies ? 
 
 CADGER. 
 
 Glaiket thing, ye '11 rue, 
 
 Sairly ye '11 repent it. 
 If the tether's fu' 
 
 Ne'er afore I kent it. 
 Less micht mak' ye fain ; 
 
 Drouth the timmer seasons, 
 I '11 ca' back again — 
 
 Wh-a-'ll buy besoms ?
 
 116 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 FISHWOMAN. 
 
 We'll no hae maut an' meal, 
 
 Frae Crail to Tullibody, 
 When I go to the deil 
 
 On a cadger's cuddy. 
 Sae airt yoursel' awa' 
 
 Wi' a' your tatter'd duddies ; 
 A fumart ye would staw— • 
 
 B-u-y caller haddies. ^ 
 
 «-•*;•;
 
 /n' ffinu's lnlirai|ut(; 
 
 SHOWING THE POTENT EFFECTS OF CAMBUS WHISKY. 
 Scene — Arns Brae, Time — Midnight. 
 
 Confound that Cambus whisky, 
 I canna move a fit ; 
 
 My knees they knoit thegither sae, 
 And down I daurna sit ; 
 
 For I micht sleep my hin'most sleep- 
 But, losh, I canna gang ! 
 
 The like o' this I never saw — 
 I'm a' thegither wrang. 
 
 That's surely no a coach I hear, 
 Tirwhirrin' owre the stanes ; 
 
 I '11 airt my bouk ayont the dyke, 
 For fear o' broken banes.
 
 118 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 Down, heels owre head, into the ditch, 
 I 've flounder'd wi' a bang ! 
 
 Confound that Cambus whisky — 
 I 'm a'thegither wrang. 
 
 Twa horns o* Knox's* best I drank, 
 
 Twa mae frae Willie Bell, f 
 And, for to baud my stamach bet, 
 
 Anither frae the stell ; 
 But when I sraelt the caller air, 
 
 Ae fit I couldna gang; — 
 Confound that Cambus whisky — 
 
 I'm a'thegither wrang. 
 
 * Messrs Knox & Son of Cambus, who have long been celebrated for 
 the excellency of their ales. 
 
 t This worthy individual was for more than a quarter of a century 
 cellar-clerk at Cambus distillery. He died shortly after these verses were 
 written.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 119 
 
 I shouldna like the minister 
 
 Would see how lalch I 'm laid ; 
 Nor would I wish my fellest fae 
 
 To share my glaurle bed ; 
 And naething waur I 'd wish on them 
 
 'Bout me wha'd mak' a sang ; — 
 Confound that Cambus whisky — 
 
 I'm a'thegither wrang. 
 
 That 's surely no the Red Well bush,* 
 
 Loud, loupin' owre the brae ; — 
 I wish some kindly hearted soul 
 
 Wad bring a pickle strae : 
 Hech, sirs ! I ne'er was trysted sae, 
 
 Tho' aft I've haen a dram ; — 
 Confound that Cambus whisky — 
 
 I'm a'thegither wrang. 
 
 • So called from its proximity to a Chalybeate Spring.
 
 120 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 I 've fairly brak' the pledge I doubt, 
 
 And, should the mune appear. 
 The very stanea wi' truth may tell, 
 
 That I hae gat my beer ; — 
 But what would sober Sandy say,^ 
 
 Whom I gar't ride the stang ? 
 Confound that Cambus whisky — 
 
 I'm a'thegither wrang. 
 
 » 
 
 That's surely no the mune I see, 
 
 Blink, blinkin' thro' the wuds; 
 Gae doun, for gudesake, dinna shine 
 
 Outowre my draigled duds. 
 It's just the mune ; och hey ! och hey ! 
 
 Could I but creep or gang I 
 Confound that Cambus whisky — 
 
 I 'm a'thegither wrang. 
 
 • Then hallman at Cambus distillery.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 121 
 
 It's surely past twal hours at e'en, 
 
 But be it late or ear' ; 
 0' stell an' steep, o' dubb and ditch, 
 
 I've had an unco share ; 
 Weel, be it sae ; the pin maun out, 
 
 Tho' aften wi' a bang ; — 
 Confound that Carabus whisky — 
 
 I'm a'thegither wrang. 
 
 This surely is a punishment, 
 
 For slightin' nature's gifts ; 
 For oh how far the wee drap drink 
 
 The burden'd spirit lifts, 
 Aboon the miser's hoarded heaps. 
 
 The blust'ring bigot's ban ; — 
 But I hae gane ayont the score — 
 
 I'm a'thegither wrang.
 
 Air — " Highland TFafcA," or March in the 42cZ Regiment. 
 
 AuLD Rabbie sat wi' tearfu' een — 
 
 Wi' runkled brow, and pale — 
 Lamentin' owre what ance he'd been, 
 
 Wi' mony a sich and wail ; 
 An' Mirren yerk't her spinning wheel, 
 
 An' tauld him no to fret. 
 Quo' she, " tho' poortith sair we feel, 
 
 We'll a' be brawly yet." 
 
 " Mirren ! Mirren ! forty years 
 Wi' mony a stormy blast — 
 
 Tho' lyart noo wi' toil and tears — 
 Thegither we hae past,
 
 DORIC LAYS. 123 
 
 Since first the simmer sun o' life 
 On our young hopes has set ; — 
 
 Then dinna tell me noo, guidwife, 
 That we'll be brawly yet." 
 
 " Gudeman I gudeman ! frae e'en to morn 
 
 'Bout warldly gear ye pine, 
 An' sae wad ye had ye been born 
 
 To heir a gowden mine ; 
 Ha'e we no had o' health our share ? — 
 
 An' aften ha'e ye set 
 A wUfu' snare for grief and care — 
 
 But we'll be brawly yetl" 
 
 " tell na me o' what I 've been, 
 Owre what I 'm left to mourn ; 
 
 tell na me that sunken een, 
 Can e'er to joy return.
 
 124 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 Nor can this heart renew its life, 
 
 These lyart locks their jet ; 
 Then dinna tell me noo, gudewife, 
 
 That we'll be brawly yet. 
 
 " feckless eild, can e'er ye look 
 
 Wi' pleasure owre the past? 
 Or smile on memory's sakeless book 
 
 When cluds your joys o'ercast ? 
 The bairns that cheer'd our lichtsome hearth 
 
 How can I e'er forget ? — 
 They're ganel an' lown's the voice o' mirth, 
 
 Or we'd be brawly yet." 
 
 " Gudeman, gae lift your thochts aboon 
 
 This cauldrife warld o' care. 
 An' seek, through Gude, baith late an' soon, 
 
 A balm for your despair ;
 
 DORIC LAYS. 125 
 
 An' let ilk qualm o' youthfu' shame 
 
 NVi' penitence be met ; 
 Nae raair your luckless fortune blame, 
 
 An' we'll be brawly yet." 
 
 " My ain gudewife ! my dear gudewife ! 
 
 Nae mair my failin's name ; 
 I'll bless, through a' my after life, 
 
 The day I brought you hame. 
 To be a leadin' star to me ; 
 
 Then ne'er again I '11 fret, 
 To a' your wishes I'll agree — 
 
 An' we'll be brawly yet."
 
 ptut ClinrUt[. 
 
 One of the Writer's children is supposed chattering to a Pigeon which 
 frequented the window-sill for several years. 
 
 Pease Charley, Pease Charley, poor birdie come in, 
 To towt ye or tash ye would be a great sin, 
 And while I can get ony nioolin's or barley. 
 Ye '11 no want a gebbiefu', pretty Pease Charley. 
 
 Toots, toots, noo ye 're just like a sweetie-wife haverin'. 
 But weel I 'm acquaint wi' your cooin' and claverin' — 
 I think ye wad sing, but at weel ye 're nae singer. 
 And the clout ye hae taen aff ray sair cuttit finger. 
 
 Hech, sirs ! sicna din and a fyke as ye mak', 
 0' fleechin' and fraikin' yeVe got a guid nack ; 
 And as your surtoo winna spoil wi' the rain. 
 Just gang to your wife till ye 're hungry again.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 127 
 
 Ye 're aff noo, ye roguie, ye 're aff to your hame, 
 Its braw to be you wi' a weel theiket wame — 
 While somebody's bairn may hae naething to tak', 
 And j imply a dud for to cover its back. 
 
 My mither aye says, " weans be cbeerfu' but lowly, 
 And learn frae the foolish the price o' their folly ; 
 What need we be pridefu' when lady and laird 
 Maun sleep wi' the worms in the eerie kirk-yard." 
 
 I '11 learn to be thrifty and do a' I can, 
 (Tho' I mayna mak' siller), to be a guid man ; 
 My breeks may be duddy, my back may be bare, 
 But wi' the poor body ray last bite I '11 share.
 
 €1;^ tu^ n' tliB I^DEiiBt nail ^HM. 
 
 MUSIC Br THOMAS MARTIN junior. 
 
 Hurra 1 for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae, 
 The land o' the rowan, the haw and the slae ; 
 Where waves the blue harebell in dingle and glade— 
 The land o' the pibroch, the bonnet and plaid. 
 
 Hurra 1 for the hills o' the cromlech and cairn, 
 Where blossoms the thistle by hillocks o' fern ; 
 There Freedom in triumph an altar has made 
 For holiest rites in the land o' the plaid. 
 
 A coronal wreath where the wild flowers bloom, 
 To garnish the martyr and patriot's tomb ; 
 Shall their names ever perish — their fame ever fade, 
 Who ennobled the land o' the bonnet and plaid ?
 
 DORIC LAYS. 129 
 
 hame o' ray bairnhood, ye bills o' my love ! 
 Tbe haunt o' tbe freeman for aye may ye prove ; 
 And honoured forever be matron and maid, 
 In the land o' the heather, the bonnet, and plaid. 
 
 Hurra ! for the land o' the deer and the rae, 
 0' the gowanie glen and the bracken-clad brae, 
 Where blooms our ain thistle in sunshine and shade- 
 Dear badge o' the land o' the bonnet and plaid.
 
 Air — " Lowland Lassie wilt thou go." 
 
 Wandering wild bee from the flowers 
 Pearly with the summer showers, 
 Bring thy balmy treasures sweet, 
 Lay them at my lassie's feet, 
 To love's banquet come wild bee — 
 My Mary sweetly smiles on me. 
 
 Hoary hawthorn busk your bloom, 
 Rich in summer's soft perfume. 
 Oak and alder wave your boughs 
 O'er Glendevon's thymy kuowes, 
 All to beauty bend the knee — 
 My Mary fondly smiles on me.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 131 
 
 Woodland warblers rouse the glade, 
 Where your vows to love are paid, 
 Viewless forms of fairy fay 
 Lilt a winsome witching lay, 
 Softness breathe o'er bush and tree — 
 My Mary sweetly smiles on me. 
 
 Weary careworn toiler come, 
 Leave the dusky city's hum. 
 Where thy days few pleasures know, 
 And thy nights are nights of woe, 
 To the woodlands come with me — 
 My Mary winna frown on thee. 
 
 Fashion's flimsy butterfly. 
 Drain the cup of folly dry. 
 Shun the pleasures of the cot. 
 By the bustling crowd forgot, 
 Cringing falsehood fawns on thee — 
 My Mary's smile is heaven to me.
 
 Music by Datid Taylor. 
 
 Sing on, fairy Devon, 
 'Mong gardens and bowers, 
 Where love's feast lies spread 
 In an Eden o' flowers. 
 What visions o' beauty 
 My mind has possess'd, 
 In thy gowany dell 
 Where a seraph might rest. 
 
 Sing on, lovely river, 
 To hillock and tree 
 A lay o' the loves 
 0' my Jessie and me j 
 For nae angel lightin', 
 A posie to pu'. 
 Can match the fair form 
 0' the lassie I lo'e.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 133 
 
 Sweet river, dear river, 
 Sing on in your glee, 
 In thj pure breast the mind 
 0' my Jessie I see. 
 How aft ha'e I wander'd, 
 As gray gloarain' fell, 
 Rare dreamin's o' heaven 
 My lassie to tell. 
 
 Sing on, lovely Devon, 
 The sang that ye sung 
 When earth in her beauty 
 Frae night's bosom sprung, 
 For lanesome and eerie 
 This warld aye would be. 
 Did clouds ever fa' 
 At ween Jessie and me.
 
 Music by T. Martin sen. 
 
 * 
 
 The gentie gowan steeks its e'e, 
 
 Aneath the fa'Ing foggie ; 
 
 An' I '11 awa' to Menstry glen, 
 
 To meet the lass o' Logic, 
 
 Awa' wi' care, wi' cauld despair, 
 
 0' Men's I'll aye be vogie; 
 A plack I hae for weary wae, 
 My love for Ann o' Logie. 
 
 Wi' ony lass in Devon dale, 
 
 A king might share his coggie ; 
 But queen owre a' for aye maun be, 
 
 The bonnie lass o' Logie. 
 Awa' wi' care, &c. 
 
 • Menstry and Logie — two villages beautifully situated at the foot of 
 the Ochils between Stirling and Alva,
 
 DORIC LAYS. 135 
 
 The shepherd lo'es the sunny brae, 
 His lammies and his doggie ; 
 
 I wonder what I e'er could lo'e, 
 Afore the lass o' Logic ? 
 Awa' wi' care, &c. 
 
 The lovelicht flickers frae her e'en, 
 Like spunkies owre a boggie ; 
 
 Her smile's the sunshine o' my life — 
 The bonnie lass o' Logic. 
 Awa' wi' care, &c. 
 
 I 'm aye sac laith to tell my love, 
 Her e'e says, " Bashfu' body. 
 
 Ye '11 no gic owre your dummie gaits, 
 An' bless the lass o' Logic." 
 Awa' wi' care, &c.
 
 136 DORIC TATS. 
 
 Love's liken'd to a wylie wean, 
 
 A wilfu' wanton roguie — 
 Ha I weel I ken he's thow'd the heart 
 0' bonnie Ann o' Logie 1 
 
 Awa' wi' care, wi' cauld despair, 
 
 0' frien's I'll aye be vogie ; 
 A plack I hae for weary wae, 
 My love for Ann o' Logie.
 
 ^jlB (Drjiil 3^nit 
 
 Air—" a nt-AilUagan."* 
 
 I 'm laith to leave Ardgowan glen, 
 
 The burnie's cantie din, 
 My cottage where the cushat coos — 
 
 Her love lay owre the linn. 
 I canna, no, I daurna think 
 
 My bairnhood's haunts to flee, 
 Where I hae built a bonny bower, 
 
 My Ochil Maid, for thee. 
 
 The broom may scent the sunny knowes, 
 
 Aroun' my lassie's sheil. 
 An' summer's sweets may ne'er forsake 
 
 The braes she loe's sae weel ; 
 
 • Vide Albyn'a Anthology, vol. i. p. 12.
 
 138 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 But love has spread a honey 'd feast, 
 
 Where care can never be, 
 Aneath the bower, the bonny bower, 
 
 That I hae built for thee. 
 
 The gaudes o' wealth we winna seek, 
 
 They're fashions as they're vain — 
 Within our cozie bield we'll hae 
 
 A heaven o' our ain. 
 And happiness shall be our lot. 
 
 And happy we will dee, 
 Syne sleep thegither where I've built 
 
 A bonny bower for thee.
 
 €)^i %nmn. 
 
 The bracken and the heather brae 
 
 0' baimhood's love and glee, 
 My faither's cot, my kith an' kin. 
 
 My sunny hills I'll lea' ; 
 And should a sigh come frae my heart, 
 
 A feckless tear-drap fa' — 
 For scenes I ne'er may see again. 
 
 Ye '11 kiss that tear awa'. 
 
 When ye sit down to sing a sang 
 
 0' Scotland's wae or weal, 
 Or lilt a lay o' auld langsyne, 
 
 I'll to my spinnin' wheel;
 
 140 DORIC LAT8. 
 
 And should the simple strain to min' 
 Ae thought o' hame reca', 
 
 And bring a tear-drap to my e'e, 
 Ye '11 kiss that tear awa'. 
 
 The Kelpie on the banks o' Gryfe * 
 
 May mak' an eerie din, 
 And waefu' down Ardgowan glen 
 
 May sough the wintry win' ! 
 The wanderer we will welcome in 
 
 And should a tear drap fa' 
 In pity for the hameless poor, 
 
 Ye '11 kiss that tear awa'. 
 
 * A hill stream above Greenock.
 
 %t §hxm. 
 
 Music by William M'Lat. 
 
 The grey mist now gatherin' 
 
 O'er Glume's lanely towers,'' 
 May balsam wounds left by 
 
 The bee on the flowers ; 
 But soothe it can never 
 
 My sorrow and shame, 
 For nae door now opens 
 
 To welcome me hame. 
 
 Oh never again shall 
 
 I see the laird's son, 
 Wha led me to ruin 
 
 And left me undone ; 
 
 » Castle Campbell.
 
 142 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 But ae starnie shines o'er 
 The Devon's pure breast, 
 
 To wile me awa' where 
 The warld- weary rest. 
 
 Then row, dearest Devon, 
 
 Sweet river, row on, 
 By thee I 've been happy, 
 
 When ae starnie shone ; 
 And when I am laid 
 
 Where the hoar willows wave, 
 The same star will shine 
 
 On my low narrow grave.
 
 M %M ^rnttisli Inng. 
 
 Bring ben bow and fiddle, my auld wifie dear, 
 
 Like oursels they're the waur baith o' tear and o' wear, 
 
 But ae tune I'll scrieve ye, tho' feckless my han'. 
 
 And a lilt it shall be o' our ain heather Ian' — 
 
 The hame o' our bairnhood, sae famous in sang ; 
 
 leeze me, auld Scotland, on thee and on sang 1 
 
 0' them that hae cheer'd us, when waesome were we, 
 The praises we '11 sing till the day that we dee ; 
 And when our last hour comes — as soon, soon it must — 
 May their sangs sough aboon us when laid in the dust. 
 An auld Scottish sang, a guid auld Scottish sang, 
 May we go to our graves wi' the honours o' sang.
 
 144 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 We'll sing o' the bard wi' the " Wonderfu' Wean," * 
 To match him at sangs for the bairns there are nane ; 
 May the joys of his heart ever blink frae his e'e, 
 Wi' little to fash him and far less to dree. 
 An auld Scottish sang, a guid auld Scottish sang — 
 weel Willie loes a guid auld Scottish sang. 
 
 Slee Robbie -J- comes out wi' " Auld Peter Macraw"— 
 Sic a portrait he paints as the warld never saw ; 
 But when he gets fu', as the 7iew year comes in, 
 foul fa' the loon wha would " keep in the pin." 
 An auld Scottish sang, a guid auld Scottish sang, 
 A tumbler for Robbie, o' punch, and a sang I 
 
 Ye cauld-water wights, owre your dribblins o' tea, 
 If care ye would conjure, the helicon pree ; 
 
 « Mr William Miller of Glasgow. 
 
 t The late Mr Robert Gilfiilan of Leith.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 145 
 
 For dear to the Muse is the steam o' the still, 
 And what can gie life like a bicker o' yill ? 
 A coggie o' peat-reek, the mither o' sang, 
 We'll hand by, the wells o' affection to fang. 
 
 A bumper to Charley,* the minstrel marine. 
 May never the saut tears o' grief blin' his een I 
 Till he sing wi' the seraph in heaven abune, 
 Where a gowd harp bespangled wi' pearls he'll tune, 
 Till, then, wi' a sang — a guid auld Scottish sang — 
 He'll no think the winter nichts eerie or lang. 
 
 There 's Jamie,-]- the bard o' our love and our pride, 
 Wi' his Wallet o' sangs for the Scotch ingle side ; 
 May the lilts o' his lyre ring owre valley an' brae, 
 Till Ailsa wi' Bass dance a jig owre a strae. 
 
 * The late Captain Charles Gray, R.M, 
 + Mr James Ballantine of Edinburgh.
 
 146 DORIC LAYS. 
 
 We '11 aye tbink the mair o' the bard and his sang, 
 Wha learns the weans wisdom afore they can gang. 
 
 The clerk* wha can tak' a bit " kiss 'hint the door," 
 Or saften our hearts wi' his sangs and his lore, 
 We'll sing o' (the' not in so lofty a strain 
 x4.s he 'woke at the Wizard o' Abbotsfoed's fane.) 
 The honours o' sang, o' guid auld Scottish sang. 
 To him and to his may they ever belang. 
 
 Wha sings o' the blawart, the hip, and the slae,-l- 
 0' the land o' the thistle and heather-clad brae — 
 Wha sings o' the salmon, the deer, and the fawn, 
 Wi' a gun owre his shouther, a rod in his ban', 
 Nae warmer heart beat's Scotia's minstrels amang. 
 Than the lad wha gars Till loup wi' joy to his sang. 
 
 * Mr T. C. Latto, late of Edinburgh. 
 i' Mr V/iii. Air Foster of Glasgow.
 
 DORIC LAYS. 147 
 
 0' mair we inicht sing, but the nicht's wearin' late, 
 The Devon rins owre, and the hills brew a spate, 
 Bencleuch's* grisly beard's got a springlin' o' gray. 
 And scowlin', he bids brither Benbuck gude-day. 
 Let a' come that may come the winter night lang — 
 We'll share what we hae in the spirit o' sang. 
 
 Lay by bow and fiddle, my ain kindly dear, 
 And loom out a drappie, our auld hearts to cheer ; 
 Syne 'neath the warm blankets, till morning blinks ben, 
 We'll dream o' sic joys as the warld winna ken; 
 In peace and contentment we'll eke out life's span. 
 And fricht awa' care wi' an auld Scottish sang. 
 
 * Bencleuch and Benbuck — two of the Ochil hills.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 " O'er the sinner, still 
 The Christian had this one advantage more, 
 That when his earthly pleasures failed — and fail 
 They always did to every soul of man — 
 He sent his hopes on high, looked up, and reached 
 His sickle forth, and reaped the fields of heaven, 
 And plucked the clusters from the vines of God." 
 
 Follok^s Course of Time. 
 
 The silver lake bland, like a dream of the blest, 
 
 Reflects the first rays of the bright star of even, 
 
 The minstrels of nature have sunk into rest, 
 
 And the hills are embalmed with the frasrrance of heaven. 
 
 *&' 
 
 Slow sauntering the herd-boy comes whistling along. 
 Nor curbs his rude charge in their gamboUings wild ; 
 Now soft o'er the fields comes the milk-maiden's song. 
 Or the lilt of the cottar's wife fondling her child.
 
 152 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 But see ye yon cot in the gloom of the glen, 
 
 Where hovers the bee o'er a banquet of heath ? 
 
 Afar from the haunts and the vices of men — 
 
 Few wild flowers bloom there for the minstrel to wreath. 
 
 Still pass it I ne'er could, for 'neath yon thatched roof 
 Ambition might blush o'er its follies and pride ; 
 Humility give lucre's minion reproof, 
 Or the cares and the woes of the worldling deride. 
 
 But he who gave life and delight to the scene. 
 Now silently sleeps 'neath the grass-covered sod, 
 Whose joys the reviler of truth should have seen, 
 Has passed in the ripeness of years to his God. 
 
 I saw him when life's lamp burnt glimm'ring and dim. 
 Ere death had the soft bands of worn nature riven, 
 When faith had surmounted the barriers of sin, 
 And lit up the path of the pilgrim to heaven.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 153 
 
 I 've known the fair cheek of the maiden betray 
 The bosom-born secret of beauty and love, 
 In nature's pure language, in truth's bright array, 
 The low whispered vows I 've heard virtue approve. 
 
 And when the pine faggot blazed bright in the cot, 
 I've seen the fond mother caress the fair child. 
 And from the dark leaves of her memory blot 
 Her cares and her sorrows when innocence smiled. 
 
 And when the fond husband returned from his toils, 
 To the home of his youthful love happy and gay. 
 How oft have I shared in the soft winning smiles 
 That wore the rude crust of his manhood away. 
 
 I 've seen the wild joys of the exile returned. 
 Unfettered and free to the land of his love ; 
 His pure heart the trammels of tyranny spurned— 
 Such feelings are holy, they come from above.
 
 154 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 But ne'er from the bright eye of beauty might beam, 
 Ere pride has o'ershadowed the dawning of worth, 
 The peace- speaking mildness, the soul- softening gleam. 
 That told the last hour of the peasant on earth. 
 
 Nor yet the fond mother nor husband have shown, 
 Nor exile returned to the scenes of his youth. 
 The rapturous pleasures that peasant had known 
 When faith stilled his cares at the fountain of truth.
 
 €\}t ^Hn (Dill Blnn. 
 
 Ah 1 Poor Old Man, how hard's thy fate, 
 
 How wretched and forlorn ; 
 Can pity stay that falling tear, 
 
 Nor leave thee thus to mourn. 
 
 Thy dreams are fled of happy youth, 
 
 And none to pity left ; 
 That home of innocence and truth, 
 
 Of all its joys hereft. 
 
 Still thou hast happiness in store. 
 
 Of purer joys to come ; 
 For He who all our sorrows bore, 
 
 Shall soon thee welcome home.
 
 156 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Ah ! Poor Old Man, affliction's child, 
 
 Thy son, in youthful prime, 
 Has left thee here to mourn his fate, 
 
 In a far distant clime. 
 
 Thy wife — thy last, thine only stay — 
 Now mould'ring in the dust ; 
 
 Yet hope can brighten up the day, 
 And make thy sorrow blest. 
 
 For ne'er the harden'd heart shall know, 
 
 Those joys awaiting thee ; 
 A rich inheritance in heaven, 
 
 A blest eternity. 
 
 Ah ! Poor Old Man, thou soon must go, 
 Whence ne'er thou shalt return ; 
 
 No child shall o'er thy cold grave bow. 
 No wife thy death shall mourn.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 157 
 
 But heavenly hope shall soothe thy fears, 
 And calm thy troubled breast — 
 
 Shall wipe away the falling tears, 
 And give thy spirit rest. 
 
 And He who guards the fatherless — 
 
 The widow's only stay — 
 Shall lead thee through this wilderness, 
 
 And calm thy latter day.
 
 |n ^£morg of 
 
 BU*3 Snlftt 3Jlattliriit| nf 3^cir3, 
 
 WHO DIED AT CAMBUS ON THE 25tH MAY, 1853, 
 
 Aged 65 years. 
 
 Endowed with every Christian virtue 
 
 which makes youth beloved and old age honoured and revered; 
 
 without any sacrifice of natural feeling, 
 
 or ambitious desire of being held up to public admiration, 
 
 as a benefactress of the unfortunate, 
 
 the Divine precept, 
 
 " He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord," 
 
 was constantly before her, 
 
 and found an echo in every movement 
 
 of her pui'e and benevolent breast.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 159 
 
 What an all-merciful Providence 
 
 so bountifully and so wisely bestowed upon her, 
 
 with a grace and liberality worthy of all praise, 
 
 she shared with the poor ; 
 
 and 
 
 in the full hope of a glorious resurrection, 
 
 her gentle spirit, 
 
 borne heavenwards on the sighs of the widow and the fatherless, 
 
 left its earthly tabernacle for the bosom of the Redeemer, 
 Sixteen years after the demise of her deeply lamented husband, 
 who was suddenly removed in the midst of his usefulness, 
 while discharging the duties of lay representative 
 
 of Auchterarder Presbytery, 
 at the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland, 
 May 28th, 1837. 
 
 Sadly and solemnly 'neath the green sod, 
 
 With what death had so ruthlessly 'reft her, 
 
 'Mong the dust of her sires, near the house of her God, 
 
 In a griuf hallowed dwelling we left her.
 
 160 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 But why shed a tear over feelingless clay, 
 Enough o'er the still heart we 've sorrow'd ; 
 The spirit has passed in its brightness away, 
 To that heaven from whence it was borrow'd. 
 
 The warrior may fall in the glow of his prime, 
 And his fame fleet — a phantom in story ; 
 The lay of the bard feel the gnawings of time 
 And long ages o'ershadow his glory. 
 
 But they who would live when the sea and the earth, 
 Love's jewels,* long lost, will restore them. 
 Must yield in their hearts a response to her worth. 
 And her virtues keep ever before them. 
 
 * Malacbi, 3d chap. 17th verse.
 
 €\}t llBiitli nf lattl. 
 
 II. Samuel, i. xxi. 
 
 Bind ye the cypress, fair daughters of Zion, 
 That erst with the timbrel could waken the lay ; 
 Gird on the sackcloth, fair daughters of Zion, 
 The strength of the mighty has faded away. 
 
 Gilboa ! no dew let thy green herbage cherisli — 
 Let spring and bleak winter on thee be the same ; 
 On thy green-crested heights let the tall cedar perish- 
 On thee great Jehovah's anointed lies slain. 
 
 Let Ekron rejoice, and the warriors of Gath 
 Unbuckle the helmet, in peace to recline; 
 Let Gaza the wine cup of Askelon quafl^ 
 And thy first fruits, Azotus, be brought to the shrine. 
 
 L
 
 1C2 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The mighty are fallen ! the weapons of war, 
 lucrusted with blood, lie unsheathed on the plain; 
 The cloud-scaling eagle espies from afar, 
 A feast 'raonjrst the valiant on Gilboa slain. 
 
 'o- 
 
 But, heard ye that voice ? — 'twas Jehovah that spake 1 
 Philistia ! Philistia ! no more shall rejoice I 
 Of thj?- banquets the children of Ur shall partake. 
 And the lures of thy maidens no more shall entice. 
 
 In thy halls shall the tiger at midnight carouse, 
 And the jackal, unscathed, tread the temple of Baal ; 
 Unburied, tliy dead shall contagion diffuse, 
 And none shall be left o'er thy fate to bewail.
 
 IntuniEiil Itnnins. 
 
 How beautiful, bow beautiful, 
 Autumnal bright and fair, 
 
 Has nature tinged the fading year. 
 Then why should we despair? 
 
 The gardens teem with fruits and flowers. 
 
 The fields with golden grain ; 
 These are the gifts of Heaven to man — 
 Then why should he complain ? 
 
 How beautiful yon pebbled bay, 
 With ships from every clime. 
 
 With luxuries from every land ; 
 Then why should wc repine?
 
 164 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 How glorious yon waterfall 
 
 That bounds 'twixt earth and heaven ; 
 Behold yon fragment dark and huge, 
 
 In nature's childhood riven, 
 
 From off yon rugged peak, where dwells 
 
 The eagle bold and free, 
 The noblest of the feathered tribe, 
 
 The bird of liberty ? 
 
 For he no tyrant lordling owns, 
 With power by wealth increas'd j 
 
 No tinsel plaything is his God, 
 For Nature is his priest ! 
 
 And circling in his cloudy hall, 
 
 From vile oppression freed ; 
 No earthly tyrant's power he owns, 
 
 For Freedom is his creed 1
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES 165 
 
 How beautiful, how beautiful, 
 Yon mountain's towering peak, 
 
 Above whose hoar uncultured brow, 
 The storms of winter sleep : 
 
 But far more beautiful the path 
 
 In lowly virtue trod ; 
 By him who wipes the mourner's tears, 
 
 Whose heart is with his God !
 
 lUfiignntiDtt umiii ^bdhIii. 
 
 Great God, whom we adore, 
 We own thy power to save, 
 
 Life's short-lived transports o'er, 
 The prince but owns a grave. 
 
 What though from door to door, 
 
 I crave my daily bread ; 
 Contentment gives the humble poor, 
 
 A sweet though lowly bed. 
 
 For me the varied groves. 
 
 Are clothed in brightest green. 
 
 The woods rebound with joy and love. 
 To bliss my childhood's dream.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. '167 
 
 For me the seasons roll, 
 
 To keep that truth in mind ; 
 
 When parted from this earthly goal, 
 In Heaven a home to find. 
 
 The silver winding stream. 
 
 In ripples to the sea, 
 Can teach my soul to rest on Him, 
 
 Who form'd immensity. 
 
 The Spring's first dawning power, 
 The Summer's sultry heat, 
 
 The yellow harvest's freshing shower, 
 Alike I love to greet. 
 
 Unenvied thus I roam, 
 
 Through life's unequal road ; 
 
 No passions mar my humhle home, 
 When blest by Nature's God.
 
 Sraninrtnlitif. 
 
 Where, immortality, on earth 
 
 Hast thou thy home ? Had'st thou thy birth 
 
 In pyramid of ancient days ? 
 
 By obelisk or sculptured vase 
 
 Where storied dust unconscious lies 
 
 Of pompous rites or obsequies ? 
 
 Art thou the genius of the wave 
 That Britain's blissful islets lave ? 
 The ruler of the rustling breeze 
 That wafts her gems o'er sunny seas 
 To deck thy brows, my sisters fair, 
 Or sparkle in thy mantling hair? 
 Thine, loveliest, is the power to free 
 The imprisoned soul of poesy.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 169 
 
 And thine the soft and winning grace 
 That records of our woes deface, — 
 But lovelier far the cultured mind 
 With flowers that may our passions bind. 
 
 Where, Immortality, art thou ? 
 In Druid's cave, on mountain's brow? 
 By mossy cairn, where warriors sleep, 
 Dost thou thy silent vigils keep ? 
 Or softly sweep the Doric lyre 
 Where patriots lit the beacon fire, 
 And raised, my Fatherland, in thee. 
 Thy temple, glorious Liberty ? 
 Wake, Minstrel, win a deathless name — 
 Embalm in song thy country's fame, 
 Ere penury, with ruthless power, 
 Assails thy cold unsheltered bower, 
 To blight the fragile flowers that spring 
 Around enchantress Fancy's ring.
 
 170 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The joys of earth thy home may flee, 
 Yet God thy friend and hope shall be. 
 
 Oh, Immortality, how vain 
 On earth to seek thy hallowed fane : 
 We know thee not, though powers unseen 
 Portray thy form in fancy's dream ; 
 We grasp the fleeting phantom — praise — 
 On fame our visioned hopes we raise ; 
 But thou, the zest of earthly leaven, 
 Dwellest amongst the bowers of Heaven.
 
 /Inmni 
 
 WRITTEN IN A LADy's AU3UM. 
 
 Flowers! 
 Beautiful flowers I 
 
 The power have ye 
 To bathe each sense 
 
 In ecstasy. 
 
 Flowers ! 
 Beautiful flowers ! 
 
 A potent spell 
 Have ye, life's woes — 
 
 Life's cares to quell.
 
 172 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Flowers I 
 Beautiful flowers ! 
 
 Alike ye bloom 
 In lady's bower — 
 
 On patriot's tomb. 
 
 Flowers ! 
 Beautiful flowers ! 
 
 Ye come, ye go, 
 A priceless joy 
 
 To all below. 
 
 Flowers ! 
 Beautiful flowers I 
 
 At woman's birth 
 Ye were the gift 
 
 Of Heaven to Earth.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 173 
 
 Flowers I 
 Beautiful flowers I 
 
 From then till now 
 Ye've bloom'd to garnish 
 
 Beauty's brow. 
 
 Flowers I 
 Beautiful flowers ! 
 
 From morn till even 
 Your tale is Love — 
 
 Your song is Heaven ! 
 Round Infancy 
 
 By woman wove, 
 Ye tell us of 
 
 A world above.
 
 Let us think of them that sleep." 
 
 A LITTLE boy, a beauteous little boy, 
 Lay slumbering at the gates of Paradise ; 
 And ever and anon as spirits passed 
 From this bleak world on embassies divine. 
 They wondering gazed to see such loveliness 
 Without the confines of their blest abode. 
 
 Fraught was the heavenly train with souls of men 
 Made pure and perfect in Siloam's pool — 
 The cleansing fountain of redeeming love. 
 From lyres, refulgent as the fitful gleam 
 Of Polar skies, or autumn's setting sun, 
 Each seraph brought a strain symphonious to 
 The gentle breathings of that sinless child.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 175 
 
 And joyed to see the silken lashes raised 
 
 From those bright eyes, which seemed imploringly 
 
 To ask, who brovght me, here ? In ecstasy 
 
 The angelic host ador'd ; for beauty, 
 
 As before them lay, was seldom found 
 
 On earth beneath, or worlds above the sun. 
 
 And through them ran the story of his life, 
 
 How from a poisonous soil a lily sprung 
 
 Too fair to bloom on earth — transplanted hence ; 
 
 No weeds nor brambles intercept the rays 
 
 Which beam to beautify the flowers of grace. 
 
 One little hand was raised to veil that brow, 
 
 So innocentl}' calm, as bashfully 
 
 The cherub gazed upon the radiant throng, 
 
 And saw love beaming from each countenance ; 
 
 Entranced to knovv that happiness was his. 
 
 The smothered wish in fervent whispers fell 
 
 From those fair lips, " Oh, were my mother here !"
 
 "% 
 
 iatjiniii' 
 
 n' tllB 
 
 fm\%:' 
 
 Sir, 
 
 §urns' dzwitxiux^ 
 
 
 
 
 You are cordially invi 
 
 ted to attend a Meeting of our 
 
 Local Poets in 
 
 my house, on 
 
 Tuesday, 25th January, 1859, 
 
 in Celebration 
 
 of the Centenary of the 
 
 Birth of Scotia's 
 
 Ploughman Minstrel. 
 
 
 
 pinner 
 
 Oil lljc Cable 
 I am, 
 
 at ^tbm 
 
 o'tlork p.m. 
 
 
 Yours aye, 
 
 
 
 
 JOHN CRAWFORD. 
 
 Broad Street, 
 
 
 
 Alloa, January 
 
 1, 1859. 
 
 
 u
 
 178 THE gatherin' o' the bards. 
 
 " God Almiglity bless her ; May every matron and maid in 
 
 our island home emulate Her Majesty's virtues. 
 Song—^' The Queen o' Bonnie Scotland,"— Mr A. M'Ewan. 
 
 %l^t ^rilrs^ ^crnstxtulion: 
 May it ever be, what it presently is, the polestar of Civilisation. 
 Song—'' The Englishman,"— Mr J. S. Lee. 
 
 ITorir anb ITabji §ib«rtrombg: 
 May their domestic virtues have the same influence upon 
 society as their forefathers' heroism had upon the des- 
 potism of the world. 
 Song—'' Gently rising Tullibody,"— Mr David M'Neil. 
 
 ®^£ ^o«S£ of ^rbgofaan: 
 Sir Michael Shaw Stewart and the Lady Octavia — 
 
 May they ever be in the eyes of their country what they 
 
 presently are. 
 Song — " The wee, wee German Lairdie," — Mr D, M'Neil.
 
 burns' centenary, 179 
 
 Robert ^Hlb: 
 The Philanthropic and Renowned Mining Engineer. 
 Song — " Alloa House," — Mr T. Martin junior. 
 
 THE MEMORY OF BTJRNS: 
 
 " A name 
 That calls when brimm'd her festal cup, 
 A nation's glory and her shame 
 In silent sadness up." 
 Song—'-'' Rantin' rovin' Robin," — Mr David M'Neil. 
 
 g;ij£ iTanoriT of Sir Wiulkt Scott: 
 The enchanting tones of whose chivalric lyre shall only cease 
 
 to delight mankind, 
 
 " When wrapt in lire the realms of ether glow, 
 
 And heaven's last thunder shakes the world below." 
 Song—'' Hail to the Chief,"— Mr J. S. Lee. 
 
 S^^e ^tmorg of |ames |jogg> tl^e fittruli SbepljeriJ : 
 Over the Avhole earth may it ever be, what it presently is, in 
 every quarter of his native Scotland. 
 " At evening fall, in lonesome dale, 
 
 He kept strange converse with the gale — 
 Held worldly pomp in high derision. 
 And wandered in a world of vision." 
 Song—"' When the Kye come Hame,"— Mr D. M'Neil.
 
 180 THE GATIIEKIN' o' THE BARDS. 
 
 S;^£ ^Tonoms of iannaljill, Cumnngbam, P'^cil, anir JlSUIson. 
 Song—^'' Bonnie Woods o' Craigielee,"— Mr T. Martin jun. 
 
 Cljc PcmorjT of |!voffSsor Milson. 
 So7ig—"' Flowers of the Forest,"— Mr J. S Lee. 
 
 t^t ptmorg of S^ljomas CamphU, 
 
 " TnE Bard of Hope." 
 
 Song—'' Battle of the Baltic,— Mr A. M'Ewan. 
 
 fmg f roit "id'HM, aitb lljc f ibrng fgncal |o£ts of Stotlanb; 
 
 Song—'' The Land o' the Bonnet and Plaid,"— Mr T. 
 Martin junior. 
 
 "THE GATHERIN' 0' THE BAEES," 
 
 FROM TDE ALLOA JOURNAL AND CLACK JIANANSHIRE ADVERTISER. 
 
 This interesting meeting, which, a few weeks ago, we, in 
 common with many of our contemporaries, announced to take 
 place in the house of our respected townsman, Mr John 
 Crawford, author of " Doric Lays," &c., on the evening of the 
 centenary of the birth of our great national poet, Robert 
 Burns, came off with the greatest ecZai— highly honourable to
 
 burns' centenary. 181 
 
 that gentleman, and creditable to every one connected with it. 
 The company, all of whom did not belong to " the bardie 
 clan," several of Mr Crawford's intimate and more highly re- 
 spected friends being present, met at seven o'clock, and sat 
 down to a repast which would have done honour to the halls 
 of the first aristocracy in the land. As a matter of course, the 
 host occupied the chair, supported on the right by Mr David 
 Taylor, St Ninians, and on the left by Mr Alexander M'Lauch- 
 lan, Bannockburn, while the duties of croupier were very 
 efficiently discharged by Mr David M'Neil, — the youngest of 
 all the poets who were present, — supported on the right by 
 Mr Andrew Marshall, jun., Alva, and on the left by Mr Alex- 
 ander Johnstone, Alloa. The room in which the meeting took 
 place was tastefully and appropriately decorated ; banners that 
 have braved both the battle and the breeze being hung round 
 the walls, giving it all the appearance of an old baronial hall. 
 On a pedestal, at the chairman's right, with a wreath of holly 
 round his brow, stood the bust of the bard the first centenary 
 of whose birth was that evening being celebrated, and whose 
 praises were being sung by thousands in every quarter of the 
 civilized world. Behind the chair, above the mantlepiece, 
 were displayed on the wall two large swords, the blades of 
 which were crossed. The one is a relic of Flodden Field, and 
 the other a relic of Killiecrankie. Between the hilts of these
 
 182 THE gatherin' o' the bards. 
 
 hung a portrait of " Bonnie Prince Charlie," and betwixt their 
 points, in a frame, was exhibited a horse-shoe found on the 
 glorious field of Bannockburn. Over the whole hung an old 
 straw bonnet which belonged to the song-celebrated Duchess of 
 Athole. A fine plate of " The Cottar's Saturday Night," and 
 a beautiful portrait of the " literary Earl of Buchan," along 
 with portraits of the poets Thomas Campbell, Professor Wil- 
 son, Allan Cunningham, &c., &c., adorned the walls. At the 
 croupier's back was an old flag on which was painted the 
 armorial bearings of the illustrious family of Abercromby ; and 
 suspended from the ceiling was a beautifully executed repre- 
 sentation of a dove, with an olive leaf in its mouth. A 
 snuff-mull, initialed " J. C," and dated 1768, belonging 
 to "Highland Mary's" father, was, along with an ancient 
 helmet, belonging to the Marquis of Tulliebardine, and other 
 ver}' interesting curiosities also exhibited. The table groaned 
 under the weight of the favourite national dainties with which 
 it was loaded. From a " Highlandman's coggie," found at 
 the battle of Sheriffmuir, rose, " like a distant hill," at the 
 head of the table, the "hurdles" of a monster "haggis," 
 kindly provided by Eobert Moubray, Esq. of Cambus, and in 
 which was stuck a pin made out of the wood of the " Red Well 
 Bush," which was cut down a few years ago, bearing a card 
 on which was printed these lines : —
 
 burns' centenary. 183 
 
 " Fair fa' your honest sonsie face, 
 Tho' a' should gang a-gley, 
 
 Great chieftain o' the puddin' race, 
 Immortal thou shalt be ! " 
 Fish, fowl, venison, &c., were in abundance, all of which came 
 from localities celebrated in Scottish Song. Ample justice 
 having been done to the good things provided, the cloth was 
 removed, whereupon the chairman proposed the following 
 toasts, all of which were enthusiastically responded to : — " The 
 Queen," (which toast was drunk in wine from an ancient and 
 ornamental drinking goblet which belonged to the sapient 
 Solomon of Scotland, King James VI., and which was allowed 
 to stand on the table the whole of the night) — " The British 
 Constitution;" "Lord and Lady Abercromby;" "Robert 
 Bald, Esq., the 'world renowned' mining engineer." Mr 
 Teirney then proposed in appropriate terms " The House of 
 Ardgowan." The chairman then placed upon the table a 
 large punch-bowl which belonged to Burns, and which was 
 presented by him to " the celebrated Johnnie Dowie, Edin- 
 burgh ; after which he produced a quantity of whisky kindly 
 sent by Robert Moubray, Esq. ; " of real auld Cambus stuff," 
 brewed, as the labels said, when the Devon was a clear-wind- 
 ing stream ; also a quantity of rare old aqua from Andrew 
 Mitchell, Esq., magistrate. Besides these he brought for-
 
 1 84 THE gatherin' o' the bards. 
 
 ■ward a jar of real Kilbagie, which was presented to him by 
 Andrew Jameson, Esq., sheriff-clerk for the county of Clack- 
 mannan, in the bung of which was stuck a pin, made from the 
 " Bush aboon Traquair," bearing- a card, on which was printed 
 these lines : — 
 
 " Here is ajar o' precious stuff 
 That weel deserves a double puff ; 
 Nae better drink can weet the craigie 
 As Robm says than ' dear Kilbagie.'" 
 
 A quantity of these having been mixed in the bowl, toddy was 
 brewed, after which the chairman rose and proposed the toast 
 of the evening, — " The Immortal Memory of Burns," — read- 
 ing at the same time a poem written by himself for the occa- 
 sion. He then requested the croupier to sing " Rantin' rovin' 
 Robin," which request having been complied with, the toast 
 was di'unk in a manner becoming the occasion. Numerous 
 poems and songs, written in special honour of the " gatherin'" 
 were then given, the recitation of which took about two hours, 
 and an able and eloquent tribute was paid to the memory of 
 the poet by Mr Alexander Johnstone of Edinburgh. A long 
 poem and song from the inspired pen of the Rev. Henry Scott 
 Riddell, the " last of the border bards," author of " Scotland 
 Yet," and some of our finest love songs, as an apology for his
 
 burns' centenary. 185 
 
 inability to be present at the meeting, was then read by the 
 croupier and much admired. These are in type, and we shall 
 publish them next week. Want of space, we are sorry to say, 
 fairly compels us this week to withhold them both. At this 
 stage of the proceedings Thomas Duncanson, Esq., Glen 
 Sciennes Distillery, Edinburgh, stepped into the room to the 
 astonishment of all present, and placed on the table a well- 
 filled greybeard of his own manufacture. Mr Duncanson 
 would have been at the commencement of the meeting, but 
 being unexpectedly detained, he managed to get to Stirling b^: 
 a late train, and then hired to Alloa. The list of toasts was 
 then proceeded with — " The Memory of Sir Walter Scott," 
 proposed by Mv Willison ; " The Memory of James Hogg, 
 the Ettrick Shepherd," by Mr Hogg ; " The Memories of 
 Tannahill, Cunningham, M'Neil, and Wilson," by the croupier ; 
 "The Memory of Professor Wilson," by the Chair; "The 
 Memory of Thomas Campbell," by Mr Marshall ; and, 
 " Henry Scott Riddell and the Living Lyrical Poets of Scot- 
 land," by Mr John Haldane, jun., who confined his remarks 
 to Riddell, Crawford, Ballantyne, Sinclair, Millar, Maclaggan, 
 and Smart. During the night, Mr Crawford had numerous 
 visitors, invited and uninvited, all of whom he made welcome. 
 Several songs were sung in fine style by Messrs Martin, 
 M'Ewan, Lee, and others. The chairman and croupier wore
 
 18G THE gatherin' o' the bards. 
 
 on their breasts a St Andrew's cross made of blue and white rib- 
 bons, in the centre of which was a small, beautiful photograph 
 of their mighty minstrel sire — " the ploughman bard," which 
 were universally admired. The Flute Band, who paraded the 
 town, drew up at Mr Crawford's door and played several 
 Scottish airs in honour of his "gatherin"' and were hand- 
 somely treated. The affair was a great success ; and we doubt 
 much if another meeting of the kind took place in the whole 
 world. The manner in which the edibles were prepared by Mrs 
 Crawford, and in which everything was served up, merit the 
 highest praise. 
 
 We intimated to our readers that it was our intention to 
 give publicity to one or two of the poetical effusions written in 
 honour of the late world wide celebration of the centenary of 
 the birth of our national poet, Kobert Burns, and which were 
 read at this interesting meeting. We can only at present 
 afford to give the apologistic poem and the song wi-itten by 
 the Rev. Henry Scott Riddell, Teviothead Cottage, Hawick, 
 and other two effusions written for the occasion by gentlemen 
 present.
 
 burns' centenary. 187 
 
 TO THE GIFTED BARD OF ALLOA. 
 Brother John Crawford. 
 
 Oh, how I'd like at Alloa 
 
 To be, when gloamin' 'gan to fa', 
 
 On Januar' twenty-fifth ; 
 At generous Crawford's board to sit, 
 To share his sang, and crack, and wit, 
 
 And that o' them him with : 
 'Tis that eventfu' day's return, 
 
 After ha'e passed awa' 
 A hundred years, on which was born 
 
 The flower o' mankind a' ; 
 Wha warmed them, and charmed them, 
 
 Wi' nature's lore at will. 
 And wha yet, 'bune a' yet. 
 
 Will charm them ever still. 
 
 But circumstances — grousome loons I 
 In ane o' our auld Border touns, 
 
 Ha'e doomed me to abide ; 
 Wha's magistrates, and a' the rest, 
 May ha'e for sang far less o' zest 
 
 Than borough pomp and pride :
 
 188 THE gatherin' o' the bards. 
 
 And whan were a' the flash and fare 
 
 O' palaces sae fine 
 As that whilk still the saul can share, 
 
 Whaur leal warm hearts combine, 
 To meet ane, and greet ane, 
 
 Wi' glorious things and Strang, 
 Amid still the gude will, 
 
 O' lads o' sense and sang. 
 
 Oh ! Burns, what hearts ha'e ye delighted. 
 And in fond friendship's bands united, 
 
 By thy immortal lays ! 
 Wha haply else had never yet 
 Fund ane anither out, and met 
 
 Amid life's darksome maze : 
 Sae kenned na' what's the kenning worth, 
 
 When genial hearts comply 
 To twine the sympathies on earth. 
 
 That live abune the sky ; 
 But cheerless, as gearless, 
 
 Snoove on as 'mid a mist, 
 The pathway to death aye, 
 
 By aught o' worth un blest.
 
 burns' centenary. 189 
 
 Oh ! weel may Scotland joy In tliee, 
 And drap, too, o'er thy memory, 
 
 A tear frae out the heart : 
 Frae mine at least, by night or day, 
 While its pulse waddles on its way, 
 
 It never can depart ; 
 And last year's leaves shall green again 
 
 Grow, when the spring returns, 
 Ere Scotland cease to list the strain. 
 
 And bless the name o' Burns ; 
 Still joying, yet sighing. 
 
 That he sic war wad wage, 
 Throughout a', the route a', 
 
 O' his short pilgrimage. 
 
 Oft ha'e I thought how he wad sough, 
 His lore inherent, at the pleugh. 
 
 To some auld Scottish tune ; 
 While yet his genius stude in awe, 
 And he himsel' wad trow It raw. 
 
 And dared do nought but croon ; 
 Till patriotism lit the flame, 
 
 And love and friendship's glow,
 
 190 THE GATHERIN THE BARDS 
 
 And fixed upon his heart a claim 
 It might nae mair forego ; 
 
 But firmly, and warmly 
 
 The lyre o' Scotland took, 
 
 And rung on't, and sung on't, 
 Till wae the land forsook. 
 
 But Crawford dear — for weel ken ye 
 That ye are deeply dear to me, 
 
 And sae is ilka Bard ; 
 That day this heart will ever bless, 
 (Tho' I can meet thee not in this) 
 
 That first thy voice I heard : 
 Thine ain are lays that aye will live. 
 
 For sweeter there are nane. 
 And joy to Scotland's heart will give. 
 
 When you and me are gane ; 
 She '11 glory still o'er ye. 
 
 And crown thee wi' her crest. 
 And name thee, and fame thee, 
 
 'Mang lads wha sang the best. 
 
 Blessed be thysel', and wife, and weans, 
 And a' the leal and frankly free anes,
 
 burns' centenary. 191 
 
 That meet thee on yon day, 
 And doomed although to stay apart, 
 Believe me, frae thee this auld heart, 
 
 Will not be far away : 
 Tell a', that Burns has turned the tide, 
 
 And deep it rins and Strang, — 
 Even here, upon our Borderside, 
 
 There's nought in vogue but sang 
 I've penned it, and send it, — 
 
 Scotia's ain sang to thee, 
 Though aye here, I'll pay ne'er, 
 
 The honour done to me. 
 
 For ye ha'e ranked me 'mang the rest 
 O' thae on earth that I lo'e best — 
 
 The Bards o' Scotland's Isle — 
 Alas ! that now sae few remain ! 
 But Scotland's glory to maintain, 
 
 We just the mair maun toil : 
 O'er thy leal heart nae sliadow fa' 
 
 Its ardour to abate. 
 In that which still is mair than a' 
 
 The power o' rank and state ;
 
 192 THE gatherin' o' the bards. 
 
 Then till 't yet, and lilt it, 
 
 On strings divinely strung, 
 
 And ring it, and sing it, 
 
 As weel as ye ha'e sung. 
 
 II. 
 
 SANG. 
 
 14, H 
 
 T0NE — " Whistle o'er the lave o't, 
 
 I HEAKD the seraphs sing this glee — 
 " Within your cycle o' the sea 
 Thou Island o' the famed and free 
 
 May a' that's gude attend ye," — 
 Sae up auld Scotland raised her powe, 
 And brushed the bars o' Heaven's ain bowe 
 Wi' thistle-tufts, that she gars grow 
 
 Aroun' the free and friendly. 
 
 Quo' she, they howl 'bout freedom's cause 
 In lands where ne'er a muircock craws, 
 Then their ain win'pipes sHt wi' paws 
 
 That long ha'e greened to rend me.
 
 burns' centenary. 193 
 
 But let them travel a' the airts, 
 Within creation's far out-skirts, 
 They'll fin' amang them a' nae hearts 
 Like them that still defend me. 
 
 They meet na sae, nor soon to part, 
 When wit and worth come them athwart, 
 And melody weds heart to heart, 
 
 And they a lift would lend me. 
 My auld grey plaid they roun' them fit, 
 And they maun stand wha canna sit, 
 To drink a cup to Scotland yet. 
 
 And a' the free and friendly. 
 
 Fair fa' ilk douce and honest dame, 
 Wha right and tight keeps a' at hame, 
 And she — the lass I needna name. 
 
 For lovehuess sae kenned aye. 
 Let them o' faes be ne'er afeared. 
 While my grey lion wears his beard. 
 To ward them frae a' warlike weird. 
 
 Backed by the free and friendly. 
 
 N
 
 194 THE gathekin' o' the bards. 
 
 The simmer season ance agane, 
 Fareweel o' my wild hills has ta'en, 
 And Winter, left to pay the kain, 
 
 May darksome days but send me. 
 But I will nouther glunsh nor growl, 
 Like lands o' cauld uncordial soul, 
 But place a wee just cheek for chowl, 
 
 The free-born and the friendly. 
 
 And they will trim auld friendship's ties, 
 Till warmth o' heart and saul shall rise, 
 To meet the cluds frae aff the skies, 
 
 That roun' and roun' o'erbend me. 
 Bring back the joys o' other years. 
 And wake the hopes that geek at fears, 
 And a' that life to life endears, 
 
 Amang the free and friendly. 
 
 O' a' my touns by hill and glen, 
 Auld Alloa 's worth ither ten, 
 For lovely maids and honest men. 
 
 And sangs that can commend me.
 
 burns' centenary. 195 
 
 And while its sons their worth can prove, 
 Its laddies woo and lassies love, 
 The Bard's wild garlands shall be wove 
 To crown the free and friendly. 
 
 III. 
 
 To a' men livln', be it ken'd, 
 
 Ae matchless nicht we mean to spend 
 
 In house o' Highland Mary's friend, 
 
 AVe've met to honour Robin. 
 
 Frae crystal fount John Maut shall flow 
 To drown dull care an' sullen woe, 
 For 'tis a hundred years ago 
 
 Since birth was gi'en to Robin. 
 
 I wat when to the warld he cam' 
 The ceremony was nae sham, 
 The howdy weel deserved a dram 
 
 At bringin' hame o' Robin.
 
 196 THE gatherin' o' the bards. 
 
 An' Robin grew a dainty chiel, 
 
 His head could think, his heart could feel, 
 
 An' Scottish maids he liket weel 
 
 An' i' their praise sang Robin. 
 
 Tho' but a peasant lad, I trow, 
 
 He ranks amang the favoured few — 
 
 Elisha like, when at the plough, 
 
 The mantle fell on Robin. 
 
 Whene'er he struck his country's lyre, 
 The raptur'd soul was a' on fire — 
 Nae wonder than we should admire 
 
 The strains o' rantin' Robin. 
 
 Foul fa' the loon that could disgrace 
 The chieftain o' the rhymin' race ; 
 Our love for haggises shall cease 
 
 Ere love we tine for Robin. 
 
 He aye was generous an' kind. 
 An' had an independent mind ; 
 O whare on record shall we find 
 
 Ane to compare wi' Robin.
 
 burns' centenary. 197 
 
 For lang- faced folk nae love lie bore, 
 The cloaks o' h}-pocrites he tore, 
 An' set the warl' in a roar 
 
 O' lauchin' at them, Robin. 
 
 The " Holy Fair" he pictured well. 
 On " Hallowe'en" he cast a spell. 
 An' e'en the very " Deil" himsel' 
 
 Gat an address frae Eobin. 
 
 His sangs o' Wallace and o' Bruce, 
 His " Cottar's Nicht," " Twa Dogs," and " Louse," 
 The " Mountain Daisy" an' the " Mouse," 
 Keep up the fame o' Robin. 
 
 While heroes brave gar faemen flee. 
 While love can mak' sic parties gree, 
 The Thistle, emblem o' the free. 
 
 Shall proudly wave for Robin. 
 
 Though death relentless didna spare 
 This bard wi' mind sae rich an' rare, 
 In spite o' death, for ever mair. 
 
 He'll live, immortal Robin.
 
 198 THE gatherin' o' the bards. 
 
 Then though cauld water cuifs should scorn, 
 While wit comes out o' Barleycorn 
 We'll sit until the blink o' morn 
 
 To pree and sing o' Robin. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Robin cam' o' humble birth, 
 And grew beside a lowly hearth. 
 Still he was o' precious worth — 
 
 Our dainty Robin Burns. 
 
 Wi' cheerfu' heart through life he toiled, 
 An' at misfortune calmly smiled, 
 An' sang his native woodnotes wild — 
 Our dainty Robin Burns. 
 
 He ne'er could boast o' college art, 
 Yet mither wit supplied its part. 
 He frae the heart spak' to the heart — 
 Our dainty Robin Burns.
 
 burns' centenary. 199 
 
 In nature's hamely phrase he sung, 
 Yet far and wide his fame has rung 
 Sae powerfu' was the harp he strung — 
 Our dainty Kobin Burns. 
 
 How saft and smooth his numbers flow, 
 When moved by either joy or woe, 
 He mak's the cauldest bosom glow — 
 Our dainty Robin Burns. 
 
 Oh, hear his wail for Mary dead. 
 Or " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," 
 He baith can mak' us sad and glad — 
 Our dainty Robin Burns. 
 
 A spell he's thrown o'er his dear Coil, 
 The braes o' Doon an' Ballochmyle, 
 He's hallowed e'en his native isle — 
 Our dainty Robin Burns. 
 
 Come forth ye hardy toiling thrang. 
 Revere the matchless son o' sang. 
 He to your number did belang — 
 
 Your dainty Robin Burns.
 
 200 THE gatherin' o' the bards. 
 
 But where, O ! where is there a Scot, 
 In spacious hall or rural cot, 
 Sure there is nane wha lo'es him not — 
 Our dainty Robin Burns. 
 
 Then let us hail his natal day, 
 An' homage to his memory pay, 
 We a' are proud, and so we may — 
 O dainty Eobin Burns. 
 
 Let Albion rouse her Avon swain, 
 An' laud him in the highest strain, 
 Yet, king o' sangsters, aye maun reign- 
 Our daintv Robin Burns. 
 
 V. 
 
 Thanks, Crawford, for thy invitation. 
 To your's and Burns' demonstration, 
 But " business" stares me in the face. 
 An' this time ye maim grant me grace ; 
 I've sought in vain to woo the Muses, 
 But they defy me and excuses ;
 
 burns' centenary. 201 
 
 And frae the bumps o' my phrenology 
 I scarce can scart a fair apology. 
 
 The Alloa rhymsters maun inherit 
 A portion o' the minstrel's spirit, 
 An' ha'e the pluck to meet an' show it 
 In honour o' the immortal poet. 
 
 Gi'e a' the happy rhymin' tribe 
 
 The best, best wishes o' the scribe, 
 
 Say, that altho' I canna see them, 
 
 My very heart gangs gladly wi' them ; 
 
 Ever by me in admiration 
 
 The minstrel's held in veneration, 
 
 And that I hope ere day returns 
 
 They'll spend " a happy nicht wi' Burns." 
 
 VI. 
 
 The following is from the pen of a highly respected gentle- 
 man who, like the writer of the above, and several others, was 
 unable to be present : —
 
 202 THE gatherin' o' the bards. 
 
 Let ane an' a' their voices raise, 
 An' sing our ploughman minstrel's praise- 
 He set a' Scotland in a blaze, 
 
 An' still it burns for Robin. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Our island braves the stormy sea, 
 
 A wall around the brave an' free, 
 
 Then let us meet an' sing wi' glee 
 
 The praise o' rautin' Eobin. 
 
 O lassies, a' his kindness tell. 
 Upon his manly virtues dwell, 
 Nane could describe your charms so well, 
 Or in sic strains as Robin. 
 
 Our island braves, &c. 
 
 Then sing ye bardies auld an' young, 
 The mantle o'er you may be flung, 
 For frae an Ayrshire cottage sprung 
 The prince o' poets Robin. 
 
 Our island braves, &c.
 
 burns' centenary. 203 
 
 Then oh, each patriotic bard, 
 Arise an' let youi* voice be heard. 
 An' heartless tyrants disregard, 
 A man's a man wi' Robin. 
 
 Our island braves, &c. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The following was written for the occasion by a gentleman 
 present, and whose eifuslons have on more than one occasion 
 adorned our columns. It will be observed that It Is In the 
 form of an acrostic — the first letter of each verse making, when 
 put together, the words " Robin Burns :" — 
 
 B-AiSE high the shout, and raise the bowl, 
 
 Weel fill'd wi' Scotland's nappy dew, 
 And pledge a toast to Robin's name. 
 
 The gifted, gen'rous, and the true. 
 
 Chorus. 
 For Robin was a charming boy, 
 
 A witty, independent carl. 
 And Robin's name shall live for aye, 
 
 Auld Scotland's pride ower a' the warl'.
 
 204 THE gatherin' o' the bards. 
 
 Our hearths he sang, our hills and dales, 
 
 Our streams and woodlands, shaws and glens, 
 
 Our buxom maids and happy swains, 
 Our foamin' linns and rashy fens. 
 
 For Robin was a charming boy, 
 A rhyming, independent carl, &c. 
 
 Brawling cant and priestly pride. 
 All worldly shams he held in scorn, 
 
 And when his saul laithed to defend, 
 " Better he never had been born." 
 
 For Robin was a charming boy, 
 A dauntless, brave, and noble carl, &c. 
 
 In him nae narrow spirit moved, 
 
 Nae jealousies unjust and vain, 
 All loveliness he sung and loved. 
 
 And vice alone felt his disdain. 
 
 For Robin was a darling boy, 
 
 An open-hearted gen'rous carl, &c. 
 
 Nae better lad e'er tuned the lyre, 
 Noo on the willows all unstrung,
 
 BUKNS' CENTENARY. 205 
 
 And nane again shall e'er aspire 
 
 To chant such strains as Robin sung. 
 
 For Robin was a matchless boy, 
 
 A bauld, and brave, and gifted carl, &c. 
 
 Born only to a lowly lot, 
 
 He has achieved a lordly flime, 
 And though our kings may be forgot, 
 
 We'll venerate our Robin's name. 
 
 For Robin was a darling boy, 
 A glorious, independent carl, &c. 
 
 Upon his fate nae fortune smiled, 
 To raise him o'er the peasant thrang. 
 
 But Nature knew her darling child, 
 And dowered him wi' the gift o' sang. 
 
 For Robin was a minstrel boy, 
 A singing, independent carl, &c. 
 
 Resplendent as the noon-tide sun. 
 His fame now circles all the earth,
 
 206 THE gatiierin' o' the bards. 
 
 And while that orb his race shall run, 
 We'll glory in our poet's birth. 
 
 For Robin was a charming boy, 
 A noble, gifted, glorious carl, &c. 
 
 Nae cank'riug cares shall vex our hearts, 
 
 Nae angry jar shall mar our glee, 
 We'll meet as brithers ought to meet, 
 
 And pledge his name in barley bree. 
 
 For Robin was a darling boy, 
 
 A blythsome, gay, and happy carl, &c. 
 
 Sae raise the shout and raise the bowl, 
 Weel filled wi' Scotland's nappy dew, 
 
 And pledge a toast to Robin's name, 
 The gifted, dauntless, and the true. 
 
 For Robin was a darling boy, 
 A ne'er-to-be-forgotten carl, &c.
 
 burns' centenary. 207 
 
 VIII. 
 The following was also written for the occasion, and read by 
 the author, who was preent: — 
 
 O THAT some muse would me inspire, 
 And nerve me wi' poetic fire, 
 Or gift me wi' a poet's lyre, 
 
 And rowth o' rhyme, 
 That I micht wake the golden wire, 
 To strains sublime. 
 
 But, brither bardies, don't refuse 
 
 This rant, though rhyme ye maun excuse, 
 
 For wae's my heart, nae generous muse 
 
 Will kindly shed 
 Her sweet exhilirating dews 
 
 Upon my head. 
 
 What though it's true I ha'e na got 
 The powers o' Ramsay, Hogg, or Scott, 
 Campbell, or Tannahill, wha wrote 
 
 Wi' souls o' fire, 
 Surely, though humble Is my lot. 
 
 Ye '11 list my lyre.
 
 208 THE gatiierin' o' the bards. 
 
 Rise, Scotland, tune your stock and horn. 
 And hail the ever-glorious morn 
 Whereon your minstrel Burns was born, 
 
 Whose name shall live for ever ; 
 A hundred years ha'e winged their flicht, 
 Since through a' Kyle 'twas said ae nicht 
 A child this day has seen the licht 
 
 Whose fame shall pei'ish never. 
 
 Apollo blessed the darling boy, 
 A harp he gave him for a toy, 
 The Graces grat wi' very joy, 
 
 And danc'd an' sang wi* madness ; 
 But when auld Scotland heard his lays. 
 She knew the harp o' ancient days, 
 And wreathed his brow wi' fadeless bays, 
 
 Then gaed clean gyte wi' gladness. 
 
 His was a harp whose magic tones 
 Made kings to tremble on their thrones, 
 Or softened hearts harden'd as stones. 
 Whene'er he touched its chords ;
 
 burns' centenary. 209 
 
 No craven sycophant was he, 
 
 No crouching slave to bend the knee 
 
 To belted knights o' high degree, 
 
 Priests, princes, or titled lords. 
 
 His noble soul all meanness spurn'd, 
 He never from the polestar turn'd, 
 The heart that in his bosom buru'd 
 
 O'erflowed wi' love and kindness. 
 He heeded not the critic's sneer, 
 Nor yet the bigot's taunting jeer, 
 He scurg'd wi' scorpions priest and peer. 
 
 And syne lauch'd at their blindness. 
 
 He lang-faced hypocrites abhorr'd, 
 And on their heads contumely pour'd, 
 Till on him some heaven's curse implor'd, 
 
 Sae piercing were his arrows. 
 Nae Atheist I trow was he. 
 Religion ! dearly he lov'd thee ; 
 And when men curse his memory, 
 
 My inmost soul it harrows. 
 
 O
 
 210 THE GATHERIN'^O' THE BARDS. 
 
 He sang auld Scotland's heathery hows, 
 Her mist-clad hills and broomy knowes, 
 And classic made ilk stream that rows 
 
 On to the sea in beauty. 
 He roosed in sang her matrons auld, 
 And maidens fair sweet love tales tauld, 
 The Wallace wicht and Bruce sae bauld, 
 Wha ever did their duty. 
 
 O Burns, thou glorious Prince o' sang. 
 
 The mightiest a' our bards amang. 
 
 We meet this nicht to honour thee. 
 
 On this thy first centenary ; 
 
 To crowd around thy ain punchbowl. 
 
 And raise a monument of soul, 
 
 To glory in thy boundless fame, 
 
 And praise in sang thy deathless name. 
 
 Immortal Bard ! what though nae lord 
 Presides at generous Crawford's board, 
 (O let thy spirit grace our meeting. 
 Although its stay be ne'er so fleeting,)
 
 burns' centenary. 211 
 
 The hardy sons of toil are here, 
 Who shall thy memory aye revere, 
 And hail with joy, as it returns. 
 The day that blessed us with a Burns. 
 
 THE END.
 
 t 
 
 |1rospcttus. 
 
 WILL BE PUBLISHED, 
 
 In one Volume, square l6}no, cloth, price 5.?., ivhen Subscriptions to the 
 e.rteyit of 500 Copies are obtained, 
 
 MEMORIALS OF THE TOWN ANQ PARISH OF ALLOA, 
 
 BY JOHN CRAWFOUD, 
 
 Author of " Doric Lays," &c., &c. 
 
 PRINCIPAL CONTENTS : 
 
 Original Inhabitants of the District. The Horestii. The Daranii. The 
 Druids— their religious rites and ceremonies. Druidical Remains in the 
 Parish. Ancient Tumuli. Dunbodenum — where situated. The Last 
 Battle between the Scots and Picts— where fought. Antiquity and Ety- 
 mology of Topographical Nomenclature. 
 
 atones of Ptmorinl. 
 
 The Stan 'in' Stane. The Haer Stane. The Stane Cross. The Maiden 
 Stane. The Penitential Stane. Hangies Stane, &c., &c. 
 
 With Copious Extracts from the Public Records, Illustrative of the 
 Manners, Customs, Games, Pastimes, and Superstitions prevalent in the 
 locality during the Seventeenth and Eighteenth centuries. Records of 
 Tullibody. Curiou-^ Old Deeds relating to the Parish. Letters of emi- 
 nent individuals, hitherto unpublished ; Ballads, &c., &c. 
 
 Oltf 1^ ousts, Cljurcljcs, Cljurcljgarbs, &c. 
 
 kl'niiig Populat 
 5." Brewers ai 
 ing which ; &c., &c. 
 
 The M'niiig Population, with Excerpts from the " Sauchie Bailie Court 
 Books." Brewers and Breweries in the olden time — ancient laws regard- 
 
 The Worh will be handaomeh/ got up, and the Impression limited to the 
 number of kitcbscriptions. 
 
 Broad Street, Alloa.
 
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