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Title: Songs and rhymes of a lead miner

Author: Thomas Grierson Gracie

Release date: August 26, 2025 [eBook #76732]

Language: English

Original publication: Dumfries: Courier and Herald Press, 1921

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS AND RHYMES OF A LEAD MINER ***

THE AUTHOR.

SONGS AND RHYMES

OF A

LEAD MINER.

By

THOMAS GRIERSON GRACIE,

Wanlockhead.

DUMFRIES:

COURIER AND HERALD PRESS. HIGH STREET.

1921.

INDEX.

PERSONAL NOTE AND PREFACE

DESCRIPTIVE PIECES—

Ridge of Glengonar

A Fishin' Splore

Troloss

The Otter Hunt

The Bearers

Mennock Burn

Heights of Glendyne

A Waddin' in the Glen

Three Fishers

Ma Wag-at-The-Wa'

Curmudgeon

Bonnie Banks o' Cree

Chancellor's seat, Leadhills

MEMORIAM PIECES—

Last of the Old Band

To Mr and Mrs James Slimmon

Doctor Wilson

Funeral of Private Alex. Howland

Lines on a Friend

Wullie Tamson

Kitchener

David Cumming

Baby M'Kenzie

Wanlock Lads

Auld Volunteers

Young Volunteers

Pony Driver's Lament

Bride's Lament

Davy's Grave

SONGS—

The Auld Sangs

My Auld Violin

Auld Thackit Hoose

Auld Grey Glen

Level No. 6

Emergency Pump, Level No. 4

Turnin' o' the Wheel

To Arms

Happy Lover

Never Seen More

Wanlock's Buirdly Robin

Lass o' Durisdeer

Bonnie Jean

Betty o' The Strankly

Lass o' Glendoweran

Sae Wull We Yet

Doric o' Scotland

Cheer Up

Where is the Hindenburg Line?

Forward

Wanlock

Auld Cronie Tam

H.L.I.

Brave Lads o' Sanquhar

Mennock Burn

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES—

Scunner't

Absent Friend

The Miner

Love

Curlin'

A Word o' Advice

Jock

The Exile

The Old Churchyard

Letter in Rhyme

The Answer

Note o' Thanks

Leadhills

Euchan's Banks

On Higher Plane

Song Birds

The Photo

"Something Wrang"

The Flu'

Wee Jim

The Nurses

The True Man

An Evening Prayer

Rabbie

Welcome Home

Day Dream

To Wanlock Soldiers

Lowther Wind's Wail

PERSONAL NOTE AND PREFACE.

One of a family of ten, I was born at Wanlockhead, Dumfriesshire, in the year 1861. My boyhood was spent in the midst of comparative poverty, under whose grim shadow so many toilers live and die. Of my parents I say nothing here, except that my love and reverence for their memory remain undimmed to this day. The amount of love and self-sacrifice involved in bringing up a large family on the earnings of the lead miner at that period—from fifteen to seventeen shillings per week—I leave to the imagination of my readers. In spite of poor environment, my boyhood was, on the whole, happy and care-free. My greatest delight was to roam the glens and hills of my nativity. My pet aversion was the school, and to be confined within its four walls when the sun was shining and the birds singing outside was to me the refinement of cruelty. My parents and teachers must have been at their wits' end with me, for, in spite of heavy punishment, I played truant whenever opportunity offered. I was employed as a lead washer at the age of thirteen, for the magnificent wage of fivepence per day. This was increased at the rate of one penny or twopence yearly, at the discretion of the manager. After working five years at lead washing it came my turn to go underground as a labourer and miner's assistant, where in course of time I became a fully qualified lead miner.

I will not weary my readers with an account of my ups and downs in life or of my many startling experiences in the lead and coal mines. I was a coal miner in different parts of Scotland for six years. I did not take kindly to the work, and when I left it I fervently hoped it was for good. Of the coal miners I have a high opinion. Beneath the rough exterior of the most of them they are true to the core; brave hearted men, who have proved their sterling worth on many a shell-torn, blood-stained field, and in many an appalling mine disaster; ready to fight, suffer, or die on the field of battle for their ideals: ready in the mine disaster to go to almost certain death to rescue their comrades. Can human nature rise higher than this?

My hobby has been the study of music and the playing of different instruments. I have gained an elementary knowledge of composition, harmony, and counterpoint, and in the playing of different instruments made myself fairly expert. My favourite is the violin, and my earnings with it at concerts, balls, kirns, and merry-makings generally enabled my wife to keep the pot boiling and the bairns fed and clad when the lead miner's wage was utterly inadequate for that purpose.

At the outbreak of the Great War I commenced to rhyme. I am sorry if the jingo spirit is too evident in some of my pieces. Such were composed in the dark days, when our brave soldiers had their backs at the wall, and required every moral and material support that could be given them. For the political and religious bias of my pieces I make no apology. I make no claim to the honour of being a Poet; that I have no claim will be evident to cultured minds to whom these songs and rhymes will no doubt appear poor in conception, crude in expression, grammatically wrong in parts, and altogether commonplace. But as I am writing to people on my own level of intelligence—that is, the intelligence of a self-taught man—cultured people do not come into the picture. Some of my friends are quite pleased with my verses, but I will not require a larger size in headwear over the opinion of others. I am pleased, however, to note that they all agree about the general tone and sentiment being of a high order. With that I am content. If there is anything in my pieces that will raise a smile, a laugh, or a tear—anything that will make the human more humane, any thought or sentiment that will tend to raise the moral or mental standard of my readers—they have not been written in vain.

One third of the pieces in this book have already been published, and my thanks are due to local and other Editors for space given me, and specially to the Editor of the "Dumfries and Galloway Courier and Herald," for an artistic touch here and there in some of them. I give the tunes when well known to which a number of my songs may be sung. As for the others, the music being new, it will depend on circumstances whether they ever see the light of publicity. The song "Wanlock," by M'Arthur, schoolmaster in Wanlockhead (1850), and "The Lowther Winds Wail," by the Rev. J. Moir Porteous, minister of the Free Church, Wanlockhead (1877), I insert so that they will continue to be familiar to the people of the district in which their authors lived and worked.

I am indebted to Robert Wanlock Reid for permission to publish his "Letter in Rhyme," and to J. M. Harkness for his appreciation expressed in "Auld Cronie Tam;" also to Miss Annie J. Mitchell for kindly typing the bulk of my pieces; and to all those who have given me any encouragement in the making of this book.

AUTHOR.

DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.

THE RIDGE OF GLENGONAR.

WINTER SCENE.

The pale lovely moon o'er the Lowthers was rising

As lonely I strayed at the fall of the night

Away to the far-stretching Ridge of Glengonar,

The high hills to view in their mantle of white.

Old Boreas had swept them for days in his anger,

As though he would crush them beneath his proud sway;

But grandly they stood, with their brows high uplifted,

Firm based in majestic, eternal array.

Then thoughts did arise as I gazed on the scene

That lay bathed in the silvery light of the moon

Of Flanders' torn fields that were once fair and fertile,

Made barren and shrouded in sorrow and gloom;

Of men who went forth in the pride of their manhood,

Aroused, by the call that appeals to the brave,

Inspired by the noblest and purest of motives,

Who fell on the field or were sunk 'neath the wave.

I stood all alone on the Ridge of Glengonar,

Alone 'neath the stars that shone bright in the blue;

And prayed to the Ruler of men and of nations

To strengthen the arms of our gallant and true;

To silence for ever the roar of the cannon

And sink in oblivion this era of pain,

That in peace we might live in the land of our fathers

'Neath harmony, love, and prosperity's reign.

A FIS'HIN' SPLORE.

Wullie, Sandy, Rab, an' Tam

Yae nicht when sittin' owre a dram

Agreed when neist the day wad daw

Tae tak' their rods an' trudge awa'

An' try their skill wi' flee an' worm

On bonnie Carron's wimplin' burn.

The mornin' broke sae fresh an' fair,

New life was in the caller air;

Owre Grey Mere's Tail the sun did peep,

Tae wake oor fishers frae their sleep.

Ilk yin gat up wi' bizzin' croon;

Short time had passed since they lay doon.

They dressed fu' quick, nae time tae loss,

An' sune were skelpin' through the moss;

Owre dyke an' fence, through sheuch an' glen,

Up, up, they spieled tae Enterkin:

An' when at last they did get there

A view they had ayont compare.

They had nae time the scene tae view,

Sae hurried owre the mountain's broo,

An' doon the brae they ran pell-mell

Tae hae a drink at Katie's Well,

"Whaur Black M'Michael's bearded lip

Yince fain did dip."

Then doon they ran wi' muckle speed,

Tae Nature's charms they paid nae heed,

An' didna slack their pace a jot

Until they reached the Lucky Pot[1];

Sae awfu' keen an' anxious they

Tae see if luck was theirs that day.

Then walin' steps wi' canny care

They gaed alang the hill-side bare,

Whaur Kelt,[2], the hound, fell aff his steed

When Harkness[3] shot him through the heid;

The roarin' pool whaur he fell in

Has since been known as Kelty's Linn.

There fore-nent them Stey-Guile stood,

Defyin' time an' storms an' flood;

They gazed upon its steepest side,

Doon whaur 'twas said bold Graham[4] did ride,

His pony shod wi' deevils' cloots;

'Twas maybe true. "They had some doots."

Owre Dalveen Hill an' doon the brae

Richt cheerily they held their way;

An' when they High Dalveen had passed

They reached the Carron Burn at last;

Then fast their taikle they gat oot,

Their minds fair set on killin' troot.

Then Wullie, keen his skill tae test,

Got started weel afore the rest;

He banged oot yin, syne made it twa;

When oot cam' three, lie croose did craw.

"Come here, ma callans, gin ye wish,

I'll show ye hoo tae catch the fish."

"But pleesures are like poppies spread,

Ye seize the floo'er, its bloom is shed;"

He thocht he was a fisher rare,

But, strange tae say, he gat nae mair;

An' then he cried "I'll bet a quid

It's been the tail en' o' the tid."

But Rab an' Tam, mair skilfu' they,

On pools an' streams their flees did play;

They played wi' sic a cunnin' wrist

The finny tribe couldnae resist,

But lap an' danced at bob an' trail;

Some e'en were hookit by the tail.

Doon by Stonebutt an' by the Brig,

They landed fishes wee an' big;

An' when they reached the Carron Mill,

O' fishin' they had got their fill:

An' here a signboard took their e'e,

A maist uncommon sign tae see:

"Ginger-beer an' lemonade,

Here as guid as can be made,

An' if ye want some more repast,

Dinner, supper, or breakfast;"

These lines, my friens, depend upon it,

Composed were by Grier the Poet.

The landlord there, a sober chiel,

Wad hae nae traffic wi' the deil:

O' aqua vitae he had nane;

Sair did oor weary fishers grane;

An' ere they rested on their hurdies,

Hied owre the hill tae Tam o' Murdy's.

Tam o' Murdy's, Durisdeer,

Was famed for Mountain Dew an' beer,

An' ony ither kin' o' drink,

But jist for them wha had the clink:

For Tammy, tho' a kin'ly man,

Could aye look efter num'er wan.

An' there they sat an' smoked an' sang,

An' gill stoups toomed o' liquor strang,

Which quickly put them a' at ease,

In tellin' stories, maistly lees,

O' salmon they had landed oot,

An' hoo they lost their biggest troot.

Their pooches toom, nae mair tae spen',

Their nonsense sune cam' tae an en',

An' forced were they tae tak' the gait,

Tho' they were in a muddled state.

The moon on them was shinin' clear,

When leavin' guid auld Durisdeer.

They wandered on, whiles up, whiles doon,

An' heard fu' mony an eerie soon;

The fitpath wasna' braid aneuch,

They tumelt in the burn an' sheuch;

They staggered in amang the dreels,

O' turnip, kail, an' tattie fiel's.

An' tho' they had nae wish tae tarry,

Their legs refused the drink tae carry:

An'' doon on Carron's hichts they sank,

An' for a time their min's were blank;

Hoo they gat hame, what them befel,

Deil yin o' them could ever tell.

MORAL.

When man is on enjoyment bent,

O' aftermath he should tak' tent,

An' no abuse John Barleycorn,

Or life o' pleesure will be shorn.

[1] A natural pot formation in the bare rock in the middle of the burn, about twenty yards down from the foot-path from which, if a fisher, in the morning, out of three stones put one in the lucky pot, his luck was in for that day.

[2] Captain of Dragoons searching for Covenanters amongst the hills.

[3] One of the hunted Covenanters.

[4] Graham of Claverhouse, of whom many marvellous stories have been told.

TROLOSS.

Song or Recitation. Tune: "Tinker's Waddin'."

In August, when the heather blooms,

An' grouse are fairly on the wing,

The scented breeze frae hill an' moor,

Tae hunters health an' pleesure bring.

Then hunters meet at Auld Troloss,

As they hae dune for mony a year:

Tam Johnston ready taks the names

O' beaters there frae far an' near.

The Laird aye greets them wi' a smile,

An' shakes auld servants by the han';

Nae purse-prood autocrat is he,

But jist a kindly gentleman.

Aye weel esteemed are men like him,

An' loyal service they comman';

It isna siller, pomp, or power,

But honest worth that maks the man.

The guns gae first; each finds his butt;

Then beaters bauldly briest the brae;

Lang miles atween them an' their hames—

Their herts are licht, sae what care they?

They drive the Hoose, they drive the drain,

An' next in order comes the mine;

Success does a' their efforts croon,

When Tammas Johnston marks the line.

An' thus the merry hunt goes on,

Drive after drive they run them in;

An' when they get back tae the Hoose,

They ken their heavy darg is dune.

They there get coffee in their turn,

Some hae milk an' some hae tea,

Wi' routh o' breed weel spread wi' jam,

An' a bicker o' the barley bree.

A few choice spirits meet at nicht

Tae spen' a happy social 'oor,

When ilka yin is blyth an' bricht,

An' meenits pass like fleein' stour.

The gentry a' maun share the fun,

Nae cless distinction dae they show;

Tae Gracie's fiddle weel in tune

They trip the "licht fantastic toe."

Carmichael is a canty chiel,

Tae sing a sang he is'na sweir—

The "Tinkers' Waddin'," "Spellin' o't,"

An' "Bonnie Lass o' Durisdeer."

Then Laidlaw sings aboot the hills,

Up whaur the Wanlock waters rowe,

An' "True till death," "The Eastern Star,"

An' "Jessie on the Quarry Knowe."

Miss Vickers an' Miss Jonson, tae,

The auld-time sangs sae sweetly sing,

Accompanied by the auld banjo,

The fiddle an' the mandolin.

The auld wife in the ingle neuk

Raises her voice in cheerfu' key,

An' nicely sings "Woods o' Duirmore,"

An' "The Bonnie Lad that comes tae me."

Coachman Fraser, stalwart wight,

Does neist a humorous piece recite,

Hoo Tibbie lood an' lang did growl

When her puir bit lassie brak the bowl.

Then Lauder, tho' he canna sing.

Does fairly dance the Heelan' Fling,

An' Hornpipes, tae; wi' heavy wear,

His feet like hammers strike the flair.

Gracie gies them o' his best

Till voice an' airms are needin' rest;

Hoo he does sing, hoo he does play,

It wadna dae for me tae say.

The 'oor is gane; some maun gang hame;

They canna' stay the han' o' time.

They pairt tae meet some ither nicht,

For the happy days o' Auld Langsyne.

Chorus after every 2nd verse.

Durum dook an' doo an' dae,

Durum dook an' derry O.

Durum dook an' doo an' dae,

Hurrah for the hunt sae merry O.

THE OTTER HUNT.

(An otter was run down and killed by three lads belonging to Wanlockhead and Leadhills in the head of Pedan in the month of August, 1915. Some people say I have made a mountain out of a molehill in the following piece. I advise such to keep clear of the jaws of an otter if ever they run up against one.)

Tae the hunt! Tae the hunt! Come haste ye away!

An otter's been seen on the Lowthers this day,

An' brave lads are wanted the beast tae destroy,

So it's Donal an' Archie an' Jock for the ploy.

They breisted the Lowthers like houn's frae the leash,

In their herts an' their minds there were nae thochts o' peace;

It was war, an' they cunnin'ly followed the trail

That led them away for the hichts o' Powtrail.

"Tally Ho! Tally Ho!" was the hunters' wild cry,

And speedily after the otter they hie;

Thro' heather an' breckins, thro' threshes an' bent

Regairdless o' danger oor brave trio went.

The chase it was stern and the chase it was lang

Wi' the race tae the swift and the fecht tae the strang;

They pressed him sae hard an' sae swiftly they ran

He was forced for tae hole in the heid o' Pedan.

He holed in the broo o' a pool in the burn,

Where water frae forking comes doon wi' a run:

They had run him to earth, o' that they'd nae doot,

The puzzle was noo hoo tae get the bruit oot.

Syne yin o' them stood at the heid o' the pool,

Anither yin takin' his stance at the fit,

While the third tried his best tae breck the broo doon,

Makin' use o' the tae an' the heel o' his buit.

At last he cam' oot, makin' fast up a drain

(For conveying the little springs intae the main),

But Archie was ready, an' took a sure aim,

An' knocked him doon deid wi' a big cobble stane.

Then here's tae the lads wha then did display

Sic courage an' speed at the huntin' that day;

An' lang may the tale roon the fireside be tauld

THE BEARERS.

To the mournful sound of the curfew's note,

On to the churchyard they go;

Bearing the form of a dear lost friend

"With measured step and slow."

A moment they pause the cords to adjust,

Then lower him into the ground,

While paying their last respects to the dead

The mourners stand around.

Reverently they cover him up

(Of mortal this is the end);

Then sadly leave him in the dust

"Where the tall trees sway and bend."

In the winds that weep o'er the lowly graves

Where the ashes of forebears lie,

And the requiem sounds from the crystal stream

That is swiftly flowing by.

MENNOCK BURN.

When mist nae langer hides the brae,

An' rain cluds flee afore the sun,

Wi' rod in han' I slowly gang

Awa' tae fish in Mennock Burn.

Dear Mennock Burn! What memories cling

Roon ilka bend that's in thy course;

For happy 'oors I spent in youth

I thank thee for them wert the source.

I've fished ye when the days were short,

I've fished ye when the days were lang

(An' whiles wee Davy was my mate,

An' whiles it was his brither Tam).

Frae Mossburn doon by Whitchincleuch,

An' by the path that maks Glenym

Tae whaur yer waters when in spate

Gang roarin' owre the Horseman Linn;

An' then a wee bit farer on

(I min' we got a hearty lauch

When silly Rab fell in the burn)

Whaur waters flow frae dark Glenclauch.

Those happy days are langsyne gane

An' I am weirin' on in life;

My pleasure's a' in lookin' back:

There's naething noo but care and strife.

When Nature fails an' I maun bend

An' fade jist like a witherin' tree,

Beside ye, gin I hae my wish,

I fain will lay me doon an' dee.

THE HEIGHTS OF GLENDYNE.

On a fair summer morn when the sun did adorn

The top of Glengaber, Glencrieve, and Glenglass,

I wandered away to the hill and the brae,

At the footstool of Nature a few hours to pass.

As I climbed the steep hill by the pure little rill

That trills its sweet song 'mid the heather and thyme

My memory swept back on its well-beaten track

To the days of my boyhood and friends of langsyne.

From the head of Glendyne I kept a straight line

As far as the rock where the fox makes his den,

Where the hill of the bloody bell stands like a sentinel

Guarding the pass to the bonnie Monk's Glen.

Nowhere I have been is such wild beauty seen

As that from the spot where I then took my stand;

It must stir the cold heart, inspiration impart,

These marvellous works of the Almighty hand.

Where is the pen 'mongst the learned of men

That could to the mind's eye its beauties array?

Where is the hand the brush could command

Its splendours so solemn and wild to pourtray?

Freedom from strife and the cares of this life

I find in this solitude has its abode;

The soul it is free as the soul ought to be

To commune with Nature and worship its God.

A WADDIN' IN THE GLEN.

50 YEARS AGO.

Song. Tune: "A Hundred Pipers."

Stranger—What's a' the steer in the village the nicht,

An' what has gaen wrang wi' the folk?

Villager—There's naething gane wrang, an' a' thing is richt;

It's Meg gettin' mairit tae Jock.

Ye see, when a waddin' taks place in the glen

It is a momentous occasion,

For a guid week afore't the hale o' the crack

Is wha's bid tae the jollification.

CHORUS.

Then haste ye awa' tae the waddin' the nicht!

Dinna miss it whate'er may befa'!

Ye'll never forget it as lang as ye leeve,

The lassies are buskit sae braw.

When ye're bid ye maun hasten awa' tae the bride

If ye can wi' a denty bit praisent,

For the lassie we a' dae oor best ye maun ken

Tae mak' her doon-sittin' fu' daicent.

An' the women folk a' maun see the bride's braws,

Ken what siller she got tae a fraction;

An' the mair that she gets the mair they are pleased,

It gies them the mair satisfaction.

CHORUS.

The bride's freens meet in her faither's ain hoose,

An' sit, if tae sit there is room,

An' wait till they hear the fiddler's lilt

That speedily brings the bridegroom.

The minister then the marriage begins—

As a rule he is tauld tae be brief—

An' quickly he ties them a knot wi' his tongue

They never can loose wi' their teeth.

CHORUS.

An' then it's the grand procession that's formed;

The best-man leads aff wi' the bride,

While the bridegroom comes on at the tail o' the line

Haudin' close tae the minister's side.

The fiddler leads at a lively pace,

An' clear frae his strings does he draw

The bonnie sweet notes o' that auld-farrant tune,

"Oh, it's woo'ed an' mairit an' a'."

CHORUS.

The procession maun halt at the bridegroom's new hoose

While the bride gangs in tae admire;

Then a ferl o' breed is thrown owre her heid,

An' wi' the poker she steers up the fire.

The procession moves on, an' the auld wifies cry,

"Eh, sirs, but she's bonnie an' braw!"

The fiddler's tune at this juncture is drooned

By the company's hearty "Hurrah."

CHORUS.

A' the wey tae the Ha', whaur the supper is spread,

They mairch tho' a mile an' mair;

Auld Bacchus afore them aye beckons them on,

For he's routh o' a' guid things there.

When the supper is owre the minister speaks

On the joys an' the sorrows o' life,

Advises the bride tae be guid tae her man

An' bridegroom tae be guid tae his wife.

CHORUS.

Then "Weel may we be, ill may we ne'er see,"

Is sung by the guests in accord;

At the end o' the roon, wi' a thunderin' soun',

They frichten the rats frae the board;

They disperse for a wee tae meet later on

Tae hae a nicht's pleesure an' fun,

For there's naething like daffin' an' dancing ye ken,

Tae drive dowie care tae the wun'.

CHORUS.

The fiddler tunes up an' rosins his bow,

An' sooples his airm for the jinkin';

At the very first note that soons thro' the ha'

The lads wi' the lassies come linkin';

The bride an' bridegroom lead aff the first dance,

Weel pleased wi' ilk ither, I'm thinkin',

While the auld yins that arena sae fleet o' the fit

Gang canny awa' tae the drinkin'.

CHORUS.

The fun an' the daffin gang on withoot check

Till the nicht's turned intae the mornin';

They've even been kent for tae haud at the dance

Till the sun the hill-taps was adornin'.

But if dreich is the dance, the drinkin' is waur;

Never heard is the craw o' the cock;

For as lang as there's drink an' the jollity guid

It's nae easy maiter tae stop.

CHORUS.

"But the drink gangs dune afore the drooth,"

An' the herts o' the tipplers a' sadden,

An' ilka yin noo maun fin' his wey hame,

For that is the end o' the waddin'.

Noo dinna ye think that they're gien tae the drink,

An' tae honour they're no weel behaudin';

They're leal an' they're true, their marrows are few,

Tho' they tak' a wee drap at a waddin'.

CHORUS.

THE THREE FISHERS.

At dawn of day we sped away

On the path that skirts the mine hill-side,

Whaur Elvan Burn, wi' mony a turn,

Gangs singing tae the River Clyde.

"When lazy loons did lie an' snore

An' dream the gowden dawn away

We lap the burn at Greenshields' door,

An' breisted bauld the Wungate brae."[1]

Then owre the fence an' through the pass,

That's cleft atween the Lowther hills,

Whaur mountain air, sae pure an' rare,

Blaws free frae Pedan's crystal rills.

Doon Pedan's vale straucht for Powtrail

We gaed, an' in oor min's nae doot

There was but what wi' flee or worm

We'd land some bonnie speckled troot.

The sun shone bricht, oor herts were licht,

We knew that we were better far

Away frae city's din an' strife,

Whaur Powtrail mingles wi' the Daur.

Three fishers keen as e'er were seen,

Tae throw a line on loch or stream,

Noo plied their rods wi' muckle skill,

An' sune their creels began tae fill.

We fished the Annershy an' Squaw

Frae noon weel on tae evenin' fa',

Likewise Glenocher an' Glengeath,

An' then we tramped across the heath,

Tae whaur the Toll Bar stood alane,

Like oasis in a desert plain,

Whaur weary fishers meet thegither,

Tae rest or join the sang an' blether.

Like nectar was the landlord's cheer,

Glenlivet, stout, an' reaming beer;

But ere the drink could tak' oor brain

We wisely took the road for hame.

Eicht lang Scots miles, an' uphill road,

Besides o' fish a heavy load,

We stauchert on wi' mony a grane,

Vowing we'd ne'er gang back again.

But e'er a week its coorse had run,

We thocht on naething but the fun

We had on Clyde's clear sparklin' river,

An' aff' we gaed as keen as ever.

[1] From Reid.

MA WAG-AT-THE-WA'.

Owre a hunner year auld, ye are still hale an' strang;

Ye've seldom been kenned the time tae gie wrang;

Tho' puirtith may come, an' misfortune befa',

I never will pairt wi' ma Wag-at-the-Wa'.

Ye belanged tae ma granny when she was a bride;

She coft ye an' fixed ye up on the wa' side;

New-fashioned timers I've heard her misca'

There ne'er was a clock like her Wag-at-the-Wa'.

When I cam' tae this warl' o' trouble an' sin,

Whaur we work oor life oot tae keep oor life in,

When I opened ma een, the first thing I saw

Was the braw soncy face o' my Wag-at-the-Wa'.

It is easy tae see ye are no jerry made;

Ye've been fashioned by workmen weel up tae their trade;

The modern timepiece has nae chance ava'

When compared wi' ma auld-farrant Wag-at-the-Wa'.

Many changes ye've seen since ye startit tae tick,

Yer han's tae gang roun' an' yer wheels tae gang click;

Ye sit on yer perch serene thro' them a'

Steady markin' the time, ma Wag-at-the Wa'.

The mail coach has gane, an' the train's taen its place;

We've Zepplins an' airyplanes fleein' in space;

Wi' wire an' wi' wireless, an' X-rays an' a',

Mony wonders ye've seen, ma Wag-at-the Wa'.

Electreecity harnessed likewise ye hae seen,

Propellin' the ship an' the bauld submarine,

Defyin' the elements, rain, wun', an' snaw;

It's the age o' invention, ma Wag-at-the-Wa'.

In city an' country it's drivin' the trams,

It will sune, I've nae doot, be applied tae the prams,

The lorries and 'busses an' motor cars braw;

What's next on the programme, ma Wag-at-the-Wa'?

Ye hae seen us in peace time, ye see us in war;

The roar of the cannon is heard frae afar;

The guid sword o' Freedom we strongly maun draw

As oor sires did langsyne, ma Wag-at-the-Wa'.

The wecht o' oor blows the Kaiser maun feel

Till he's seik at the hert an' ready tae kneel

Tae oor brave sturdy Allies an' Britannia;

Then peace will be lastin', ma Wag-at-the-Wa'.

Dear Wag-at-the-Wa', I hear by ye'r chime,

It's time I was stoppin' this rummelin' rhyme;

I'll blaw oot the can'le, on Morpheus I'll ca',

An' I'll bid ye "guid-nicht," ma Wag-at-the-Wa'.

"CURMUDGEON."

The word "curmudgeon" denotes to the Author's mind everything that is bad in human nature.

O' a' the ills we hae tae bear,

The greatest is Curmudgeon,

An' gin I had ma wull o' him

I'd trounce him wi' a bludgeon.

He thinks that man was made tae mourn,

Tae trouble he wad bind him;

Tae ilk fireside he trouble brings

An' leaves the same behind him.

He is the "daith's-heid at the feast;"

He's always in employment;

His greatest pleesure is tae keep

Mankind frae a' enjoyment.

When we are on a holiday

We want the sun tae smile again,

An' gie's a joyfu' cloudless day;

It's then Curmudgeon prays for rain.

To him, there's great men in this warl',

There's equals and inferiors;

He scorns the honest working-man,

And fawns on his superiors.

He licks the rich man's dirty buits,

An' never min's the flavour;

By every means he tries tae gain

The lordling's smile an' favour.

A bonnie lass gaes dancin' by,

Wha's licht o' hert an' cheerie;

He tells the next man that he meets

She's anybody's dearie.

An' if he meets a sober lass

Wha has nae smile tae greet him,

He says "still waters aft rin deep,

An' the deevil lies beneath them."

The lads are a' gaun tae the deuce

Wi' impudence an' pride, man!

Their lauch an' sang an' merry ploy

Curmudgeon canna bide, man.

He is an elder in the kirk,

Believes in fire an' blood, man;

An' for oor sins wad burn us up

Or droon us in a flood, man.

Curmudgeon is a thrifty carle,

The siller he can hain, man;

Tae catch the bawbees on the hop

Curmudgeon's ever fain, man.

It maiters na' hoo it may come,

Tae him it's always gain, man;

Owre ilk yin's fauts he greets an' granes,

An' never min's his ain, man.

Tae damp the fire o' age an' youth

He's like a sowkit blanket;

We hae na mony o' his kin',

"Sae let the Lord be thankit."

Burns e'en had peety for the Deil,

Deep doon in his vile dungeon;

But Clootie is a gentleman

Compared wi' auld Curmudgeon.

THE BONNIE BANKS O' CREE.

Down by the river Cree I stray

This lovely day in June;

The birds are sweetly singing.

The wild rose is in bloom,

The sparkling waters flowing

From the high-land rocks set free

In kingly style and glory by

The bonnie banks o' Cree.

O, if I were an artist true

I'd paint this scene so fair—

Fields and flowers and shaggy woods,

And streams and mountains bare.

And if I were a minstrel bard

I'd sing in praise of thee,

The wild birds to outrival on

The bonnie banks o' Cree.

Sweet river, I must leave you,

And I leave you with regret:

This glorious day upon thy banks

I never will forget.

I may again, if Heaven wills,

Enjoy thy charms and see

The love-inspiring beauty of

The bonnie banks o' Cree.

CHANCELLOR'S SEAT, LEADHILLS.

Amidst the Lowther Hills, on a slope rising from the Shortcleugh Burn, the friends of the late Henry Chancellor of Newton and Shieldhill have erected in his memory and to mark the spot where, he was found dead on the 1st of April, 1915, a stone seat, which is a centre of interest to visitors in this district. On paying my first visit on a fine Autumn day to Chancellor's Seat, as it is called, I was deeply impressed by the circumstances of his death and the wild beauty, solemnity and solitude of the scene of his passing, In front, the main Lowther Slope rising steeply to its lofty summit, its still smooth sides dressed in soft springy grey green turf; from the right, the Shortcleugh Burn springing from the rocks of the Five Cairns, winding its way down the Glen; to the left, the purple heather clad hills stretching as far as the eye could see, and in close proximity the Reservoir, its surface water moved by the wind, and sparkling in the rays of the sun—the whole made a scene that could not fail to soothe the jaded spirit, weary with the vexations and troubles of life. Such, with its Spring instead of its Autumn dressing, was the scene of the passing of Henry Chancellor.

Amidst the everlasting hills

He loved so well,

He met his end; what pain he bore

No tongue could tell;

No earthly friend was standing by,

No loved one over him to sigh,

No tender human heart was nigh

With grief to swell.

And, yet, his greatest Friend was there,

In yon' lone glen,

Who holds Creation in His care

And lives of men;

To comfort and uphold him, till

The Angels winged adown the hill

To bear his spirit from all ill

And mortal ken.

IN MEMORIAM.

THE LAST OF THE OLD BAN'.

Lines suggested by the death of John Dixon.

Gone is the last o' a guid auld Ban'

That played in the glen langsyne;

"Buirdly an' bauld like the hills o' their hame,"

Stalwart in body an' min';

For anything clever an' manly

At gala or market or fair

They could haud the croon o' the causey,

Frichtit for naebody there.

Gracies, M'Millans, an' Tyler,

Nicol an' Dixon, M'Kane,

Hastie an' Harkness an' Shankland,

Their like we may ne'er see again.

Weel could they han'le their trumpets,

Their notes a' sae sweetly in tune;

Nae Ban' could tae them haud a can'le

Tho' ye'd socht for a hunner mile roon.

An' yet they said naething aboot it,

Sae modest an' manly were they:

They never were guid at the braggin',

Tho' difficult pairts they could play.

They played at the sports an' the picnic,

They played at the concert an' dance.

Weel pleased if by honest endeavour

They could oor bit pleasures enhance.

Happy were they a' thegither

When met for a crack or a dram;

Their mirth never mair unseemly

Than the lilt o' a guid auld sang.

Noo, alas! they're gane frae amang us,

Nae mair will their music inspire;

Maybe the Maister has ta'en them

Tae play in the heavenly choir.

TO MR AND MRS JAMES SLIMMON,

WANLOCKHEAD.

On the death of their son, Private Robert Slimmon, Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry, while serving his country in Egypt.

Dear friends, the news has come to hand,

I scarce can think it true;

With heart that's sore I pen my thoughts

And send them on to you.

We cannot read the hand of Fate

Or what's in store foretell;

We know not why his life was claimed,

A life that promised well.

Fair as the noon of summer day,

Or like a flower in spring,

Or like the glint of morning sun

That makes the wild birds sing;

Such was his life. We had a glimpse

That filled our hearts with joy;

Alas! the rose but hid the thorn

As gold hides the alloy.

When loose becomes the silver cord,

And broken by death's strain,

The body crumbles, but the soul

Returns to God again—

To where the wondrous might of love

Is voiced in deathless song.

Have faith: its power will fit our boy

To join the angel throng.

And so, methinks, we should not mourn

Or question dispensation;

To know he did his duty well

Must be our consolation.

And while the months and years roll on

His memory let us cherish,

And ne'er forget our bright young friend

Till mind and mem'ry perish.

DR WILSON, WANLOCKHEAD.

"OOR DOCTOR."

Come a' wha leeve in Wanlockheid

An' murn wi' me, oor Doctor's deid:

Nae mair he'll cheer us on oor way,

Nae mair he'll spiel the Gow'scaures brae

Tae his loved hame amang the flooers.

Whaur he did spen' his leisure oors—

Oors that were few an' far between,

For sair he toiled frae morn till e'en

Tae free his patients frae their pain

An' mak' the broken hale again;

Wi' muckle skill he tent us a'

Wi' equal care, baith great an' sma'.

A kin'ly hert beat in his breast,

His love was great for man an' beast;

Aye ready Fortune's smile tae share,

The freen an' champion o' the puir.

On Nature's charms he looked wi' joy,

An' earnest seekers did employ

Wha gethered frae the mine an' glen

Mony a flooer an' mineral gem.

He had his fau'ts, we hae nae doot;

What mortal ever leeved withoot?

They were sae sma' we couldna' scan

Them through the virtues o' the man.

An' noo his earthly coorse is run;

Nae mair he'll see the settin' sun,

An' watch frae aff the mountain's hicht

Day's glory deein' intae nicht.

The loss is oors; we murn fu' sair:

Maybe his like we'll see nae mair;

Till death's dark shadow dims the e'e

Oor Doctor will remembered be.

FUNERAL OF PRIVATE ALEX. HOWLAND,

2nd K.O.S.B.,

Who died of wounds in St. Luke's Hospital, Halifax, and was buried in Wanlockhead Churchyard on August 30, 1918.

The curfew's mournful tone was heard

Resounding through the glen,

And from the pathway on the hill

The heavy tramp of men,

Whose mien contrasted strangely with

The glow of Autumn's sun,

Bearing the form of a soldier lad

To his rest so nobly won.

'Twas sad to see the cortege pass

His dear old father's home,

From which, at the call of duty stern,

He sailed across the foam.

'Twas sad to see his mother's grief

And hear his sisters weep,

E'er the silver line began to shine

Through shadows dark and deep.

They laid him down in the Old Churchyard,

'Neath the swaying, bending trees,

Where green grass grows and wild flowers bloom

'Mid the heather-scented breeze,

Far, far removed from the din of war,

No more to feel its thrills;

To rest in peace in the kindly shade

Of the everlasting hills.

LINES ON A FRIEND,

Who, before he died, expressed the desire to be laid in Wanlock.

Oh! lay me doon in Wanlock;

Untroubled I will sleep

Whaur heather grows and the burnie rowes

Awa' tae join the deep.

The friends lie there I kent langsyne,

The kindest an' the best;

Until the Resurrection Morn

Amang them let me rest.

Dear lo'ed yins that I leave 'ahin,

Oh, dinna, dinna murn;

According to great Nature's plan

Tae dust we maun return.

Oh! Wanlock, dear auld Wanlock,

Beside ye I maun be,

For God has planted in ma hert

A daithless love for thee.

WULLIE TAMSON, LATE O' SNAR.

Near whaur Duneaton smoothly flows

A namely poet leeved langsyne,

A kin'ly, genial, honest soul

Wha wove his fancies intae rhyme.

A humble shepherd lad was he,

An' ne'er aspired tae high estate:

His name was never on the roll

Amang the world's rich an' great.

In simmer heat an' winter's snaw

He tent his flocks upon the hill,

Whaur he could inspiration draw

Frae tum'lin' burn an' sparklin' rill,

Frae heather bloom an' wavin' fern,

Frae lintie's sang an' bonnie flooer,

Frae winter storms an' driftin' snaw,

Frae thunder-cloud an' sleety shooer.

In simple words he sweetly voiced

The joys an' sorrows o' the poor;

'Mang shepherd lads the country roon

He bore the gree in social oor.

A man o' independent mind,

He feared nae maister, man, or lord;

Aye strecht was he at mairt or fair

Or seated at the social board.

Auld Scotland, why will we forget

Tae render honour whaur it's due?

Why will we fawn on gowd an' lan'

Wi' naething higher in oor view?

Let's fill a bumper tae the brim

An' toast his mem'ry near an' far,

An' ne'er forget tae honour men

KITCHENER.

The Nation mourns for K. of K.;

Who from this life has passed away;

His body lies beneath the wave,

The soldier's found a sailor's grave.

The hero he of many a fight,

Was stern, unbending, for the right;

In purpose strong, he feared no foe;

Ah, Fate! then why this cruel blow?

The Nation mourns; where can she find

A man so true, so just, so kind,

With brain and hand to guide the helm,

And guard the honour of the realm?

Would he had lived to see the fall

Of Europe's tyrants one and all,

From war's fell grip the world's release,

And nations crowned with lasting peace!

Sleep on, great heart! If we endure

Like thee, our victory is sure;

Thy shade will lead us, Nation's friend,

Thy spirit conquer in the end.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF DAVID CUMMING.

Beloved husband of Margaret Gracie, who died at 126 Glasgow Road, Burnbank, on Monday, 7th October, 1918, aged 51 years.

The Angel of Death came silent and swift,

And wafted your spirit away;

And all that was mortal, with reverent touch,

We sadly consigned to the clay.

We thought of you then as the husband and friend,

The brother who did not wax old,

Whose rugged exterior never could hide

The big, kindly heart of pure gold.

We thought of the last time we met on the hill

And angled the swift-running stream;

How we gloried and revelled in Nature's delights,

And the golden hours passed like a dream.

As we stood at the close of a perfect day

Inhaling the mountain's pure breath,

We reck'd not how soon between us would roll

The dark, sullen river of death.

The summer will come with its long sunny days,

The daisies will spangle the lea;

The brooks and the rivers will sing to the sun

As they flow on their way to the sea;

The whaup and the lapwing will sound their wild note,

The thyme and the heather will bloom;

And all these allurements will call you again,

But no answer can come from the tomb.

You have crossed o'er the bourne to the mystery land;

No more will we meet on this plane;

The joys of the bright sunny days we have spent

We cannot live over again;

Yet meekly, submissively, humbly we bend

To the will of our Father in Heaven.

To Him, with His infinite love for mankind,

Let honour and glory be given.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF

BABY ANNA JANE M'KENZIE.

She came like a ray of the morning sun,

Like the gleam of a meteor at night,

To gladden our hearts and fill them with joy,

And her advent was hailed with delight.

As the fleecy cloud so pure and white,

Or the snow by the tempest driven,

Was her tiny form, in its perfect mould,

In her eyes was the light of Heaven.

Too good and pure for this world of strife,

Where virtue is often a name;

She was borne away by the Angel of Love

To the realms from whence she came.

No parents' love could keep this child,

Nor grandmother's tender care:

No setting had earth for such a flower

So angelic, so lovely, so fair.

WANLOCK LADS.

There are hearts bowed down in the manse in our town,

As there are in the miners' cot,

For the brave sons who fell 'mid the shot and the shell,

Whose names shall ne'er be forgot

In the Old Grey Glen; they proved to be men,

When their lives so freely they gave;

On the scroll of fame we'll inscribe each name,

While they lie in the soldier's grave.

They hear not the battle, with cannons' loud rattle,

No sound can awake them to fight once again;

They have gone from this life with its bloodshed and strife,

Their numbers are found on the list of the slain.

Yet why should we weep, they have well earned their sleep,

Altho' to the glen they will never return;

They stood in the fight for God and the right,

Then why, oh why, should we mourn?

Then all bereaved ones should be proud of their sons

(And pride ought to smother each sigh and each tear),

As Britain to-day is proud of her stay,

When danger and death is near;

Oh! Great Power Divine, pray hasten the time

When all men shall know Thee and each knee shall bend;

Then Peace like a dove shall descend from above,

This terrible carnage to end.

THE AULD VOLUNTEERS.

D COMPANY, K.O.S.B.

Time brings its changes in country an' toon,

We're conscious o' this when we tak' a look roun';

Guid men hae gane; gin ye len' me yer ears,

I'll bring ye in min' o' the Auld Volunteers.

There were men frae Kirkconnel, sae buirdly an' fine,

Though the maist o' them wrocht in the depths o' the mine,

A fine set o' fellows, devoid o' a' fears,

They made a guid third o' the Auld Volunteers.

Doon Mennock's fair glen, frae Wanlock's high hills,

Far famed for their beauty an' clear sparkling rills,

Cam' giants in stature; noo mark ye wha hears,

They were real men an' true tae the Auld Volunteers.

Descendants o' famous on history's scroll,

The brave men o' Sanquhar completed the roll;

Wi' pride in their herts they looked back through the years,

"These then were those" in the Auld Volunteers.

Captains Stewart and Wilson, M'Connel an' a',

When they mairched oot the lads o' the heather sae braw,

Thocht D.C., K.O.S.B. then had few compeers,

Gey prood were the three o' the Auld Volunteers.

THE YOUNG VOLUNTEERS.

The Young Volunteers frae the vale o' the Nith,

May their herts never fail, nor their airms lose their pith.

As we hear o' their daurin', oor hert it aye cheers,

An' we pray for the lads in the Young Volunteers.

The day will sune dawn, in the East an' the West,

Whaur oor brave lads are gieing the foemen nae rest.

The fecht will be owre when the morning appears,

Wi' victory's croon for the Young Volunteers.

Some are awa' tae the Land o' the Leal,

Forgotten are bullets an' deidly cauld steel,

Whaur there's angels, bricht angels, tae wipe awa' tears,

An' the watchword is love, wi' oor ain Volunteers.

THE PONY DRIVER'S LAMENT FOR PUIR GEORDIE,

Who, going lame, had to be shot before he could be drawn from the mine.

Puir Geordie! ye are deid an' gane,

An' free frae every ache an' pain;

Frae tip o' tail tae glossy mane

Ye were a beauty,

An' when ye were upon this plane

Ye did yer duty.

Tae draw an' kep, tae turn an' back,

An' lift a hutch when aff the track,

Ye werena feart yer limbs tae wrack

But strained wi' micht:

A horse like ye for daein' wark

Ne'er saw the licht.

Shame! that a beast like ye sae fine

Should e'er been pitten doon a mine,

Awa' frae a' the gled sunshine.

Ah! cruel fate,

They thocht tae bring ye up again,

Alas! owre late.

When ye gaed lame an' couldna' draw,

They killed ye wi' a rifle ba';

I couldna' stan' tae see ye fa',

Sae turned tae rear

Tae hide my grief an' wipe awa'

The startin' tear.

An' noo when in the grave ye lie

I think on ye wi' mony a sigh;

Owre milk that's spilt nae use tae cry,

Say tak' yer rest,

But this I ken, as low ye lie,

Auld freens are best.

THE BRIDE'S LAMENT.

Song. Tune, "Bonnie Light Horseman."

REFRAIN.

I had a true lover, he gaed to the war;

'Twas a lasting farewell; here I'll ne'er see him more.

We were happy together on yon mountain side,

Where we met and we parted; he made me his bride.

REFRAIN.

At Loos in the battle my lover fought well;

Though wounded and bleeding, still fighting he fell.

No more he will wander his own Highland glen,

For my lover lies buried on fair Flanders' plain.

REFRAIN

When this wild war is over I will go to his grave,

The salt tear to shed for my gallant and brave.

Oh! bitter is my sorrow, and sadly I weep,

And fain would I join in my lover's last sleep.

REFRAIN.

When God in His mercy shall call me above

We shall meet and rejoice in His infinite love.

AT DAVY'S GRAVE.

The life of one we called our own

Has ended here.

Here lies his frame; his soul has flown

To grander sphere,

Where pain and suffering come no more,

Where silver waves lap the golden shore,

Where the music of the angelic choir

Falls on the ear.

His simple life showed noble parts

From day to day:

By love and trust, o'er all our hearts

He gained the sway.

Our love and care tenfold repaid

By him, now "dear departed shade,"

Resigned to suffering, while he made

His heavenward way.

The circling lapwing's eerie cry

O'er the wind-swept mound,

And Afton sweetly singing by

Doth requiem sound.

We'll leave him here with Nature's wild,

Fit resting-place for Nature's child,

Whose life was pure and undefiled,

In hallowed ground.

SONGS.

THE AULD SANGS.

Medley. Tune, "The Auld Hoose."

When first I heard the auld sangs

'Twas at my mither's knee;

I'll min' her voice sae sweet an' low

Until the day I dee.

She sang the sang o' Auld Lang Syne,

The Braes Abune Bonaw,

The Bonnie Woods o' Craigielea,

An' Nannie's Noo Awa'.

CHORUS.

The Auld Sangs, the Auld Sangs,

I like sae weel tae hear.

O, sing tae me the Auld Sangs

Tae hert an' memory dear.

Yestreen I gaed a waefu' gait,

I tramped o'er moss an' fen

Tae haud a tryst wi' Bonnie Kate

In Moraig's fairy glen.

Ye Banks an' Braes o' Bonnie Doon,

The Lass o' Ballochmyle,

An' ye shall walk in silk attire

Wi' Mary o' Argyle.

CHORUS.

Braw, Braw Lads on Yarrow Braes,

Wi' Rabbie's Bonnie Jean,

Royal Chairlie's noo awa',

An' Jock o' Hazeldean.

Gae bring tae me a pint o' wine,

Get up an' bar the door.

Guidnicht, an' joy be wi' ye a',

My bark is on the shore.

MY AULD VIOLIN.

When I was a callan jist entered my teens,

Wi' my ain penny savin's an' help o' my freens,

I managed tae gether a pickle o' tin

Tae buy ye in Glesca, my auld violin.

I min' when I got ye hoo prood I was then,

I couldna' been mair sae tho' laird o' the glen;

As I lovingly cuddled ye under my chin

I vowed I wad cherish my auld violin.

The first time I tried ye yer notes soonded queer,

But at scrapin' an' shiftin' I did persevere;

"The Last Rose o' Simmer" and "Father O'Flynn"

I sune learned tae play on my auld violin.

I thocht when I'd learned weel tae han'le the bow

There had ne'er been aic-like since the days o' Neil Gow;

For Skinner or Murdoch I cared na a pin

As I drew oot the chords frae my auld violin.

Ye gaed tae the concerts, the waddin's, and balls,

An' encores were rife frae the pit an' the stalls;

An' the youths wi' the dancin' were fain tae begin

When they heard the blithe lilt o' my auld violin.

Tho' hard be my fortune an' sair be my toil

Tae gain me a leevin' frae mine or frae soil,

I'll sit by the fire when my day's darg is dune,

An' drive awa' care wi' my auld violin.

When the Trumpet shall soun' an' the ca' shall go forth,

Tae the east, tae the wast, tae the sooth, an' the north,

When they that are ready shall be a' gethered in,

I fain wad be there wi' my auld violin.

THE AULD THACKIT HOOSE.

I'll sing ye a sang aboot the days o' langsyne

When the thochts o' the past are the first on my min';

Then many happy days I spent when I was young

In the Auld Thackit Hoose on the braes o' the burn.

My faither an' my mither, sae canty an' sae croose,

Were happy wi' their bairns in their ain auld hoose;

Noo they're sleepin' in the mools an' sair dae I murn,

In the Auld Thackit Hoose on the braes o' the burn.

My brithers an' my sisters hae a' taen their flicht,

An' they're far frae the bield whaur they first saw the licht;

But I'm shair that in longin' their thochts aften turn

Tae the Auld Thackit Hoose on the braes o' the burn.

Noo I'm gettin' auld an' doited an' I'm wearin' awa'

Tae the land whaur there's nae pain nor sorrow ava',

An' lanesome I'm waitin' till the Maister says, Come,

Frae the Auld Thackit Hoose on the braes o' the burn.

THE AULD GREY GLEN.

WANLOCK.

Sixty years hae gane an' mair, an' yet I mind fu' weel,

When I was but a laddie jist ready for the schule,

The bonnie strappin' lassies an' the brawny stalwart men

Reared amang the heather in the Auld Grey Glen.

Each hame was warm in winter an' cool 'neath simmer sun,

Built against the hillside wi' routh o' lime an' whun;

Nae drawin'-room or parlour but jist a but an' ben,

Weel theekit ower wi' heather in the Auld Grey Glen.

Tae meet wi' yin anither we cheerily wad gang,

An' be happy a' thegither wi' a guid auld sang;

Tho' puir we helped ilk ither an' wad borrow an' wad len',

'Twas a rale communal system in the Auld Grey Glen.

The lads when gaun a-coortin' in guid hamespun were dressed,

Wi' braw Balmoral bonnets, a heidgear o' the best;

Nae hats wi' gaudy feathers had Mary, Mag, or Jen—

They were cuddled 'neath a plaidie in the Auld Grey Glen.

Tho' customs, fashions a' hae changed the spirit's still the same,

An' we're ready aye tae play oor pairts for country an' for hame,

Oor dearest, bravest laddies we wullingly did sen'

Tae fecht for love and honour an' the Auld Grey Glen.

LEVEL NO. 6.

Song. Tune, "Bound to be a Row."

Come a' ye jolly miners an' listen tae ma sang,

An' then in pity drap a tear as doon the vale ye gang,

For a puir unlucky chappie wha's been in mony a fix,

An' is noo a powny driver doon in Level No. 6.

CHORUS.

In Level No. 6—in Level No. 6.

Yer sorrows are nae far tae seek,

In Level No. 6.

There are twa pownies in the mine, a braw an' bonnie pair,

An' physically fit are they tae dae their wark an' mair;

But Dandy wi' his funeral step, an' Bobbie wi his tricks,

Mak' the driver's life a burden doon in Level No. 6.

CHORUS.

An' then the ruif is far owre low, wi' the hinger hingin' doon,

Yer needin' stickin' plaister aye, for the dressin' o' yer croon;

Sometimes ye think ye've got it, frae a hunerwecht o' bricks—

Job's patience wadna' stan' the test in Level No. 6.

CHORUS.

Whiles when ye think ye're daein' weel, an' a sang begin tae croon,

It's then ye hear the gaffer's plaint—"Is this a' ye hae dune?"

If ye dinna get the ha'pence, ye're shair tae get the kicks

Frae the gaffers or the pownies doon in Level No. 6.

CHORUS.

The miners doon in No. 6 are awfu' han's tae sweer;

Gang and hear them for yersel' gin ye think that I'm a leear;

There's the Billys and the Sandys, the Taffys and the Micks,

Cosmopolitan is jist the word for Level No. 6.

CHORUS.

Wi' a' this fash an' worry, I'm seek an' tired o' life,

An' I'd gledly gang an' droon masel' gin that would end the strife;

But a worse micht then befa' me, for I'm nae freen o' Auld Nick's,

Sae I think I'd better work awa' in Level No. 6.

CHORUS.

EMERGENCY PUMP, LEVEL No. 4.

In 1908 we set ye up,

A mechanism fine;

We a' admired ye as ye lashed

The water frae the mine.

Noo that anither's taen yer place

Ye're reckoned second-rate,

An' dark an' silent there ye stan'

Until there comes a spate.

But when we ask ye for a lift

Ye start aff wi' a roar,

Sae keen are ye tae dae yer bit

At Level No. 4.

When oiled an' greased an' packit weel,

An' steady hauds the steam,

Ye gang as smooth as ony clock

Or ony poet's dream.

Tae pumps, an' horse, an' human kind,

The kindlier we are

The mair o' guid we get frae them,

The less tae fret an' jar.

Sae let us aye keep this in mind

When ilka spell is o'er,

An' kindly tend ye while ye rest

At Level No. 4.

THE TURNING O' THE WHEEL.

New Song with an Old Title. Old Country Style.

As I was a-walking upon a simmer day

I spied a bonnie lassie a-winnowin' the hay;

Says I, "My bonnie lassie, true love for you I feel.

Will ye wed and share what fortune brings wi' the

turnin' o' the wheel?"

Says she, "My bonnie laddie, I'm far ower young for thee;

My faither an' my mither they baith wad angry be

Were I sae young tae wed wi' you an' leave their hamely biel

Tae share what fortune brings you wi' the turnin' o' the wheel."

Says I, "My bonnie lassie, O! dinna say me nay;

Tho' young you be, that is a faut that's mendin' every day;

If ye'll consent tae mairry me ye'll find me kind an' leal,

An' we'll share what fortune brings us wi' the turnin'

o' the wheel."

Says she, "My bonnie laddie, yer offer tempts me sair;

Gin ye can win the auld folks I'll hesitate nae mair,

An' I'll lay by my winin's, likewise my rock an' reel,

An' share what fortune brings ye wi' the turnin' o' the wheel."

Noo we've been mairried mony a year, an' happy we hae been,

We watch oor children's children a-sportin' on the green;

Let ilka lad an' lassie wha lo'e each ither weel

Get wed an' share what fortune brings wi' the turnin'

o' the wheel.

TO ARMS!

Song. Recruiting Call.

Arise! Arise! Britannia's sons!

And forward go with flag unfurled,

And help to crush this murderous Power

That seeks to dominate the world.

Arise and answer to the call,

And strike for freedom and the name

Of manhood 'gainst a foe that's lost

Alike to honour and to shame!

Then dauntless let your courage be

Upon the land, upon the sea;

Blood of the innocent cries to you

For vengeance on the fiendish crew.

Fear not to fight, fear not to die

In the dear cause of Liberty;

Then righteousness shall be your guard,

The God of justice will reward.

THE HAPPY LOVER.

Song. In light vein.

'Twas in the guid auld simmer time,

When birdies sang sae cheery O,

Yae nicht I busket in my best,

An' gaed tae meet my dearie O.

CHORUS.

Singin' fal the dal, fal the didle al;

Singin' fal the doo a di dee O.

I met her comin' ower the muir,

I was richt gled tae see her O;

I kissed her twenty times an' mair

Afore that I wad free her O.

CHORUS.

Her dainty heid weel filled wi' sense

Aneath her cockernonie O;

Her hair the jet, her e'e the slae,

Her rosy cheeks sae bonnie O.

CHORUS.

Her lips sae sweet, her chin sae neat

Her teeth sae white an' pearly O,

Her form the fairest o' the fair,

Her voice jist like the merlie O.

CHORUS.

We'll yokit be at Martimas,

Tae pu' thro' life thegither O;

That happy nicht we'll ever mind

Amang the bloomin' heather O.

CHORUS.

NEVER SEEN MORE.

Song. 1st Verse, Old Song.

Some die when they're young and some live to old age;

Man is a play-actor, this world is a stage;

Each one plays his part, and when it is o'er

The Curtain drops down and he's never seen more.

He toils from the rise till the set of the sun,

And the shadows come down ere his labour is done;

Still he holds on his way till his harvest is o'er,

Then the Curtain drops down and he's never seen more.

O, man breathes to live, and he lives but to die;

His life's a short dream, with eternity nigh;

His joys and his sorrows are very soon o'er,

For the Curtain drops down and he's never seen more.

As we go thro' this world let us fight the good fight,

Let us help one another and do what is right.

If we all do our best there's naught to deplore

When the Curtain drops down and we're never seen more.

WANLOCK'S BUIRDLY ROBIN.

To ROBERT WANLOCK REID, born in Wanlockhead, 1850.

Song. Tune, "Neil Gow."

Up in the sooth whaur chill win's blaw,

An' aft betide rain, rowk an' snaw,

'Twas there the advent did befa'

O' Wanlock's Buirdly Robin.

CHORUS

He was a rantin' clever chiel,

Could gie a screed richt aff the reel,

An' sing a cantie sang as weel,

Wanlock's Buirdly Robin.

The fairy folk, a merry ban',

Aroon his cradle bed did stan'

While the Fairy Princess waved her wan'

Owre Wanlock's Buirdly Robin.

CHORUS.

Years syne, in youth's bricht sunny days,

He ran aboot the bonnie braes,

Mang Nature's wilds he tuned his lays,

Wanlock's Buirdly Robin.

CHORUS.

Like Burns, an' Hogg, an' Tannahill,

He plied the Muse wi' muckle skill,

An' aften did oor hert-strings thrill,

Wanlock's Buirdly Robin.

CHORUS.

He's noo awa', far owre the main,

An's added lustre tae his name;

Oh! wull he no come back again,

Wanlock's Buirdly Robin?

CHORUS.

THE LASS O' DURISDEER.

Song. Tune, "My love is like a red, red rose."

REFRAIN.

Oh! bonnie burn, Oh! bonnie burn,

Wi' water crystal clear,

Sing sweetly by the hame whaur bides

The Lass o' Durisdeer.

Though but a lass o' low estate,

I care'na wha may hear

Me sing her praise wi' a' ma hert,

The Lass o' Durisdeer.

REFRAIN.

In Carron's wild majestic glen

Flowers bloom the hert tae cheer,

But the fairest flower amang them a'

The Lass o' Durisdeer.

REFRAIN.

Wi' voice sweet as the lintie's sang;

Melodious on the ear,

Wi' een sae blue an' hert sae true,

The Lass o' Durisdeer.

REFRAIN.

Though I hae gane sae far awa'

Tae fecht for country dear,

My fondest hopes are centred on

The Lass o' Durisdeer.

REFRAIN.

A fairy guard frae Enterkin

Is wi' me, hae nae fear!

For I'll come safely hame and wed

The Lass o' Durisdeer.

REFRAIN.

BONNIE JEAN.

Song.

A kennan yont the Lowther Hills,

In a miner's cot sae trig an' clean,

A lass was born in sixty-twa,

The gossips ca'ed her Bonnie Jean.

She was her mither's pride an' joy,

An angel in her faither's een;

O! ne'er was lass in a' the glen

That could compare wi' Bonnie Jean.

REFRAIN.

Then here's tae the lass there's nane can surpass,

An' may a' that's guid befa' her.

Aye foremaist in the merry ploy

'Mang lads an' lassies on the green;

Tae sing an' dance an' play the game,

Nane blither there than Bonnie Jean.

I've heard the lintie sing his sang,

An' mony fairy dawns I've seen,

But naething could the fancy stir

Or touch ma hert like Bonnie Jean.

REFRAIN.

Yae nicht aneath the mune's pure licht

That bathed the moor in silvery sheen

I spiered her gin her hert was mine;

"It's yours for aye," quo' Bonnie Jean.

The years rolled owre oor heids since then

Hae mony joys an' sorrows gi'en,

But still I share them, yin an' a',

Wi' my leal-hearted Bonnie Jean.

BETTY O' THE STRANKLY.[1]

Song.

I've been in London and Paree,[2]

I've seen the beauties owre the sea,

But nane o' them could please ma e'e

Like Betty o' the Strankly.

REFRAIN.

O' a' the lassies I hae seen,

This I'll say fu' frankly,

There ne'er was yin amang them a'

Like Betty o' the Strankly.

O' Nature's charms she has full share,

Besides her virtues are so rare

That she wi' angels micht compare,

Blithe Betty o' the Strankly.

REFRAIN.

Oh! gin I were a worthy swain

I'd strive an' work an' siller hain

Tae win her hert and mak' a hame

For Betty o' the Strankly.

REFRAIN.

Tae comfort her owre life's short span,

O, may she wed a leal guidman;

For kindly hert an' open han'

Has Betty o' the Strankly.

REFRAIN.

[1] Strancleugh.

[2] Paris.

LASS O' GLENDOWERAN.

Glendoweran sits upon a hill,

Sae bonnie, all alone;

Ye'll find it gin ye tak' a walk

Sooth-wast frae Crawfordjohn.

An' when ye get upon the hill

Amang the sheep an' kye,

Jist ca' upon the farmer's folk,

Ye maunna pass them by.

Ye'll see a bonnie lassie there,

I daurna tell her name;

For look an' airt she'd envied be

By mony a titled dame.

Her music fills the hoose wi' soun'

Sae pleasin' tae the ear,

It touches baith the hert an' min',

An' waukens mem'ries dear.

The lad that wins this lassie's hert

Will happy be, I'm shair;

Wi' love an' soul-inspiring airt,

What could he wish for mair?

Then may their lives like pleasant dreams

Sae smoothly pass away,

Till frae the hill they hae tae gang

When life has closed its day.

SAE WULL WE YET.

New Version.

Come, cheer up, my comrades, an' never say die,

There's nae cloud in the lift the wun canna blaw by;

'Neath the sway of a despot we never did sit,

We've aye held tae Freedom, an' sae wull we yet.

A Tiger came forth an' Europe was his prey,

For mony a year his cubs have drunk success to "the Day;"

But the day will come roun', an' the biter will be bit,

For we've aye laid the tyrant low, an' sae wull we yet.

Here's a health tae oor lads on the land an' the sea,

An' may a' guid attend them whaure'er they may be!

In the days that are gane they hae nobly dune their bit,

In purpose they are still as strong, an' sae wull they yet.

Why should we sorrow for the brave that are no more?

They fought for right an' justice, an' they've reached a fairer shore,

Where we'll see them yince again when we prove oorsels as fit,

We've trusted aye in Providence, an' sae wull we yet.

Wi' oor leal-herted Allies, then, hand in hand we'll go

Till we've silenced all his mighty guns an' vanquished the foe;

Then peace frae oor country may ne'er hae tae flit,

We've aye believed that this would come, an' sae wull we yet.

THE BONNIE AULD DORIC O' SCOTLAND.

Tune, "Kail Brose o' Auld Scotland."

I've been tauld by a freen—tho' I'm laith sae tae think—

That the Auld Scottish Doric is noo on the brink

O' passin' awa' an' becomin' extinct,

The Bonnie Auld Doric o' Scotland,

The Auld Scottish Doric sae fine.

When I first saw the licht in a wee but an' ben

An' startit life's battle tae fecht amang men,

Fu' soothin' tae me was the soun' o' it then,

The Bonnie Auld Doric o' Scotland,

The Auld Scottish Doric sae fine.

The days o' my boyhood sair trouble did bring

(Time always carries it under his wing),

Tae ease me o' pain my mither wad sing

In the Bonnie Auld Doric o' Scotland,

The Auld Scottish Doric sae fine.

Weel rowed in a plaidie, an' beilt frae the wun',

I coortit a lassie sae winsome an' young,

I whispered my love in the auld mither tongue—

The Bonnie Auld Doric o' Scotland,

The Auld Scottish Doric sae fine.

Where'er I may roam on the land or the sea

Oor Doric will aye be the sweetest tae me;

It cheers the lane hert and it lichts the sad e'e,

The Bonnie Auld Doric o' Scotland,

The Auld Scottish Doric sae fine.

It's nonsense tae say that the Doric maun gang,

For Rabbie has made it immortal in sang.

Sae noo, my auld freen, jist admit ye are wrang

'Boot the Bonnie Auld Doric o' Scotland,

The Auld Scottish Doric sae fine.

CHEER UP!

Wee bairnies in the city slum, the time is drawing near

When in your lives of want and gloom the daylight will appear;

There's men and women working hard; before their work is done

They'll take you from your darksome home and place you in the sun.

CHORUS.

Then, cheer up! cheer up! Don't let your spirits go down!

Always trust in Providence and never wear a frown.

Cheer up! cheer up! Keep smiling if you can,

It's an antidote for trouble in the life of man.

Now, all young men and maidens, in the heyday of your charm,

Be sure and mate with those you love, 'twill save you future harm.

But if a man or maiden gay should bring your love to naught,

There's as good fish in the sea to-day as ever have been caught.

CHORUS.

You married men and women, who have realised love's dream,

And now with quiver filling, "pulling hard against the stream"

You strive and work, yet wonder how your offspring may be fed;

Look up! the dawn is breaking; there are better times ahead.

CHORUS.

You old and grey and feeble, who have spent your days in toil,

To gain an honest living from the mine or from the soil,

You must be better tended here, on that we all agree,

Till you glimpse a fairer Eden, and your spirits are set free.

CHORUS.

WHERE IS THE HINDENBURG LINE?

Sung to the same tune as the famous old song, "Where is mein leedle dog gone."

REFRAIN

Where, oh where is the Hindenburg Line

That is drawn on the land and the sea?

'Tis a puzzle to find, this Hindenburg Line,

Oh where! Oh where can it be?

Where, Oh where is the Hindenburg Line

Where Hindenburg's going to stand

And fight with his might against all that is right,

All for love of his own Vaterland?

Where, etc.

Billy and Sandy, and Davy and Pat,

Along with their comrades of France,

Are trying to find this wonderful line,

And make the old Hindenburg dance.

Where, etc.

If Hindenburg waits on the Hindenburg Line,

His dangers increase without doubt,

For the Yankees will find him and surely compel

The boasting old cuss to get out.

Where, etc.

FORWARD.

Forward! the brave of the mountain and valley;

Forward! the brave of the country and town;

Forward! the bravest and best of the city;

Forward to glory and deathless renown!

Know that we're fighting for honour and freedom.

Know that we strike in humanity's cause;

Blood of the innocent bids us remember

To stand for the right and humanity's laws.

Count not the cost in the brave who have fallen;

For them the dark night with its trial is o'er;

For we must fight on till the clarion call

Of the Right shall be heard from shore unto shore.

Free the white slaves from the power of the tyrant!

Drive down oppression in every land!

Know that by honest and dauntless endeavour

We nations can bind in a glorious band.

WANLOCK.

By M'ARTHUR.

Song.

Some foolishly wander across the wide billows,

Allured by the gold-bearing streams of the West,

They dream California can yield them a pillow,

Whereon they in safety and comfort may rest.

CHORUS.

But Wanlock, dear Wanlock,

I'll not leave thy waters;

My home is beside thee,

The home I lo'e best.

When spring's gentle sun o'er the Lowthers is rising,

When summer wi' verdure their still sides has dressed,

I'll wander these glens, foreign landscapes despising,

For these are the scenes still most dear to my breast.

CHORUS.

'Tis true that we dwell where the stormy winds gather,

And thunder-clouds burst on the wild mountain's crest,

But, Oh! to reside near the home of my fathers

Is dearer to me than the gold of the West.

CHORUS.

In autumn we'll roam through the sweet blooming heather

That clothes the Auld Dod in a bright crimson vest;

And in winter, wi' wife and bairns gathered together,

Around our warm ingle we'll sing and be blest.

CHORUS.

Then Wanlock, dear Wanlock,

I'll not leave thy waters;

For even in death down beside

Thee I'll rest.

MA AULD CRONIE TAM.

AN APPRECIATION OF GRIERSON GRACIE,

By J. M. HARKNESS.

Song.

I'll sing o' a cronie wha dearly I lo'e;

His virtues are mony, his vices are few.

Treat him fair an' ye'll find him as quiet as a lamb;

It's a pleesure tae meet wi' ma Auld Cronie Tam.

REFRAIN

Ma Auld Cronie Tam,

Ma Auld Cronie Tam,

It inspires me tae meet

Wi' ma Auld Cronie Tam.

When he plays his auld fiddle it mak's ma hert thrill;

Ma faith! he can han'le the bow wi' some skill.

Ye may travel owre Scotland an' farer may gang

Ere ye meet wi' the match o' in a Auld Cronie Tam.

REFRAIN

Tam is humble an' honest an' canna thole pride,

He never believed in a great show ootside;

An' people wha jist mak' religion a sham

Will ne'er be admired by ma Auld Cronie Tam.

REFRAIN.

He aye tries his best, an' nae man can dae mair;

But in spite o' it a' he is still 'mang the puir.

Weel he kens that oor great social system is wrang,

An' wad fain see it mended, ma Auld Cronie Tam.

REFRAIN.

I hae roamed on the moors an' the bonnie steep hills,

I hae listened tae sang-birds an' sweet rimpling rills;

Oh! sae happy I've been in the simmer days lang,

Wi' auld Nature's delichts an' ma Auld Cronie Tam.

REFRAIN.

I sing wi' great pleasure the sangs frae his pen,

A credit is he tae oor dear auld grey glen.

Noo, freens, come an' join in the lilt o' ma sang

As I sing in the praise o' ma Auld Cronie Tam.

REFRAIN.

H. L. I.

To the Lads who fought so heroically at the Battle of Loos on 25th September, 1915.

Song. Tune, "Hot Ashfelt."

When they left the mother country to fight the barb'rous Hun

We knew they never would turn back till victory was won;

The fathers, mothers, sisters, wives were loath to say good-bye

To the gallant soldier-laddies in the H.L.I.

CHORUS.

You may talk about your Gordons and your Irish Fusiliers,

Your Black Watch and your Royal Scots and famous Grenadiers;

But for lads who meet the foemen with courage bounding high,

There's none can beat the laddies in the H.L.I.

And when they'd crossed the briny and were marching through Boulogne,

And striding on light-hearted, "Tipperary" for their song,

The Ma'moiselles in ecstasy admiringly did cry,

"Oh! see the bonnie laddies of the H.L.I."

CHORUS.

When at their post of danger 'midst the roar of shot and shell,

With poison gas discharging fumes as from the pit of hell,

On their courage and their steadiness commanders could rely,

For devoid of funk were laddies in the H.L.I.

CHORUS.

And when the order to advance came sounding low and clear

Our gallant Highland laddies answered gaily with a cheer,

Then at the foemen boldly rushed, their motto "do or die,"

And dauntless were the laddies in the H.L.I.

CHORUS.

All honour to that glorious band who fell to rise no more!

They died for Right and Justice, and they've reached a fairer shore,

Where the brave shall meet together without a tear or sigh,

There we'll find those gallant laddies of the H.L.I.

CHORUS.

BRAVE LADS O' SANQUHAR.

Song. Tune, "Yellow-haired Laddie."

The brave Lads o' Sanquhar

Tae the war hae a' gane,

Tae fecht for oor freedom,

Oor country an' hame.

When duty did ca' them

They answered the ca',

An' the Brave Lads o' Sanquhar

Will conquer or fa'.

The Brave Lads o' Sanquhar

Remember fu' weel

Cameron an' Renwick, an'

Crichton o' Peel—

Names Time wi' its changes

Will never efface

An' the Brave Lads o' Sanquhar

Will never disgrace.

They are fearless an' strong

As the best in the lan',

Aye steady an' sure

At the word o' comman';

Tae honour an' kindred

They never were fause:

An' shooder tae shooder a'

In a guid cause.

Fu' mony o' the leal

An' the true hae "gane west"

Tae reap their reward an'

Their nobly won rest.

Their mem'ry wi' laurels,

Bricht laurels, we'll croon,

Tho' sair be oor herts in

The Auld Burgh Toon.

MENNOCK BURN.

Tune: "Kirkconnell Lea."

When mist nae langer hides the lift,

An' rain cluds flee afore the sun,

Wi' staff in han' I slowly gang

Tae muse on thee, sweet Mennock Burn.

REFRAIN.

Sweet Mennock Burn that springs sae clear

Frae oot the Lowther Hills sae hie,

The happy days I'll ever min'

That I in youth hae spent by thee.

Dear Mennock Burn, what memories cling

Aroun' thy bonnie wuds an' braes;

Near thee the Muirlan' Bard was born,

That sang sae sweetly in thy praise.

REFRAIN.

Those happy days are langsyne gane,

An' I am wearin' on in life,

My pleesures a' lie in the past,

There's naething noo but care an' strife.

REFRAIN.

When Nature fails an' I maun bend,

An' fade like ony witherin' tree,

Beside ye gin I hae my wish,

I fain wad streik me doon an' dee.

REFRAIN.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

SCUNNER'T.

TAE THE WORKERS.

At the result of the South Lanark Elections, 1913 and 1918.

Some look on this life wi' a smile,

While ithers look on't wi' a froon,

Some are up in this warl',

While some in this warl' are doon.

We're tauld that contentment is gain,

A virtue we ocht tae acquire,

But the worker is nae worth the name

Wha wadna tae better aspire.

Some thoosans in mansions are rich,

Hae mair than they ever can need,

While millions are leevin' in slums,

An' lackin' their daily breid.

It's a terrible state o' affairs;

Will ye no mak' an effort tae mend it?

Will ye stan' wi' the pooer in yer han'

An' no strike a blow that wad end it?

Dinna tell me ye hae'na the pooer,

An' likewise ye hae'na the pence;

It's as easy tae prove ye've the pooer,

As it is that ye hae'na the sense.

A change is required in oor laws,

An wha dae ye ettle tae mak' it?

Not the privileged class, wha hae ruled ye sae lang,

Though that is the class ye've aye backit.

Yer leaders are guid as they're true,

Still ye cater tae prejudice hoary,

Tho' yer conscience maun cry ye are wrang,

Ye vote for a Whig or a Tory.

It's aneuch tae mak' angels weep,

An' reformers turn in the grave

When the workers gang beckin' an' booin',

An' playin' the fool an' the knave.

Noo yer guid auld Pioneer's[1] gane;

Ne'er will his memory sink;

If ye've ony respect for his name

Try an' be able tae think.

Guid-bye the noo, I houp ye will men',

But railly it's no tae be wunner't

That freens wha hae yer interests at hert

Canna' but sometimes be scunner't.

[1] Keir Hardie.

TO AN ABSENT FRIEND.

Dear cronie, we are met the nicht

Tae drink yer health for auld langsyne;

Wi' social crack and canty sang

We fain wad a' oor sorrows tyne.

Gin ye had been amang us noo

Oor melodies wad soun' mair sweet,

Yer kin'ly voice wad add the note

Tae mak' the harmony complete.

Burns tells us "Man was made tae murn,"

Wi' that we dinna aye agree,

For here are we five chaps the nicht

As blithe an' merry as can be.

Some find this warl' drear an' dark

Frae cradle onward tae the tomb;

A touch o' kindness noo an' then

Breaks through the seeming cheerless gloom.

Sae as we travel doon the vale

Let's help each ither a' we can,

An' never slicht tho' puir he be

"The social, freenly honest man."

Here's health again! Lang may ye leeve!

Hale be yer min', hale be yer hert!

An' may prosperity be yours,

An' aye the honest manly pairt.

THE MINER.

In the depths of the mine the miner toils,

Far from the light of the day;

To earn a crust for those he loves

He works while work he may;

For the years roll on and vitality wanes,

Ere the need of his labour be gone,

So he wills to work while his strength holds out,

For he thinks not of self alone.

The thought of danger or death in the mine

Never daunts his mind or his heart,

And strong is the swing of his brawny arms

As he nobly plays his part.

He holds at his task with a firm resolve,

For he's one of a sterling breed,

To provide the nation with what she requires

In the darkest hour of her need.

When invasion threatens Britannia's shores

He is ready to do or to die,

And Britannia knows that in times of stress

She can on the miner rely

To uphold the honour of Right and Truth,

To defend his country and hearth;

Thank God for men with a heart like his,

They are surely the salt of the earth.

Our country is rich by the sweat of his brow,

And it's needless saying we can't

Provide for the miner and see that his days

Are free from the shadow of want;

And when old age comes with palsied hand

He may rest from his labour until

The angels bear him away to the land

Where he'll work to his Father's will.

LOVE.

Love! O sacred sentiment,

To bless mankind thou'rt surely meant,

Hope and joy and comfort giving;

Love alone makes life worth living.

Brave men fight and brave men die

For kindred, home, and country;

They count no sacrifice too great

To make for thee and liberty.

In times of peace, in times of war,

Thy influence outspreading far

Doth teach to play the Christian part,

To soothe and heal the wounded heart.

Thro' life with all its ups and downs,

When fortune smiles or when it frowns,

Thou dost thy kindly vigil keep

To laugh or comfort those that weep.

No tongue can ever tell thy worth;

Thou art the grandest power on earth,

The greatest blessing ever given;

For thee our thanks ascend to heaven.

CURLIN'.

When cronies meet aroon the tee,

The roarin' game's the game for me,

Owre ither games it bears the gree;

Then leeze me on the Curlin'.

It brings the red bluid tae the broo,

Ye canna weel be doon o' moo,

When bluid yer veins gangs coorsin' thro',

When at the game o' Curlin'.

Gin ye wad please yer worthy skip,

Stan' firm in natch an' dinna slip,

Direct yer stane straucht frae the hip,

When ye are at the Curlin'.

An' if he wants't a wee bit looder,

Jist draw yer stane richt tae the shooder,

Or he will say ye hae'na pooder,

For the manly game o' Curlin'.

Gin ye expect tae win the cup,

On besoms ye maun haud the grup,

An' aye be there tae soop it up,

When ye are at the Curlin'.

An' when ye're at the soopin' game

Min' an' soop afore the stane,

Or ye've nae yin but yersel' tae blame

If shots ye lose at Curlin'.

Here, Lords an' Dukes wi' Rab an' Tam

Meet as equals, man tae man;

A heazer tae the social plan

Is the guid auld game o' Curlin'.

A WORD O' ADVICE.

Lloyd-George an' Haldane hae had a cast-oot,

I dinna weel ken what it's a' been aboot;

I houp it is feenished; we canna afford

At this creetical time tae hae ony discord.

Oor country's at war and the need is fu' great

Tae staun a' thegither for Freedom an' State;

The slacker's resources, likewise profiteer's,

At this time o' the day we maun jist commandeer.

Employers o' labour an' dealers in grain,

Ne'er let country's need be yer ain selfish gain;

Siller's no everything, that ye maun ken;

Let honour come first in yer dealins wi' men.

Workers wha win by the sweat o' your broo

A leevin' wi' pick, hammer, shovel, or ploo,

Strike na the noo—'tis the enemy's gain—

Try some ither wey tae come intae yer ain.

Let's remember the brave lads we hae at the front;

For you and for me they are bearin' the brunt;

An' dae a' we can tae keep up their herts,

At least let them see we are playin' oor pairts.

If men o' a' parties my advice will but tak'

We'll sune hae the foe on the braid o' his back;

A bonnie new era we'll then usher in,

And wi' militarism for ever be dune.

JOCK.

In oor lanely wee clachan there leeved a young chiel

Wha had never been far frae his faither's ain biel;

His manners wad lead ye tae think he was saft,

An' e'en tae believe there were wairps in the waft.

'Mang his mates he was aye made the butt for the jest,

An' they tried mony methods his courage tae test;

But Jock's even temper they never could rile,

He answered a' gibes wi' a braid sunny smile.

When war was declared an' the King called for men

Frae the city, the county, the mountain, an' glen,

O' the flo'er o' the clachan he got a guid stock,

Strange! naebody ever yince thocht aboot Jock.

Then Jock disappeared frae the clachan yae day,

Tae the nearest recruit shop he'd hastened away;

An' the neist time we saw him we gat quite a shock,

For a braw sodger-laddie they'd made oot o' Jock.

An' noo he's awa' tae the famed Dardanelles,

An' we're prood o' the lad, for he's yin o' oorsel's,

If he's spared tae come thro' nae surprise it will be

If for valour he's wearin' the bonnie V.C.

THE EXILE.

One Sunday morning late in May

I on the Calder banks did stray;

Field and forest were in bloom,

An' Nature all in perfect tune;

A glorious sunshine, hum of bees,

An' happy song-birds 'mang the trees;

While from its bed the water's gleam

Enhanced the beauty of the scene.

From scenes like this my thoughts still roam

To childhood's days, to love an' home.

I long, with longing almost pain,

To see those dear old scenes again.

I mind the time when as a child

I roved the hills so free an' wild,

Sacred to martyrs' memory

Who gave their lives for liberty.

There Reid, the Muirland Bard, was born,

Wha sang sae blithe an' cheerie O,

O' hills an' glens, an' muirs an' fens,

An' aiblins o' his dearie, O!

Though I have wandered far from thee,

An' tossed on life's deep stormy sea,

My fondest memories ever turn

To dear old friends by Wanlock burn.

THE OLD CHURCHYARD.

The sun has sunk behind the hills,

And upward throws his golden light,

While shadows creep adown the glen

To gather in the coming night.

On vantage ground, in pensive mood,

I stand upon the heathery brae,

And see the workers quit their toil,

"And weary, homeward, wend their way."

Mine eyes behold the old Churchyard,

Wherein now mouldering lies the dust

Of men and women whom I knew,

So kindly-natured, good, and just.

They lived their lives 'mid tranquil scenes,

Like bloom on flowers they passed away;

Their ashes lie 'neath the greening sod;

Their spirits—where are they?

I know not, therefore cannot tell;

No man can see beyond the tomb;

I live in hope that by-and-bye

All kindred spirits may commune.

A LETTER IN RHYME.

To JOHN PATERSON, Blantyre,

From ROBERT WANLOCK REID, Montreal.

Auld freen o' mine across the sea,

What ails ye that ye never write?

Ye canna hae forgotten me

Or hoo tae speak in black an' white.

Come, roose ye, man! an' gie's yer crack,

I'm aye richt fain tae hear frae you,

An' I'll engage tae post ye back

Three sheets for yin, an' cram them fu'.

Hech! but the times hae greatly changed

Since oor acquaintanceship began;

Then blithely owre the hills we ranged

In yon wee glen whaur Wanlock ran.

Sma' thocht had we that stormy seas

Wad ever rowe oor steps atween;

When lichtsome as the simmer breeze

We gaed an' cam' at morn an' e'en.

Noo at yer ain fireside ye sit,

A douce guidman, 'mang wife an' weans,

Rockin' the cradle wi' yer fit

Or listenin' as the lassock learns;

While I upon a foreign soil,

Across the wild Atlantic faem,

In lanely exile, cheerless, toil

An' dream o' hame, an' dream o' hame.

In ilka letter that comes owre

I'm tauld o' something changin' there;

Some ferlie mak's me start an' glower,

Some waefu' stories vex me sair.

The lassies that we looed hae wed,

The lads we kent are buirdly men;

Some auld guidwives an' carles are deid,

We'll ne'er their faces see again.

But, John, the hills are yonder yet,

The grand auld hills we looed sae weel,

That you an' I wi' lichtsome fit,

Fu' mony an' mony a time did spiel;

An' thro' the glen as blithely still

The bonnie burn gangs wimplin' doon,

Whaur aft we tried oor fisher skill,

Or listened tae its eerie croon.

Ilk stream or hicht can raise in me

Dreams o' the past that ye hae shared—

Sweet dreams o' youth an' thochtless glee

Ere we for walth or wisdom cared.

There's Enterkin, Powtrail, an' Daur,

An' Carron's Linns, an' Katie's Well,

An' Mennock Water, Clyde, an' Snar,

An' mony anither burn an' hill.

An' ilka time I hear them named

Away across the surgin' sea,

Like some wild bird but halflins tamed.

Sick o' the toon, my fancies flee;

An' in the gloamin' fa' yince mair,

Yince mair I hear the linty sing,

An' hearken' thro' the startled air

The muircock flee on whirrin' wing.

Noo, will ye lay yer loof in mine

An' mak' a tryst this day wi' me,

Tae meet, as aft we did langsyne,

This time twa years, gin I be free?

Tae see yince mair the heichs an' howes,

Dear scenes o' many a youthfu' ploy,

Whaur young love pledged its early vows,

An' life was nocht but smiles an' joy.

We'll see oor lassies a' grown douce,

Oor auld folks wearin' thirt an' grey,

Ilk dear kenspeckle face, an' hoose,

Ilk singin' burn, an' sunny brae.

We'll rin the hills, like herds gane wud,

We're young yet an' as yaul as then;

An' gin we're in the fishin' tid,

We'll try the rod an' line again.

While lazy loons lie still an' snore,

An' dream, the gowden dawn away,

We'll loup the burn at Greenshields' door,

An' bauldly briest the Wungate Brae.

Far owre the Lowthers mony a mile,

An' deep within his lanesome glen,

Auld Daur comes doon in kingly style;

We'll try nae waters but his ain.

An' when we pairt, as pairt we maun,

Aiblins for ever—wha can tell?—

We'll tak' ilk ither by the han'

An' kindly bid a lang farewell.

An' in the herts o' baith, I ken,

The memory o' that day will be

A link that binds tae Wanlock Glen

Twa lovin' cronies, till they dee.

THE ANSWER.

Pro JOHN PATERSON, Blantyre.

By the AUTHOR.

Dear Rab, your letter I received;

Weel pleased was I tae hae frae you

A promise that for yin o' mine,

Ye'd sen' me three an' pang them fu'.

Sae I will keep ye tae yer word,

For I'm nae adept wi' the pen;

Tho' had it been a business deal

I'd haud my ain wi' business men.

Hech, aye! but things are greatly changed,

Since doon the burns we ran thegither,

An' fished frae mornin' dawn till e'en

Or wandered 'mang the bloomin' heather.

Ye're noo awa' across the sea,

Wi' honours added tae yer name,

While I, contented wi' my lot,

Wi' wife an' weans bide nearer hame.

O' winsome lassies that we kent,

The maist o' them are mairit noo;

Some are weel aff, an' some are puir,

An' fin' it hard tae struggle thro';

Some lads like you hae wandered forth

In foreign climes tae win their breid;

Some wives an' carles that we knew

Are noo at rest amang the deid.

The grand auld hills are jist the same,

Nae different in shape or form,

Impervious tae the wear o' time,

Unshaken by the beatin' storm.

The muir-cock still fu' crousely craws,

The linty sings upon the hill,

The whaup's wild cry frae aff the moor

Still moves me wi' a nameless thrill.

Auld freen', I'll gledly mak' a tryst,

For I'm aye fain tae meet wi' thee,

As aft I've dune in days gane by

Afore ye gaed sae far frae me.

An' though I'm weirin' on in life

An' no as yaul as I was then,

We'll meet an' spen' the lee-lang day

An' taste oor boyhood's joys again.

Though in this life we aye maun pairt,

Still hauds the paction we hae made.

A freenship such as we enjoy

We are agreed can never fade;

An' when we close oor een in daith,

An' intae dust oor frames decay,

'Tis of the spirit an' goes on

Tae glory in an endless day.

A NOTE O' THANKS.

Dear freen, I houp this wee bit note

Will reach its destination.

In it ye'll find a word o' thanks

For your appreciation

Of lines upon the dear auld freen.

Whose death has caused oor sorrow.

But tho' the cluds hang dark to-day,

The sun will shine to-morrow

On chastened hearts that can rejoice

Tae see the sufferer free,

Tho' noo we canna' see the licht

For grief has blin't the e'e.

I hae nae skill in poetry,

An' little ken o' grammar:

In makin' o' ma ain bit rhymes

I aften mak' a stammer.

Sae ye may ken I'm unco pleased

Tae hear ma piece was splendid,

An' tho' I ken it had a faut

I hadna' wit tae mend it.

Sae let the creetics creeticise:

When tired, they will forbear.

If tae yer hert it did appeal,

For them I dinna care.

LEADHILLS.

Birthplace of Symington and Ramsay!

Whose names in thee are household words,

Who honour gained in peaceful times.

With steam and pencil, not with swords.

Leadhills! what mem'ries cling around thee

Of boyhood's day and riper years,

Of social hours I spent with friends,

Whose loss I mourned with bitter tears.

Young friends have gone to dangers distant,

And e'en to death, if so He wills;

Their hearts are thine—engraven on them

The image of their home, Leadhills.

A few remain whose hoary locks

Proclaim their course is nearly run,

Facing with kindred dust they'll lie,

The Lowthers and the rising sun.

We pass; we go we know not where;

The future's hidden from our gaze:

We live by faith; we do believe

This life is but a passing phase.

Leading to something ever greater,

Purer, higher, brighter far.

Steadfastly let's do our duty,

Honour for our guiding star.

EUCHAN'S BANKS.

Euchan's banks an' wooded braes,

Worthy theme o' minstrel's lays!

On thee I spent my youthfu' days,

Sae free frae care;

I'm wae tae think that I may roam

Thy glen nae mair.

My country needs me; I maun gang

Tae fecht a wily foe an' strang;

But victory will be my sang

Whate'er betide.

A Prussian rule, upon my soul,

I couldna' bide.

Nithsdale's sons, as true as steel,

Fighting for their country's weal,

Hae made the haughty Hun tae reel;

An' shall I then

A coward prove, an' hide mysel'

Within thy glen?

Nay! Gie tae me the sword an' gun!

I'll prove a worthy mither's son,

An' fight till death or victory's won,

That ye may be

In honour held frae tyrant's yoke

For ever free.

ON HIGHER PLANE.

Where Queen-of-the-meadow scents the air,

And wild thyme adds aroma rare,

With bluebells nodding to the pair—

A charming lot,

Along with other flowers as fair,

Forget-me-not.

I love to wander all alone,

Free from thoughts of goods or gear,

Far from the haunts of worldly men,

In sweeter, purer, atmosphere;

Where bonnie blooms the heather bell

On mountain side and moorland fell,

And dancing fairies weave their spell

In mystic ring;

Where lovers meet their tale to tell,

And wild birds sing.

I love to wander all alone,

At morn or noon or evening fall,

With cheerful voice and grateful heart

To praise the Giver of it all.

SONG BIRDS.

The blackbird pipes frae the hawthorn tree

His flute-like notes of melody,

That tell me the lang dreary winter is past,

An' the bonnie simmer days hae come at last.

The mavis singin' 'neath the plantin' shade

His blithe bauld sang tae a winsome maid,

Wha coyly yields tae a sang weel sung,

Min's me o' the time when the hert was young.

The wee cock-wren sae geuty an' neat

Sings me a sang sae sweet, sae sweet;

Mem'ry wud haud its pure refrain,

For a towmond may gang ere I hear it again.

The skylark sings tae the angels abune,

An' tae mortals the notes o' his sang come doon;

I hear him weel, 'tho' I mayna see

His form as he soars in the lift sae hie.

The lintie in the broom, an' the merlie in the thorn,

Join this happy quartette wi' their love-sweet song,

Wi' mony ither sangsters I micht name

That mak' amang oor moorlan' their mountain hame.

The Great Creator in His love divine

Makes the earth tae blossom an' the sun tae shine,

The birdies tae sing, sae charmin' an' rare;

THE PHOTO.

Dear friend, your photo I received;

It's really very good;

So please accept my thanks in rhyme—

You've caught me in the mood.

Though the photographic art is great,

And wonderful withal,

No shade can be as good to me

As the original.

Thanks; I will safely keep and

Your beautiful reflection,

And every time I look at it

'Twill bring to recollection

A pleasant summer holiday

'Mid rural scenes so fair;

In ease of mind, with friends so kind,

My memory lingers there.

"SOMETHING WRANG."

Lines on seeing a delicate boy, on a cold day, thinly clad, wearing boots minus the soles.

Puir wee shilpit, feckless bairn,

Ma hert is sair tae see ye;

An' tho' I haena' muckle pooer

I'll dae ma best tae help ye.

I hae a pound that I had saved

Against a rainy day;

'Twad burn ma pooch while ye're in want,

I'll spend it come what may.

An' when it's dune some ither freen'

May tak' thy hapless form,

An' biel ye frae the frosty wun'

An' frae the winter storm.

Ye'r sad dark een look intae mine

An gie ma hert a pang,

They humbly tell, tho' tongue be still,

There's shairly something wrang.

Then tae a system that's accurs't

May every ill betide

That winna fin' the bairns in meat

An' raiment fit provide.

THE FLU'.

On falling a victim to influenza while on holiday.

Mercy me! is this the way

That I maun spen' ma holiday?

Groanin' wi' pains in legs an' back,

Ma reason fairly on the rack?

The sun beats warm upon the plain,

An' yet I'm shiverin' tae the bane;

Stounin' pains gang thro' ma heid,

Makin' me wish that I was deid.

Ma nose is rinnin' like a stream;

Blear't an' a'most blin' ma e'en;

Within ma throat the microbes rife

Are cuttin' chords wi' roostit knife.

There's no a joint in a' ma frame

But what has got an achin' pain;

The sicht o' meat fair mak's me grue;

A thoosan' curses on the flu'!

WEE JIM.

Wha is't that toddles oot an' in?

Wee Jim.

An' wha when cross kicks up a din?

Wee Jim.

Wha, when he's pleased, wi' lauchin' e'e,

Comes rinnin' frae his mither's knee

An' distributes his kisses free?

Wee Jim.

Wha is't that has a curly pow?

Wee Jim.

Wha sets his granny's hearth alowe?

Wee Jim.

Wha, when in mischief or in fun

Mak's face an' han's as black's the lum',

Is threatened wi' a skelpit bum?

Wee Jim.

Wha fills his tummy fu' o' sweets?

Wee Jim.

An' then in pain sits doon an' greets?

Wee Jim.

Wha, when he's sufferin' wi' the bile,

Through a' his pain tries hard tae wile

Awa' the dose o' castor ile?

Wee Jim.

Wha rins aboot wi' naughty boys?

Wee Jim.

Wha listens words o' graceless choice?

Wee Jim.

Wha, like a parrit when he hears,

Repeats their slang, an' a' their sweirs,

An' dins them in his mither's ears?

Wee Jim.

Wha is't we lo'e sae awfu' dear?

Wee Jim.

An' wadna' tyne for gowd or gear!

Wee Jim.

What though he romps, an' sometimes cries,

Pure innocence beams in his eyes:

He's jist an angel frae the skies!

Wee Jim.

THE NURSES.

Suggested by a Photograph of Nurse Cavell.

A winsome woman, trig and neat,

Love, kindness, beaming in her eyes;

In toil through day and watch by night,

She makes of self a sacrifice.

Her coming, like the golden beam

Of sunlight in a darkened room,

Brings comfort to the sufferer's heart,

Her brightness banishing the gloom.

Her youth and pride of womanhood,

With all their joys are put away;

Her Christ-like life she dedicates

And gives for frail humanity.

We find her in our dear homeland,

In ward and mansion, cot and hall;

We find her on the stricken field,

Where sorely wounded heroes fall:

Ready to play her angel part,

And tyrants' evil power defy,

For honour, justice, love and truth,

Prepared at any time to die.

Then let us all revere the nurse,

For virtues great and manifold;

Her worth to us could not be weighed

In shining bars of purest gold.

THE TRUE MAN.

He breathes and lives and moves along

The line of his allotted span,

Equipped with reason for a guide,

By far the highest part of man.

He cannot say from whence he came:

His Maker did no message send;

He cannot tell where he may be

At his inevitable end.

His life is more than can be seen;

Upon the beauteous flower-decked ground,

A deeper meaning hidden lies,

Which mortal man has never found.

In God's good time he will succeed

The signs of Nature to define,

With clearer vision then behold

And realise the plan Divine.

The beauteous earth gives forth her fruit

When harvest suns preside above;

The bloom of flowers, and singing birds

Proclaim to man a God of Love.

He feels the wondrous power of love,

Which, caught and held by reason's sway,

Will raise him to perfection's height

And bring about the perfect day.

Meanwhile 'mid sickness, pain and death,

With gleams of pleasure here and there,

He works: sometimes his load seems light,

And sometimes more than he can bear.

Yet through it all his faith holds firm,

He walks according to his light,

To God and mankind ever true

In brightest day and darkest night.

AN EVENING PRAYER.

Father, we give Thee thanks once more,

As daily we have done before,

For countless blessings from Thy store

Of love and grace;

Look on us, Father, we implore

With smiling face.

The evil we have done this day

Forgive, oh Lord, we humbly pray;

Thou knowest 'neath the tempter's sway

We're prone to fall;

Then guide and guard us all the way,

Great Lord of all.

This night, as 'neath Thy wings we creep,

We pray Thee loving vigil keep;

May we reward of labour reap,

Safe from all storm,

Resting secure in blessed sleep

Till breaks the morn:

Then to arise alert and bright,

Refreshed by slumber of the night,

Strengthened to renew the fight

And try again

To think, and say, and do the right.

Amen; Amen.

RABBIE.

The gist (in rhyme) of the Author's first speech at a Burns' Supper.

What can I say aboot Rabbie

That hasna already been said?

What tribute pay tae his memory

That hasna already been paid?

Great men an' clever hae a' had their say

On the Laddie wha followed the ploo';

The subject's owre big for a head sic as mine;

Them wha can dae it justice are few.

I've nae skill in the clinkin' o' classical words

That some freens o' ma ain think sae gran';

Sae dinna expect me tae gie ye a screed

In a language I don't understan'.

Oor auld mither tongue, I mainteen, is the best,

O' a' herts it can open the portal;

An' Rabbie wi' lyric an' hert-meltin' sang

Has made the auld Doric immortal.

He sang o' the birdies, the trees, an' the flooers;

He championed the cause o' the feeble;

He sang o' the joys an' the sorrows o' men,

He stood against a' that was evil.

He sang in the major some rollickin' gangs,

Which filled ilka hert fu' o' glee;

His sangs in the minor sae dowie an' sad

Brocht the tears drappin' doon frae the e'e.

In oor grand "Scots Wha Hae" the patriot is seen;

'Tis the slogan o' Scotland to-day;

An' whaur is the Scotsman, on hearin' its ca',

Wad ever be last in the fray?

"The Land o' the Leal" is equally gran'

In conception of true human love,

An' belief in the Land whaur there's naething but joy

'Neath the smile o' the Faither above.

"Flow gently, Sweet Afton," "To Mary in Heaven,"

"The Lea Rig," "My Nannie's Awa'"—

Such gems o' love-sang oor best minds declare

Made Rabbie the king o' them a'.

When his hand swept the strings o' auld Scotia's lyre

The notes were sae bonnie an' sweet,

Like the heavenly bliss o' the fond lover's kiss

When in their ain Eden they meet.

Let the story, the toast, the speech, an' the sang,

An' the glass tak' their coorse roun' the table;

Though it mayna be muckle that ilk yin can dae,

At least let him dae what he's able.

Tae help in the cause we a' hae at hert

Let's toast it afore we disperse—

That brithers we'll be on the land an' the sea,

Embracing the hale universe.

WELCOME HOME.

TO DEMOBILISED SOLDIERS.

Welcome home! brave sons of Scotland,

From the far-flung battle line;

Welcome home to peaceful labour

In the workshop, field, and mine!

Welcome to our social functions,

Free from war with all its ills!

Welcome to our love and friendship,

And your native glens and hills.

You have nobly done your duty;

Firm and steadfast you have been

In the most terrific conflict

That the world has ever seen;

Daring death within the trenches,

Daring death from out the blue,

In the mighty charge and carnage,

Strong in motive, brave, and true.

You have earned a grateful nation's

Thanks for giants' work well done;

You have helped to crush the despot

In the vict'ry that's been won—

Victory that cost your kindred

Heavy toll in blood and tears.

Forget you? No, we will not,

Though we live a thousand years.

Mourn not for your comrades fallen

On the field or in the deep:

Realise 'tis sinful calling

Them from glory or from sleep.

Tyranny no more can grieve them,

Broken every galling chain;

They have gone to serve the Master

On a brighter, higher plane.

A DAY DREAM.

Prone by the side of a moorland road,

Soothed by the green of the velvet sod;

I dream of the time when war shall cease,

And a weary world will be at peace;

Of a time when the mind of man will recoil

From the lust of gain and from needless toil;

When honour and love will ne'er be sold

For worldly power or the gain of gold;

When man shall arise and cast aside

Corrupting wealth, with its pomp and pride,

And a system that's long been tried in vain,

That breeds the worst in the hearts of men:

When the shadow of want shall be chased away

That darkens the home of the poor to-day,

And the fruits of the earth, at the harvest fall,

Will be gathered and used for the good of all;

When the babe shall be tended and ope' like the flower

That so sweetly blooms in my lady's bower;

And the maimed and the old with the silvery hair

Shall be treated in love with the tenderest care;

When the spirit of brotherhood shall command

From the Arctic Zone to the Coral Strand;

And the flag of freedom will wave on high

On every land beneath the sky.

DEDICATED TO WANLOCK SOLDIERS.

Away from the head of the Wanlock Glen,

Where nurtured you were to the status of men,

You marched when the heather was shedding its bloom,

With the war song of freedom, your spirits in tune.

The surge of true manhood carried you on

To the thick of the fight in the fire-swept zone,

Through the fume of the gas shell's deadly breath,

Through blood and mire, on to glory or death.

To you, still part of Britannia's shield,

Back with victory crowned from the dark stricken field,

Along with the broken, the maimed, and the dead,

We owe an account that can never be paid.

Shades of the dead! Now with war drums still

We hear in the wind of the moor and the hill

Your voices, that tell in triumphant song,

All is well with you there, in your Father's home.

THE LOWTHER WIND'S WAIL:

A memorial of Death by Exhaustion on the Lowther Hills.

By the

AUTHOR of "GOD'S TREASURE HOUSE IN SCOTLAND."

Janet Miller left her service at Kirkhope on Wednesday the 3rd January, 1877, instead of Friday the 12th, as previously arranged, on a visit home, to be present at the marriage of her sister. The day was so stormy, and the roads so full of snow wreaths, that the carter, with whom she should have gone, could proceed no further than Leadhills that night.

It is considered to be ten miles between Kirkhope and Leadhills—a dreary, steep, and rough mountain, without any very distinct path, and that which is traversed was obliterated by the snow. Still, she had passed the Lowther heights (upwards of 2300 feet) in safety, descended and crossed the Shortcleuch water, and the fence, ascending the rough side of the only ridge which separates this valley from the village, and without deviating from the track, exhaustion and death overtook her within twenty minutes' or half an hour s walk of home.

A shepherd's Wife, returning from a funeral on the following Tuesday afternoon, discovered her body. Little thought she that the very day fixed for her home-coming would be her funeral day. Obtaining leave sooner than expected, unfortunately, instead of coming by the road with company as advised, she resolved to take the hill. Though urged to go early, she delayed; though warned of the coming storm and night by more than one friendly voice, still onwards and upwards she pressed. She knew the hills and the paths: she was young and strong, and how much would her happiness be enhanced by gaining home that night; and then, the morrow and the month, how full of joy! So bravely on she struggled, battling with the blinding drift, till her strength was gone—quite gone. Then gently she laid her down to sleep. It was her last on earth; and the cold snow-drift gathered quickly over and formed her winding-sheet, hiding her body from human eye for well-nigh a week. Her bonnet and parcels were found in the bottom of a fallen-in shaft, up to the edge of which she had climbed. With shawl drawn over her head, cloak tucked in about her, and her cheek laid upon her hand, there she sought a rest which proved to be her last on earth.

Leadhills village bell had ceas'd,

Mourners from the graveyard pass'd

To the lonely shepherd's cot.

Jeanie then—her dismal lot—

Walking lonely up the glen,

Thinking of those in heav'n—When!

A form lay sleeping!—A form lay sleeping!

A form lay sleeping! Yea—in death!

Hand 'neath head upon the heath.

When carried—and buried—lamented—

Lowther winds wail'd—story presented:—

"Daurna tarry—I maun hame,

Though I clim' the hills my lane.

Mirk the day, an' heich the win',

Oot ow'r the muir I'll brawly rin,

Speel the Lowthers like a grew,

Wade the burn—hame safely through."

"Na! my lassie, dinna gae,

Far ow'r short this winter's day.

Hear ye no' the sough o' storm

Howlin' roun' Glenucher's horn?

Bide ye, lass, in Kirkhope biel,

Fair the morn, the hills ye'll spiel."

"Daurna tarry—I maun hame,

Aft the hills I've clim'd alane.

Sister's marriage—ken ye no'?—

Comes e'er lang, sae I maun go.

Fareweel, Kirkhope's freenly ha',

Fleetch nae mair—I maun gae wa'."

"Weel, my lass, on hame sae set,

Cart an' road, an' hame ye'll get,

Sun's ow'r laigh to tak' the hill;

Wi' sna' the heuchs an' hags 'ill fill.

Ne'er to get the len'th o' hame—

Death wad cry ilk day, me blame."

"Daurna tarry—I maun hame,

Langer stey! 'twad be a shame!

Roun' the road, or ow'r the hill,

Hame this nicht I've set my will.

Noo I'm aff, the month t' spen'.

Crawford Muir, gude-bye till then."

* * * * * *

"Over muir and vale she sped,

As if Elfin feet her tread.

Pass'd the river, cross'd the road,

Where a shepherd's cottage stood.

He concern'd, thrice urged her stay,

Mountain scale another day.

"See the storm, it's gatherin' fast,

Strong men couldna stan' that blast.

Shelter tak', an' I'll convoy

Oot ow'er hills wi' muckle joy,

The morn's morn as sune's it's licht.

Stey wi's noo. It's a'maist nicht.

"Fifteen fouk, an' mair they say,

Lost the life, e'er break o' day,

Amang thae hills. Sae may ye

Fa doon, warsle till ye dee.

Tak' ye advice; stey here the nicht;

Mornin' sun may shine fu' bricht."

"Daurna tarry—I maun hame.

Dinna bid me!—I'm gaun hame.

Young an' yaul, I'm no' sae fleyd,

Warsle through baith win' an' tide;

Stan' the snifter ow'r the hill—

Lovin' herts wi' joy to thrill."

"Blew fierce snow-drift. Almost gone,

On she struggled, bravely on;

Paus'd to take a breath of air;

Step by step cross'd over where

Lowthers wore their winter's sheet;

Down-hill, blinded with the sleet.

"Daurna tarry—I maun hame,"

'Twas on heart her upmost theme.

"Burn! ye roar fu' lood an' baul';

An' oh! yer water's dreedfu' caul'.

Ventur' maun I, an' get through,

Should ye swell frae bank to broo.

"Wae's me! Waded aft this burn,

Ne'er till noo felt sic a turn!

Think I'll faint—I'm unco wauff!

Water! then, gi'es ae bit quaff.

Raether better!—Noo—I'll try:

Fence an' hill 'll sune be by.

"Daurna tarry—I'm gaun hame!

Thocht gi'es stren'th, though I feel lame.

Wae's me!—What's come ow'r me noo?

Up maun dim' this scraggy broo—

Hech!—That blast is unco keen;

Bannet canna noo be seen.

"Daurna tarry!—Yes—I maun!

Lay me doon for this weak dwaum.

Shawl my heid 'ill shelter gi'e;

Claes keep warm!—Come-to a wee!

Daurna tarry!—Wish 'twere sae—

Faether!—Mither!—Sister!—Wae!

"Whaur am I?—On caul' hillside!

Maun I here—"Hoo lang—abide?

Faether, in the heav'ns hie,

Think, for Jesus' sake, on me.

Deein' though I'm, a' my lane—

Daurna tarry—I'll get hame!

"Daurna tarry—I maun hame!

Aeh! Hoo my hert lang'd for hame.

Hame on earth's nae mair for me;

'Mang the sna' I'm gaun to dee.

Freen's, 'O leave them no' alane!'

Daurna tarry—'Bring them hame.'

"Noo sleep I maun! an' this caul' sna'

Cleer win'in'-sheet roon' me will bla'."

* * * * * *

Almost a week her body lay,

The grave its home—home-coming day.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS AND RHYMES OF A LEAD MINER ***

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Table of Contents

SONGS AND RHYMES OF A LEAD MINER.

PERSONAL NOTE AND PREFACE.

DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.

IN MEMORIAM.

SONGS.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

THE LOWTHER WIND'S WAIL:

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE