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PREFACE 
 
 D^AR Reader : — 
 
 As you peruse the following verses, your attention 
 will doubtless be drawn to one thing at least, namely: 
 the simplicity of the language used in their composition. 
 To be entirely frank with you, this has always been my 
 intention; because, when I first started to write, I 
 thought it better to speak in the plain doric or language 
 of the common people. True, it may not be considered 
 classical Scotch, but is as near to that which is used gen- 
 erally as I could possibly write it. It has been my effort to 
 strike a happy average, remembering that "oor ain folk" in 
 some localities in Scotland have their own peculiar forms 
 of speech and exp/ression. I have also interjected here and 
 there some poems in English, which it is hoped may lend 
 a pleasing variety to the book. 
 
 I have studiously avoided using words or phrases that 
 might lead one away from the standard of life with which, 
 I may say, I have always been associated. 
 
 It has always been an unwavering principle with 
 me to call things by that name in which they are best 
 known, and not to inject into this edition of verses 
 meaningless, high-flown technicalities, which might have 
 a tendency to mislead some from the true meaning of 
 what it was intended to convey; so much so, indeed, 
 that in writing, I have never lost sight of the fact that 
 my humble efforts have been always to please those people 
 who are used to the plain, every-day, simple life, which is 
 undoubtedly the most beautiful and beneficial, not only to 
 those who hve it, but to the world. 
 
I think the reader will agree with me that, after all, 
 this is best, since the most of the enclosed verses are 
 woven around the fireside ''at hame." The scenes I have 
 tried to depict Vv^ill doubtless appeal to a great number 
 of people who have "played the part" — especially 
 Scottish people — for I dare say there are few who have 
 been born in the land o' cakes that have not been at a 
 Sabbath Schule Suree, or helped their mothers on wash- 
 ing days ; and many of us can look back with tear- 
 ful eyes and fancy we are again proudly bearing aloft 
 a wee white or blue flag in the Sabbath Schule Trip, 
 winding our way down some flower-scented glen, ac- 
 companied by the song of the sky-lark, to the private 
 grounds of some kind-hearted Scottish laird ; there to be 
 regaled with milk, buns and gooseberries ! 
 
 I was born of Scottish parents who were, by instinct, 
 hand-loom weavers, in the village of Cumbernauld, Scot- 
 land. Wihen between the age of six and seven 3^ears, I 
 was sent to the public school, and after about three years 
 of the most strenuous part of my life, with the most ex- 
 acting and cold-hearted schoolmaster that ever lived, 
 I emerged at the other end from what was then known 
 as the eighteen-pence book class, which, I think, would 
 be equivalent to our modern fifth reader or standard. 
 No dust, if I can remember, was allowed to accumulate 
 in the seams of any boy's jacket in this school. The 
 master, I always thought, claimed the exclusive privi- 
 lege of attending to that, so much so, that to this day 
 I have always wondered why some one was not killed or 
 permanently crippled ; not because we committed any 
 depredation, but simply because we didn't have our 
 lessons committed to memory in the most unreasonable 
 time, or failed to solve any problem giiven us to do in the 
 shortest time possible. 
 
When I reached the age of ten years, my father 
 died, leaving' my mother nearly 'helpless. 1 was taken 
 from school to try and do something to help her ; and 
 ever since then, the great busy world has been my 
 school house, where the most of us, of course, have learned 
 more of the world's ways than we did at school or around 
 our mother's knee. 
 
 When between the age of sixteen and seventeen 
 years, I was bound to the trade of clothlapper and pat- 
 tern book making with Robert Smith & Sons, Parkvale 
 and Hayford Mills, Stirling. 
 
 Leaving my native land in 1878, I turned my foot- 
 steps toward the setting sun, where, 1 am proud to say, 
 I have never been without many kind-hearted friends 
 in the great Republic of the West. 
 
 While our whole duty is toward the land of our 
 adoption, yet, the green fields, the rushing waters, the 
 1)eautiful flower-clad valleys of our native land keep 
 continuall)^ rising before the mind's eye, and often make 
 us think of that exquisitely beautiful song: — 
 
 "Aft, aft, hae I pondered on scenes of my childhood, 
 
 The days ance sae happy, O come back again! 
 When I pu'd the wild daisies that spangled the green- 
 wood. 
 And gie'd them awa' to my wee lovers then. 
 
 O memory's dear." 
 
 With these few remarks, kind reader, I will leave 
 this volume of verses with you to judge them as you see 
 fit ; content with the thought that, after all, the plain people 
 shall be, as they should be, the final arbiter. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Glassport, Penna., U. S. A., November, 1911. 
 
PUBLISHER'S NOTICE. 
 
 In all our long experience, never have we published a 
 book that has given us more pleasure in the doing of it, 
 than "Lays o' th' Hameland." The Scottish people here and 
 everywhere are being done a distinct service in the publica- 
 tion of such a volume of poems, and are to be congratulated 
 that we have in our midst such a gifted Scottish bard with 
 a mission in life which he is trying to fulfill to the best of 
 his ability. That this first great work of Mr. Murdoch will 
 be appreciated by those for whom it is primarily intended, 
 we confidently predict ; not only so, but all those who love 
 really good poetry with an entertaining and uplifting pur- 
 pose in it, will revel in these verses. 
 
 There is no doubt whatever that these "Lays" will very 
 soon permeate "wherever Scotsmen gather," and that they 
 will reap increment with the passing years — a reasonable 
 prediction. Indeed, many of them will in due season 
 be household words among our people. There is no Scot- 
 tish poet living to-day, that we know of, who can approach 
 Mr. Murdoch in his incomparable, simple, homely style, 
 which reaches the heart ; and there is no book published at 
 present just like this one, depicting the sweet, pure, natural 
 life of the Scottish people and their beautiful country. 
 When the merits of these poems are more understood and 
 appreciated (and this is sure to happen) there will spring 
 up a demand for them that will be hard to keep pace with. 
 
 Like all other really worthy Scots, Mr. Murdoch is 
 modest ; but the urgent solicitation of his many friends pre- 
 vailed with him to set these poems before the people in book 
 form. There should be no qualms as to the result, and it is 
 
to be hoped that he will be induced and encouraged to keep 
 on edifying and entertaining us in his own happy and 
 gifted way. 
 
 This collection will make a very suitable Christmas 
 present to send a brother or sister Scot anywhere; indeed, 
 is suitable as a gift at any time. The pleasure these beau- 
 tiful poems will afford cannot be computed. We ask for 
 the author a generous supply of that encouragement which 
 true Scots everywhere, of ^whatever station in life, never 
 were known to withhold to a worthy thing or cause, and 
 that they will do all in their power to help along the sale 
 of the book. Mr. Murdoch, like many others who have 
 benefited the world by their presence and work, is not a 
 rich man, so far as this world goes, and cannot hope 
 to make anything out of this ivolume except the appre- 
 ciation of his grateful fellow-countrymen, for whom he has 
 labored so long and earnestly in this special field for which 
 his natural gifts are so eminently fitted. Yet, financial stim- 
 ulus is also a necessary thing in this world ; and such a form 
 of encouragement, along with the hearths appreciation, 
 should make a combination that would go far towards per- 
 petuating and even further enlarging his work among and 
 for us. 
 
 In Mr. Murdoch we have a helper. He is trying to 
 benefit the world by his labors. Shall we not also do our 
 part by him ? 
 
 THE AMERICAN PRINTING AND PUBLISHING CO. 
 By William Sutherland, Proprietor. 
 Pittsburgh, Penna., U. S. A., November, 1911. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 Preface 3 
 
 Publisher's Notice 6 
 
 New Year in the Country 13 
 
 Fifth Anniversary of Clan McDonald, 161 18 
 
 Death of a Noted Angler 20 
 
 Th' Wee Hame 22 
 
 Th' Craws and th' Tattie Bogle 24 
 
 The Wiild Rose 27 
 
 Jamie Broon 28 
 
 The Fall of the Leaf : 30 
 
 Th' Wee Patfu' o' Tatties 31 
 
 The Fisher Wife's Lullaby 32 
 
 Wandering with the Muse 33 
 
 By the Quiet Inglenook . 36 
 
 Th' Try stin' Tree 37 
 
 Th' Sabbath Schule Suree 38 
 
 To an American Chat 41 
 
 Cauld, Dreary Winter 42 
 
 A Heartfelt Desire 43 
 
 Th' Wee Show 45 
 
 Let th' Wee Doug Alane 48 
 
 Oft in the Stilly Night , 50 
 
 Th' Sabbath Schule Trip 51 
 
 Davie Broon 53 
 
 Address to the Year 1911 55 
 
 My First Pair o' Breeks 57 
 
 The Lost Shepherd 59 
 
 A Wee Linnet Sang -. 63 
 
 The Cricket's Song 64 
 
 Auld Granny 65 
 
 The Peaseibrose . 67 
 
 A Letter on the Peasebrose 69 
 
My First Valentme 74 
 
 John Rae 75 
 
 The Old Spur Inn 77 
 
 Song of the Mountain Torrent 79 
 
 Parted 80 
 
 A New Year Wish 82 
 
 A Trihute to the Thrush 83 
 
 A Reverie 84 
 
 Tarn's Awa' 86 
 
 Gang Awa', Dreary Winter 90 
 
 The Bannock 91 
 
 Land of My Sires 93 
 
 Clansmen's Parade in Pittsburgh 94 
 
 A Letter to Mr. Archibald Millar 97 
 
 Nae Love at Hame 103 
 
 Have You Seen My Lassie ? 104 
 
 Rose and Briar 106 
 
 Granfather 107 
 
 The Scottish Pipers 108 
 
 Love's Message 110 
 
 A Rale Guid Freen Ill 
 
 Let Us Not Be Afraid 113 
 
 Don't Laugh When Others Cry 114 
 
 Come, Gentle May 115 
 
 Sing Me the Songs of My Native Land 116 
 
 Octoiber 117 
 
 A Wee Sprig o' Heather 118 
 
 The Sea of Life 120 
 
 The Songs We Used to Know. 121 
 
 So Let it Be 124 
 
 I'll Neither Borrow Nor Lend 124 
 
 It Happened in McKeesport 125 
 
 A Toast 126 
 
 Sixth Anniversary of Clan McDonald, 161 127 
 
He Slumbers Not, Nor Sleeps 129 
 
 Shattered Hopes 13Q 
 
 To The Scots of Akron, Ohio 132 
 
 A Dream 13^ 
 
 The British Robin 130 
 
 Doon By Yon Dykeside 139 
 
 Address to a Sprig of Heather :..... 141 
 
 Juist Shouther the Burden 144 
 
 I Wonder if We'll Meet Again 145 
 
 Dying Words of a Scottish Patriot 147 
 
 The Golden-rod 149 
 
 Fond Memories . 150 
 
 Haein Fun Wi' Granfaither 151 
 
 The Gathering of the Clans 153 
 
 Th' Soochin' o' th' Win 155 
 
 Old Home Week 157 
 
 To Mr. Frank Abercrombie 159 
 
 Lines to the Bluebird 160 
 
 A Picture Postal Card 161 
 
 Springtime 162 
 
 Th' Candyman 163 
 
 A Wee Bird Sang a Dolefu' Sang 165 
 
 A Journey to Coshocton 167 
 
 Dinna Craw 169 
 
 Mother's Love 170 
 
 The Silver Wedding 171 
 
 The End of Us All 173 
 
 Lines to Mr. William Congalton 176 
 
 Farewell to Bonnie Scotland 178 
 
 Th' Wee Cozy Kirk in th' Glen 179 
 
 Hurrah for the Highlands 181 
 
 Oor Hielan' Lads are Comin' 183 
 
 Sin' We Left th' Wee Hoose in th' Glen 185 
 
 Th' Wee Alarm Clock 186 
 
Memories o' Youth 188 
 
 Oor Wee Jock 189 
 
 Our Mayor 191 
 
 Forty Second Leaving Stirling Castle 194 
 
 By Allan's Winding Stream 195 
 
 Welcome Robin Redbreast 197 
 
 The hong Ago 199 
 
 A Prayer 200 
 
 Wood Notes Wild 202 
 
 The Peesweep 203 
 
 Only Love 205 
 
 What is Loive? 206 
 
 Wihere the Susquehanna Flows 208 
 
 Sailin' Up th' Clyde 209 
 
 Early Vows 211 
 
 Natlure 213 
 
 Th' Big Wat Cloot 214 
 
 Rab and Wull 217 
 
 Mountain Ash Male Chorus 223 
 
 Despondency 224 
 
 A Review of the "Lays," by A. T. Liddell 226 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 BY 
 
 James H. Murdoch 
 
 Friends I hae many — some are far o'er the main, 
 But years hae gane by since their dear hands I shook; 
 When the fire burns low, they come crowding again 
 With their soft, winning smiles, round my quiet Inglenook. 
 
 Press of 
 
 American Printing' Companj- 
 
 422 First Avenue 
 
 Pittsburgh. Pa. 
 

 Copyrighted 1911 
 
 by 
 
 JAMES H. MURDOCH 
 
 N 
 
 ©CI,A303085 
 
Lays 0* th' Hameland 13 
 
 NEW YEAR IN TH^ COUNTRY. 
 
 Wihien up th' vale, th' frosty wins, 
 Their dolefu* tale o' winter bring; 
 An' thro' th' naked thorny whins, 
 Their sad an' waefu' requiems sing. 
 
 Ilk thing is covered owre wi' snaw, 
 Nae shelter for wee birds ava', 
 That used itae sing tae cheer us a', 
 An' drive dull cankert care awa'. 
 
 Within th' shielin*, on th' brae, 
 There's rustic cheer an' comfort, tae; 
 For Hielan' he'rts, I'm prood tae say. 
 Are tru'e as steel, come weal or wae. 
 
 Th' bairns, whase he'rts are free frae care. 
 Are playin' bogles on th' stair ; 
 Auld Rover's dreamin' on th' flair ; 
 Tabby's singin' thrums on th' airm chair. 
 
 It's then th' freens frae faur an' near, 
 Come stappin' in wi' words o' cheer; 
 An' for your health they'll kindly speir, 
 An* wish ye mony a guid New Year. 
 
14 Lays d* th' Hameland 
 
 Th' f reens wad kindly nod, an' say : 
 ''Th' same itae you, for mony a day— - 
 An' for th' health an' strength we hae, 
 We'll thankfu' be as long's we may." 
 
 Doon comes th' curran' bun, an' cakes 
 An' bannocks white as snawy flakes, — 
 Th' braw white cheeny cups an' plates 
 Are a' brocht oot, jist for their sakes. 
 
 An' Rab an' Tarn, an' Jess an' Jean, 
 Declare "sic scones they'd never seen." 
 Weel pleased, th' guid wife's twinklin' een 
 Betray th' he'rt tae ilka freen. 
 
 Auld granny sits back in her chair. 
 An' strokes wee Jimmiie's yellow hair. 
 An' croonin' owre some eldritch air. 
 She haps him doon wi' tentie care. 
 
 Ayont th' cupboard, on a shelf, 
 
 Weel hidden' in ahint th' delf, 
 
 Rab slips his haun wi' canny stealth 
 
 An' brings a drap tae drink itheir health ! 
 
 An' sae, they a' sit doon th'gither. 
 An' wish guid luck tae yin anither, 
 An' speak o' craps, an' w^onder whether 
 They're 2'aun tae hae some 1)ackward weather ! 
 
Lays 6>' tit Hamelaud 15 
 
 "Rab," says Tarn, "gies yon sang o' mine, 
 Ye sang sac sweetly in yer prime, 
 It's been ringin' i' my ears sin' syne, 
 Come on ! ye ken th' tune o'ot fine !" 
 
 Rab clears his throat an' then begins : — 
 "Come, lassie, whaur th' burnie rins, 
 An' loups Hke spirits owre th' linns, 
 An' jouks sae bonnie 'neath th' whins, 
 An' we'll sj)end th' day sae cheery O. 
 
 My offer's no this warld's gear. 
 But I've a he'rt that's aye sincere, 
 Sae, come awa', ye needna fear. 
 An' roam wi' me, my dearie O." 
 
 Then ilka ane sings i' their turn — 
 Some sing o' deeds at Bannockburn — 
 Some sing o' sighin' swains that nnirn 
 In some lone glen beside th' burn. 
 
 Th' chairs an' tables scoor'd sae braw, 
 Are a' placed nicely in a raw, — 
 The big meal kist, it gets a thravv, — 
 Th' auld pirn wheel's hung on th' wa' ! 
 
 Then up they get wi' ne'er a care 
 If a' th' kings on earth were there! 
 An' wi' a fit as licht as air, 
 Tlie}^ trip it trimly on th' fiair. 
 
16 Lays o' tK Hameland 
 
 Noo, Jess an' Jean are keepin' itime ! 
 
 x\nd Rab an' Tarn — weel, they're daein fine, — 
 
 They're no exactly jist in line — 
 
 But then, their he'rts are leal an' kind. 
 
 Jean lauchin' says : ''When in my prime, 
 When folks wad meet in days lang syne, 
 I could keep th' flair an' tak th' shine 
 Aff ony dancer in my time !" 
 
 Whar is th' ane wad dare tae say 
 That puir folk's wrang, an' shouldna dae 
 Sic things as this? Heth, ye needna pray 
 For Scotch folk on a New Year's day ! 
 
 It's true, puir folk mak' little gain, 
 But what they hae is a' their ain ; 
 Their he'rts are true — their love is fain, 
 They're niaist content wi' hoose an' hame. 
 
 O' burdens, aye, they hae their share, 
 
 But manfully they war on Care! 
 
 They've health an' strength an' some tae spare- 
 
 Th' king himsel' can boast nae mair! 
 
 But critic folk will toss their heid, — 
 Puir things! guid kens, they dinna need 
 Tae gang aboot an' hum an' plead. 
 They've ither fauts, faur waur indeed ! 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 17 
 
 An' sae it comes an' sae it gangs, 
 When times are blae they sing their sangs ! 
 Their common sense aye richts their wrangs, 
 An' grief can gang whar it belangs ! 
 
 They ne'er forget that owre it a', 
 However fortune kicks th' ba', 
 It's Him aboon, an's sacred law, 
 They thank for every breath they draw. 
 
 They aye alloo that He kens best, 
 Whate'er betides, He'll grant ithem nest ; 
 It's aye ith* he'rt within th' breast 
 An' naething else that stauns th' test! 
 
 An' wi' an' honest smile an' tear, 
 They pairt frae ilka freen, sae dear, 
 An' promise, wi' a he'rt sincere, 
 Tae meet again some ither year. 
 
18 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 FIFTH ANNIVERSARY OF CLAN McDONALD, 
 161, McKEESPORT, PA. 
 
 Brkher clansmen — freens an' a', 
 You're welcome tae th' banquet ha' ; 
 We're modest folks — nae pride hae we, 
 But a' th' same, we're fu' o' g'lee, 
 An' when we say you're welcome ben. 
 It's comin' frae th' he'rt, ye ken. 
 
 W'c've met th' nicht — oor annual spree, 
 Tae crack an' baud oor jubilee; 
 May ilka ane wi' freenship clean 
 Say, "There's a' haun, my trusty freen," 
 An' a' ootside we'd say tae you — 
 Come in! McDonald's he'rt is true. 
 
 Let's a' gang back for twa-three 'oors, 
 An' gaze on Stirlin's auld grey too'rs. 
 Or play again wi' childish pride, 
 Alang th' bonnie banks o' Clyde ; 
 Or watch th' lark spring frae his bed 
 Upon th' verdant banks o' Jed. 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland 19 
 
 By Tweed's clear stream, or Forth's calm river. 
 We'll sit an' watch th' sunbeams quiver; 
 An' chase th' bee an' butterflee 
 By rollin' Erne, or rapid Spey, 
 Or pu' a rose wi' tender care, 
 By bonnie Doon, or windin' Ayr. 
 
 My freens, th' he'rt aye warms yet, 
 An' shall until oor sun shall set, 
 For that brave land ayont th' sea, 
 O' grandeur, love an' liberty ; 
 Sae here's tae Scotia, true an' brave, 
 Lang- may her bonnie tartans wave ! 
 
 God bless oor mission here on earth, 
 God bless th' soul that gave it birth, 
 May He wha' rules amang th' spheres 
 Send peace tae his declinin' years ; 
 An' may a' clansm'en, faur an' wide, 
 Tae Truth, an' Love, an' Peace subscribe. 
 
20 Lays o' tK Hamelaiid 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A NOTED ANGLER, 
 JOHN HEMPSTEAD, OF CAMBUSBARRON 
 
 Come oot frae in below th' stanes, 
 Frae mossy banks an' stagnant drains, 
 An' bring yer frichtit, timorous weans. 
 
 An' soom wi' glee ; 
 Yer foe that aften trod th' glens, 
 
 Death's closed his e'le. 
 
 Gae speed th' news thro' a' th' rills, 
 Frae windin' Forth tae Fintry Hills, 
 That he, th' chief o' a' yer ills, 
 
 Has had his day; 
 Th' wee troots noo may flap their gills — 
 
 Th' bigs yins, tae ! 
 
 Drumsuggle, whar' it tak's a turn 
 Tae join th' roarin' Limestane Burn, 
 Whar sparklin' cascades foam an' churn, 
 
 Gae fliee wi' speed; 
 An' tell wee troots nae mair tae murn, 
 
 For Johnnie's deid ! 
 
 An' .tell th' freens in "Kings" an' "Carron," 
 Tae loup th' linns, they're free frae harm; 
 Yon sleekit chap frae Cambusbarron 
 
 Wi' rod an' reel, 
 Nae mair he'll work wi' subtle charm, 
 
 His cunnin' spiel. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 21 
 
 E'en cocks an' hens may cease their wail, 
 For Jock's naie langer on their trail, 
 Tae pu' th' feathers oot their tail 
 
 Tae busk sae braw ; 
 Some clever bait tae hook th' frail, 
 
 Clean thro' th' jaw ! 
 
 Wee helpless bugs may chirp and sing, 
 An' rise an' flee wi' hummin' wing, 
 Across th' linn whar torrents fling 
 
 Their foamin' spray; 
 Th' haun that pierced ye thro' th' een 
 
 Is cauld as clav ! 
 
 Ye'd see him crawlin' on his knees 
 
 Alang th' sides o' rotten trees 
 
 For wee white mauks or fancy flees, 
 
 Wee troots tae bribe ; 
 Or onything he thoclit micht please 
 
 Th' finny tribe ! 
 
 When mists were trailin' owre th' brae, 
 An' dews were dreepin' aff th' slae, 
 Jock trod th' muirs at mornin' grey, 
 
 Ere larks had risen ; 
 Syne hame he'd trudge at close o' day, 
 
 Wi twa-three dizzen ! 
 
22 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 But wae's me, auld Jock's noo awa', 
 Nae mair he'll lash an' deftly draw 
 His line across th' waterfa' 
 
 In Fintry glen ; 
 His like Cam'sbarron never saw 
 
 'Mong fisher men ! 
 
 They'll miss his kindly, smilin' face, 
 An' quiet, retirin', manly grace ; 
 We hope his soul has found a place 
 
 Amang th' blest , 
 Wi' Him wha' guides th' human race 
 
 An' kens th' best ! 
 
 TH' WEE HAME 
 
 Sometimes a body's puzzled 
 
 An' kens nae whar tae gang ; 
 Sometimes we're led tae think this world's 
 
 A sweet, harmonious sang. 
 But, oh, hoo quick oor idle thochts 
 
 Gang glimmerin' like th' snaw. 
 An' mak' us think there's nae place 
 
 Like oor wee hame, efter a'. 
 
Lays o' tK Hameland 23 
 
 What tho' th' haiiie be humble, 
 
 Wi' its low riff theeked wi' strae, 
 An' th' doorstep wearin' thin an' low 
 
 An' th' wa's look auld and grey? 
 'Twill cling aroun' th' memory, 
 
 Like th' ivy tae th' wa', 
 An' monie a time you'll heave a sigh 
 
 For th' wee hame, after a'. 
 
 Tho' senselesss pride should flaunt its gear, 
 
 Ye needna care a preen, 
 If love be blinkin' roun' th' hearth 
 
 Tae consecrate th' scene ! 
 E'en tho' th' warld should gang ajee 
 
 An' kingdoms rise an' fa' ! 
 Th' smile that lichts yer ain fire en', 
 
 Is th' best thing, efter a'. 
 
 Sometimes th' clouds may lower, 
 
 An' th' sky look geyin' black ; 
 But it's fine tae ken ye hae a freen 
 
 Aye staunin' at yer back ! 
 Their tears will mingle whiles wi' yours, 
 
 Sae dinna gang awa' 
 An' leave th' cozy, wee fire en', 
 
 Th' best place, lefter a'. 
 
24 Lays o' ?/?' Hameland 
 
 TH' CRAWS AN' TH' TATTIE BOGLE 
 
 Tae a' th' craws in Beltane wood, 
 A mote was sent oot — greetin' : — 
 
 That ilka craw, wi' honor, should 
 Attend a special meetin'. 
 
 An auld fule — so th' notice says — 
 Ye keen him, Jamie Russell, 
 
 He's resurrected some auld claes, 
 An' a lum hat, bare as grissel. 
 
 Frae a' th' airts th' win' can veer, 
 They cam' for twa-three days, 
 
 Tae view th' bogle dressed sae queer 
 In Jamie Russell's claes. 
 
 Th' chief craw gied them a' a speech, 
 
 An' quoted certain laws, 
 Tae prove that tattie bogles teach 
 
 A lesson tae th' craws. 
 
 ''When ye see them set a bogle oot, 
 A dreadfu' sicht revealin', 
 
 Juist itak' my word — withoot a doot, 
 There are tatties for th' stealin'. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 25 
 
 Noo, Russell's schemes ('tween me an' you, 
 
 He's some I daurna mention), 
 But wha he's tryin' tae pautern noo, 
 
 It's past my comprehension ! 
 
 An' freens, I've leeved for seeven year', 
 
 An' o' bogles made a study, 
 But for a fricht, I'll vow an' sweer 
 
 That this yin 'cowes th' cuddy !' 
 
 Will some yin say — if ony can," 
 Th' ichief craw asked at each yin, 
 
 ''If it's Taurly Wull' or 'Candy Dan' 
 Or daft Jock Watson preachin'?" 
 
 A wee yin said, 'twas "Mealy Tim," 
 
 Or bleer-iee'd "Davey Wallace," 
 Anither said ''it looked like yin 
 
 New cutted frae a gallows !" 
 
 Some couldna name th' thing ava — 
 
 Some didna care a whustle — 
 Some wished a big hey stack wad fa' 
 
 An' smother Jamie Russell ! 
 
 Tae settle th' unseemly row 
 
 An' calm their doots an' fears, 
 Th' chief craw ran alang a bough 
 
 An' cawed for volunteers ! 
 
26 Lays o' iK Hameland 
 
 ''Dis ony craw/' 'he fairly cried, 
 "Propose tae stand defeated, 
 
 An' by a strae stiff'd ghost defied 
 An' frae their richts be cheated?' 
 
 A big yin streech'd his glossy neck 
 An' gied his neb a dicht, 
 
 Quo' he, "I'll steal a hauf a peck 
 Afore th' morn's nicht. 
 
 Wha cares for Russell's weddin' claes? 
 
 Dear me ! they'd mak' ye gasp ! 
 I've leeved on tatties a' my days 
 
 An' shall dae till th' last !" 
 
 Awa' he flew wi' lichtnin' speed, 
 
 Tae whar th' bogle sat, 
 He made twa circles roun' its heid 
 
 An' lichtit on its hat. 
 
 He even delved amang th' mud, 
 
 Below a spneadin' shaw. 
 Syne cairriet hame a juicy spud 
 
 An' shair'd it wi' them a'. 
 
 Th' feat was hailed wi' great acclaim — 
 They gied him lood applause! 
 
 An' voted gloss}^ there an' then 
 Th' king amang th' craws. 
 
Lays o' tit Hameland 27 
 
 Says he, ''My freens, mak' little din, 
 Nae mair sit doon an' greet ! 
 
 For when th' spuds are gaithered in, 
 We'll start on Russell's wheat! 
 
 An' when th' wheat's a' gaithered hame, 
 An' hap't frae winter's snaws, 
 
 We'll get a leevin', even then, 
 By pu'in' oot th' straws. 
 
 An' as for Russell? Simple chiel, 
 Wha's sneered at Nature's laws ! 
 
 He'll be lucky if he 'scapes th' deil 
 For tryin' tae sterve th' craws." 
 
 THE WILD ROSE 
 
 Let the roses bloom and die ; 
 
 Let their perfume-laden leaves 
 Leave their sisters with a sigh, 
 
 Scattered by the Western breeze. 
 
 Oft times has the evening gale 
 Flung its incense far abroad ! 
 
 Bringing back some sw^eet told tale 
 To some lonely, drear abode. 
 
28 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 The blighted hopes of days gone by, 
 Whose spirit haunts us down the years, 
 
 Ane but the rose leaves shrunk and dry, 
 Tho' watered oft by countless tears ! 
 
 Let their leaves lie where they fall ; 
 
 Their mission on this earth is done ! 
 Perhaps 'tis better, after all. 
 
 They fall and wither, one by one ! 
 
 So let the roses bloom and fade. 
 They tell of some forgotten joy; 
 
 Some other star which God hath made 
 May yet their mission sweet employ. 
 
 Sweet transient of the rural vale, 
 Thy vernal year too soon goes by; 
 
 The winds that whisper down the dale 
 Are sighing, when you droop and die ! 
 
 JAMIE BROON 
 
 (Lines on Mr. James Brown. Clerk of the City of McKeesport, Pa., 
 native of Coatbridge, Scotland) 
 
 Auld Scotlan' aye bauds up her heid. 
 An' looks th' braid world in th' face ! 
 
 Tae crooch an' cringe, she disna need. 
 She's represented every place. 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland 29 
 
 Aroun' th' world's circle wide, 
 Where brawn an' brains are in demand, 
 
 We place auld Scotia's sons beside 
 Th' best ithey have in any land. 
 
 They guide th' plow an' wield th' pen, 
 They sink th' mine an' hew th' rock ! 
 
 In a' th' ways o' mart an* men, 
 
 You'll find auld Scotlan's sturdy stock. 
 
 In peace an' war — on land or sea, 
 They're pressin' forward in th' van ! 
 
 Beneath th' banner of th' free, 
 Th' Caledonian takes his stan'. 
 
 In councils o' th' kirk an' state, 
 
 They're there wi' ready wit an' pen. 
 
 They snap their thooms at luck an' fate. 
 An' solve tli' problems there an' then. 
 
 McKeesport, famed owre a' th' earth, 
 Among her councillors sits a chiel ! 
 
 (I needna say o' Scottish birth,) 
 An* keeps her books, an' keeps them weel. 
 
 Oor honored freen, wi' smilin' face. 
 
 Can tell ye a' aboot th' toon ; 
 An' a' ithat ken him, frankly place 
 
 Explicit faith in Jamie Broon. 
 
30 Lays d* tli Hameland 
 
 THE FALL OF THE LEAF 
 
 The golden Autumn leaves are falling, 
 Their song is past and done ; 
 
 They march in countless mute brigades 
 And fall out one *by one ! 
 
 The wailing winds with chilling breath, 
 Thro' the naked branches roam ; 
 
 The red sun's sinking in the West 
 And birds are winging home. 
 
 The humble daisy in the dell 
 
 Hath shed its petals now ; 
 The mighty oak's imperial crown 
 
 Hath left his kingly brow ! 
 
 O, say not that the Autumn leaves 
 Have sung and sighed in vain ! 
 
 They teach that we, like them, may fall 
 Ere Springtime comes again. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 31 
 
 TH' WEE PATFU' O' TATTIES 
 
 There are times when a body will heave a bit sigh 
 For th' freen's o' lang syne, an' th' days that's gane by ; 
 When leal he'rts wad gether, as pure as th' snaw, 
 Roun' th' weie patfit' o' tatties an' a herrin' or twa. 
 
 Hoo fain were th' he'rts, an' hoo blithe was th' sicht ; 
 Sittin' aroun' th' fire on a lang winter nicht ; 
 An' hearin' th' rain an' th' win' loodly blaw, — 
 Roun' th' wee patfu' o' tatties an' a herrin' or iwa. 
 
 Some gey couthie folks wad invite a bit freen, 
 Tae be shair an' ca' in aboot blithe Hallowe'en ; 
 Syne, th' sang an' th' story, they'd whup an' they'd ca', 
 Roun' th' wee patfu' o' tatties an' a herrin' or twa. 
 
 Some wad mak' us believe they heard a strange soun', 
 Then we'd a' draw th'gether an' were feert tae look roun' ; 
 Whiles we'd lauch at oor shadow sae droll on th' wa', 
 Roun' th' wee patfu' o' tatties an' a herrin' or twa. 
 
 What signifies wealth if th' wee lovin' flame 
 Disna sit at th' fireside tae licht up th' hame? 
 Faur better wi' love tho' you've naething ava' 
 But a wee patfu' o' tatties an' a herrin' or twa. 
 
32 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 Sma' wonder we sigh for th' days that are gane — 
 For th' wee thacket hoose wi' its ''but an' its ben" — 
 For th' kindly advice th' auld folks gaed us a', 
 Roun' th' wee patfu' o' tatties an' a herrin' or twa. 
 
 Here's a health tae th' freens o' th' days o' lang syne, 
 An' tae Faith, Love an' Hope, may their he'rts aye incline ; 
 May they never want when adversities blaw, 
 A wee patfu' o' tatties an' a herrin' or twa. 
 
 THE FISHERWIFE'S LULLABY TO HER CHILD 
 
 Hush ye and sleep, 'tis the sea wind that's wailing. 
 
 It is dying away with the red setting sun ! 
 Father will come — o'er the salt sea he's sailing — 
 To the one's he loves best, when the toiling is done. 
 Hush ye and sleep. 
 
 Till the dawning has come! 
 And the waves homeward sweep 
 Brings fond father home. 
 
 Hush ye and rest, the cold dews are dreeping! 
 
 The thrush is asleep near his mate on the tree, 
 Afar up the deep glen the grey mists are creeping, 
 And all nature's still but the sob of the sea ! 
 The bright silver moon 
 
 Is abroad o'er the deep, 
 To guide father home, 
 Sleep, darling, sleep ! 
 
Lays 6* iK Hameland 33 
 
 Thy father is brave, as his sires were before him, 
 
 Who first saw the wild foaming waves in their glee ! 
 His arm, it tis strong, like the kindred that bore him, 
 Who toiled for their bread in the depths of the sea! 
 vSleep, darling, sleep ! 
 
 Kind angels are near, 
 God's hand rules the deep, 
 And mother is here. 
 
 WANDERING WITH THE MUSE 
 
 Th' Muse an' me, ae bonnie day, 
 
 Resolved — atween us twa, 
 
 Tae gang ^tae whar th' foamin' linns 
 Come bockin' oot amang th' whins 
 
 An' wear th' day awa'. 
 
 She wore a girdle by her side, 
 
 An' in her silken hair 
 
 I saw th' flowers of every hue 
 Entwined with rosemary an' rue, 
 
 Th' thorn an' rose were there. 
 
 Her wind-swept harp she beld aloft, 
 
 An' thro' its tremblin' strings 
 I heard th' music of th' streams 
 That glance beneath pale Luna's beams, 
 
 With melodious murmurings. 
 
34 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 A-down th' glen where brackens green 
 Nod to th' Summer air, 
 
 We sat an' mused on Nature's gift, 
 - Th' lark was liltin' i' th' lift, 
 Th' world was bright an' fair. 
 
 We wandered o'er th' scented hills, 
 
 An' by th' thicket green ; 
 
 An' thro' th' meadows, wet wi' dew, 
 Where buttercups an' daisies grew, 
 
 An' wee flowers blaw unseen. 
 
 She smiled an' said : "My freen, tak' heed, 
 Not all th' flowers we meet 
 
 Are gifted wi' a radiant air, 
 
 For some are false, an' some are fair, — 
 Th' bitter an' th' sweet. 
 
 Not all th' songs th' Shepherd sings 
 
 So blithe at eventide, 
 Can heal a sad an' broken heart. 
 For some will soothe an' some will smart 
 
 An' some with coldness chide. 
 
 Her rustic harp she sweetly tuned 
 
 An' sang a hamely strain, 
 
 O' gowden days o' dear lang syne, — 
 I thocht th' lang lost freen's o' mine 
 
 Smiled roun' th' fire at hame. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 35 
 
 I heard th' songs that touch th' he'rt 
 
 Gang roun' tli' circle wide ; 
 O' patriotic, valiant knights, 
 Who triumphed in a hundred fights 
 
 An' for Scotland's honor died ! 
 
 I saw our sandaled fathers bold 
 Proud England's offer spurn ! 
 
 An' far across th' spreadin' lea, 
 
 I saw th' foemen turn an' flee 
 From bloody Bannockburn. 
 
 I heard th' shearers in th' corn 
 Pour out a simple sang; 
 
 An' up th' verdant, ferny glen 
 
 Th' mavis joined th' glad refrain, 
 Th' woods with echoes rang. 
 
 She sighed an' said, "We've wandered far 
 Ayont th' restless tide; 
 
 Then took her flight on airy wing, 
 
 An' lured me back again to sing 
 Aroun' th' auld fireside. 
 
36 Lays o* th* Hameland 
 
 BY THE QUIET INGLENOOK 
 
 A fine, easy chair, wi' a paper or book, 
 
 An' my auld twusted slippers, worn down at th' heel. 
 Half hid in a den by th' quiet Inglenook, 
 
 Bring a measure o' peace, unco hard to conceal. 
 
 Th' auld eicht-day clock wi' its sober-like air 
 
 Wi' slow measured throb keeps tick tackin' awa', 
 
 Sly Tabby sits singin' "green thrums" on a chair, 
 An' th' bairns, wi' their fingers, mak' forms on th' wa' 
 
 "John Frost," in his chariot, set wi' gems glitterin' fine. 
 Is roamin' o'er hills — by th' vale an' th' brook; 
 
 He may laugh in his glee, I'm content tae recline 
 In my auld easy chair, by th' quiet Inglenook. 
 
 Friends I hae many — some are far o'er th' main. 
 
 An' years hae rolled by since their dear hands I shook ; 
 
 When th' fire burns low, they come crowdin' again 
 
 Wi' their soft winnin' smiles, roun' my quiet Inglenook. 
 
 Th' great hae their spacious baronial halls — 
 Their quaint, ivied towers whar th' owls sit an' hoot, 
 
 But bring me th' faces fond memory recalls 
 In th' flickerin' lowe, by th' quiet Inglenook. 
 
Lays o' th* Hameland 37 
 
 TH' TRYSTIN' TREE 
 
 How blithesome is th' gloamin' sweet, 
 That brings th' 'oor sae dear tae me ; 
 
 Whien I maun haste awa' tae meet 
 Wi' Marion at th' trystin' tree. 
 
 Th' ciishet loves th' birkin shade, 
 Th' laverock seeks th' tufted lea; 
 
 But I will wait in yonder glade 
 For Marion at th' trystin' tree. 
 
 Th' roses in her cheek may fade, 
 Th' love-glint may desert th' e'e ; 
 
 But Heaven has heard th' vows we made 
 At e'enin' at th' trystin' tree. 
 
 Let others roam by fancy led, 
 I maun abide by Heaven's decree ; 
 
 An' sae, content, I'll shane my plaid 
 Wi' Marion at" th' trystin' tree. 
 
38 Lays o' tW Hameland 
 
 TH' SABBATH SCHULE SUREE 
 
 'Mong a' th' joys o' early youth, 
 
 When we were young an' sma', 
 There's ane we canna weel forget, 
 
 I think it bates itheni a' ; 
 I mind it made us geyin' prood. 
 
 An* filled oor he'rts wi' glee, 
 When th' teacher said, "On Friday nicht 
 
 Is ith' Sabbath Schule Suree." 
 
 'Twas then we thocht we saw them 
 
 Bringin' oranges by th' tons, 
 An' we had sich child-like visions 
 
 O' sweeties, nits an' buns. 
 An' iteachers rinnin' up an' doon 
 
 Wi' kettles fu' o' tea, 
 An' tryin' tae serve us a' at yinst, 
 
 At ith' Sabbath Schule Suree. 
 
 Noo, whiles it's kind o' tichin' 
 
 When ye think o' youthfu' days, 
 When yer mither used tae wash yer face 
 
 An' button on yer claes, 
 An' whusper in yer careless lug — 
 
 "Let me neither hear nor see 
 Ye movin', passin' hauf an' inch 
 
 At th' Sabbath Schule Suree." 
 
Lays o' tK Hameland 39 
 
 You can hae yer gaudy ballroom 
 
 Wi* its bricht, uncertain licht ! 
 An' oxterin' yin anither lianre 
 
 In th' deid 'oor o' th' nicht! 
 Rut for a doon-richt wholesome time 
 
 An' a guileless jamboree, 
 Gie me th' kintry clachan 
 
 Wi' its Sabbath Schule Suree. 
 
 Th' minister, wi' smilin' face, — 
 
 A pious lookin' man, 
 Wad slowly rise an' then begin 
 
 By haudin' oot his haun ; 
 Syne silence reigned owre a' th' kirk, 
 
 I^ike a placid moonlit sea, 
 While we listened tae his few remarks 
 
 At th' Sabbath Schule Suree. 
 
 He'd maybe speak o" tardy anes 
 
 Who'd been absent maist a year, 
 *'But was gled tae see a sprinklin' 
 
 O' his truant laddies here," 
 An' wad gently hint that extra bags 
 
 Had been ordered, jist ^tae see 
 That nane w^ad be forgotten 
 
 At th' Sabbath Schule Suree. 
 
40 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 An' th' ministers frae meebor kirks, 
 (A worthy band o' brithers,) 
 
 Wad itell sic queer-like stories 
 An' hae funny jokes on ithers, 
 They made us lauch sae muckle 
 That we sometimes skailt oor tea, 
 
 Ah, there werena ony broken he'rts 
 At .th' Sabbath Schule Suree. 
 
 An' whar are a' oor wee freens noo? 
 
 Oh, some hae crossed life's tide. 
 An' are lyin' in th' green kirk yaird 
 
 An' sleepin' side by side; 
 They're faur frae this cauld, cruel warld- 
 
 Frae grief an' sorrow free ! — 
 Th' anes we gaed wi' haun-in-haun 
 
 Taie th' Sabbath Schule Suree. 
 
 God gie us grace an' strength tae f edit ! 
 
 Tae meet th' foe like men ; 
 An' let us aye be ready 
 
 For that 'oor we dinna ken ! 
 An' if oor lamps be fu' o' oil, 
 
 Ah, then, wi' tearless e'e. 
 We'll meet th' freens we kent lang syne, 
 
 At th' Sabbath Schule Suree. 
 
Lays o' tK Hameland 4f 
 
 TO AN AMERICAN CHAT 
 
 (Written in the woods above Glassport) 
 
 Come, sing a bit sang, to remind me o' childhood. 
 An' th' happy days spent o'er th' wide ooean blue, 
 
 When freely I roamed thro' th' meadows an' wildwood, 
 Ere sadness and sorrow had danrkened th' broo. 
 
 Your sweet notes are few, but they're a' free frae sorrow. 
 Your mission o' love is frae sunrise till dine ! 
 
 What would I no gi'e if your sang I could borrow, 
 'T would bring back th' loves o' th' days o' lang syne. 
 
 Sing on! wee bird, sing! your wild wood notes shall ever 
 Bring thochts to this breast o' a time in life's Spring! 
 
 When birds sang sae sweet by a clear shining river, 
 An' he'rts were as pure as th' dew on your wing. 
 
 Th' wild flowers may fade when th' Summer is ended ! 
 
 But th' song shall remain when th' singer has flown! 
 When youth's golden hours wi' th' sere leaf have blended, 
 
 Til' spirit of love, in th' soul, shall live on ! 
 
42 Lays o' iK Hameland 
 
 CAULD, DREARY WINTER 
 
 How waesome an' drear are th' days in December, 
 When ilka thing's covered wi' cauld, driftin' snaw ; 
 
 Nae feathered choir singin' ; 
 
 Nae gentle flooers springin' ; 
 Wae's me ! but th' Summier is noo faur awa' ! 
 
 Th' sauchs by th' river are sighin' sae weary, 
 
 Th' cauld waters lap owre th' grey, glossy stanes ; 
 
 Th' chill win's are weepin' 
 
 Whar th' snawdraps are sleepin' ; 
 Th' roses lie withered an' deid in th' lanes ! 
 
 Th' wee bird that sang frae th' spray in th' woodlan', 
 His nest, noo, is damp, in th' clift in th' tree, 
 
 His wild notes are broken; 
 
 He's swayin' an' rockin' 
 On th' snaw-covered lim', Avi' a pityin' e'e. 
 
 But Hope, in the breast, is a fountain aye springin' ; 
 Kind Summer will come wi' her flooers doon th' lane ; 
 Auld Nature's jist sleepin; 
 In her bosom she's keepin' 
 Th' loves an' the joys that will cheer us again. 
 
Lays o' tK Hameland 43 
 
 A HEARTFELT DESIRE 
 
 (Respectfully dedicated to a worthy Scot, Samuel Gibb) 
 
 I've aften thocht, this wee while 1)ack, 
 
 I'd like tae tak' a trip, 
 An' slip awa' some bonnie day 
 
 On a great big ocean ship ; 
 I wadna want nae great adae, 
 
 Nor flunkeys followin' me ; 
 But jist a quate-like dauner 
 
 In some Scotch glen, ere I dee ! 
 
 Then, I micht forgether wi' some freens 
 
 I hinna seen for years ; 
 An' sweet wad be their lovin' smiles 
 
 Tho' dim-like thro' th' tears ! 
 But, oh ! tae see their face again 
 
 An' feel ^thteir haun in mine, — 
 'T would bring sweet memories back again 
 
 Frae auld lang syne ! 
 
 Wi' retrospective glance I see 
 
 Th' waters foam an' churn ; 
 An' purple heather leanin' owre 
 
 An' dippin' i' th' burn ! 
 
44 Lays o* th' Hameland 
 
 And an eerie nook ayont th' rock, 
 Whar warlocks haud confabs, — 
 
 Whar ith' dew is dreepin' aff th' slae 
 An' specters weave their wabs. 
 
 It micht be that we're lured wi' gold, 
 
 Beneath some foreign sky, 
 But Scotsmen have a few things yet 
 
 That siller canna buy, — 
 It canna buy th' warm he'rt 
 
 That's beatin' a3^e for thee, 
 Dear ocean washed an' mist bedimmed 
 
 Wee Scotlan' owre th' sea. 
 
 Wha kens, but I micht staun again 
 
 Whar glorious Wallace stood ! 
 An' dared his treacherous Southern foes 
 
 An' shed their dearest bluid ! 
 I wadna want, as I have said, 
 
 A great thrang followin' me, — 
 Jist ae fond look, an' a lang fareweel 
 
 Tae Scotlan' ere 1 dtee ! 
 
Lays o' th! Hameland 45 
 
 TH' WEE SHOW 
 Bluebeard 
 
 To be given at th' held o' Cowie's yaird. Admission, five preens, 
 
 or five buttons) 
 
 Five preens was th' price of admission, — 
 Or buttons, if ye hadna th' preens ; 
 
 We had robb'd granny's auld saw-dust cushion, 
 Taie admit us tae witness th' scenes. 
 
 Jamie Watt, who collected th' passes, 
 (Jist tae prove hoo he handled his part, 
 
 An' tae show aff his skill -tae th' lassies,) 
 Licked a scoffer or twa, for a start. 
 
 Geordie Bryson indulged in some capierin', 
 Then announced that th' show would begin, 
 
 Th* door was an auld drogget apron. 
 That aye rose an' fell wi' th' win'. 
 
 Wullie Walker, whose face was a puzzle, 
 Wi' red paint — an' hair like a broom, 
 
 Had telt Maggie Watt he wad guzzle 
 Her, if shie entered th' forbidden room. 
 
46 Lays o' tK Ham eland 
 
 Altho' she was frichtit, she tried it, — 
 
 'Twas mair than wee Maggie could staun, 
 
 Tho' th' order was stern, she defied it, 
 hxi there was th' stain on her haun. 
 
 Thro' a hole in a hauf worn blanket 
 That hung whar th' stagin' began, 
 Maggie screamed, wi' a voice like a trumpet, 
 
 ''Sister Ann ! Sister Ann ! Sister Ann ! 
 
 For I canna get th' bluid aff th' key !" 
 ''L/Ook an' see if there's ony yin comin', 
 Aninie heard but th' win's sullen moanin', 
 
 For deil tae th' yin could she see. 
 
 Bluebeard, wi' a roar an' a stampede. 
 That made a' oor bluid fairly freeze. 
 
 Made a clacht at wee Mag by th' hair o' th' head, 
 An' sternly demanded th' keys ! 
 
 'Twas saftnin' tae see Maggie pleadin' 
 Wi' Bluebeard tae spare her her life. 
 
 An' naebody near intercedin', 
 
 Tae stay Bluebeard's haun wi' th' knife. 
 
 But we a' thocht we seen something movin' 
 Bielow some auld claes (let me say. 
 
 It didna need arguin', nor provin'. 
 
 There was something no canny that day) . 
 
Lays 6* tK Hameland 47 
 
 Slyly hid in a corner, an' covered 
 
 Wi' face towels, serks, jeckets an' shawls, 
 
 Th' twa brithers lay undiscovered 
 
 Till they heard Maggie's he'rt-rendin' calls. 
 
 But Bluebeard seemed bent on th' killin', 
 (For a meenit we a' held oor breath !) 
 
 When th' twa brithers sprang at th' villain, 
 Savin' Maggie frae a horrible death. 
 
 Geordie Bryson got intae th' babble 
 An' pushed Maggie Watt thro' a hole, 
 
 Yin by yin a' got mixed in the rabble, 
 
 For 'twas niair than us laddies could thole. 
 
 Wee Maggie ran up thro' th' kaleyaird, — 
 
 Fairly flew like a bird newly freed 
 An' sabbin', telt her mither ''that Bluebeard 
 
 Had pu'd a' th' hair oot her heid !" 
 
 When th' scrammel was settled an' over, 
 An' again we made up, an' were freens, 
 
 Jamie Watt disappeared under cover, 
 Wi' th' box an' th' buttons an' preens. 
 
 On oor innocent childhood we ponder,. 
 
 An' th' dear, gowden days o' th' past, 
 Lovin' memory, somiehow, grows tli' fonder, 
 
 Tho' th' sunshine o' youth's overcast. 
 
48 Lays o' th' Homeland 
 
 We hae paid, lang syne, for oor learnin', 
 In this vale, with its sorrow an' tears, 
 
 Till th' he'rt for some haven is yearnin', 
 At th' close o' th' lang, weary years. 
 
 We hae wandered afar since youth's mornin', 
 Thro' this warld wi' its variant scenes. 
 
 Life has cost us a hantle sicht more than 
 A few paltry buttons an' preens. 
 
 LET TH' WEE DOUG ALANE 
 
 Let th' wee doug alane ! 
 
 It's no meddlin' wi' you, 
 It's lookin' for some yin 
 
 Tae lay their haun on its broo ; 
 Its tongue ne'er was madie 
 
 Tae describe grief an' pain, 
 It suffers in silence — 
 
 Let th' wee doug alane ! 
 
 Go, search roun' th' earth 
 
 Tae its furthermost end 
 An' produce — if you can — 
 
 Half so faithfu' a friend; 
 Tho' th' warld has ignoiied ye 
 
 An' laughed at your fa'. 
 It'll staun by your side 
 
 Tae th' last breath ye draw. 
 
Lays o' th* Hameland 49 
 
 On an auld torn jacket 
 
 Or a wee pickle strae, 
 It'll watch for a foe 
 
 Tae th' breakin' o' day; 
 Its way is tae warn ye 
 
 Wi' a he'rt fond an' leal, 
 An' a' th' honors it asks 
 
 Is tae trot at yer heiel. 
 
 An' e'en when yer deid, 
 
 An' th' mourners are weepin', 
 It's th' last yin tae leave 
 
 Th' cauld grave whar yer sleepin' ; 
 It canna believe 
 
 That ye'll never o'eturn 
 It*s th' first yin tae mfss ye 
 
 An' th' last yin tae mourn. 
 
 An', sae, when yer toilin' 
 
 Thro' .this warld o' care, 
 Yer fortune's taen wings 
 
 An' yer he'rt's unco sair; 
 Yer wee freen will never, 
 
 Thro' sunshine or rain, 
 Betray ye, nor leave ye, — 
 
 Let th' wee doug alane ! 
 
50 Lays o' iW Hameland 
 
 Oft in the stilly night, 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Fond memory brings the light 
 
 Of other days around me : 
 The smiles, the tears of boyhood years, 
 
 The words of love then spoken, 
 The eyes that shone, now dimmed and gone, 
 
 The cheerful hearts now broken! 
 
 — Moore. 
 
Lays o' iW Hameland 51 
 
 TH' SABBATH SCHULE TRIP 
 
 You may speak o' your journeys by land an' by sea, 
 
 An' th' sichts ye haie seen on a ship ; 
 But I'll wager ye didna enjoy't hauf as weel 
 
 As th' wee village Sabbath Schule trip. 
 
 Ye'll hae mind o' th' ttime when th' grozets were ripe 
 
 An' th' red cheekit apples, sae fine, 
 Hoo oor teeth fairly watered wihen they dailt them arooJi' 
 
 In th' dear, bonnie days o' lang syne! 
 
 Oor faithers an' mithers wad staun at th' door, 
 An' were prood-like tae see us sae braw ; 
 
 An' th' preacher, guid man, wi' a smile on his face, 
 Took a he'rtfelt delight in us a'. 
 
 Th' wee village baun had been hired for th' day, 
 
 Tae lead us tae some shady glen ; 
 Then we'd a' fa' in line an' swing nicely awa' 
 
 Tae th' "March o' the Cameron Men!" 
 
 We'd offer oor haun tae oor mate at oor side. 
 
 An' he'd lay his wee saft haun in oors ; 
 An' some o' them cairriet wee white an' blue flags 
 
 An' th' lassies a wee bab o' flooer-s-. 
 
52 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 E'en th' birds seemed tae ken, for they wankened th' glen 
 
 Wi' their echoes, an' sweetly they sang; 
 An' th' lark, as he soared i' th' lift, seemed tae say, 
 
 "I'll sing tae ye as faur as ye gang!" 
 
 As we swung doon th' glen wi' oor wee clippin' flags- 
 
 Tae th' auld brig that crosses th' burn ; 
 Th' folks roon th' "Big Hoose," wad gie us a cheer, 
 
 An' we'd a' cheer them back in return. 
 
 Sich laughin' an' dafhn' an' rinnin' aboot 
 
 Like a lot o' wee fairies, sae free; 
 We'd loss ane anither tae we saw twa blue ©en 
 
 JCeekin' roon by th' side o' a tree. 
 
 'Mang a' th' dear dreams that come back tae me noo 
 
 In this warld wi' its sorrow an' pain, 
 Are th' days when we thocht that th' sun would aye shine 
 
 But they're past, an' will ne'er come again. 
 
 z\n' aft-times sweet memory beckons me back 
 An' mak's th' saut tear rin doon tae th' lip ; 
 
 For I'm jimpin' an' rinnin', an' contendin' again 
 At th' wee village Sabbath Schule tlrip. 
 
Lays o' th' Homeland 53 
 
 LINES ON OUR WORTHY TREASURER, DAVID 
 
 H. BROWN, OF CLAN McDONALD 161, 
 
 McKEESPORT, PA. 
 
 My hairp anc^e mair I'll gladly tune 
 An' sing" th' praise o' Davie Broon, 
 His bawsant, sortsie, lauchin' face 
 Is welcomed aye in every place. 
 
 His Scottish he'rt's aye fu' o' glee 
 For oor wee kintry owre th' sea, 
 That's been th' cradle o' th' great, 
 On field an' flood, in ha' an' state. 
 
 He's had misfortunes, like us a' ! 
 An' whiles his back's been at th' wa' ! 
 lUit bravely aye he's Avarsl'd throo 
 Tae start ith' battle owre anew. 
 
 When ony Scotch spree's gaun tae happen, 
 Ye'll never catch oor Davie nappin', 
 But whar there's ony wark or care 
 Jist nod yer heid — say, Davie's ithere. 
 
54 Lays o' th' Hamelatid 
 
 When he sings, th' foeman backward reels 
 On Scotland's famous battlefields, — 
 An' for an urgent, lood encore, 
 "I'm Lyin' on a Foreign Shore." 
 
 In his ample chair he sits fu' snug 
 Wi' a red pen balanced on his lug, 
 An' wi' a fine, contented g^in 
 He draws th' clansmen's shekels in. 
 
 Th' bits o' bawbees tremble sair, 
 When they hear him comin' up th' stair, 
 They ken their jinglin' days are past — 
 When he lab's them in his pouch at last. 
 
 Noo, when th' palms yer dailin' roun' 
 Jist twine a bay for Davie Broon, 
 An' freens, let's hae it strong an' heavy — 
 Three lusty, roarin' cheters for Davie ! 
 
Lays 0* tW Hameland 65 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE YEAR 1911 
 
 Come, gie's yer haun, wee honest freen, 
 I understaun' ye cam* yestreen, 
 Yer smilin' face an' sparklin' ^en 
 
 An' rosy cheeks, 
 Wad mak' a sinner pure an' clean 
 
 For fifty weeks ! 
 
 Noo. seein' that yer blithe an' gay. 
 An' smilin' like th' flooers in May, 
 I thocht I'd ask ye — by th' way, 
 
 If you could see 
 A way tae mak' th' Muse behave. 
 
 She glooms at me. 
 
 A rhymin' chap frae Glessport toon, 
 Wha, every time th' year comes roun, 
 Mak's resolutions — notes them doon, 
 
 Tae write a sonnot, 
 That'd mak' ilk ither rhymin' loon 
 
 Tak' afT his bonnet. 
 
 But ere th' snawdraps deck th' plain. 
 He's back tae whar he was, again, 
 Iit''s aye th' same auld crude refrain 
 
 O' simple verse. 
 He's like some wanderer faur frae hame, 
 
 Behint a hearse. 
 
56 Lays o' th' Homeland 
 
 It's likely, tho', ye'll busy be, 
 'Mong a' th' grafters, big an' wee, 
 They'll try tae throw yer plans ajee. 
 
 But nevier mind ! 
 Stern truth an' justice — let them see, 
 
 Are kind o' blind. 
 
 Th' auld year, ere he gaed awa', 
 Faur o,wre th' hills o' sleet an' snaw, 
 Left th' "Referendum an' Reca' " 
 
 For you, my freen. 
 Nae doot, ye'll show them — big an' sma', 
 
 Th' law's supreme. 
 
 'Mang state an' municipal foes, 
 
 Ye'll hae yer share o' griefs an' woes, 
 
 But up an' bang them on th' nose, 
 
 We'll staun behimt ye ! 
 You've lots o' freens in verse an' prose 
 
 Owre a' th' kintry. 
 
 An' when aboot th' month o' May, 
 (Yer hair will then be turnin* grey), 
 Ye can &tan' wi' heid erect an' say. 
 
 There's aye salvation 
 For honest folks who watch an' pray. 
 
 In every nation. 
 
La^js o' th' Hameland 57 
 
 An' when yer skies are overcast 
 An' kave us for yer hame, at last, 
 We'll hand yer freenship lang an' fast 
 
 When ye arie gone 
 Tae join ith' weary years at last 
 
 In realms unknown. 
 
 MY FIRST PAIR O' BREEKS 
 
 There are lots o' things 1 canna mind, 
 
 An' things I would forget, 
 An' whiles my brain is sairly taxed, 
 
 For I've lots tae learn yet. 
 But there's something in th' mind aye lurks, 
 
 An' wi' a subtle tone it speaks, 
 An' reminds me when I strutted roun' 
 
 In my first pair o' breeks. 
 
 I mind they were a kind o' faded 
 
 Shepherd tartan chack, 
 Wi' enough o' claith abune th' legs 
 
 Tae gang hauf wey up my back! 
 An' mither made them braw an' wide 
 
 For fear I'd burst th' steeks, 
 An' they cost her mony a weary stitch — 
 
 My first pair o' breeks. 
 
58 Lays o' tW Hameland 
 
 Great was th' day I got them on, 
 
 I gaed bravely up th' closs ; 
 Wi' a pair o' gallisus that formed 
 
 A rale St. Andrew's cross! 
 My legs? They were nae (thicker 
 
 Than twa Musselburgh leeks. 
 An' they very seldom tiched th' sides 
 
 O' my first pair o' breeks. 
 
 My pouches, aye, were stappet fou 
 
 O' nonsence, mair or less — 
 Wi' peeries, bools an* fancy twine 
 
 An' bits o' colored gless ! 
 An' mither used tae say that folks 
 
 For trouble never seeks. 
 That hae a waukrife laddie 
 
 Wi' his first pair o' breeks. 
 
 But, oh, sin* syne, I've wandered faur 
 
 Across .th' stormy sea ; 
 
 An' sweet reflection aften mak's 
 
 Th' tear well in th' e'e ! 
 
 For I'll never feel th' warm breath 
 
 That fanned my youthfu' cheeks, 
 Nor see th' smile o' her that made 
 My first pair o' breeks. 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland ^ 
 
 THE LOST SHEPHERD 
 
 Come, children, gather round the fire 
 
 And hear my mournful lay, 
 About an old and agied sire 
 
 Whose locks were thin and grey. 
 
 He was a keeper of the sheep 
 That browsed on yonder hill ; 
 
 Where booking torrents foam and leap- 
 They wandered at their will, 
 
 'Twas many, many years ago, 
 When snows lay long and deep, 
 
 And chilling winds blew to and fro 
 'Round scar and rocky steep. 
 
 This aged shepherd's feeble step, 
 Bespoke the crowding years; 
 
 Remorseless Time his head bad swept 
 And dimmed his eyes with tears. 
 
 The ghostly snow, like fleecy down, 
 Was drifting with the blast; 
 
 And birds sought shelter in tlie town — 
 The sky was overcast. 
 
60 Lavs o' ih' Hameland 
 
 His flocks were snow-bound on the hills, 
 Far from the sheltering fold ; 
 
 He needs must seek them by th'e rills, 
 To save them from the cold. 
 
 He wrapped his old grey Highland plaid 
 
 Around his shivering form ; 
 They saw him seek with faltering tread 
 
 His pathway thro' the storm. 
 
 "Come, Rover, good old faithful dog, 
 We'll brave the storm together ! 
 
 Our duty leads thro' brake and bog 
 Tho' tempests round us gather!" 
 
 Around the hills where heaving drifts 
 Looked like the foaming sea — 
 
 Where powdered snows whose form shifts 
 Far o'er the trackless lea, 
 
 He sought his flocks by icy rills. 
 He sought them everywhere; 
 
 But some were lost among the hills — 
 He went to find them ther-e. 
 
Lays o' th* Hamcland 61 
 
 And, thro' that biting northern gale, 
 
 He heard a pitying sound; 
 A painful, pleading, mournful wail. 
 
 As coming from the ground. 
 
 The shepherd tore the drift away, 
 And Rover helped him some ; 
 
 And never did they stop nor stay 
 Until their task was done. 
 
 And there lay in that lonely place, 
 
 The ewe so piteously ; 
 A smile lit up the shepherd's face. 
 
 And Rover jumped wnth glee. 
 
 But high above the mountain's crown. 
 The storm raged long and loud ; 
 
 And people feared in the town, 
 The snow would be his shroud. 
 
 He sank beneath his tender load, 
 His strength at last gave way, 
 
 And kneeling in that drear abode, 
 He stopped awhile to pray. 
 
^2 Lays & th' Hameland 
 
 With parting breath he trembling said 
 "Now, Rover, haste ! and go !" 
 
 And pointed from his snowy bed 
 To the village far below. 
 
 Down from the lofty mountain steep 
 
 Came Rover like ithe wind, 
 And panting reached the village street. 
 
 Then turned and turned and whined. 
 
 There was hurrying by the lantern light, 
 
 Of hardy men and true; 
 Who feared not for the darkest night, 
 
 Or gale ithat ever blew. 
 
 Up, up they strode, thro' tempests rude 
 They clove their dangerous way; 
 
 Until ithey came where Rover stood 
 And where the shepherd lay. 
 
 They found him where the chilling bneath 
 
 Of winter snows abide; 
 His kindly eyes were closed in death — 
 
 The ewe wrapped in his plaid. 
 
Lays o* th' Hameland 63 
 
 A WEE LINNET SANG 
 
 A wee linnet sang frae a wild rowan itree, 
 As th* sun was gaun doon owre Ben Lomon', 
 
 An', oh, but his kind he'rt was bubblin' wi' glee, 
 In th' saft mellow licht in ith' gloamin'. 
 
 "IVe built me a hame in th' lo,w yellow whin, 
 Where th' stream flows sae sparklin' an' bonnie, 
 
 I sing wi' ith' sough o' th' white foamin' linn 
 Tae my wee mate that's fairer than ony." 
 
 Fair shines th' sun in th' green, green glen, 
 Where th' lov^-echoes answer your singin', 
 
 Tiho' I've wandered awa' tae a faur, faur hame, 
 Your sang in my ear's ever ringin'. 
 
 Sing on, wee bird, sing, wi' your he'rt fu' o' glee, 
 An' saft fa' th' dew on your pinions, 
 
 No king on his throne nor his knights are as free 
 As you, in their haill wide dominions. 
 
64 Lays o' tW Hameland 
 
 THE CRICKET'S SONG. 
 On Hearing One Sing in the Engine Room. 
 
 Romantic friend and cheerful neighbor, 
 Reminder of my boyhood years ; 
 
 Your unskilled song seems pleasant labor, 
 And drives away my groundless fears 
 
 In years gone by, when tired and Aveary, 
 And leaning 'gainst the ample hearth , 
 
 The winter nights were long and dreary 
 Without your song, sweet soul of mirth. 
 
 A'Vlien round the fire fond hearts would linger, 
 And weave .their tales of fay and sprite , 
 
 You tuned your pipe, wee, simple singer. 
 Till friends had said the last "good-night." 
 
 Long years have gone, but, ah, the faces 
 That smiled around the Yule fire's glow; 
 
 They linger still — fond memory traces 
 Their winning smiles of long ago. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameiand 65 
 
 Sing on! wee, humble minstrel, sing! 
 
 And measure out your simple lays. 
 Rehearse again your theme, and bring 
 
 The dear lost friends of by-gone days. 
 
 'Tis sad 'to think, friends ne'er may meet, 
 
 Nor bask in youth's bright, glistening beams ; 
 
 But, sing your song, so clear and sweet, 
 Enchanter of romantic dreams. 
 
 AULD GRANNY 
 
 A canny auld body was granny, I ween, 
 Wi' her saft withered hauns, and the love in her een, 
 She could hum a bit sang, an' could deftly relate 
 Some auld farrant story tae mak' ye keep quate. 
 
 Ah, ithere ne'er was a freen like auld granny on earth, 
 She was sad when we w^ept, an' would smile at oor mirth, 
 Her lullaby soothed — her love never failed, 
 A refuge was granny when dangers assailed. 
 
 When ony misfortune would fa' tae my lot, 
 Auld granny was there wi' her haun on th' spot ; 
 Sh>e'd vow an' declare, it was naething ava. 
 An' a wee white stripp't sweetie would settle it a' I 
 
66 Lays o* tW Hameland 
 
 An' we'd dance roun' aboot her when she'd whusper th' 
 news 
 
 That th' "fair-time was comin' wi' its braw shoogfy 
 
 'shoos !" 
 In oor dreams we could see prancin' horses an' kye, 
 An' big sugar castles toorin' up tae th' sky. 
 
 An' sae carefu' she'd lead me roun' ilka nit staun, 
 Aye giein' me an advice, an' squeezin' my haun ; 
 For granny an' me were as canty a pair 
 As ever bocht grozets at Cummernaud fair. 
 
 Tho' it's monie a year — an' I say't wi' a sigh, 
 Sin* granny gaed awa' tae her hame in th' sky, 
 Yet I think, whiles I feel, till I maist think it's true, 
 Her auld, kindly, saft, withered haun on my broo. 
 
 But a' things doon here maun fa' tae decay, 
 We are merely sojourners, toiling on by th' way; 
 Stern Time, wi' his rule, measures on thro' th' years, ' 
 An* we sit an' reflect wi' a smile thro' th' tears. 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland .67 
 
 THE PEASEBROSE 
 
 You've heard it sung- and said, 
 And in books, no doubt, you've read, 
 'Bout Scotia's hailsome parritch and her famous oat- 
 meal cake ! 
 But there's never onybody 
 Thinks it worth his while to study 
 
 'Bout the ochre-colored peasebrose that our mothers 
 used to make ! 
 
 Romantic little diet. 
 
 Easy made, and soft and quiet. 
 You weave such memories round the heart, no time nor 
 change can shake ! 
 And while I sing this sonnet, 
 I am raising up my bonnet 
 To the saffron glamoured peasebrose that our mothers 
 used to make ! 
 
 When your mother at the washing. 
 
 Sent the soapsuds skyward splashing. 
 And you had to carry water — enough to drain a lake ! 
 
 You were highly complimented, 
 
 But you had to be contented 
 With a bowl of dun-red peasebrose that your mother 
 used to make ! 
 
68 ^^3^^ o' tW Hameland 
 
 This much despised — rejected, 
 
 Often shunned and sad neglected 
 Little yieillow dish of "put-you-in" until some scones 
 she'd bake! 
 
 Has a niche in Scottish story, 
 
 And has added to her glory, 
 This little unassuming dish our mothers used ito make ! 
 
 And it should not be forgotten, 
 
 When Britain's laws are broken. 
 
 That the lads who rush thro' battle's smoke for d^ear 
 auld Scotland's sak^ 
 
 Have a faint-like recollection, 
 There exists some close connection, 
 'Tween their dourness and the peasebrose that their 
 mothers used to make ! 
 
 And when nesting time came round, 
 In the woods we'd then be found, 
 Climbing trees and searching hedges and a wee bird we 
 would take ! 
 
 And we'd in our child-like blindness, 
 
 Nearly choke it dead with kindness. 
 
 With t"he suffocating peasebrose that our mothers used 
 to make ! 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland 6^ 
 
 Ah, it almost starts me giteetin' 
 When I think how Time is fleetin', 
 
 Since I used to roam with breeks rowed up, a wee, sly, 
 cunning rake ! 
 And my iheart with sorrow weighs, 
 When I think on other days, 
 
 And the sunset-tinted peasebrose that our mothers used 
 to make ! 
 
 A LETTER ON THE PEASEBROSE 
 
 To Mr. Winiam Congaltan, of Pittsburgh, formerly of Qlaagow, 
 
 Scotland. 
 
 Dear Wullie, lad, I got your note 
 In answer tae th' yin I wrote; 
 'Mang a' th' din, I ne'er forgot 
 
 Your sma' request, 
 Tae send ye doon yon sang I wrote. 
 
 It's maist mv best. 
 
 Man, Wull, I hae an awfu' time, 
 'Tween dreelin' weans an' stringin' rhyme ; 
 You see th' point's tae mak' it chime 
 
 So's folks can read it ; 
 Unless it flows wi' gracefu' line, 
 
 They'll never heed it. 
 
70 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 But here, I'll at it tooth an' nail, 
 l^ho' hard's th' task, I'll n^e'er say fail, 
 An' heth, I'll clap it in th' mail 
 
 An' never cheep, 
 My muse's wing maun catch th' gale 
 
 Afore I sleep. 
 
 You say, th' ''Peasebrose" — humble fare, 
 Has taen your fancy tae a hair: 
 Some folks are ready tae declare 
 
 It's no sae bad ! 
 While ithers say, it's pretty fair, 
 
 For you, my lad ! 
 
 While Scotlan's dishes hae been sung 
 
 By a' th' nations, auld an' young. 
 
 An' rhymes by hundreds hae been strung 
 
 Tae spread their fame ; 
 Th' auld peasebrose — her heid she's hung- 
 
 Nane speaks her name. 
 
 Hae mercy on my feeble pen, 
 I'm least amang th' sons o' men ; 
 But I wad like tae let ye ken 
 
 Which side I'm on ! 
 Ye'll no fin' faut, if I preten' 
 
 Tae blaw my drone ! 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 71 
 
 Noo, honest freen, let me digress, 
 For twa'-three meenits — mair or less — 
 I started oot tae write in prose, 
 When., lo! I met th' auld "Peasebrose;" 
 Her subtk charms she wove sae fine, 
 I changed th' haill thing intae rhyme; 
 Quo' she : ''Sit doon an' tell your freen 
 What I hae dune, an' whar I've been, 
 An' tell him freely aff th' reel 
 Hoo I've been snubbed an' made tae feel 
 I wisna wanted by th' vain, 
 Licht-heided folks amang oor ain ; 
 An' say I'm weel an' tae th' fore 
 An' patriotic tae th' core !" 
 Wi' that she waved a fond adieu, 
 An' wi' a bow, was lost to view. 
 Noo, honest freen, here comes th' test — 
 An' if I fail, I've dune mv best. 
 
 As lang's I leeve, I'll sing yer praise, 
 Wee dun-red dish o' by-gane days, 
 You're worthy o' th' sweetest lays 
 
 Man ever wrote ! 
 If I can croon yer heid wi' bays, 
 
 Aff comes th' coat ! 
 
72 Lays o' tW Hameland 
 
 Ye mind me o' th' dear laiig syne, 
 Sweet memories roun' th' he'rt ye twine, 
 An' ayie yer bringin' back tae min' 
 
 Some hidden joy! 
 When simmer days were lang an' fine, 
 
 Withoot alloy. 
 
 When daurk misfortune, lean an' lank, 
 Cam' stappin' in wi' flickerin' lamp, 
 'Twas you, wee dish, we'd aye tae thank — 
 
 Ye saw us throo; 
 An' that's th' reason why I want 
 
 Tale bow tae you. 
 
 When fearless Wallace met war's blast, 
 And freedom's blows came thick an' fast, 
 Ye saw th' foes o' Scotlan' gasp 
 
 Wi' deein' groan ! 
 An' when th' fiery clans swept past, 
 
 Ye cheered them on ! 
 
 Wee, ancient theme o' Scottish lore, 
 
 Yer pedigree I'll aye adore; 
 
 While senseless heids yer name ignore, 
 
 I'll never dae't! 
 Tho' I should gang frae door tae door 
 
 An' play a flitt! 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 73 
 
 Na, fegs, ye needna hide yer face ! 
 Come on, step up ! an' tak' yer place, 
 Y^er woven in amang th' race 
 
 O' brawn an' brain ; 
 An' mony a hero's said a grace 
 
 For you alane. 
 
 I'll venture, Wullie, you an' me, 
 
 Could nicely gauge its quality, 
 An' bate oor hinmost broon bawbee 
 
 Th' auld pease meal 
 Has dune it's shair for liberty 
 
 An' Scotlan's weal ! 
 
 But, Wull, th' years hae lang gane by, 
 Sin' wee bit laddies — you an' I, 
 Cam' limpin' hame, maist like tae cry 
 
 Wi' wauket heel ; 
 An' dreamt oor dreams wi' fitfu' sigh 
 
 On guid peasemeal. 
 
 My freen, when we lay doon t'h' load 
 We'vie borne alang Life's thorny road, 
 (For mony a weary fit we've trod 
 
 Thro' thick an' thin) ; 
 May we baith reach yon blest abode, 
 
 Frae care an' sin. 
 
74 La\'s o' th' Hameland 
 
 MY FIRST VALENTINE 
 
 New hope may bloom, and days may come, 
 
 Of milder, calmer beam, 
 But tiiere's nothing half so sweet in life 
 
 As love's j-oungr dreann! — Moore. 
 
 'Twas but a wee, small paper box, 
 Wrapped with a piece of twine. 
 
 To keep the lid from coming off 
 My first, sweet valentine. 
 
 The postman, with a knowing glance, 
 Kept looking straight at me — 
 
 Said: ''Jamie, lad, I needna speak, 
 You're looking for't, I see !" 
 
 No miser watched his hoarded gold, 
 Brought from the Indian mine. 
 
 As I did o'er that simple leaf — 
 My first, sweet valentine. 
 
 A bonnie wreath of frosted leaves 
 
 Hid all she had to say: 
 "If you'll be true, I'll constant be — 
 
 My heart is yours for aye!" 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 7S 
 
 Long years have passed since last we met, 
 
 But, ah ! I mind it line ; 
 I thought that all the world was in 
 
 My first, sweet valentine. 
 
 Many's the ups and downs in life 
 Have been our lot since syne; 
 
 And many a lesson we have learned 
 From old grey-bearded Time ! 
 
 But deep engraven in tlie heart, 
 The face of her shall shine. 
 
 Who gave me — with a bairn's trust, 
 My first, sweet valentine. 
 
 LINES ON CHIEF JOHN RAE, 
 
 CLAN McDonald, lei, mcKeesport, pa. 
 
 Hear ye I whom it may concern ; 
 
 Oor worthy chief's a "Bobby!" 
 He's doffed th' tweed, an" donned th' blue ; 
 
 An' my ! but he looks nobby ! 
 You see, Jock's made tae fit th' garb, 
 
 He's nearly sax feet twa ; 
 An' when ihe's steppin' in th' ranks, 
 
 He toors abune them a'. 
 
76 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 Thae gentry wi' th' velvet paws 
 
 That thro' daurk alleys prance, 
 Had better seek green pastures new 
 
 As lang's they hae a chance ; 
 For gin Jock gets his e'e on them, 
 
 They're shair tae come tae grief ; 
 They'll rue th' day they ran agains-t 
 
 Oor powerful worthy chief. 
 
 An' as for bravery? Hand yer tongue- 
 
 For that ye needna fear, 
 For Jock delights in haundlin' chaps 
 
 Wi' shady records queer ! 
 Gie ony toon th' size o' this 
 
 A dizzen o' chaps like Jock, 
 An' I'll lay a croon, that very soon 
 
 There'd be room for daicent folk. 
 
 An' yet, wi' a', a kindly chitel, 
 
 Guid-he'rted, leal an' free ; 
 He comes frae whar th' heather blooms, 
 
 Somewhere roun' fair Dundee! 
 I wadna be a bit surprised — 
 
 In fac', it's my belief — 
 Ye'll see, ere lang, twa smert-like strips 
 
 On oor genial worthy chief! 
 
Lays o> tK Hameland 77 
 
 He iheaves a wee bit sigh betimes 
 
 For Scotlan' owre th' sea, 
 An' is hame among th' ither bairns 
 
 An' rinnin' fond an' free ! 
 In dreams he's playin' "hide an' seek," 
 
 Tae th' sun dips owre th' brae; 
 Whiles howkin' holes wi' a broken spune 
 
 On th' silvery sauns o' Tay ! 
 
 He has th' Scottish Clans at her't. 
 
 An' sae faithfu' has ;he been. 
 He could skreed th' ritual afif by her't, 
 
 Wi' a grauvet roun' his een ! 
 May He wha has th' dailin' oot 
 
 O' cor few short years sae brief, 
 Be pleased tae watch him nicht an' day, 
 
 An' shield oor worthy chief! 
 
 THE OLD SPUR INN 
 At Cumbernauld, Scotland 
 
 The following verses were inspired by receiving a picture of 
 the Inn from Mr, and Mrs. Archibald Millar, of "Glenmurry House," 
 CambuBbarron, Scotland. 
 
 I thank you, my friends, for the sweet little token 
 From the land of the heather, the broom, and the whin ! 
 
 I'd fain sing again, ere my harp strings be broken, 
 A song of the past and the old Spur Inn. 
 
78 Lays o' tK Hameland 
 
 Tho' long years have passed, my heart with commotion 
 Beats ever for thee on a far foreign shore ! 
 
 No duty that calls, nor the wide rolling ocean 
 
 Can put thy sweet charm from my heart's inmost core. 
 
 Bring back the playmates of life's golden morning, 
 Who knew not the Avorld with its sorrow and sin — 
 
 Whose smiles were like dew, when the sun was adorning 
 The vales, and the hills, near the old Spur Inn. j 
 
 Oh! for one hour of yon bright sun's anointing! 
 
 And to roam by the hedge with its old-fashioned stile ; 
 And to gaze on the crude, painted finger-board pointing! 
 
 The way, and the distance, from there to Carlisle. 
 
 W^ell I remember (when youth's sun was shining) 
 The old "Bog Burn," where I sometimes fell in! 
 
 We ne'er thought of home till the sun was declining, 
 Then we'd part with a smile at the old Spur Inn. 
 
 Oh, spirit me back to the days of my childhood. 
 
 From the world's busy mart with its clamor and din ; 
 
 Let me roam with my wee mates again thro' the wild- 
 wood, 
 And bid them "good-night" at the old Spur Inn. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 79 
 
 SONG OF THE MOUNTAIN TORRENT 
 
 I was born where the lightnings gleam and glance, 
 
 And rocked by the thunder's shock ! 
 I know no fear ; in my wild career 
 
 I sweep o'er the rifted rock. 
 
 I come from the deep-scarred rocky steep, 
 
 I race thro' copse and vine ; 
 My splashing fall is a madrigal, 
 
 I sing with the sighing pine. 
 
 I bound and leap, I sing and sweep, 
 And swing beneath the fern. 
 
 With gleeful song, I speed along, 
 Where hunts the stalking hern. 
 
 I swirl and reel, I charge and wheel, 
 And shriek with frantic glee ! 
 
 I sing a song to the brave and strong 
 And they sing it back to me. 
 
 From my dark-broAvn tide, wbere the troutlets hide, 
 
 I fill the fisher's creel, 
 And just below, where the children go, 
 
 1 turn the miller's wheel. 
 
80 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 The sparkling rills from a hundred hills 
 
 Glide on thro' flowery lea — 
 From distant brake — their scenes forsake 
 
 To join my jubilee. 
 
 I fling my spray where the clouds are grey; 
 
 I know no night nor morn ! 
 The winds may weep by tower and steep; 
 
 I joy in the brewing storm. 
 
 I sigh and moan, and churn and foam, 
 
 Unbridled, my course is free ! 
 I journey on, where lost — unknown, 
 
 I plunge in the sounding sea ! 
 
 PARTED 
 
 In lang syne, when the heart was young, 
 
 It's many years ago ! 
 When neither care nor sorrow's blight 
 
 Did wring our hearts with woe ! 
 The days were long and fair then. 
 
 The sky a bonnie blue ; 
 And every day seemed bright with hope, 
 
 And lovers' hearts were true. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 81 
 
 We wandered by the burn-side, 
 
 Till far in gloaming grey! 
 And sometimes o'er the heather hills 
 
 And whiles o'er "Marion's Brae!" 
 And aye we said we'd never part 
 
 Till death did us divide, 
 And lay us in the cold, cold grave, 
 
 By one another's side. 
 
 And so we drifted down life's stream. 
 
 To our haven that was to be ! 
 And Love was standing at the helm 
 
 Till we reached the open sea ! — 
 The sea, with treacherous rocks and shoals, 
 
 Its ebb and its flowing tide, — 
 A storm broke down on our slender crafts 
 
 And parted us far and wide. 
 
 I strove with the tide to return again 
 
 O'er that dark and loinesome sea ! 
 But the ghostly winds and the raving storms 
 
 Seemed to mock my misery ! 
 No kindly light, nor beckoning star 
 
 Shone o'er the dreary sea ; 
 And I strained to catch a glimpse of the craft 
 
 That bore me company. 
 
82 Lays o' iK Hameland 
 
 The storm raged — we were far apart, 
 
 Like the leaves from the autumn trees! 
 For I sailed under the "Northern Lights," 
 
 And you in the "Southern Seas"; 
 We slowly crept 'neath the headlands bold, 
 
 To our fateful destiny; 
 And we each made fast to a harbor strange, 
 
 And our haven that was to be. 
 
 A NEW YEAR WISH 
 
 Here's wishin' that th' Fiery Cross 
 
 An' a' th' clansmen, faur an' near; 
 Th' wives an' weans, an' a' th' freens, 
 An' lads an' lassies i' their teens, 
 May prosper thro' th' comin' year. 
 
 An' let us no forget th' folks 
 
 That's owre th' ocean, faur awa' ; 
 Their faces an' their smiles are dear, 
 An' gettin' mair sae, year by year. 
 Let's toast them, yin an' a'. 
 
 An' here's tae a' th' guid an' true 
 
 In every clime, in every Ian'! 
 May honest effort never cease 
 Until we 'hail th' gladsome peace — 
 Th' britherhood of man! 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 83 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO THE THRUSH 
 
 Sweet herald of the twilight hour, 
 
 Whose home is where the harebells hide; 
 
 Ayont the stile in yonder bower 
 Where lovers meet at eventide. 
 
 A humble bard would sing of thee, 
 Who heard you tune the sweetest lays 
 
 Above the torrent rushing free 
 At evening's close in boyhood days. 
 
 *Tis when the sun dips down the hill, 
 O'er far Ben Lomond's lofty rim; 
 
 And streaks with gold the winding rill, 
 Fve heard you sing your evening hymn. 
 
 Far up the glen in woody grot, 
 
 Fve heard you singing in the briar; 
 
 With drooping itail and bubbling throat, 
 And leading in the vernal choir. 
 
 Sweet minstrel, in thy russet coat, 
 No gaudy plumes to thee were given ; 
 
 But from thy breast love's paeans float 
 To Him who formed thy song in heaven. 
 
84 Lays o* th' Hameland 
 
 Thy faithful mate is pleased to hear 
 
 Your wood-notes wild — great prince of song; 
 
 You won her heart when spring was near, 
 And buds were opening on the thorn. 
 
 Could I, sweet friend, thy haunts pursue, 
 And were my heart as light as thine, 
 
 Content, I'd roam the val-e with you 
 Thro' endless spring, and ne'er repine. 
 
 A REVERIE 
 
 I sat by my window at twilight, 
 
 I heard the last song of the thrush, 
 
 And faint grew the gleam of the skylight, 
 The wind died away to a hush. 
 
 A dream o'er my senses came stealing, 
 Like a spectre from out of the night; 
 
 All my youthful companions revealing, 
 Their hearts brimming o'er with delight. 
 
 I roamed far away back to childhood, 
 
 Thro' the dim, straggling course of the years, 
 
 Like a sound dying far in the wildwood, 
 Was the laughter, the joys and ^the tears. 
 
Lays 0* th* Hameland 85 
 
 They beckoned me back to the meadows, 
 And again 'mong the wild flowers I stood, 
 
 They held out their hands 'mid the shadows, 
 By the edge of the echoing wood. 
 
 The lark with his music was winging 
 
 'Mong the white clouds that rolled slowly by, 
 
 His message of love fondly singing, 
 Far up in the bright purpled sky. 
 
 The flower scented breath of the woodlan' 
 Came wooing where the sun softly shines, 
 
 I heard the dove am'rously croodlin* ' 
 
 Far, deep in the whispering pines. 
 
 The long toiling years were forgotten — 
 The sea with its passionate swell — 
 
 The brave, loving spirits now broken, 
 Were lost in the dream of the dell. 
 
 They sang thro' the shadows that hid them. 
 Like the soft, dying tones of a bell, 
 
 I awoke from my dreaming to bid them 
 A long, loviing, fervent farewell. 
 
S6 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 TAM'S AW A' 
 
 Mr, Thomas Baird, formerly of Coatbridge, Scotland. Now a 
 fruit farmer in Santa Clara Valley, California^ 
 
 Clan McDonald's lost a chiel 
 
 That wore th' plaid an' looked sae wee! ; 
 
 He's aff tae whar th' orange peel 
 
 Perfumes th' air! 
 His loss, ilk Scot will keenly feel — 
 
 We'll miss him sair. 
 
 He's noo awa' whar birds an' bees 
 Are singin' strange sangs in th' trees, 
 An' whar th' balmy Western breeze 
 
 Does saftly blaw 
 Frae aflf th' braid Pacific seas, 
 
 Faur, faur awa. 
 
 Nae doot, but whiles — when a' alane, 
 He'll think o' Scotia — land o' fame — 
 He'll wander up some echoin' glen, 
 
 An' in his dreams 
 He'll sit amang her hills at hame 
 
 An' chant her themes. 
 
Lays o' iW Hameland 87 
 
 Hte'll see th' red-broon throated thrush, 
 Hauf hid in swingin' hazel bush ; 
 He'll hear him pipe at even's hush, 
 
 His closin' hymn; 
 Faur up th' glen whar waters gush 
 
 Oot owre th' linn. 
 
 He'll hear th' peesweep's waefu' cry 
 Above th' cairn where heroes lie, 
 An' wi' his retrospective eye 
 
 Look up abune, 
 An' hear th' laverock in th' sky 
 
 Rehearse his hvmn. 
 
 Th' lintie on th' broomy brae, 
 That sang sae fine at break o' day, 
 Hie'U hear him trill his bonnie lay — 
 
 (If I'm no wrang, 
 He had some notes o' ''Scots Wha Ha'e," 
 
 Mixed in his sang!) 
 
 No faur frae Stirlin's castle wa's, 
 (When nicht her sable curtain draws). 
 He'll hear victorious, lood huzzahs, 
 
 O' conquerin' knights ! 
 Who focht for Scotlan' an' her laws 
 
 An' human rights. 
 
88 Lays o' iK Hameland 
 
 He*ll see his sandal'd fathers, brave, 
 Press on tae glory or th' grave! 
 Whar Scotia's rampant lion wave 
 
 An' hurryin' on 
 Against a base, usiirpin' knave 
 
 That wore a crown ! 
 
 A' this an' mair he'll likely spy 
 Beneath fair CaLifornia's sky! 
 An' let us hope, that by an' by 
 
 He'll tak' a notion 
 Tae view tli' fields where freemen lie, 
 
 Across th' ocean. 
 
 Jist let me whusper, honest brither, 
 Auld Scotlan's aye oor grey hair'd mither, 
 Ye couldna match her wi' anither 
 
 Th' warld roun' ; 
 Her name an' fame shall never wither 
 
 Till crack o' doom! 
 
 Of coorse, we ken, oor duty's here, 
 An' that we'll dae withoot a fear, 
 Tae dae aucht else it wad be queer 
 
 For Scottish folk; 
 Wha wrung their heritage sae dear 
 
 Frae tyra.nt's yoke. 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland 89 
 
 WeVe queer things in this warld, I ween — 
 We've some things that should never been — 
 That's kept apart ilk honest freen 
 
 Frae daein' guid! 
 An' drenched th' earth — for private gain — 
 
 Wi' human bluid. 
 
 We hae th' bloated millionaire 
 Wha canna warsle up a stair — 
 We dinna want freen Tarn tae fare 
 
 'Mang sic a tribe ; 
 But may th' Fates gi'e him his share 
 
 An' some beside. 
 
 An' should he ne''er come back again 
 Tae sing us "Jane, My Pretty Jane/' 
 Or auld **Cockpen" sae prood an' vain, 
 
 We wish him weel I 
 An' may his boat on Life's rough main 
 
 Ne'er turn its keel. 
 
90 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 GANG AWA', DREARY WINTER 
 
 Awa', gang awa' ! tae yer hame in th' Northlan' ! 
 
 It's plain, you an' me n'e'er were made tae agree ; 
 YouVe silenced th' wee feathered choir wi' their singin', 
 
 That cheered up th' he'rt wi' their sweet jubilee. 
 
 Fauld up yer white mantle you've spread owre th* val- 
 leys, 
 
 An' flee ye awa' thro' th' rime an' th' haze ; 
 
 Th' folks aboot here wadna sigh hauf a meenit 
 
 If ye stoppit in Greenlan' th' rest o' yer days. 
 
 There's naebody sits by th' stream in th' bowers 
 An' fancyin' they hear ye chantin' a sonnet; 
 
 An' gleefully singin', or rinnin' itae meet ye 
 
 Comin' doon th' green glen wi' a flooer in yer bonnet ! 
 
 This warld's had enough o' yer hoastin' an' wheezin'; 
 
 Yer muffled drum marches an' tales o' th' sea ! 
 Hist ye hame ! an' let Spring wi' her lang gowdin' tresses 
 
 Strew daisies an' viiolets far o'er th' green lea. 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland 91 
 
 Could ye keep yer cauld thooms afF th' puir fecklCvSs 
 bodies 
 
 That hivna enough tae keep snug, warm an' bien ; 
 
 We*d forgie ye for a' th' sair nips ye hae gien us — 
 
 We'd even sing yer praise wi' th' tears in oor een. 
 
 THE BANNOCK 
 
 Let me sing o' the bannock, th' historical bannock, 
 
 Whase primitive start was a place on th' hob ! 
 It belangs tae auld Scotlan', an' we'll dee tae defend it, 
 
 Its fame as a diet has encircled th' globe. 
 It's ane o' th' things that has made Scotlan' famous, 
 
 An' has cheered on her sons on th' red battle plain, 
 It's enthroned in th' herts o' th' darin' an' fearless, 
 
 It stauns at th' tap — has a place o' tits ain — 
 Three cheers for th' bannock! Let us soond it wi' glee. 
 Till th' echoes rebound frae vale, mountain an' sea. 
 
 Its neebor, t4i' oatcake, th' auld twusted faurl, 
 Could it argue sae weel, 'twould endanger its fate ! 
 
 But th' bannock has a wey o' declarin' its virtues, 
 'T would be worth hauf a croon, jist tae hear th' debate ! 
 
 What mair d'ye want than a rive at a bannock, 
 Wi' its big lusty sides, guid eneuch for a king! 
 
92 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 Built high on th' table an' toorin' like Tintock, 
 
 It's entitled tae th' best, sweetest sang ye can sing- 
 Sae douce-like an' braw, an' sae kindly tae feel, 
 Th' immaculate bannock we a' like sae weel! 
 
 I carena a preen for your dishes an' doses, 
 
 Dailt roun' wi' a daurkey an' hoved up wi' yeast! 
 That keep ye lyin' dreamin', an' speakin', an' watchin' 
 
 Wee red horned men dancin' reels on yer briest ! 
 But gie me th' bannock, torn doon thro' th' middle, 
 
 Th' backbane an' stay o' oor sires long ago ! 
 Th' men that could sweep past th' red bleezin' cannon, 
 
 An' bound owre th' briestwarks an' grapple th' foe! 
 O, th' victorious bannock, patriotic an' leal, 
 Th' first an' th' foremost, we a' liked sae weel. 
 
 Wher'er fortune ca's ye, in hameland or foreign, 
 
 Be it doon in th' deep mine, or plooin' th' lea ! 
 Or high on th' mountain, or doon in th' valley. 
 
 Or speilin' a mast on th' wide rollin' sea ! 
 In your dr^eams ye'll see mither, sae anxious an' thrifty, 
 
 Wi' her sleeves turned up an' her face marked wt* 
 cares, 
 An' a wee bunch o' strae in th' baun o' her apron, 
 
 Sae haundy at times, for tae haud stockin' wares ! 
 Bakin' bannocks th' size o' a chariot wheel. 
 The big, spongy bannocks we a' liked sae v/eel ! 
 
Lavs o' tW Homeland 93 
 
 An' aft in th' gloamin', 'mong th' blue bells I'm roamin', 
 
 An' thochts o' th' hameland my spirit imbues! 
 Bare-fitted I'm staunin' wi' a big floory bannock, 
 
 Nippin' bits aff th' corners an' feedin' th' doos! 
 But here I maun stop, for my dream noo is broken, 
 
 I thocht I was back in auld Scotlan' sae free ! 
 An' pu'in my mither owre towards th' wee cupboard 
 
 Tae teer aff a piece o' a bannock for me ! — 
 
 O, th' broo.n mottled bannock, tho' your hame's owre the 
 sea. 
 
 We canna forget ye tae th' day that we dee ! 
 
 LAND OF MY SIRES 
 
 Land that I love ! 
 
 Whose stay has been Israel's God from above ! 
 'Mid the battle's loud roar, your sons proudly bore 
 The flag of their country for homeland an' God! 
 
 Thinking of thee ! 
 
 My bonnie brave land girded round by the sea! 
 Where the silver moonlight makes hallowed the night, 
 As its shadows it casts o'er the white gowany lea! 
 
94 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 Land of my sires ! 
 
 'Twas your grandeur that kindled the patrioit's fires! 
 From your heath covered hills and your silver streaked 
 rills, 
 
 Came the heroes that dared and who knew how to die ! 
 
 Dreaming of home ! 
 
 The land of my love, o'er the wide ocean's foam! 
 
 Where the loud tempest rav^es round the sprite haunted 
 caves — 
 
 Shall ibe dear to this fond heart, wherever I roam ! 
 
 CLANSMEN'S PARADE IN PITTSBURGH 
 
 Parade of the Allied Clans of Western Pennsylvania, April 26th, 
 1911, in honor of Mr. John Hill, Royal Chief, O. S. C, who visited 
 Pittsburgh on the above date. 
 
 It's a gey dreary day when th' clans aboot Pittsburgh 
 Canna kick up th' stoor when a veesitor comes, 
 
 Ye'd hae thocht we were leavin' for some faur foreign 
 station, 
 Wi' oor glitterin' gear, oor pipes an' oor drums. 
 
 Awa' to th' fore was oor braw Scottish banner, 
 (Lang may that ensign triumphantly wave!) 
 
 Screamin' high owre th' din^ were the strains o* the 
 pibroch. 
 An' firin' th' he'rt wi' "Auld Scotlan' th' Brave." 
 
Lays o' th* Hameland 95 
 
 An' there v;as oor Chieftain, wha leads a' th' clansmen, 
 He's adorned th' name ! — may his glory ne'er fade ! — 
 
 Lang- may he live tae dispense inspiration 
 Tae th' lads that would fecht for th' auld tartan plaid. 
 
 Th' great, big shop windows were litter'ly dirlin' 
 As we started awa' wi' a fine, easy swing; 
 
 'Twas then that we a' took a flicht back tae Scotlan,' 
 An' were hoverin' owre Stirlin' like birds on th' wing. 
 
 'Twas a sicht for sair een, jiiist tae see th' McPhersons 
 Giein' their fit a bit shuffle, syne stappin' awa' — 
 
 An' the Camerons, wha hae sworn tae follow their 
 Chiieftain ! 
 They'd wade thro' th' foe tae th' last man wad fa'. 
 
 Th' Homestead McKenzies, aye bonnie an' cheerfu'. 
 Were there wi' their plaids an' their pipers sae braw — 
 
 Th' McKeCvSport McDonalds had resolved ere they 
 started 
 That their banner wad float owre th' tap o' them a'. 
 
 "Wee McGregor" frae Greensburg, wi' lofty ambition, 
 (Ye'll see him ere lang wi' a bonnet an' plaid,) 
 
 H'e has sworn by his kinsmen that fell roun' Glenorchy, 
 That he'll show us wha's wha in th' next big parade. 
 
96 Lays o' th^ Hameland 
 
 An' there were th' Robiesons, aye trig-like an' pleesant, 
 Whase big and warm he'rt gangs alang wi' their hand, 
 
 Their spirits are licht as th' dawn o' the mornin' 
 That breaks owre th' hills o' their ain native land. 
 
 "Come o'er th' stream, Charlie," come Willi, Rab an' 
 Tam, 
 
 We want ye tae join us for th' sake o' th' bairns, 
 
 There's plenty o' room for ilk Scotsman that's true, 
 
 Oor Order will haud ye secure in its airms. 
 
 Come awa', come awa' ! dinna staun', man, an' swither. 
 But flee tae some clan moot, an' write doon yer name, 
 
 For brawly ye ken (when yer life's wark is ended) 
 
 It's a gQ.y chilly hoose when there's naething at hame. 
 
 Then here's tae auld Scotlan', oor dear, sainted mither, 
 Here's tae ilk clansman wharever he be ! — ■ 
 
 May oor Order aye flourish, th' helpless tae nourish, 
 An' be true tae each ither tae th' day that we dee. 
 
Lays o' iK Hameland 97 
 
 A LETTER 
 
 To Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Millar, Glenmurry House, 
 Cambusbarron, Scotland. 
 
 Deer Freens — 
 
 A body, whiles, when a' alane, 
 Jist canna help frae seein' hame 
 An' a' .th' freens that were sae fain 
 
 In days lang syne, 
 E'en the' it kin' o' gies us pain, 
 
 An' mak's us pine ! 
 
 There's whiles, dear freens, I think I see 
 Your faces as they used tae be, 
 Wi' love glints flashin' frae th' e'e. 
 
 An' pawky smiles 
 Creepin' roun' th' mooth sae wantonly, 
 
 Wi' cunnin' wiles. 
 
 I see th' shielan' on th' brae, 
 
 Th' rushin' torrent's silver spray; 
 
 Th' gowany knowes where lambkins play 
 
 On dewy lawn; 
 I hear the lark at break o' day 
 
 Proclaim th' dawn. • 
 
98 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 I see th' red sun's golden hue. 
 On far Ben Lomond's lofty broo, 
 Sink deeper doon till lost tae view 
 
 At e'enin's close, 
 Till peacefu' shadows deepening grew 
 
 In calm repose. 
 
 I hear th' deep toned Sabbath bell 
 Borne on th' breeze wi' surgin' swell, 
 Proclaimin' peace tae a' who dwell 
 
 In Scotlan's isle; 
 Castin' owre th' land its holy spell 
 
 An' love th' while. 
 
 There's one I'll never fail tae see, 
 Wi' God's Word spread upon her knee, 
 She'd 'tell hoo Christ on Galilee 
 
 Said : "Peace, be 'still ;" 
 Th' waves that raged most furiously, 
 
 Obey'd His will. 
 
 It seems th' langer folk's awa' 
 
 Frae Scotlan's hills an' vales, sae braw, 
 
 Th' stronger love grows for it a', 
 
 Faur owre th' main ; 
 Thro' Simmer's heat an' Winter's snaw. 
 
 It's ave th' same. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 99 
 
 I mind gey weel, I couldna hide — 
 Yon mornin' on th' banks o' Clyde 
 When we were staunin' side by side — 
 
 Some groundless fear, 
 Wihen pairtin' — owre th' waves tae glide, 
 
 Frae freens sae dear. 
 
 But monie a year has slipped awa', 
 An' noo oor hair's as white as snaw, 
 But still, while we hae breath tae draw, 
 
 We'll sing fu' gay, 
 'Loch Lomon's Banks" an' "Kelvinhaugh," 
 
 Or ''Scots Wha Hae." 
 
 There's naething made by sittin' doon 
 An' greetin' 'moing a waste o' gloom, 
 We'll turn December intae June 
 
 An' sing wi' glee ; 
 Jist like th' lintie in the broom, 
 
 Richt merrily. 
 
 I mind gty weel, when you an' Kate 
 Were busy coortin' ere an' late, 
 Ye wisna bauld, but unco blate, 
 
 Jist like mysel ; 
 An' hoo ye strove tae set th' date, 
 
 I ne'er could tell. 
 
160 Lays o' th* Hameland 
 
 I think when Kate wad hear ye hummin' 
 An* chowin' words, sh-e'd ken 'twas comih', 
 An' wi' th' cunnin' o' a woman, 
 
 She'd say: "O, ayT 
 Then courage tae yer he'rt ye'd summin', 
 
 And heave a sigh. 
 
 Th' ither nicht, nae faurer gane, 
 
 I thocht that you an' me had taen 
 A dauner up th' auld "Coo Lane," 
 
 An' there we sat 
 Cross-legged on a big whin stane 
 
 An' had a chat. 
 
 We spoke o' freens we kent lang syne, 
 Th' dear lost freens o' yours an' mine, 
 Their guileless looks, their smiles sae fine 
 
 Were aye th' theme; 
 I thocht I saw their faces shine 
 
 In memory's dream. 
 
 We spoke o' ane wi' gowden hair, 
 Whose smile still haunts me everywhere, 
 No time nor scene can e'er impair 
 
 Yon youthfu' dream ; 
 In a' the warld, nane could compare 
 
 Wi' her, I ween. 
 
Lays 0* tW Hameland 101 
 
 We sat an* viewed th' ruined mill, 
 Where a' thing noo is cauld an' still, 
 An* thro' th' he'rt shot monie a thrill 
 
 For by-gane days; 
 *Twas there we learned tae sing wi' skill, 
 
 Auld Scotia's lays. 
 
 Th' sang you sung wi' gracefu' style, 
 Was "Bonnie Mary of Argyle," 
 But, Archie, it's a lang, lang while 
 
 Sin' you an' me 
 Could warsle wi' th' Tonic scale 
 
 Clean up tae "G." 
 
 Th' yin I thocht was aye t"h' best. 
 At least for me — -amang th' rest, 
 Tho' whiles it put me to th' test, 
 
 Was "The Arm Chair;" 
 It moved th' he'rt within th' breast 
 
 Wi' its boUinie air. 
 
 This letter leaves me weel, th' noo — 
 'Twad mak' me prood tae think that you 
 An' Kate were weel an' canty, too, 
 
 Wi' he'rts as bright 
 As laverocks springin' frae th' dew 
 
 On wings of light. 
 
102 Lays o th' Hameland 
 
 I hope, my freens, yell no be vex'd, 
 
 But I hae taen tae wearin' specs, 
 
 An' guidness kens what's comin' next, 
 
 Or hoo I'll fare ! 
 But come what will, I'll thraw th' necks 
 
 O' Grief an' Care! 
 
 It tak's a seaman, strong an' brave, 
 
 Tae guide his boat on Life's rough wave, 
 When win's begin tae roar an' rave 
 
 We mauna leave 
 Th' barque ithat's made for us tae save, 
 
 Nor sit an' grieve. 
 
 I was glad tae read that Kate an' you 
 Were weel, an' daein weel th' noo, 
 I'd like tae say afore I'm throo. 
 
 This rhymin' letter 
 Ran aflf th' reel afore I knew 
 
 O' something better. 
 
 I'll bid ye baith guid nicht, my freens, 
 An' dwell nae langer on th' themes 
 That you an' me, when in oor dreams 
 
 Thocht were sublime: 
 Let's drop th' curtain on th' scenes 
 
 O' dear lang syne. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 103 
 
 May He wha notes th' sparrow's fa', 
 An* kens what's guid for ane an' a', 
 Protect ye baith until ye draw 
 
 Your latest breath ; 
 Then throo th' stars, fleet wing awa' 
 
 Frae pain an' death. 
 
 — Jamie. 
 
 NAE LOVE AT HAME 
 
 O, wae is th' he'rt, when there's nae love at hame, 
 
 Saut, saut is th' tear, when there's nae love at hame, 
 
 We fear th' comin' morn, 
 
 Wi' its cauldness an' its scorn. 
 
 An' we rue that we were born, when there's nae love at 
 hame. 
 
 Th' sky's leaden hue when there's nae love at hame, 
 
 Oor prospects are but few, when there's nae love at 
 hame, 
 
 We gaze across th' lift 
 
 For a blink o' kindly licht. 
 
 An' we're weary o' th' nicht, when there's nae love at 
 hame. 
 
104 Lays o' tW Hameland 
 
 Oh, th* Springtime never comes, when there's nae love 
 
 at hame, 
 Th' he*rt it winna croon, when there's nae love at hame,, 
 
 An* th' birds, howe'er they sing, 
 
 Canna mak* th* welkin ring, 
 But flit on dowie wing, when there's nae loVe at hame. 
 
 But I'm thinkin* o* a place where it's aye love at hame, 
 An' there's never ony nicht, an' it's aye love at hame, — 
 It maun be bonnie there. 
 Where there's neither grief nor care, 
 Wi' a Faither's love tae share in th' faur sweet hame. 
 
 HAVE YOU SEEN MY LASSIE? 
 
 Have you seen my lassie? 
 
 Her eyes are azure blue; 
 She's a bonnie, bonnie lassie 
 
 And her heart is good and true ; 
 A rose, a bonnie red, red rose, 
 
 Bedecked her sunny hair; 
 Her lips are like the rubies; 
 
 Have you seen her anywhere? 
 
Lays 0* th' Hameland 105 
 
 Choru'9. — 
 
 Have you seen my lassie, 
 So gentle, kind and fair; 
 
 Have you seen my bannie lassie 
 With the roses in her hair? 
 
 She promised when the laverock 
 
 Seeks his bed among the dew, 
 She'd meet me in the gloamin' — 
 
 My lassie good and true. 
 But, oh, I fear she's wandered far 
 
 Ayont the trystiug tree. 
 And I'm weary, weary waiting 
 
 For the love blink of her e'e. 
 
 When the pea bloom scents the valley, 
 
 We'll to the church repair; 
 And plight our troth forever, 
 
 And vow to pairt nae mair. 
 Then we'll wander aye th'gither 
 
 And tell our love so true ; 
 When the laverock's wing is folded 
 
 'Mong the gowans wet with dew. 
 
106 Lays d* tK Humeland 
 
 ROSE AND BRIAR 
 
 The followiBg lines were sent to Mr. William B. Kay, Managini; 
 Editor McKeesport Evening Times, in a bouquet of roses: 
 
 To lofty thoughts of love divine, 
 Our hearts sometimes aspire ; 
 
 But who can fathom God's design,- 
 The rose upon the briar? 
 
 To which Mr. Kay replied : 
 
 'Tis meant io teach a sober truth, 
 And tthus perform a duty; 
 
 A symbol showing that, forsooth. 
 The devil baits with beauty. 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland 107 
 
 GRANDFATHER 
 
 An^ auld man wi' a Tarn o' Shanter, 
 
 Bowed down wi' four score years an' ten, 
 
 Gaed up an' doon wi' childish banter, 
 Oot an' in, an' but an' ben. 
 
 His haun was saft as ony lassie's, 
 Th' tear aye glistened in his e'e ; 
 
 An' he would peer oot owre bis glasses 
 A loving glance tae big an' wee. 
 
 We'd hear him speakin', whiles, an' hummin' 
 Some auld Scotch sang we didna k?en. 
 
 An' wi' his finger ends keep drummin', 
 Like rain draps on th' window pane. 
 
 His auld "clay cutty" burned sae black, 
 (His boon companion nicht an' day,) 
 
 He'd draw, an' tell, 'tween ilka smack, 
 Its age an' wha he bocht it frae. 
 
 He'd tell us whiles o' Scotlan's glory, 
 An' hoo th' gallant ''Forty Twa" 
 
 Leapt owre th' trenches grim an' gory, 
 An' waved their plumes abune them a'. 
 
108 Lays o* tW Hameland 
 
 He'd dover, whiles, an' sigh, an' start, 
 An' speak o' Heaven ayont .th' blue — 
 
 Th' places God had set apart, 
 For a' ith' faithfu', guid an' true. 
 
 But, ah, at last he fell asleep. 
 
 When winds were sighin' in th' night, 
 An' thro' th' vale where shadows creep, 
 
 His kindly soul has taen its flight. 
 
 THE SCOTTISH PIPERS 
 
 The foUowing verses were inspired by hearing the pibroch ftt 
 the Royal Clan Convention, held at Manchester, N. H., August If-S©, 
 1909: 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the pibroch ! it's sounding so bonnie, 
 
 Its strains fill the soul with sweet memories o' hamej 
 
 Tho' far from the land that is fairer than ony, 
 In spirit, we clamber her mountains again ! 
 
 Pipes of the Northland ! long famous in story. 
 To the call of your slogan, our forefathers bled ; 
 
 When they leapt to the wild charge on fields grim awd 
 gory. 
 You sang 'mid the cheers of the Highland Brigade. 
 
Lays o' iK Hameland 109 
 
 On a far foreign shore, when the brave and true-hearted 
 Were borne to their rest on the African veldt ! 
 
 The "Flowers of the Forest," you played ere you parted, 
 And tears stained the altar of stone, where you knelt. 
 
 And here in the valleys of peaceful New Hampshire, 
 You are calling the clansmen to gather again ! 
 
 Not on the bleak hillside, nor round the dim campfire, 
 But on fields that are fairer than fields of the slain. 
 
 Land of my sires ! may your fame never perish 
 Till the foam-crested torrent turns back from the sea ; 
 
 Till then, may your sons in their breasts ever cherish 
 A fond, loving thought, Caledonia, of thee. 
 
110 Lays o' th* Hameland 
 
 LOVE'S MESSAGE 
 
 Blow softly, sweet flower-laden gale, 
 And bear a fond message from me ; 
 
 Waft it far oiver woodland and dale — 
 Over mountain, and valley, and sea. 
 
 There is one that is faithful and true, 
 
 With eyes, oh, so wondrous and bright; 
 
 She is waiting and wishing that you 
 Will bring her a message to-night. 
 
 Breathe softly, and tell her, some day, 
 I'll return when the brake is tin bloom; 
 
 When the lark sings his glad roundelay, 
 And the roses are opening in June. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 111 
 
 A RALE GUID FREEN 
 
 I wadna gie a faurdin 
 
 For your high society ; 
 Nor do 1 care a button 
 
 Hoo they toss their h'eid at me ! 
 I wadna niffer places 
 
 Wi' .th' feck o' folks I've seen 
 For a canny 'oor or twa at nicht 
 
 Wi' a guid true freen. 
 
 There's a kin' o' telepathic thrill 
 
 That's hard tae unnerstaun, 
 Rins thro' th' he'rt o' trusted freens 
 
 Whene'er they grasp th' haun; 
 An' th' kindly look an' smile 
 
 That twinkles brightly roun' th' een, 
 O' a faithfu' chiel that's honest 
 
 An' a rale guid freen. 
 
 They didna get their learnin' 
 
 At some ither folks' expense ; 
 But my! they aye regale ye 
 
 Wi' a routh o' common sense ! 
 They lichten aye th' burden 
 
 Till ye feel that you could lean 
 On th' sturdy self-reliance 
 
 O' a guid, true freen. 
 
112 Lays o' tJt Hameland 
 
 IVe traiveled faur awa' frae hame, 
 
 An^ queer folks I hae met; 
 An' monie scenes hae met my gaze 
 
 I canna weel forget! 
 But there's ae thing, I'm glad tae say, 
 
 Wherever I hae been, 
 I could aye fa' back for comfort 
 
 O' a guid, true freen. 
 
 Oor journey's lang an' wearysome, 
 
 Alang Life's thorny road; 
 Oor burden's like tae weigh us doon, 
 
 Sae heavy is th' load! 
 But' we struggle on fu' bravely 
 
 Wi' a conscience pure an' clean, 
 An' loving consolation 
 
 Frae some guid true freen. 
 
 There are better things than riches 
 
 Comin' yet — we a' agree; 
 There are glitterin' prizes yet unwon, 
 
 Tho' their gleam we canna see ; 
 An' believe me, freens, they're wai-tin', 
 
 When we end life's fitfu' dream, 
 They'll be gien tae weary toilers 
 
 By a guid true Freen. 
 
Lays o' th* Hameland 113 
 
 LET US NOT BE AFRAID 
 
 Brother, are you journeying homeward 
 To the land beyond the sun. 
 
 Far from the life of corroding care — 
 To the land above, 
 And a Father's love, 
 For no evil enters there ! 
 
 Are you afraid to cross the river, 
 When your fitful journey's done? 
 
 Shall we fear the tide of the dark, dark stream 
 To launch our boat, 
 With the common lot, 
 To the land of a pleasant dream? 
 
 When our friends are crossing the river, 
 And we shed the bitter tear, 
 
 And with grief and pain our bosoms swell, 
 Let U'S say "good night" 
 Till the morning light. 
 In the land where there's no farewell ! 
 
114 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 For death's 'but the gate to the City 
 And endless felicity; — 
 
 And the pinioned soul on lits heavenward flight, 
 Shall soar afar, 
 To the gates ajar, 
 Where the Saviour has banished night! 
 
 And a golden cord shall bind us. 
 And our memories shall cherished be; 
 Let us not be afraid to launch away — 
 Where our friends will meet us, 
 And fondly greet us, 
 To reign through the crowning day! 
 
 DON'T LAUGH WHEN OTHERS CRY 
 
 Don't laugh when others cry, 
 
 Don't sneer when others sigh. 
 
 But thoughtfully say, as you go on your way. 
 
 That God knows the reason why. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 115 
 
 COME, GENTLE MAY 
 
 Come, gentle May, strew your garlands of poses 
 Across the deep glens and awaken the roses ; 
 They're drowsy, you know, but your mystical wand 
 Will 'wake them from slumber to hail the new dawn. 
 
 Come, verdant May, for the robin is calling 
 
 Across the green fields where the sunbeams are falling; 
 
 The flower-scented gale is a-wooing the bee 
 
 And all Nature's calling, sweet maiden for thee. 
 
 A-down the g;reen vale where the brackens are spreading, 
 The wee purple violets their green hoods are shedding; 
 The shepherds are waiting thy footsteps €o gay, 
 So, tarry no longer, oh, bright, joyous May. 
 
 Ha-ste, gladsome May, set the valleys a-ringing. 
 
 Start the gay feathered choir with their anthems a-sing 
 
 ing; 
 The brooklets are laughing as they sing on their way, 
 They, too, will adore you, kiind, beautiful May. 
 
116 Lays 6* th' Hameland 
 
 SING ME THE SONGS OF MY NATIVE LAND 
 
 Sing me the songs my mother sung, 
 
 When the world was wee, and the heart was young; 
 
 For a voice is calling from a far-off strand, 
 
 And I hear the songs of my native land. 
 
 Thro' the vanished years comes a sad, sweet thrill, 
 Like some holy theme breathing o'er me still; 
 And I wander again on the sea-washed strand 
 Of the sun-kissed shores of my native land. 
 
 Let me hear again the simple lays. 
 Untutored the song, unsought the praise ! 
 For none but an exile can understand 
 The love-born songs of his native land. 
 
 Sing them low, sing them sweet, let them breathe of the 
 
 past, 
 Let them break o'er the heart like sunbeams cast 
 Across the meadows with soft winds fanned. 
 Till they rest my heart in my native land. 
 
 O, we've wandered afar down the winding years — 
 We scan the past thro* the blinding tears! 
 In vain we look for the castle, grand. 
 We built on the borders of fairyland. 
 
Lays 0* th' Hameland 117 
 
 When the toiling days of my journey's done, 
 And the river is crossed at the setting sun ! 
 May the long-lost friends around me stand 
 Who sang so sweet in the fatherland. 
 
 OCTOBER 
 
 The sky is clear, and blue, and cold, 
 
 And seems so far away, 
 
 The birds, in flocks, flit all about 
 
 The woodland's edge; and in and out 
 
 The .nimble chipmunk, lin his route, 
 
 Chirps gaily all the day. 
 
 Across the meadow's winding path, 
 Where Mmpid streamlets lave, 
 The red sun's fiery golden sheen 
 Lies far athwart the fading green 
 Of hill, and vale, and woodland scene, 
 Where tangled grasses wave. 
 
 The woodcock calling to his mate 
 From 'neath the heather spray , 
 Sends echoes down the purple hill 
 And o'er the burnished, laughing rill, 
 The plover with his mournful trill, 
 Pipes out the closing day. 
 
118 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 Tired Nature rests her weary head 
 'Mong leaves of grey and gold; 
 The choir is silent in the glen ; 
 And all along the stiibbled plain, 
 The dreary, moaning winds proclaim 
 The year is growing old. 
 
 A WEE SPRIG O' HEATHER 
 
 Received from Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Millar, Glenmurry House, 
 Cambusbarron, Scotland. 
 
 I received your wee bit heather, an' my he'rt louped tae 
 
 my niooth, 
 For it brocht back hallowed memories o* my careless, 
 
 joyous youth, 
 When I watched th' mountain torrent', rushin' doon th* 
 
 hill sae free, 
 Ohantin' ever on its journey, freedom's sangs tae you 
 
 an' me. 
 
 I heard th' muircock crawin' itae his mate faur up th' hill, 
 I saw th' red sun's golden shafts fa' across th' windin' rill, 
 An' th' blackbird's sang sae bonnie, I he'rd it owre again, 
 Wi' its echo reverberatin' frae th' woodlan' an' th' glen. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 119 
 
 It told a silent story, of ane I daurna name, 
 
 When first I entered love's estate an' felt its sacred 
 
 flame,— 
 It told o' glintin' shadows floatin' doon life's silver 
 
 stream, 
 An' sparklin' in <th' sunshine, makin' life a fairy dneam. 
 
 It spoke of days when men of old proclaimed with tongue 
 
 an' pen 
 Salvation's message full an' free tae a' th' sons of men, 
 An' on th' misty mountain's brow, beside their altar 
 
 stood, 
 An' sang their praise of Gk)d th' Lord, an' wrote their 
 
 nam'es in blood ! 
 
 An' patriotic feelin's came crowdin' thick an' fast, 
 
 I saw our plaided clansmen marchin' doon th' windin' 
 
 pass! 
 Wi' th' pibroch's war-like challenge tae death or victory! 
 An' floatin' proudly o'er their heads, th' banner o' th' 
 
 free ! 
 
 An' sae, I sat an' pondered owre that embl'em o' th' free, 
 Till I couldna see its purple bells for th' saut tear in 
 
 my e'e, 
 I turned it owre an' owre again wi' tenderness an' care, 
 For a' that childhood held sae dear, was loved an* cen- 
 
 ter'd there. 
 
120 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 An* tho' I never more may see auld Scotlan's hills again, 
 Tho' I may never hear th' thrush at e*enin* in th' glen, 
 Th' happy days o' dear lang syne, in a' their bright array 
 Will come an' cheer my closin' years until my latest day. 
 
 An' sae, my freens, Fll lay awa* your bonnie sprig o' 
 heather, 
 
 That's dared th' Northern tempest's breath thro' rude an' 
 stormy weather, — 
 
 When ither flooers are swept awa' by Winter's chillin' 
 
 rain, 
 I'll gaze on thee, that's cam' sae faur, frae my dear auld 
 
 Scottish hame. 
 
 THE SEA OF LIFE 
 
 O'er the ocean of life we are sailing, 
 
 With the will of the winds, where they roam ! 
 
 On an uncharted sea we are drifting, 
 Far away from the port of our home. 
 
 We go to the world for our schooling, 
 We're impressed with the knowledge we glean ! 
 
 We arrive at the lane's sudden turning. 
 And the past fades away like a dream. 
 
Lays 0* th* Hameland 121 
 
 There's nothing worth keeping, to cherish, 
 Save the love of a brother and friend ; 
 
 We long for a brighter to-morrow, 
 And hope against hope to the end. 
 
 We play with our trinkets, like children, 
 
 As we rest on the long, weary way, 
 Then leave them awhile in our dreaming, 
 
 That begins with the new-born day. 
 
 Our eyes greet the sun at the dawning. 
 Then the glory of youth melts away — 
 
 What is Fame, in this world, but a bauble? 
 What is Life, after all, but a day? 
 
 THE SONGS WE USED TO KNOW 
 
 Oil, sing again the dear old songs 
 
 That mother used to sing; 
 When the heart was free from sorrow 
 
 And the days were always Spring! 
 When simple thoughts were pure and white 
 
 As the blossom on the sloe, 
 When we rambled 'mong the heather 
 
 With the songs we used to know! 
 
122 Lays o' th' Hdmeland 
 
 "You'll tak' th' high road, an' I'll tak' th'iow road. 
 
 And I'll be in Scotlan' before ye ; 
 For me and my true love will never meet again, 
 
 On the bonnie, bonme banks o' Loch Lomon*/' 
 
 They're a solace and a balm 
 
 To the weary, troubled heart ; 
 They bring back hallowed memories — 
 
 Make the tear unbidden start! 
 They're a beacon on the sea of life, 
 
 When the tempests rudely blow, 
 And we love each other better 
 
 For the songs we used to know. 
 
 "You'll break my heart, ye warbling birds, 
 That wanton through the flowery thorn, 
 
 Ye mind me o' departed joys — 
 Departed never to return." 
 
 The world may offer comforts, 
 
 Gained by others' toil and tears. 
 They may smooth our rugged pathway 
 
 As we journey down the years; 
 But the tender chords of life are touched, 
 
 And the heart feels all aglow, 
 When we wander back 'mid scenes of yore 
 
 With the songs we used to know. 
 
Lays o' tK Hameland 123 
 
 ''Dinna gang, my bonnie Mary Grieve, 
 An' glower iinto the water so clearly; 
 
 Or a fairy will turn you into a wee, wee flower, 
 And ye'll grow up by the 'Wells o' Weary'." 
 
 The dear old songs — my mother's songs, 
 
 I never can forget 
 Her low, sweet, sympathetic voice 
 
 Enthralls my spirit yet! 
 O, take away your gaudy art, 
 
 'Tis but a hollow s'how, 
 Restore to me the trusting heart, 
 
 And the songs we used to know. 
 
 *'By cool Siloam's shady rill, 
 
 How fair the lily grows! 
 How sweet the breath beneath the hill 
 
 Of Sharon's dewy rose!" 
 
 And when I cross life's dreary bound. 
 
 Far from this world of pain ! 
 V\] only ask the same sweet voice 
 
 To croon them o'er agaion; 
 No other treasure do I crave, 
 
 'Twill be heaven enough, I trow, 
 To mingle with the pure in 'heart 
 
 And the songs we used to know. 
 
124 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 SO LET IT BE 
 
 May we, like the sheep in the fold, find a rest, 
 When our tired, weary feet cease from roaming; 
 
 With a fond Father's love in the mansions above, 
 When we all gather home in the gloaming. 
 
 I'LL NEITHER BORROW NOR LEND 
 
 rU neither borrow nor lend, 
 
 I'll neither lend nor borrow, 
 But I'll laugh with the glad, and sig'h with the sad, 
 
 And help them to bear their sorrow. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 125 
 
 IT HAPPENED IN McKEESPORT 
 
 Twas a bleak wintry nicht, an' th' win' cauld was 
 
 blawin', 
 Th' weather took turns at rainin' an* snawin*, 
 I wandered awa' doon th' toon for awee, 
 For I thocht, maybe, some 3^in was lookin' for me. 
 But ilk ane seemed busy wi' views o' their ain; 
 Says I tae mysel', "Hang th' luck! I'll gang hame !" 
 Sae I turned up Locust Street, — a' things looked sae 
 
 damp, 
 As I heided as fast as I could, for th' camp. 
 When a' in a sudden, a figure I saw, 
 That made me remark, "What in th'— " but I'll no 
 
 say it a'. 
 I cautiously said : "Freen, ye seem tae be lost ;" 
 But there he stood still, like a white-sheeted ghost! 
 Says I, "Are ye lookin' for freens o' yer ain?" 
 But never a word — the result was th' same. 
 "Weel," says I, "if ye're leevin', gie's a grup o' yer fist." 
 Still his mooth remained closed like th' lid o' a kist I 
 I walked hauf aroond him — examined his claes, 
 Frae th' tap o' his heid and doon near to his taes; 
 Thinks I, "Hang my skin, if ye don't tak' th' cake 
 Or onything else that a baker can bake! 
 
126 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 Hooever," I thocht, "what th' de'il needs I care 
 
 If ye're frozen as stiff as th* leg o' a chair 1 
 
 Ye can gang tae the deuce, or jimp intae th' Yough, 
 
 Or sleep wi' th* swine, an' eat oot o' their trough, 
 
 By my sang! if ye'll no speak nor open yer jaw, 
 
 Ye can staun there, my chap, tae ye're covered wi' snaw." 
 
 Noo, freens, dinna think I am jokin'; oh, no! 
 
 But what dy'e think? wh'en I started to go, 
 
 He cam' doon aff th' curbstane, an' in less tlian a blink, 
 
 Said : "Stranger, could ye spare me th' price o' a drink?" 
 
 A TOAST 
 
 Here's a health to the ones we love best, 
 
 May they never know sorrow nor care! 
 May love in their hearts ever rest, 
 
 And plenty and peace be their share. 
 May their anchor of hope never fail. 
 
 Nor their lives be with storms overcast 1 
 And true to the chart may they sail, 
 
 To the harbor, in Cod^s house, at last. 
 
Lays o' th* Hameland 127 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE SIXTH ANNIVER- 
 SARY OF CLAN McDonald, 161, 
 
 McKEESPORT, PA. 
 
 Let's tak' th' hands, my trusty freens, 
 
 We've held sae lang th'gither, 
 Thro' lips an' doons an' varied scenes 
 
 We've stood by yin anither. 
 
 Our Order is no idle dream, 
 
 Its mission's high an' holy, 
 To 'fend th' weak, an' help a freen 
 
 Is somethin' else than folly. . 
 
 For six lang years we've dune gey weel, 
 
 Of coorse we micht dae better, 
 But still, when Fortune turns th' wheel, 
 
 None may her wisdom fetter. 
 
 Th' fates, my freens, hae kindly dailt 
 
 Wi' oor beloved clan ; 
 Th' hand o' death's been lightly felt 
 
 Amang oor social ban'. 
 
128 Lays d* tK Hameland 
 
 For this, oor gratefu' thanks we owe 
 Tae Him wha rules abune us, 
 
 An' to His will we'll humbly bow 
 Wi' a' th' faith that's in us. 
 
 An' let us no forget that Wt 
 
 Hail Scotlan' as oor mither, 
 Sae let us a' in faith agree, 
 
 Wi' love for yin anither. 
 
 We've wandered faur across th' feam, 
 Frae th' Ian' o' song an' story, 
 
 But we'll cherish aye th' dear auld hame 
 That's crowned wi' freedom's glory. 
 
 We love her purple heath-clad hills, 
 Where th' foam-capped torrent flashes, 
 
 An' w^hile we toast her glens an' rills, 
 We'll no forget her lassies. 
 
 An' freens, believe, you're welcome here, 
 
 MacDonald's he'rt is open, 
 May a' enjoy oor humble cheer 
 
 An' kindly words be spoken. 
 
Lays d* th' Hameland 129 
 
 I^et each an' every clansman here, 
 
 Send love tae ilka brither, 
 Where'er he be — 'that love an' cheer 
 
 Which binds us a' th'gither. 
 
 An' when oor barques hae reached yon strand. 
 
 Across Life's ocean driven, 
 May each ane join th' lansomed band, — 
 
 Th* celestial clan in heaven. 
 
 HE SLUMBERS NOT, NOR SLEEPS 
 
 The sleepless Watchman on the walls 
 
 Of Zion's gates, His vigils keep ; 
 He's marked the sphere of mortal ken, 
 
 And will give His beloved sleep. 
 O tired and weary soul, arise ! 
 
 For light is breaking with the sun ! 
 Toil on ! nor covet earthly gain, 
 
 Be patient till the night is done. 
 
130 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 SHATTERED HOPES 
 
 I built me a house Oiin the green hillside, 
 
 And fair was the road to the winding river 
 
 That onward swept with a graceful glide, 
 
 And murmuring sang where the aspens quiver. 
 
 The ibirds sang merrily in the trees, 
 The bees were droning in the clover ; 
 
 I sat me down, with my heart at ease, 
 
 'Neath the vernal shade, when the day was over. 
 
 The wild rose leaned o,ni the bending spray — 
 The 'suckle crossed to the sylvan bowers; 
 
 And down the valley at dawn of day. 
 
 The choristers wakened the sleeping flowers ! 
 
 No fitful dreams thro' the silent night 
 Did waken me to a day of sorrow ; 
 
 No phantom scenes did my senses blight — 
 No fears had I for the coming morrow ! 
 
Lays o' tK Hameland 131 
 
 But woe is me and the song so sweet ! 
 
 For the heart is dulled when the summer ends ; 
 The flowers lay dying at my feet, 
 
 In the valley below, where the pathway bends. 
 
 The dull sky frowned o'er the distant hills, 
 
 The sun dropt down 'mong the cold grey clouds; 
 
 The merlin's song was hushed by th' rills, 
 
 The tall trees swayed in thedr ghostly shrouds ! 
 
 The bleak winds chanted a mournful so.ng, 
 
 Saying, "Alas, alas! when the wild flowers fade; 
 
 I cannot tarry for weak or stroiug, 
 I follow the path of the silent dead!" 
 
 Night, darkening, flung her sable robe 
 O'er hill and vale — o'er ocean swelling; 
 
 No sound was heard, save the deep, deep sob 
 
 Of the tempest's voice, round my lonely dwelling. 
 
 I called aloud, but no echoes spoke, 
 I lonely mused till the morning hours ; 
 
 The heart grew faint when the daylight broke, 
 And Hope expired 'mong the dying flowers. 
 
132 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 TO THE SCOTS OF THIS TOON 
 
 Brither Scots, frae owre th' sea, 
 I'd like tae speak tae you awee. 
 Concerning things that you an' me 
 
 Should aye tak' heed; 
 It's sae ordain'd that folks maun dee, — 
 
 It's Heaven decreed ! 
 
 When sittin' at yer ain fireside, 
 
 Nae doot you've thochts hoo tae provide 
 
 For wee bairns — when ye lay aside 
 
 A' ^earthly ties, 
 An' slip awa' across th' itide. 
 
 Beyond th' skies. 
 
 Perhaps ye hae a grey hair'd mitlier, 
 (An' fine ye ken there's no anither, 
 In a' this big warld put th'gither, 
 
 Thinks mair o' you) ; 
 Sae dinna let her auld he'rt wither. 
 
 Nor cause her rue. 
 
Lays 0* tW Hameland 133 
 
 Noo, brither Scots, ye needna grieve, 
 Nor wear yer troubles on yer sleeve, 
 We hae a plan — if you'll believe 
 
 A Scottish lad, 
 It's helped tae comfort an' relieve 
 
 Th' sick an' sad. 
 
 "Th' Scottish Clans," — frae coast tae coast, 
 
 Are noo th' Caledonian's toast ! 
 
 Gang whar ye may, ye'll ne'er get lost. 
 
 You'll aye can feel 
 Ye hae a freen, when tempest toss'd. 
 
 In ilka chiel. 
 
 Cauld is th' hame without a heid, 
 When wife an' bairns are left in need ; 
 It matters not howe'er they plead, 
 
 Th' warld is deef! — 
 Th' Scottish Clans will come wi* speed 
 
 Tae their rel'ief. 
 
 My freens, tak' tent, an' form a clan, 
 It's th' cleanest, best insurance plan 
 That eiver helped a fellow man 
 
 In time o' need ; 
 Its torch is bleezin' owre th' Ian' 
 
 Wi' lichtnin' speed. 
 
134 Lays o' tli Hamcland 
 
 Some fourteen thoosan' earnest men, 
 Frae every Scottish hill an' glen, 
 Are banded in this broad domain 
 
 Wi' prospects bricht ! 
 Pick oot a tartan — sign yer name 
 
 This very nicht. 
 
 In Akron toon, I'm told, you've there 
 A band o' Scots that's guid an' square,- 
 Then awa' wi' scruples, doot an' care, 
 
 Come, briest th' tide ! 
 Get up beside th' lads that wear 
 
 Th' tartan plaid! 
 
 A DREAM 
 
 I stood on a bridge that crosses a brook, 
 Where silver Luna casts her rays. 
 
 In a fairy glen, far across the sea, 
 
 Where I loved to wander in other days. 
 
 And all night long, thro' the changing hours, 
 I waited and watched by the moaning linn, 
 
 When a form, like as out of the Spirit Land, 
 Sang a song of love thro' the shadows dim. 
 
Ldys o' th' Hameland 135 
 
 She seemed to say that in days of yore, 
 I waited for you thro' the dreary years, 
 
 And I longed and looked o'er the ocean's foam 
 Till my weary eyes grew dim with tears. 
 
 Now the way is loiog and the road ds rough 
 We have to travel, ere we reach the goal, 
 
 And we must wander in different paths, 
 Tho' the fondest longings possess the soul 
 
 I thought the light of other years 
 
 Broke sweetly o'er my troubled heart. 
 
 But thro' the few short, transient hours 
 We met, as friends, again to part. 
 
 A smile she wore of Love and Hope — 
 
 Supremely sweet, I could espy. 
 And I thought that form was the fairest yet^ 
 
 That was ever seen by mortal eye. 
 
 Her golden ringlets loosely hung 
 
 Round her fair young face, full of blissful joy ; 
 And I thought I had seen such a maid as this 
 
 In years gone by when a thoughtless boy. 
 
136 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 And fain were the promptings of the heart 
 To tell of the barriers that Time had reared ! 
 
 But ere the lark proclaimed the dawn, 
 That beautiful form had disappeared. 
 
 THE BRITISH ROBIN 
 
 Wee spark o' life, wi' legs like threeds, 
 An' glistenin' een, like twa black beads, 
 Ye strut aboot, sae trim an' trig, 
 On some auld dyke or burn brig, 
 Wi' spunky mien an' tail erect, 
 An's quick as ony jimpin' jeck. 
 
 I'd like tae sing yer praise in rhyme, 
 
 But, faith, I think yer ,no th' kin' 
 
 O' bird that sings in yonder lane, 
 
 Sae I'll noo lee aboot yer fame. 
 
 But juist afif-^haun tell things aboot ye 
 
 That folks that ken ye, winna doot me. 
 
 Noo, Robin ; first, I'll here admit 
 Ye ne'er was lazy — no a bit — 
 For plannin' hoo tae bigg a nest, 
 Yer heid an' shouthers owre th' rest ! 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 137 
 
 I'll tak' an oath, there's naething finer 
 Than your abode — wee deft designer ! 
 Ootside o' that, ye've nae desire 
 Ta'e mingle wi' th' vernal choir. 
 
 But when it comes tae scrap an' fecht, 
 Nae birds there are, nine times yer weicht, 
 But what wad flee faur oot their path 
 Before they'd cross ye in yer wrath ! 
 Cock'd on th' haunle o' a plew, 
 Ye'd jimp an' dance, an' gasp an' spue 
 An' offer challenge efter challenge 
 Until ye'd nearly lose yer balance. 
 Nae thocht o' risks — come, win or lose, 
 Ye'd fecht wi' peesweeps, craws an' doos,— 
 My sang! ye'd mak' th' feathers flee 
 An' chase them owre th' highest tree ! 
 Syne back ye'd come — skoot up th' lane, 
 Prepared tae face th' foe again. 
 
 Yer only match was "Auld John Fros-t," 
 Owre him ye couldna brag an' boast. 
 For when he cam' he nipp't yer hoard 
 An' clapp't ye on th' "Pairish Board.'" 
 
138 Lays o' tJi Hameland 
 
 Yer pride, aye, got an' awfu' fa' 
 
 When wuds an' fields were cower'd wi' snaw! 
 
 Then thankfu' was 3^e — 'gainst yer will, 
 
 Tae loiter roiin' some window sill, 
 
 An' ther'e ye'd plead wi' wattery e'e, 
 
 As if tae say — folks peety me ! 
 
 Ye'd mak' us think ye had repented, 
 
 An' wisna quite as black's yer painted. 
 
 But years hae passed sdn' you an' me 
 Roamed thro' th' woodlan' full an' free ! 
 ^^oo we're pairted by th' stormy main, 
 Perhaps nae mair tae meet again. 
 Th' barefit laddie minds ye fine, 
 Wha kent yer nest in days lang syne, 
 But noo he's gettin' grey an' sere, 
 Sae far^e-ye-weel, Avee buccaneer ! 
 
Lo^ys o' th' Hameland 139 
 
 DOON BY YON DYKE-SIDE 
 
 D'ye mind th' happy days 
 
 Doon by yon dyke-side ? 
 Where th' linnet tuned his lays 
 
 Doon by yon dyke-side? 
 Tho' we've wandered far since then, 
 
 Th' he'rt gangs back again 
 Tae th' fairy haunted glen 
 
 Doon by yon dyke-side. 
 
 We pu'd th' rashes, green, 
 
 Doon by yon dyke-side, 
 Tae croon some fairy queen 
 
 Doon by yon dyke-sdde, 
 An' th' go wans w^et wi' dew. 
 
 We'd string- them thro' an' thro', 
 Tae deck her sunny broo, 
 
 Doon by yon dyke-sid'e. 
 
 An' th' guileless, artless lauchin' 
 
 Doon by yon dyk^e-side ! 
 Th' rinnin' an' th' daffin' 
 
 Doon by yon dyke-side ! 
 
140 Lays d* th' H ante land 
 
 An' tho' wearied ane an' a', 
 We couldna come awa' 
 
 Tae th' shades o' nicht wad fa' 
 Doon by yon dyke-side. 
 
 Ah ! th' tender he'rt was true 
 
 Doon by yon dyke-side ! 
 Th' cares o' life were few 
 
 Doon by 3^on dyke-side ! 
 But those bonnie youthfu' scenes 
 
 Hae flown like sunny beams, 
 Noo we wander in oor dreams 
 
 Doon by yon dyke-side. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 141 
 
 ADDRESS TO A SPRIG OF HEATHER FROM 
 
 SCOTLAND 
 
 Far o'er the sea among the mists 
 
 Stands Scotland where she did! 
 Whose monuments are not of stone. 
 
 But sighs, and tears, and blood! 
 From off her hills you've wandered far 
 
 Across the stormy main, 
 To mind me o' the dear, sweet Past, 
 
 And woo me back again. 
 
 There are many flowers fair to see 
 
 'Round hut and lordly ha', 
 But Scotland's purple heather 
 
 Is the bravest o' them a' ! 
 Around you cling sweet memories dear 
 
 C sunny, youthful days, 
 When a guileless bairn I rambled 
 
 On your bonnie banks and braes. 
 
 Ah, many a time among your bloom 
 
 In the dark, dark, weary years, 
 Auld Scotland's saints have sought your shade 
 
 And watered you with tears ! — 
 
142 Lays o' tK Hameland 
 
 When cruel men with bloody hands 
 
 Pursued the chosen few 
 Who dared to speak of ''Israel'si God" — 
 
 The only God they knew. 
 
 You've heard the "Songs of Zion" sung 
 
 Wdth tongues of sacred flame, 
 And dying, with their latest breath, 
 
 They breathed Jehovah's name ! 
 They died for sacred liberty. 
 
 Bequeathed from ''Calvary's Cross," 
 They braved the dungeon, fire and sword 
 
 And counted all but dross. 
 
 You've seen God's holy standard 
 
 Fall and rise again ! 
 And flowing like a crimson tide 
 
 The life-blood of the slain! 
 You've seen the purifying 
 
 Of the saints — wee purple sprig, 
 At "Cairntable," and "Wardlaw Hill,' 
 
 Anid far-famed "Bothwell Brig," 
 
Lays th' Hameland 143 
 
 Can we forget the storied Past, 
 
 Wiith its agony and pains? 
 Can we forget while Scottish blood 
 
 Is hounding in our veins? 
 Ah, not while Scotia's emblem blooms, 
 
 Beyond the rolling waves, 
 And Heaven's winds chant their requiems 
 
 Round our martyred heroes' graves. 
 
 Had I the pen of Burns or Scott, 
 
 Or the gentle Tannahill, 
 I'd deftly weave your praise in rhyme 
 
 With master hand and skill ; 
 But let me sing while life is lent — 
 
 Until the day I dee — 
 Wave on ! and toss your honored head, 
 
 Brave emblem of the Free ! \ 
 
144 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 JUIST SHOUTHER THE BURDEN 
 
 It's aye been a peety, an' sae it maun be, 
 When folks are mismated an' canna agree! 
 But th' best thing tae dae is tae thole till ye dee, 
 For there's naebody kens nor cares ! 
 
 Cho. — ^Juist shouther th' burden an' laugh at th' pain., 
 Ilka ane has his sorrows an' griefs o' his ain. 
 Gin ye've ony tae tell, 
 Keep them a' tae yersel', 
 For there's naebody kens nor cares ! 
 
 My advice would aye be, tae a domineer'd man, 
 Wha's life is as hard as a cast aim pan, — 
 Is tae keep a caum sough, as it's a' in th' plan, 
 For there's naebody kens nor cares ! 
 
 Tho' th' anchor o' hope should gae driftin' awa', 
 Aye staun by th' ship tho' th' gales loodly blaw, 
 An' sing a bit sang tho' it stick in yer craw. 
 For there's naebody kens nor cares ! 
 
Lays o' tK Hameland 145 
 
 I WONDER IF WE'LL MEET AGAIN? 
 
 (Written to a Friend ) 
 
 I wonder if we two shall meet, 
 To roam again where the roses bloom ; 
 
 And wander on with careless feet 
 Beneath the pale and silent moon, 
 
 To mend again the broken vow, 
 
 We swore to Heaven that naught could part; 
 Ere sadness marked your fair young brow — 
 
 Ere stormy tempests rocked the heart ! 
 
 It may be in some coming year. 
 
 When the eye is dim and the step is -slow, 
 When youthful folly shall disappear, 
 
 And the evening shadows come and go. 
 
 Ah, could we meet at eventide. 
 
 Where the foaming flood leaps o'er the linns — 
 When the sun dips down the mountain side 
 
 And the yellow blossoms on the whins ! 
 
146 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 What tho' your brow be furrowed, love, 
 And silvered be your bonnie hair ! 
 
 The lasting joys of youthful love 
 
 Would guide our footsteps roaming there ! 
 
 The hedges in their snow-white dress 
 Will bloom as sweet as in bygone years, 
 
 AVhen we with youthful love confessed — 
 Ere sorrow dimmed the eye with tears ! 
 
 The stream is flowing just the same. 
 To you the thrush his song shall sing. 
 
 As when I called you by your name. 
 Ere hopeful love had left its sting. 
 
 Or must we wait till Time is past, 
 
 When our mutual souls shall cleave the skies- 
 When heart 'shall beat with heart at last 
 
 In never-ending Paradise? 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 147 
 
 DYING WORDS OF A SCOTTISH PATRIOT 
 
 Weave me a sang of the hameland, 
 
 Ere th' mists gather thick on my brow ; 
 
 Sing again of her undying glories, 
 
 I have dreamed of from childhood till now. 
 
 Tell again of her glorious triumphs — 
 
 Of her brave sons that dared to be free — 
 
 Of her deeds that are written in story, 
 Tho' her green fields I'll never more see. 
 
 Sing again of my own loved mountains, 
 Her fiower-covered valleys and dells, 
 
 Her sprite-haunted caves and her cairns, 
 Her streams singing free o'er the fells. 
 
 For sweet is th' theme to th' wanderer, 
 When th' shadows of life come and go ; 
 
 'Twill cheer me again in my sorrow, 
 And brighten my path here below. 
 
148 Lays o' tK Hameland 
 
 Speak again of th' flash of th' claymore, 
 'Gainst th' shield of th' Saxon and Dane, 
 
 On Larg's bloody strand and th' Bannock, 
 When th' war cry was ''Scotlan' and hame!" 
 
 And tell me again of th' martyrs, 
 
 Who feared not th' faggot and sword; 
 
 Whose songs reached th' "City of Zion/* 
 And were heard by th' ear of th' Lord ! 
 
 Ah, me ! but th' story's worth telling, 
 Of th* pains and th' blood and th' tears, 
 
 And th' lives Scotia's sons freely offered, 
 Thro' th' long, weary siege of th' years. 
 
 And say to the children that gather 
 
 At th' close of th' day, round your knee, 
 
 That their sire's dying wish was to heaven 
 To defend our sweet land of th' free. 
 
Lays 0* th' H ante land 149 
 
 THE GOLDEN-ROD 
 
 National Flower of the United States 
 
 When other flowers have sung their song, 
 
 And sighed and fallen asleep ; 
 When birds have ceased to woo their mates 
 
 In vale, and hill, and steep ! 
 The dying year has placed a wreath 
 
 Where Summer's feet hath trod; 
 Before she waved a fond good-bye 
 
 She left the golden-rod. 
 
 It blooms where eerie winds blow chill, 
 
 Thro' leafless bush and tree; 
 Its golden spray swings with the gale, 
 
 Proud, independent, free ! 
 It gilds the mountain side, and showers 
 
 Its gleaming rays abroad, 
 And cheers, and brings sweet memories back — 
 
 The bonnie golden-rod. 
 
 It may be other flowers can boast 
 
 Of foliage rich and rare ; 
 Their song is brief — they smile and leave 
 
 Us lonely in despair. 
 
ISO Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 But Freedom's voice is in your song, 
 
 T)h;o' iliumble be the sod 
 That bears you up — a nation's pride- 
 
 The boinnie golden-rod. 
 
 FOND MEMORIES 
 
 From the silent years of the Long Ago 
 
 Comes a voice I knew so well ; 
 It breaks o'er the heart with a cadence soft, 
 
 Like the song of a vesper bell. 
 But, ah, the years — the weary years 
 
 That have passed thro' the heart's deep core. 
 Are murmuring sad, sweet memories now. 
 
 For the love and the dream are o'er. 
 
 The Autumn leaves lie brown and sere, 
 
 With the Summer past and gone ; 
 And thro' the lonely forest bare 
 
 I wander on and oni! 
 I think I hear the wild winds say 
 
 As they roam on this dark, bleak shore : — 
 "The flowers that are faded can never return. 
 
 For the love and the dream are o'er." 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 151 
 
 I wandered away on a leaf-strewn beach, 
 
 Where the moonbeams kiss the sea ; 
 I looked far away o'er the sobbing tide 
 
 And I thought it said to me : — 
 'No tender words can ever avail, 
 
 Since the heart is torn and sore ; 
 For the day is spent, and the night is here, 
 
 And the loxe and the dream are o'er." 
 
 HAEIN' FUN Wr GRANFAITHER 
 
 Auld granfaither rests for a while on th' stair, 
 But is quite unaware that a wee rogue is near, 
 
 Wi' a sma' stalk o' strae, maist as licht as a hair. 
 An' cunnin'ly kittles auld granfaither's ear. 
 
 An' aye he plays swish wi' his auld withered hauns, 
 An' gets sae uneas}' an' looks up an' doon ; 
 
 But no faur awa' in th' corner there stauns 
 A sly, nimble elf, in a wee sleepin' goon. 
 
152 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 **I wonder whar Rab is? That wee throuther limpl" 
 Says granfaither, tryin' tae capture a *flee; 
 
 Then a' in a sudden he catch'es a glimp' 
 O* a wee curly heid, wi' th' tail o' his e'e. 
 
 He carries him aff tae his wee cot sae nice, — 
 Wi' 'his auld trimlin' haun he turns doon th' licht; 
 
 Then oot frae th' claes comes a tired, droozy voice, — 
 "Granfaither ! Tell mither I'm sleepin' — guid nicht!" 
 
 Th* wee bairn's awa' whar th' hobgoblins dwell, — 
 
 Whar th' munelicht sa'e saft's streamin' doon thro' th' 
 trees, — 
 
 Auld granfaither rises an' says tae his sel', 
 
 "Gk)r, I .thocht a' th' tim'e 'twas thae impident flees!" 
 
 *Fly. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 153 
 
 THE GATHERING OF THE CLANS 
 Kennywood Park, 1910 
 
 Ho ! hear ye th' summons, brave Clansmen an' true, 
 ■'Tis the voice of your Chieftain — he's calling for you! 
 To come with your bonnet an' feather an' plaid, 
 A<s your sires did of old when for battle arrayed ! 
 
 As th' bold eagle swoops down o'er dark Lochnagar, 
 An' swings on th' blast from his valleys afar ! 
 So, haste! brother Clansmen, get up with the lark, 
 For th' standard is flying in Kennywood Park ! 
 
 We meet not in conflict, as our sires did of yore. 
 By th' banks of Loch Lomond, or Lochaber's shore ; 
 But friendship's th' mark — let our hearts so incline. 
 An' we'll grasp friendly hands for th' days o' lang syne ! 
 
 It's likely we'll meet with some kin that we know 
 We have played with in youth, in th' days long ago, 
 By the brown foaming Spey — th' Tweed or th' Awe, 
 An' say kind, loving words for th' time that's awa'! 
 
154 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 In fancy, let's roam in th' land o' th' heather, 
 'Neath th' thunder-rent crags let ns wander together! 
 An' gaze on th' torrent an' loud-roaring linns, 
 An' th' straths by th' hills where th' yellow deer rims ! 
 
 We'll sing o' th' Highlands — her Clansmen so .brave- 
 Th' heroes that died dear auld Scotlan' to save ! — 
 Her lochs an' her fens and her hazel-clad glens, 
 Her mist-shrouded hills and her echoing bens! 
 
 Tho' our lot is now cast on Columbia's fair shore — 
 Tho' it may be we'll see our loved Highlands no more 
 Yet th' tartan is dear to th' 'hearts of th' brave, 
 For (its braw checkered folds never covered a slave ! 
 
 The,ni arouse ye ! brave Clansmen, th' cross is afire ! 
 Lay your labor aside, bring th' son an' th' sire — ■ 
 Th' young an' the old, th' grave an' th' gay; 
 Th' Clansmen are gathering, up, up an' away! 
 
 Make the glens an' th' woodlands re-echo with mirth — 
 We are all Caledonians — 'tis th' land of our birth ! 
 So, haste, brother Clansmen, get up with th' lark, 
 For the standard is planted in Kenny wood Park! 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 155 
 
 TH' SOOCHIN' O' TPi' WIN' 
 
 What witchery dwells in th' exile's breast, 
 
 When memory wanders back 
 Ta'e th' hame we left in early years 
 
 Faur owre th' ocean's track; 
 For I'm dreamin' o' th' htfu' blast, 
 
 Till I think I hear again 
 Th' soochin' o' th' win' 
 
 Thro' th' rig-gin' at hame. 
 
 Refrain : — In th' wee hoose at hame, 
 
 Faiu" awa' across th' main , 
 I can hear th' win' soochin' 
 Thro' th' riggiin' at hame. 
 
 How happy were oor childhood days 
 
 Aroon fond mither's knee! 
 She'd saftly sing o' "Logan's Braes," 
 
 An' "Bonnie Craigielee!" 
 Her tunefu' voice v;ad seem tae chime 
 
 (When she sang th' sweet refrain) 
 Wi' th' soochin' o' th' win'. 
 
 Thro' th' riggin' at hame. 
 
156 Lays d* th* Hameland 
 
 An' whiles we thocht th' water wraiths 
 
 (When th' win' wad blaw an' roar) 
 Were singin' eerie dirges 
 
 Thro' th' keyhole o' th' door ; 
 We'd slip oor hauns roon ither's necks, 
 
 Syne swoon awa' sae fain, 
 Tae th' soochin' o' th' win' 
 
 Thro' ith' riggin' at hame. 
 
 Awa' wi' tliochtless minded folks 
 
 Wi' ihe'rts as cauld as snaw ! 
 Wha canna see th' blinkin' lowe 
 
 Cast shadows on th' wa', 
 An' gleefii' bairmies playin' roon 
 
 Aboot th' auld hearth stane, — 
 Nor hear th' soochin' win' 
 
 Thro' th' riggin' at hame. 
 
Lays o' iK Hameland 157 
 
 OLD HOME WEEK 
 
 The following verses were written for McKeesport's "Old Home Week," 
 by request of His Honor, Dr. H. S. Arthur, Mayor of the City of McKees- 
 
 Englamd has her Tyne and Tees, 
 Scotland has her Clyde and Forth — 
 
 Worthy, famous rivers these, 
 Industrial themes of civic v^orth ! 
 
 But let me chant McKeesport's pride, 
 Her mighty plants of iron and steel ; 
 
 By old Monongahela's side, 
 
 Where furnace lightnings flash and wheel ! 
 
 The famous products of her mills, 
 
 'Gainst the w^orld's trade, she's fairly won ; 
 Her well-known tubes have pierced the hills 
 
 In every clime beneath the sun. 
 
 A Hercules in the world's mart — 
 Broad-chested — ready for the fray; 
 
 Strong-limbed, and young, and stout of heart, 
 And adding wealth from day to day. 
 
158 Lays o' tW Hameland 
 
 From where the Andes pierce the sky 
 To far-off India's sultry sea, 
 
 McKeesport's ''trade mark" greets the eye, 
 And foremost stands triumphantly ! 
 
 A 'brilliant, burning beacon light, 
 Her seats of learning shine afar! 
 
 We honor him who points aright 
 To exulting youth's imperial star. 
 
 And he who stands with manly pride 
 And guides the city's ship and crew, 
 
 He sits with Justice at his side, 
 
 An honored servant, tried and true. 
 
 To-day he bids you "bide awee," 
 And welcomes you with open heart, 
 
 And hopes your stay may pleasant be 
 And a safe return when you depart. 
 
 If by the Mississippi wide, 
 Or by the classic Suwanee, 
 
 Or by fair Susquehanna's tide. 
 Or bv the historic Tennessee — 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 159 
 
 Wherever 'be your "home, sweet home/' 
 
 In city or by rolling stream, 
 Please ibear with you where'er you roam 
 
 McKeesport's love and fond esteem. 
 
 TO MR. FRANK ABERCROMBIE 
 
 Chief, Clan McKenzie, No. 2, Boston, Mass. 
 
 My Freen : — 
 
 You'll likiely ihae min' o' th' lang winter nichts 
 
 In th' wee hame in Scotlan', faur, faur owre th' sea. 
 
 When freens gethered roun' by th' dim caunel lichts, 
 An' sang till th' tear glistened bricht in the e'e, 
 
 A wee drap gaed roun' wi' th' fine curran' bun; 
 
 They'd say : "Tits ! drink it up ! it's no often we meet," 
 
 An' man, hoo they'd grue, when ye'd push back their 
 haun, 
 
 Then owre it wad gang tae th' soles o' their feet. 
 
160 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 LINES TO THE BLUEBIRD 
 
 Come, wee bird, with your coat o' blue, 
 
 Blithe harbinger o' Spring; 
 With music in your bubbling throat, 
 
 And sunshine on your wing. 
 
 The school boy with his strapped books. 
 Who wanders thro' the glen, 
 
 Will hail you on the dogwood bough 
 And call you by your name. 
 
 Here, Spring will hide you 'mong her rob^s. 
 
 And shield you from the foe ; 
 Soft, balmy gales will lull your young 
 
 And rock .them to and fro. 
 
 Your home is where the shadows flit, 
 Midst Nature's wildest scenes — 
 
 Where midnight fairi'es daif and dance 
 'Neath Luna's trembling beams. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 161 
 
 May heaven protect your cozy nest, 
 
 Unsoiled by human hands, 
 Until your birdlings spread their wings 
 
 And hie to other lands. 
 
 And when again the snow lies long 
 With cold and biting sting, 
 
 We hope to see you comic again 
 To tell us o' the Spring. 
 
 A POSTAL CARD 
 
 Sent to W. H. Steen, Past Royal Chief, O. S. C, Braidwood, IUiiM>is. 
 
 This humble picture postal caird, I couldna help but buy. 
 
 When I saw tV burn, th' auld stane brig, th' woodlan' 
 an' th' kye; 
 
 Nae doot you've seen a sicht like (this, in happy days 
 that's gane, 
 
 Sae I thocht' I'd send it on tae you, it looks sae much 
 like hame. 
 
1&2 Luys o' W Hameland 
 
 SPRINGTIME 
 
 A blink o' th' sun, an' a ro'bin Oini th' brae 
 
 An' a wiff o' th' moss on the birches ; 
 Th' chirping o' th' wren, down th' green grassy way, 
 Makes th' heart leap an' sing 
 In th' calling o' th' Spring, 
 Wihere th' bramble vines form flowery arches. 
 
 A linnet on th' bough, an' a song in th' glen, 
 
 Where th' choristers are matin' in th' woodlan', 
 x\n' Jean with her milk pail, singing down th' lane, 
 Makes th' heart leap an' sing, 
 In th' calling o' th' Spring, 
 Where th' cushet in th' glade's fondly croodlin'. 
 
 There's a faint purple haze, an' a murmur in th' rill. 
 
 An' an echo stealing' softly by th' river ; 
 Th' turtle dove that's cooing 'mong th' larches an' th' firs, 
 Makes th' heart leap an' sing 
 In th' calling- o' the Spring, 
 Where th' soft" downy willows nod an' quiver. 
 
Lays o' ih' Hameldnd 163 
 
 TH' CANDY MAN 
 
 D'ye mind among our youthfu' scenes, 
 
 Th' queer auld candy man, 
 Wi' his wee win' mills an' red balloons. 
 
 An' candy in a pan? 
 An' when he blew his trumpet, 
 
 It made sic an awfu' din, 
 We'd a' rin doon th' road in droves 
 
 Tae meet him coniin' in. 
 
 Chorus : — 
 
 No matter where I chance tae roam, 
 
 I hear his trumpet blaw; 
 I hear him sayin' : ''Gether up ! 
 
 I've something- for ye a' !" 
 Wi' his wee win' mills an' red balloons, 
 
 An' candy in a pan. 
 My sun shall set, ere I forget 
 
 Th' funny candy man. 
 
 He had a wee claw-hammer 
 For tae break his candy rock ; 
 
 An* whiles ye couldna see his face 
 For black tobacco smoke; 
 
164 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 But ye'd gie th' last thing that ye had, 
 E'en yer bonnet aff yer croon ! 
 
 For a dizzy, whurlin' win' mill 
 Or a bonnie red balloon. 
 
 An' hoo they'd try tae fricht me 
 
 Till th' tear stood in my e'e; 
 They'd declare that he was lookin' 
 
 For wee laddies juist like me. 
 That he'd pit me in his muckle poke 
 
 If I wudna sune come hame, 
 An' sell me -tae th' sailors 
 
 That ploo th' ragin' main. 
 
 An' mither, aye beside my bed, 
 
 When nicht began tae fa'. 
 She'd tak' my string an' wee balloon 
 
 An' hing them on th' wa' ; 
 I'd warn her, aye, tae watch them weel 
 
 When I was sleepin' soun'; 
 An' no tae let them tak' awa' 
 
 My bonnie v/ee balloon. 
 
Lays o' iW Hameland 16S 
 
 Buit noo we've scattered faur an' wide — 
 
 We've wandered faur awa' — 
 Some are lyin' in their graves, 
 
 Th' candy man an' a' ; 
 But memory ever fondly turns, 
 
 An' wi' gentle voice it croons, 
 An* minds me o' th' wee win' mills 
 
 An* th' bonnie red balloons. 
 
 A WEE BIRD SANG A DOLEFU' SANG 
 
 'Twas in th' bonnie month o' June, 
 
 When buds were opening on th' thorn, 
 A wee bird sang a dolefu' tune, 
 
 Sae lanely an' forlorn. 
 "I've lost my mate! I've lost my mate!" 
 
 I thocht th' w6e bird said — 
 "^Whatever noo may be my fare, 
 God kens th' best — her fate I'll share 
 In some clay bed an' sing nae mair, 
 
 Far in some woodlan' glade." 
 
166 Lays o' tK Hameland 
 
 He plumed his pinions for a flight, 
 
 An' ere his sang was done, 
 He flew awa' faur oot o' sight 
 
 Towards th' setting sun. 
 An' aye sin' syne, I've wondered why 
 
 That wee bird sang sae fine — 
 Was I th' ane he liked th' best? 
 What kenned he o' th' human breast, 
 An' a' th' scenes now laid at rest 
 
 Sin' days o' lang, lang syn'e? 
 
 Or was he sent tae wauken dreams 
 
 O' times sae lang gane by, 
 When love shone like th' starry beams 
 
 That flash a-down th' sky? 
 But this I know, the sang he sung 
 
 Brocht echoes from th' past — 
 Th' sweetest tale that e'er was told, 
 O' buried thopes that'll ne'er unfold 
 Within >th' breast till Time is old, 
 
 Or while this life shall last ! 
 
Lays o' th* Hameland \^7 
 
 I'll wander when th' leaves are sere, 
 
 Th' naked woods amang. 
 Perhaps, far in some woodlan' glade 
 
 A ravished hame I'll see, 
 Where murderous hands hae wracked and torn 
 A bridal bed aniang .th' thorn, 
 An' caused th' wee bird's he'rt tae mourn, 
 
 An' sing sae piteously. 
 
 A JOURNEY TO COSHOCTON, OHIO 
 Written Aboard the Indianapolis Special 
 
 A gentle jolt, and we slowly move 
 
 Down the misty street — thro' the crowded town, 
 Faster and faster the polished rails 
 
 Go sweeping past — and up and down. 
 
 The throbbing monster drags us on 
 
 Past wood and glen, and the village spire; 
 The children clap their hands with glee, 
 As the sparks fly up from the bocking fire. 
 An' tho' I ne'er again may hear 
 That wee bird's dolefu' sang. 
 
168 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 Like a demon shot from a bed of flame, 
 Clang ! and another flashes past ! 
 
 For the signal's right and the road is clear- 
 They reach the goal of their speed at last. 
 
 Round swinging curve, by the wooded slope, 
 The tall trees bend, and nod, and quiver; 
 
 We shoot along by flowery banks 
 
 That gently slope to the flowing river. 
 
 With cautious speed, we slowly creep 
 
 Across the Ohio's lapping tide, 
 Then up the valley — round the curve. 
 
 Then skirting by the mountain side. 
 
 Till circling thro' the meadows green, 
 The dark Muskingum winds along! 
 
 We cross its many tortuous bends 
 As it flows to join the Ohio's song. 
 
 With hope exulting in our breasts, 
 
 As our smiling friends are drawing near, 
 
 We pause and look at the iron steed. 
 With silent thanks to the engineer. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 169 
 
 DINNA CRAW 
 
 It's hardly worth a body's whilie 
 
 Tae boast, an' croosly craw ; 
 Tih' day we micht be hale an' weel 
 
 An' th' morn taen awa'. 
 Tae keep a caum sough, whiles, ye ken, 
 
 Adds tae oor dignity, 
 An' disna get us intae holes, 
 
 That itherwise w^e'd see. 
 
 I'ive seen sae monie ups and doons, 
 
 Wi' yae thing an' anither, 
 That life is but a transient dream 
 
 When summed up a' th'gither. 
 When folks that hivna much tae dae, 
 
 Gang crawin' up an' doon ; 
 Ye'll aften think hoo blest are they 
 
 That never fash their thoom ! 
 
 "We're here th' day an' awa' th' morn,' 
 
 Are words, whiles, lichtly spoken, 
 But Time, my freens, aye keeps a tag 
 
 On promises we've broken ; 
 Sae, I wadna flee sae awfu' high. 
 
 In case ye get a fa' 
 That'll mak' ye rue ye ever tried 
 
 Tae open yer mooth ava'. 
 
IP§ Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 MOTHER'S LOVE 
 
 Som'e one kissed me, true, 
 
 And, perhaps, you'll wonder who; 
 
 For myself, I'm busy trying to discoA^er; 
 It was so sweet and kind, 
 Caressing, soft and blind, 
 
 But I'm certain sure 'twas neither fool nor lover ! 
 
 Because I saw a smile 
 
 That did all my fears beguile, 
 
 With ecstacy my heart did leap with joy; 
 No flower that scents the air 
 With its sweetness could compare, 
 
 Nor can Time its fond remembrance e'er destroy ! 
 
 O, well, I think I know, 
 
 For its memory haunts me so. 
 
 In my heart it lingers like some fairy scene — 
 'Twas mother with her love. 
 Had descended from above, , , 
 
 To kiss her wandering laddie in a dream. 
 
Lays a th' Hameland 171 
 
 THE SILVER WEDDING 
 
 'Twas their silver anniversary, 
 
 And the friends from far and near 
 Gathered round to see the wedding done again, 
 
 And the happy, smiling faces that were seen in days 
 of yore 
 Were in ^evidence from valley, hill and plain. 
 
 ''May your shadow ne'er grow less !" 
 
 3^t enthroned on every lip, 
 
 And joy in each true heart was bubbling o'er; 
 
 They all ihad secret wishes that the same might conve 
 their way 
 
 And be coupled up as they had been before. 
 
 When the friends were fairly started, 
 
 And had got their second wind, 
 
 Some suggested that they might join in a reel ! 
 
 And the way they set and balanced would have 
 honored even the king, 
 
 Kor 'twas gracefulness itself they did reveal. 
 
172 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 Some sang a song of other days 
 
 Regardless of the key, 
 
 And they all joined in the chorus with a vim, 
 
 Tho' *twas plain to see the kindly folks had all seen 
 better days, 
 
 Yet their cup of joy was edging round ithe rim. 
 
 Then the folks grew reminiscent, 
 
 And told some early tales, 
 
 Of how the thing got started, first of all; 
 
 Some declared 'twas in the Springtime, and they simply 
 met by chance, 
 
 While some declared 'twas early in the Fall. 
 
 Quoth the blushing bride, "I'll tell you, 
 
 (With a twinkle in her eye,) 
 And every word I say to you is true 1 
 
 It was on a Summer evening when he blurted out th,^ 
 words : 
 'I've been looking all my days, my lass, for you !' " 
 
Lays o' tW Homeland 173 
 
 So, with fond congratulations 
 
 (They said them several times, 
 For the happy pair now twice made into one, 
 
 Thfey hoped that He whose gentle hand had led them 
 all the way, 
 
 Would guide thetir feet until their day was done. 
 
 Then the host and hostess blandly 
 
 Joined in singing "Auld Lang Syne," 
 That song so dear to Scots across the main; 
 
 And they parted from the goodwife, standing smiling 
 at the door, 
 With a kindly admonition, *'Call agaim." 
 
174 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 THE END OF US ALL 
 
 A monarch sat on Mammon's throne ! 
 
 And gi^eat was his power and glory, 
 His subjects bore the marks of toil, 
 From the ibench, and forge, and the teeming soil- 
 
 They sighed and told their story. 
 
 The first that spoke was the swarthy smith, 
 
 And his horny hand was the token — 
 'Tve toiled for you, O King!" he said, 
 "For scant reward and a crust of bread. 
 Till my heart, my heart is broken." 
 
 Then the one who fashioned with level and rule, 
 
 The valve, the spindle and pinion! 
 Said he : "I, too, till my latest day. 
 Have spent my strength and my hair is grey. 
 And hav^ cringed in your wide dominion." 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 175 
 
 The toiler who followed the rustling plow 
 
 Stepped forth in his homespun garb ; 
 Said he : "I've toiled that my brothers may Live, 
 But your princes have said, ^ust so much you may give;. 
 
 Our laws you must regard !' " 
 
 Years rolled on and this haughty king 
 
 Laid his scepter and crown away, 
 And th'e one who fashioned with level and rule, 
 With the plowman and smith who fashioned the tool, 
 
 Lay mouldering in the clay. 
 
 A hundred years had come and gone — 
 
 Ah, death is ambition's spoiler ! — 
 A sexton asked, when the years had flown, 
 *Tray, on which of these brows did the crown sit on ; 
 
 And which is the king or the toiler?" 
 
17^ Lays o* th* Homeland 
 
 LINES ON MY WORTHY FREEN, 
 WILLIAM CONGALTON 
 
 Dear Editor, lay a' aside, 
 
 An* listen tae yer humble scribe! 
 
 Fd like tae introduce taie you 
 
 A man o' worth — a Scotsman true. 
 
 He's yin amang ten thoosand men ; 
 There's few guid herts he disna ken; 
 Where'er he gangs he mak's a freen, 
 He's wutty, an' as shairp's a preen. 
 
 His portly frame, an* sonsie facie 
 Could nicely fill a Bailie's plact — 
 A product o' St. Mungo, clean, 
 Wi' laughter dancin' roun his een. 
 
 Nae pea-shell game is oor freen Wulll 
 His jokes can pierce th' ithickest skull! 
 Ltike roses i' th' broken vase. 
 They'll cling tae you throo a' yer days. 
 
La^s 0' th' Hameland 177 
 
 When pressed wi' grief an' dther ills, 
 See Wull, and save yer doctor's bills ! 
 He's shair tae mak' dull care tak' leave 
 Wi' some droll story up his sleeve. 
 
 We wush oor freen, Wull, length o' days, 
 Wi' a bite o' breed an' a stitch o' claes, 
 An' when tearfu' watchers say "He's ganel" 
 May oor Heavenly Faither lead him hame. 
 
178; Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 FAREWELL TAE BONNIE SCOTLAN' 
 
 Farewell! a loving, fond farewell! 
 
 My native land, to thee ! 
 Fate bids my wandering feet depart 
 From scenes that's woven round the heart 
 
 From earliest infancv. 
 
 Farewell, the fields where Wallace trod! — 
 
 The ferny glen — th' hazel dell ; 
 Thy peaceful lakes and murmuring rills, 
 The gowany lea and purple hills — 
 A loving, fond farewell ! 
 
 And may the God our fathers knew, 
 
 Be aye thy guide and trust ; 
 And may the foeman never tread 
 O'er sacred mound where sleeps the dead, 
 
 Our cherished patriot dust ! 
 
 No more on Forth 's sweet verdant banks 
 
 I'll watch the sunbeams quiver; 
 Nor trace the lark with youthful eye, 
 God's tender minstrel of the sky. 
 Farewell, dear land, forever! 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 179 
 
 TH' WEE COZY KIRK IN TH' GLEN 
 
 Awa' wi' yer turrets, an' queer shapet domes, 
 
 Yer high screechin organs an' choirs ; 
 Yer thrummin' o' fiddles tae tickle th' ear, 
 
 Yer fantastic designs an' yer spires. 
 Jist gie me th' Psalms on a braw Sabbath morn. 
 
 Sung by God-fearin' women an' men; 
 Wlha's he'rts hae been filled wi' th' lo^'e frae abune. 
 
 In the wee cozy kirk in th* glen. 
 
 How sweet tae th' ear was pathetic "Glencairn," 
 
 An' triumphant "Dunfermline," sae braw; 
 An' plaintive "Dundee," wi' its penitent soun'. 
 
 An' "St. Andrew's," wi' its wonder an' awe. 
 Nae mystic, mechanical, meaningless signs 
 
 Marred th' sangs frae th' he'rt that was fain ; 
 But like incense they floated awa* tae God's throne 
 
 Frae th' wee cozy kirk in th' glen. 
 
 Lang years hae gane by since I saw th' w'ee kirk, 
 An' I think, whiles, I'll see it nae mair; 
 
 But, sweet smilin' faces appear in my dreams 
 An* th' he'rt is a stranger tae care ! 
 
IS) Lays a* th" Hameland 
 
 Tho' Fate wi' her subtle, mysterious wand 
 Has lured my feet faur owre the main, 
 
 Fond Memory says, whiles, let us wander awa' 
 Tae the wee cozy kirk in th' glen. 
 
 But th' maist o' them noo hae answered th* "call," — 
 
 Tae their promised reward they hae passed ! 
 An' th' heid o' th' flock wi' his snawy-white hair 
 
 Has cooried down amang them at last — 
 Some are still left, bent wi' hard honest toil, 
 
 An' are patiently waitin' th' en', 
 For th' summons tae come, tae waft them awa'' 
 
 Frae th' wee cozy kirk in th' glen. 
 
 In th' auld kirk yaird, roun' that wee hallowed hoose, 
 
 Whar th' guid folks are sleepin' sae soun' , 
 Nae monument rises tae mark whar they rest 
 
 An' proclaim tae th' warld roun' an' roun'. 
 But awa' 'mang th' brier an' th' sweet eglantine, 
 
 Ye may read on some flet, mossy stane 
 Th' day an' th' date when they slippit awa' 
 
 Frae th' wee cozy kirk in th' glen. 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland 181 
 
 Its lessons hae aye been a buckler an' shield, 
 
 Mid th' glare o' this warld an' its wiles; 
 They've aye 'been a chart thro' this strenuous life, 
 
 Wi' its trials, its tears an' its smiles ; 
 An' when we are called tae yon braw land abune, 
 
 God grant that we may mak' a fen 
 Wi' th' humble credentials we got in oor youth 
 
 Frae th' wee cozy kirk in ith' glen. 
 
 HURRAH FOR THE HIGHLANDS 
 
 Written for the Gathering of the Clans at Kennywood 
 Park, August 4th, 1911 
 
 Hurrah for the Highlands! — the ramparts of Britain! 
 
 That halted the march of Imperial Rome ! 
 In the pages of history, oft times it is written 
 
 How th' invaders were scattered like sea driven foam. 
 
 Hurrah for th'e Highlands! — her sons and her daughters! 
 
 Tho' far from their heath covered mountains they've 
 strayed, 
 Their hearts are as free as the pure laughing waters 
 
 That flow thro' each flower covered valley and glade. 
 
182 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 Hurrah for the Highlands ! — the bluebell and heather ! 
 
 The land where no tyrant can ever prevail! 
 Your fame is secure till the last tie shall sever, 
 
 And the soul-stirring pipes heard no more in the vale. 
 
 Hurrah for the Highlands ! — her lads and her lassies 
 For fun and diversion have met here to-day! 
 
 May friendship and love grow with each hour that 
 passes, 
 And true hearts be wedded for ever and aye. 
 
 Hurrah for the Highlands! — with fond retrosp^ection, 
 We behold you in dreams since we're far, far from thee 
 
 Our memories shall cherish with sweet recollection, 
 Our dear land of home o'er the wide' rolling sea. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 183 
 
 OOR HIELAN' LADS ARE COMIN' 
 
 To Mr. William B. Kay, Managing Editor McKeesport CTeaing Times, 
 the following verses are respectfully dedicated by the author. 
 
 Man, Wullie, juist ere I forget, 
 
 I'd likfe tae let ye ken, 
 On Tuesday nicht ye'll get a sicht 
 
 O' some braw Hielan' men. 
 
 An' ten tae ane your Celtic bluid 
 
 May rin wi' extra canter ; 
 When ye see th' plaid an' white cockade, 
 
 Wi' dronin' pipe an' chanter. 
 
 Th' gallant Kays hae bl'ed wi' Moore, 
 
 Their country's flag tae save! 
 On Corunna's shore they strive no more — 
 
 They sleep where sleep th' brave. 
 
 Th' wind-swept Heights of Abraham 
 Hae heard their ringin' chfeers, 
 
 Wi' flags unfurled they backward hurled 
 Brave Montcalm's grenadiers. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 On Youghiogheny's virgin banks, 
 
 When lurkin' foes were near, 
 Brave Forbes men, frae hill an' glen, 
 
 Hae crossed wi' knife an' spear ! 
 
 In days gane by on Plassy's Plain 
 
 Was heard their wild halloo ! 
 At Inkerman, an' Alma's Heights 
 
 An' bloody Waterloo! 
 
 Brave Jessie Brown in dark Lucknow, 
 Where shot an' shell were hummin'; 
 
 They thocht she raved when she cried, ''We'rie 
 saved ! 
 Oor Hielan' lads are comin' !" 
 
 But watch til' lads on Tuesday night, 
 An' see th'em step th'gether; 
 
 They're juist as trig, an' braw an' big 
 As ever left th' heather. 
 
 Alang McKeesport's busy streets 
 You'll hear their wild refrain ; 
 
 Juist let them by, tae "do or die," 
 They're used tae tha^, ye ken. 
 
Lays o' th* Hameland 1S5 
 
 Av\' sae, freen Wullie, when ye hear 
 
 Th' pibroch blawin' fine, 
 Ye may think an' sigh for days gang by, 
 
 An' you're sires o' lang, lang syne. 
 
 SIN' WE LEFT TH' WEE HOOSE IN TH' GLEN 
 
 This warld's grown sae big since we grew to be men, 
 An' left th' wee biggin' that sat in th' glen, 
 Whar we thocht a' th' time, neither sorrow nor care, 
 Nor th' burdens o' this life could harm us there. 
 
 Oor he'rts were as free as th' saft simmer win's 
 That ruffle th' stream, as it pours owre th' linns ; 
 We lay doon tae rest, an' oor prayers we said, 
 Contented an' cozy in oor wee trunnel bed. 
 
 Since then we hae wandered awa' frae th' glen — 
 Awa' frae th' freens that were guid tae us then ; 
 Nae haun's been as saft, nae word's been as sweet 
 As hers that protected oor totterin' feet. 
 
186 Lays o' th* Homeland 
 
 Frcens, this life has its burdens we've a' got tae thole, 
 We maun drink frae th' cup, not a part, but th' whole ; 
 We maun drink tae th' dregs, whatever we brew, 
 Be it bitter or sweet — 'twas intended for you. 
 
 But we'll carry oor cross tae th' en' o' th' road, 
 Tho' lang be th' journey an' heavy th' load, ; 
 
 Believin' an' trustin' that God kens th' best, 
 For after th' toil comes th' lang-promised rest. 
 
 TH' WEE ALARM CLOCK 
 
 Wee bunch o' nerves, ye never fail. 
 
 An' sae, I'm hauf inclined tae thank ye! 
 
 1*11 warrant ye could weave a tale 
 
 'Bout some lang-heided doon-east Yankee. 
 
 But never mind, wee cockieleer, 
 
 Your mission here's tae raise th' deid; 
 
 Unless they've lain a hunner 'ear 
 Wi' turf an' stanes abune their heid. 
 
Lays tK Hameland 187 
 
 Th* (ither niclit as I lay dreamin', 
 I thocht I sat in London toon, 
 
 An* wi' a lot o' chaps was schemin' 
 Tae pu' Westminster Abbey doon. 
 
 I boldly mounted up th' wa', — 
 
 *Twas then my heid began tae spin 
 
 Th' thing collapsied like melted snaw- 
 Th' riff blew up, an' I fell in. 
 
 Then up I jumped oot on th' floor, 
 
 (Th' imps an' gnomes had quit their chasin') 
 
 An' there ye danced an' yelled "encore!" 
 Frae th' bottom o' a cheeny basin. 
 
 Sic things as whustles' rackin' din 
 Are faur below my comprehension; 
 
 But th' chap fthat sleeps when ye begin. 
 Is awa' ayont this warld's redemption. 
 
 I ken you're ca'd some awfu' names, 
 An* some hae sworn tae break yer jaw ! 
 
 But there yie are; an' guidness kens. 
 Ye snap yer fingers at them a' ! 
 
188 Lays o* th' Hameland 
 
 Sae here's "guid nicht !" wee jumpin' jeck, 
 I ken yer lungs are fit an' prime ; 
 
 Ye earn yer board — wiee nervous wreck, 
 Sae, work awa', yer daein' fine! 
 
 MEMORIES O* YOUTH 
 
 Ah me, but th' years, noo, seem lanely an' weary, 
 Th' way seems sae strange, an' th' road rough an' dreary ; 
 But, sometimes a spell draws this lane he'rt o' mine 
 Gey near tae th' freens o' th' days o' lang syne. 
 
 Dear freens o' lang syne, an' th' faith they put in us, 
 Nae wiles did they work nor play fause moves tae win us. 
 But juist a bit glance, an' a smile roun' th' mooth, 
 An' th' he'rt wad respond tae th' freens o' oor youth. 
 
 Th' sweet dreams o' youth are but sad memories noo, 
 For this warld's left its impress an' furrowed th' broo. 
 Whiles a vision comes at will, parts th' curtain in twain, 
 An* beckons me back tae th' green fields again. 
 
Lays o* th' Hameland 189 
 
 When we lay doon th' burden an' sigfh for oor rest, 
 An' pairt — juist a while — frae th' freens we love best- 
 We'll forgaither again, in a faur happier clime. 
 An' be leal, aye, an' fain, wi' th' freens o' lang syne. 
 
 OOR WEE JOCK 
 
 Diinna speak abune yer breath, 
 
 Oor bairn's soun' asleep; 
 A licht is breakin' owre his broo. 
 That thrills my hertstrings throo an* throo, 
 His lips are like th' honey dew, 
 
 Wheesht ! dinna gie a cheep ! 
 
 I wonder whar th' dreamer's gane, 
 An' whar his wee feet's strayin'? 
 If in some scented floo'ry dell, 
 An' glowerin' doon some crystal well, 
 Whar fairies weave their magic spell — 
 I wonder what he's sayin'? 
 
190 Lays o* th' Homeland 
 
 Flis wee pug nose an' dimipled chin, 
 His broo sae fair an' bonni'e; 
 
 Are mair than fickle fame tae me, . 
 
 Or a' th' pearls in th' sea, 
 
 Or a' th' comforts wealth can gie, 
 He's fairer faur than ony. 
 
 He'll soon be back frae fairylan', 
 
 Wi' its wondrous sichts deceivin'. 
 Syne up an' doon th' hoose he'll rin. 
 An' tummiel chairs wi' muckle din 
 Until my heid is like tae spin 
 Wi' his noise an' his deavin'. 
 
 But still, we wish oor laddie weel 
 
 Thro' a' th' comin' years; 
 An' may his rest, at last, be sweet— 
 When oor wee laddie fa's asleep, 
 Ta'e waukin whar they dinna weep, 
 Beyond this vale o' tears. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 191 
 
 OUR MAYOR 
 
 The following verses were composed and read at a banquet given by His 
 Humor, Dr. H. S. Arthur, Mayor of the City of McKeesport, to the members 
 ai Clan McDonald, 161, O. S. C, at Hotel White, January 7, 1910: 
 
 Com^e brither Scots, an' gether roon 
 Th' banquet board that's weighin' doon ; 
 Let ilka careless, festive loon 
 
 Fu' lood declare 
 There's naething in McKeesport toon 
 
 Can tich th' Mayor! 
 
 There's no a clansman here th' nicht, 
 But kens th' Mayor's he'rt is richt; 
 Na'e mystic dailins, daurk as nicht, 
 
 Disturb his rest! 
 But constantly, in braid daylicht 
 
 He gies his best! 
 
 Should His Honor wish another term. 
 
 He'll get it, if it costs a ferm; 
 
 For in his bluid there floats th' germ, 
 
 An' clansmen, hark ! 
 It has simmered doon thro' heroes stern 
 
 Frae Noah's ark ! 
 
192 Lays &* tW Mamekmd 
 
 This nicht we nev^er can forget, 
 No, not until our sun shall set. 
 When clansmen wi' th' Mayor met 
 
 In White's hotel ! 
 Oor he'rts he's captured in his net, 
 
 And's done it well! 
 
 Kings o' th' earth may happy be — 
 But what is that tae you an' me? 
 For them we dinna care a flea. 
 
 We'll laugh an' sing! 
 We're just as happy — ful o' glee, 
 
 As ony king! 
 
 Noo, should th' future henchmen boom 
 
 Some ither lad tae rin tn' toon — 
 
 (Of coorse on this ye'll keep yer thoom) 
 
 It's on th' square! 
 We'll staun by Arthur, sink or soom, 
 
 Our present Mayor! 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland 193 
 
 I hinna muckle mair tae say, 
 
 But own rm raither prood th' day ; 
 
 I've waited tae my hair is grey, 
 
 An* heid is sair! 
 Tae get a chance tae tune my lay 
 
 Before a Mayor! 
 
 Noo, honest clansmen, hail yer brither, 
 For in th' toon there's no anither, 
 Descended frae a Scottish mither, 
 
 I'm certain shair! 
 Could better glue things a' th'gither 
 
 Than oor present Mayor! 
 
194 Lays o' tk' Hameland 
 
 THE FORTY-SECOND (BLACK WATCH) LEAV- 
 ING STIRLING CASTLE 
 
 (1867) 
 
 Th' flag o' th' brave has again been unfurled, 
 An* MacCrimmin's war pipes loodly blaw; 
 
 An* Britain's defenders are marchin' again 
 To "Kenmure's on an' awa*." 
 
 Refrain: — 
 Tramp, tramp, tramp, 
 
 Young Alec an' Ronald looked braw; 
 Their he'rts were as leal as their true Hielan' steel 
 
 Th' day they gaed marchin' awa'. 
 
 Th' Nor' win' tosses their braw sable plumes 
 As they swing to th' piibroch sae clear; 
 
 An' boldly they follow their captain so brave, 
 For they never knew danger nor fear ! 
 
 An' wha wad upbraid oor brave Scottish lads 
 
 If a clear, pearly tear they'd let fa' ? 
 It's no for th' foe, but th' freens they held dear, 
 
 Th* day tbey gaed marchin' awa'. 
 
Lays o' th* Hameland 195 
 
 Wherever th' flag o' fh' free's been unfurled, 
 
 Wherever a true he'rt has been ; 
 Wherever a sword has befen drawn for th* right, 
 
 Th* plaid an' th' kilt haive been seen. 
 
 May God keep a watch owre oor brave Scottish lads, 
 
 An' bring them a' back to their hame ; 
 Then wha wadna cheer till th' echoes rebound 
 
 To welcome them a' back again? 
 
 BY ALLAN'S WINDING STREAM 
 
 By Allan's bonnie winding stream, 
 
 In flowery verdant Spring; 
 Where scented daisies nod their heads, 
 
 And laverocks lilt and sing. 
 
 'Tis there that Nature's gentle smile 
 
 Invites the feet to rove — 
 Where t"he wood-dove croodles to his mate 
 
 'Mdd scenes of peace and love. 
 
1% %ays ©' th* Hameiand 
 
 The' far from thee, I see you still, 
 
 As in Summers long ago; 
 Your murmuring song falls on my ear 
 
 With a cadence soft and low. 
 
 The hawthorn hoar that fringe your bank's, 
 
 Are dearer, far, to me. 
 Than flowers, however bright their hue. 
 
 That bloom ayont the sea. 
 
 And tho' I never more may see 
 
 Your bonnie banks and braes, 
 Fond memory turns with anxious ithoughts 
 
 To scenes of childhood days. 
 
 I fain would roam your banks again, 
 
 And fondly, sweetly dream; 
 And pass my closing hours away 
 
 ' Near you, romantic stream. 
 
Lays q' th' Hameland \W 
 
 WELCOME, ROBIN REDBREAST 
 
 Wee freen, we've waited lang an' weary 
 Tae see you happin' owre th' lea; 
 
 You're lookin' fine, an' blithe an' cheery, 
 An' bright's th' glint within your e'e. 
 
 You're welcome, wee, kind, modest bird. 
 You banish cares o' Winter grey! 
 
 'Mong a' oor trials we hinna heard 
 Such welcome news for monie a day. 
 
 You carry hope within your breast — 
 Your mission in th' world is true! 
 
 We see you swingin' in your nest 
 Owre four wee eggs o' spotted blue. 
 
 When lovers wander in th' glen, 
 
 You're there tae cheer them as they gang; 
 Or happin' thro' some thorny den, 
 
 You sing tae them your sweetest sang. 
 
198 Lays o' tH Hamelcpnd 
 
 Dear freen, th' cares o' life you droon- 
 You cherish faith, an' hope an' lovfe— 
 
 Don't leave us when tli' harvest moon 
 Is tremblin' in th' lift above ! 
 
 But thro' th' drear, sad Autumn days. 
 Be our companion — I'll be thine! 
 
 Stay with us 'mang th' woods an' braes- 
 Forego your flight to Southern clime! 
 
 But, ah, when sere an' yellow leaves 
 Proclaim abroad th' dyin' year! 
 
 Alas! 'tis then our bosom grieves 
 To part with you, wee freen, sae dear. 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland 199 
 
 THE LONG AGO 
 
 Sweet were the days in the long ago, 
 When thie heart was young — without a sigh ; 
 
 When the song had never a note of woe, 
 And Love, with his darts, was standing by. 
 
 The blackbird piped from the birkin tree, 
 And his notes were charged with love twice told; 
 
 Thie sunbeams waved o'er the verdant lea, 
 Bespangled o'er with white and gold. 
 
 The reapers sang 'mid the rustling grain, 
 
 And sweet was their song on my listening ear ; 
 
 The balmy gale caught the glad refrain, 
 All Nature sang with the golden year. 
 
 'Twas the long ago; yet, the vanished years 
 But brighten the faces that Memory brings; 
 
 Tho' their harp hath slept, yet the song appears 
 Like some unseen touch on its trembling strings. 
 
20O Lays o* tW Hameland 
 
 Glad Hope may reign in the troubled breast, 
 
 E'en tho' our ways lie far apart ; 
 The dove may return to her cozy nest, 
 
 Tho' tlie way may lead thro' a broken heart. 
 
 With eyes that are weary and tear-stained now, 
 With a heart that is throbbing with weal and woe, 
 
 I fondly gaze from the mountain's brow 
 To the golden days of the "Long Ago." 
 
 A PRAYER 
 
 When, Lord, at last my race is run — 
 When I have reached life's journey's end, 
 
 And stand at last before Thy face, 
 
 Wilt Thou be still tlie sinner's friend? 
 
 I know I'm weak and steeped in sin, 
 Unworthy, Lord, and vile am I ; 
 
 But surely all my frailty's known 
 Before Thy great omniscient eye. 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland 201 
 
 I ask no favors, gracious Lord, 
 But just a place where I may see 
 
 Thy face, and know my loving friends 
 Who put their faith and trust in Thee ! 
 
 "No night ?" youVe said — Sweet Land of Peace I 
 "No heat, nor sun's rude, scorching ray? 
 No foe's harassing, subtle art 
 
 To vex the soul through endless day?" 
 
 Br ght, shining, ev^erlasting gates, 
 vVhere weary pilgrims rest within ; 
 
 May I behold thy portals wide, 
 And God Himself invite me in. 
 
 O, blest abode of endless joys ! 
 
 Where Christ's the head, and "all dn all," 
 May I not weary by the way — 
 
 Hold Thou my hand. Lord, lest I fall ! 
 
 But, Father, if it be Thy will 
 
 That I should suffer on and on. 
 Pray, let me at the last behold 
 
 The sacred shadow of Thy Throne ! — Amen. 
 
202 Lays o' tW Homeland 
 
 WOOD NOTES WILD 
 
 Let me wander where the shadows flit beneath the leaiy 
 trees — 
 
 Where the golden robm pipes his roundelay ; 
 
 Let me hear the murmuring brook, 
 
 Round some fairy-haunted nook, 
 
 Where love's enthroned in every breath of May. 
 
 Let me wander when the tender buds are opening on 
 the thorn — 
 Where the sylvan echoes ring from every hill; 
 Let me roam with careless feet, 
 Where Spring and Summer meet, 
 And exchange sweet, loving glances by the rill. 
 
 Let me wander where the sunbeams cast their shadows 
 down the lane — 
 
 When the sun is sinking in the golden west ; 
 
 When the vocal vale lis ringing, 
 
 With the feathered songsters singing 
 
 Their songs so sweet to them they love the best. 
 
Lays 6" th' Hameland 203 
 
 Let me hear the low, dull crooning of the nectar-laden 
 bee, 
 Far away beyond the city's straggling rim ; 
 Let me list* to Nature's story, 
 Arrayed in all her glory, 
 For it speaks of love, and hope, and faith within. 
 
 THE PEESWEEP 
 
 Weeping and wailing, 
 
 Soaring and sailing, 
 Sad is your song, and how deeply you mourn; 
 
 Grieving thro' weary days, 
 
 Chanting your plaintive lays. 
 Signing for heroes that will never return. 
 
 Fanning the heather bells. 
 
 Skimming the fairy dells. 
 Chanting your dirge for the patriot brave ; 
 
 They hear not your sobbing cry, 
 
 Low in the grave they lie ; 
 Tihey peacefully rest tho' wild tempests rave. 
 
204 Lays & tW Hamelmtd 
 
 Calm be your downy breast, 
 
 Heaven guard your lonely nest, 
 
 Near by the cairn where the brave martyrs fell! 
 
 They wept with you long ago, 
 
 They hear not your tale of woe ; 
 
 They're safe in the land where the true-hearted 
 dwell ! 
 
 Could I with boyish haste, 
 
 Roam with you o'er the waste. 
 Hear once again your sad song on the lea; 
 
 Then with a youthful heart. 
 
 Loath would I be to part, 
 From all the sweet dreams that are dearest to me. 
 
Lays o' th* Hameland 205 
 
 ONLY LOVE 
 
 Away with your wealth, with its trouble and care; 
 
 Its cold calculation brings pain and despair! 
 
 Rather this be my lot, in some vine-covered cot, 
 
 With the one whose sweet smile lights my path every- 
 where ! 
 
 Let them delve in the deep mine or trawl the salt sea. 
 Their gifts are delusions, and will take wings and flee ; 
 
 Tiheir jewels and treasure are meaningless pleasure, 
 Compared with the love 'tween my lassie and me ! 
 
 The breezes that blow o'er the fresh, verdant wold, 
 Sweetly telling the story that never grows old. 
 
 Are messages dearer, more lovingly nearer 
 To this heart than a chariot that's axled with gold ! 
 
 O come, gentle Spring, and awaken the rose, 
 
 And we'll wander away where the sunbeams repose ; 
 
 And a garland I'll twine for this true love of mine, 
 Where the bobolink sings and the jessamine grows! 
 
206 Lays o' tW Hameland 
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 What is love? W'ho can tell? 
 
 Soft as the murmur of a shell ; 
 
 Thro' ages past and yet to come, 
 
 Its mdssion, like th' eternal sun, 
 
 Is always and is never done. 
 
 It lays the keel and guides the prov^. 
 
 It digs the mine and speeds the plow, 
 
 It's kind and patient — suffers long, 
 
 It sheds the tear and brings the song. 
 
 The heathen hears and at its call 
 
 Obeys its summons — risks his all. 
 
 However low be man's estate. 
 
 It tarries .not without the gate ; 
 
 No living thing can e'er exist 
 
 That does not by its power subsist; 
 
 It dwells in hut and lordly hall^ — 
 
 Its magic charm is over all! 
 
 The heavens and earth and air and sea, 
 
 And things that were and are to be, 
 
 Shall own its powerful majesty! 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 207 
 
 It crowns the ibrow, it winds the shroud, 
 
 It's equal heir to poor and proud, 
 
 It maketh war — declareth peace — 
 
 It comes and bids the tempest cease. 
 
 It's erver humble, yet it's bold ! 
 
 And inever bartered, bought nor sold. 
 
 Its measure no man ever told. 
 
 Lyike faithful magnet to the pole, 
 
 It ne'er deceived a single soul ! 
 
 'Tis said it comes from God alone, 
 
 Its habitation is His throne ! 
 
 O'er heaven and earth it weaves .its spell, 
 
 But what is love ? Ah, who can tell ? 
 
208 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 WHERE THE SUSQUEHANNA FLOWS 
 
 I see a river in my dreams, 
 
 It haunts me night and day ; 
 I hear the music of its song, 
 
 I feel its cooling spray, 
 And all the gifts the heart can wish. 
 
 Kind Nature there bestows 
 With lavish hand on every side 
 
 Wihere the Susquehanna flows. 
 
 Refrain: — Where the Susquehanna flows, 
 
 And the primrose sweetly grows; 
 O, the winds are softly sighing 
 Where the Susquehanna flows. 
 
 I see the fairy-haunted glens 
 
 Where the Alleghemes rise; 
 The foaming streams that leap and fling 
 
 Their white foam to the skies ! 
 The peaceful glades where scented gales 
 
 Woo the jes'mine and the rose. 
 And waft their incense down the dale 
 
 Where the Susquehanna flows. 
 
Lays o' thf Hameland 209 
 
 Refrain : — Where the Susquehanna flows, 
 
 And the wild thyme sweetly g^ows, 
 
 O, there's love and quiet contentment 
 Where the Susquehanna flows. 
 
 SAILIN' UP TH' CLYDE 
 
 I've been tae whar th' Mississippi's 
 
 Stream flows bold an' free, 
 An' whar th' braid Missouri's tide 
 
 Rins tumblin' tae th' sea, 
 But tliey hinna that romantic worth 
 
 Tae pilgrims faur an' wide, 
 ]ji.ke a sioht o' Scotlan's purple hills 
 
 When sailiin' up th' Clyde. 
 
 Chorus: — Sailin' up th' Clyde, 
 Sailin' up th' Clyde, 
 
 Ye ken yer freens are waitin', 
 But they hinna lang tae bide; 
 
 Soon they'll hear your welcome voice 
 Aroun' th' ingleside. 
 
 An' yer smiliin' wi' th' thochts o't 
 When yer sailin' up th' Clyde. 
 
210 Lays 6* tK Hameland 
 
 There are bonnie lands ayont th' sea 
 
 Wi' lakes an' streams, sae grand, 
 But they canna win th' he'rt awa' 
 
 Frae Scotia's silvery strand ; 
 It mak's th' he'rt swell i' th' breist 
 
 Wi' patriotic pride, 
 Wi' th' thochts o' seein' Scotlan' 
 
 When yer sailin' up th' Clyde. 
 
 Th' years they hae been dreary 
 
 Since ye left th' Broomi^law; 
 An' tho' yer e'e is no sae clear, 
 
 An' yer hair's turned like th' snaw, 
 Ye feel th' he'rt grow young again, 
 
 As tliro' th' waves ye glide; 
 O, yer rowin' hame tae Scotlan' 
 
 When yer sailin' up the Clyde. 
 
Lays 0* tW Hameland 211 
 
 EARLY VOWS 
 
 Let us all be duly thankful 
 
 That we're living here to-day ; 
 And that foolish threats we made in youth 
 
 Have long since passed away ; 
 It seems the Fates have intervened 
 
 And blocked our little plan, 
 To cripple half the human race, 
 
 When we grew to be a man. 
 
 There's the Dominie who taught you 
 
 How to multiply by two, 
 And who never lost a chance to make 
 
 An example out of you; 
 You said that you'd pursue him 
 
 From the Clyde to Turkestan, 
 And kick the buttons off his clothes. 
 
 When you got to be a man. 
 
212 Lays o* th' Homeland 
 
 And many a night you've lain awake 
 
 And purposed what you'd do 
 To the one who had a habit 
 
 Of undervaluing you ; 
 You've got his record off by heart, 
 
 And on him you've placed a ban ; 
 And you're going to shift his collar bone, 
 
 When you get to be a man. 
 
 And you'll scarcely overlook the one 
 
 Who made you shed a tear, 
 And caused the other boys to laugh 
 
 As he led you by the ear; 
 He's elected for a lickin', 
 
 And his beastly hide you'll tan. 
 In the not far distant future. 
 
 When you get to be a man. 
 
 But somehow or another, 
 
 (When you grow up big and strong) 
 You get a hazy feeling 
 
 That perhaps you may be wrong, 
 So instead of wading in their gore. 
 
 You'll take them by the han'. 
 And laugh the matter over, 
 
 When you get to be a man. 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland 213 
 
 NATURE 
 
 Near a wandering stream, in a lonely ?len, 
 
 Where the songster at eve woos his mate, 
 Where the shimmering sunbeams dance on the pool, 
 
 And Nature reigns queen in her state ! 
 I carelessly strayed on its winding banks, 
 
 And thought of the Creator's power — 
 Of the songs He gave to the feathered tribe. 
 
 In their cool, sweet, leafy bower ; 
 And the dew on the grass, outshining the pearl. 
 
 And the rose coming forth in its bloom, 
 And the slender vine as it clung to the oak, 
 
 And the briar sending forth its perfume. 
 Here, nothing corrupts the modest wee flower. 
 
 For the laws of its Creator hath said: 
 '*Go, teach sinful mam, tho' your mission be short. 
 
 Ere you lay your green leaves with the dead !" 
 
2i4 La^ys d* tk' Hameland 
 
 TH' BIG WAT CLOOT 
 
 When you're sittin' i' th' gloamin', 
 An' you're thinkin' — wi' a sigh, 
 
 An' you see th' phantom faces 
 O' your freens in days gane by, 
 
 You'll likely see your mither, 
 Th' ane ye couldna dae withoot, 
 
 Rubbin', scrubbin', dichtin', cleanin', 
 
 Wi' a big 
 
 Wat 
 
 Cloot. 
 
 'Twas maistly on a Seterday 
 Oor mithers washed th' flair; 
 
 An' of coorse ye kent th' order was 
 Tae quietly tak' a chair! 
 
 But lang before she reached th' door 
 Ye'd say, "Mither! let me oot!" 
 
 Then she'd help ye on your journey 
 
 Wi' a big 
 
 Wat 
 
 Cloot. 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland 215 
 
 Th' taws that hung beside th' jam', 
 
 Sae quietly on a nail, 
 Had possession o' th' castin' vote 
 
 When diplomacy wad fail ! 
 But th' thing that never leaves th' mind, 
 
 Tho' your pow be hair aboot, 
 Is th' clip you got alang th' neck 
 
 Wi' a big 
 
 Wat 
 
 Cloot. 
 
 Your musical conception, 
 
 In those festive days gane by, 
 
 Couldna weel divine "Gleniffer's Braes" 
 Frae "Comin' Thro' th' Rye !" 
 
 Still, ye thocht ye kent a difference 
 'Tween a solo on a flute 
 
 An' an aggravated mither 
 
 Wi' a big 
 
 Wat 
 
 Cloot. 
 
216 Lays o' th* Hameland 
 
 Tae you that's been sae fortunate 
 
 In th* race for wealth an* fame. 
 An' have won a high an' honored place 
 
 Among your fellow men ; 
 If yeVe squarely cut th' corners, 
 
 You'll admit withoot a doot, 
 There's lots o' credit comiin' 
 
 Tae th' big 
 Wat 
 
 Cloot. 
 
 Noo, whiles I thiiiik that efter a' 
 I've heard, an' seen, an' dune, 
 
 I'd like tae be a lad again, 
 An' rinnin' oot an' in ! 
 
 An' markin' mither's new washed flair. 
 An* be ca'ed a rank ''galoot !" 
 
 Juist tae get a skelp alang th' jaw 
 
 Wi' the big 
 Wat 
 
 Cloot. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 217 
 
 RAB AND WULL ON THE JAPANESE WAR. 
 
 The supper dishes had been laid away for the night, 
 and Rab and his good wife Mary, had settled down for 
 an evening's rest and to talk of things in general, when 
 a rather nervous, irregular rap was heard at the door. 
 
 ''Hist ye, Jennie, an' see wha that is at th' door," said 
 Mary to her oldest daughter. 
 
 Jennie petulantly said she wisna gaun ; "Fm frichtit, 
 mither; sen' Davoc." 
 
 'Xosh keep me, there's naebody gaun tae eat ye !" 
 said her mithr, rather sharply, and at the same time ris- 
 ing to open the door herself. 
 
 "I declare if it's no WuU TurnbuU ! Come on in, 
 Wull !" 'Said Mary. "I'm shair yer no a stranger amang 
 us! Whit wey did ye no jist come richt in at yinst? Ye'er 
 aye welcome at oor fire en', Wull." 
 
 "Weel, Rab, hoo's a'things gaun wi' you?" 
 
 "O, jist aboot th' same as usual, aye fechtin' awa' 
 wi' a fu' haun an' a tim pooch," replied Rab. "Hoo's a' 
 wi' you an' Jean?" 
 
 "Weel, I canna boast o' onything, altho' things could 
 be a hantle sicht waur," Wull replied. 
 
 "Man, Rab, this bates a' for windy weather ! I wad 
 hae been up a wee sooner, but I had tae help Jean tae 
 tak' th' claes doon aff th' rape ; th' win' wis blawin' sae 
 strong, it wis makin' th' claes crack like whups ; an' Jean, 
 puir body, she's aye bothered wi' rheumatism in her 
 
218 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 shouther. There'll be news o' this win' th' morn. If th' 
 sklates are no a' lifted aff o' some o' th' hooses it'll be 
 something funny tae me," declared Wull. 
 
 "Wlhat airt did ye say th' win' wis comin' aff o'?" 
 Rab asked. 
 
 "I didna say it wis comin' aff ony airt," Wull replied. 
 ''But I think it's yin o' thae Nor'eesters, th' warst kin' 
 o' a' ; hooever, it'll likely dee doon afore th' morn. Rab, 
 jist before I cam' up th' noo I lifted an auld paper 
 an' wis readin' aboot th' Japanese War wi' Roosia, an' 
 wis gaun tae ask at ye yer opeenion a'boot that habble, 
 W'hut w^ad be, in your opeenion, th' effect it wad hae, 
 commercially speakin', on oor Western civilization?" 
 
 "Weel," replied Raib, "if th' past is ony criterion for 
 th' future, th' Japs hae bitten aft an' awfu' big moothfu' ; 
 yin that'll keep them chowin' for a while, onywey. On}^ 
 nation that's worth onything has had tae fecht geyin 
 hard tae keep whut th' got. Hooever, it micht be th' 
 means o' openin' a market for some o' oor calico claith 
 an' carved stookies o' some o' oor modern statesmen, but 
 gin a's true we read i' th' papers, we could w^eel afford 
 tae sen' them th' men an' keep th' stookies at hame." 
 
 "Dinna ye think, Rab," Wull ventured tae ask, 
 ''that in turn, oor kintry wad be flooded wi' chaip rice, 
 paper umberellas, bamboo chairs, heathen idols an' burnt 
 offerin's? Then, again," continued Wull, "you've nae 
 idea, then, that thae slant-ee'd folks'll tak' a swall'd heid 
 ower their victory?" 
 
 Rab thocht that if it should cum' tae that, it micht 
 becum necessary for Breetain tae reduce th' abnormal- 
 
LayKs o' tli' Ham eland 219 
 
 ity o' th' situation an' shove a wheen o' th' heid yins back 
 iin. their chairs. 
 
 "They'll fin' it's no a lot o' folk that mixes raw herren 
 among their champit tatties an' Vodka rinnin' oot o' 
 their een, should they ever hae th' misfortune tae meet 
 th' "Gordons" or oor famous "Black Watch." Th' battle 
 o' th' Sea o' Japan wid be like a lot o' weans playin' roon 
 a bine fu' o' water wi' paper boats compared tae what 
 wid happen if they should meet oor Breetish fleet. They'd 
 look gey surprised, Wull, if they got a haill blacksmith's 
 shop thrown at them every time th' Breetish fleet fired 
 a gun." 
 
 "They bamboozled th' Roosians a' richt," said Wull, 
 taking his pipe from between th' ribs of the grate. 
 
 "I was thinkinV' said Wull, "that altho' we micht 
 hannel them, it wadna be sae easy as a body micht 
 think. They're a gey clean cut lot o' chaps, thae Japs." 
 
 "Has yer patriotism suffered anither relapse again?" 
 asked Rab, with a leer. 
 
 "No, no !" Wull made haste to reply, a little impa- 
 tiently. "I'm only takin' a braid view o' things." 
 
 "It seems tae me, Wull, that yer bliu' tae a' th' evi- 
 den-ces aroun' ye. Compare th' situation wi' th' Boer 
 War. For instance, ony'body wi' th' sense o' a collie 
 doug kens brawly that there wisna a nation on God's 
 earth could ever ihae dune what Breetain did at that 
 time! — ship twa hunner an' fifty thoosan' men ower 
 aboot eicht thoosan' miles o' watter in ninety days, in 
 her ain boats, an' had th' Boers cum oot frae ahint th' 
 rocks, an' th' yins that wis buirret up tae th' neck in 
 
220 Lays d tW Hameland 
 
 saun, had they cam oot tae fecht, their necks wid a* been 
 thrawn in three weeks." 
 
 "Yes, Rab, but I think it wid mak' a difference wi' 
 Japan/' Wull replied. 
 
 "What difference dis it mak' wha it is, when Bree- 
 tain's aroused?" Rab fairly roar'd. "Are ye aware that 
 th' Boers had been shippin' in bullit-makin' macheenes 
 an' rifles in peeani cases for years previous tae th' babble 
 gien them by oor bosom freens, th^ Germans? Thae 
 kin' are awfu' guid tae Breetain's wards when they think 
 ony babble's gaun tae tak' place. This arises frae th' fac' 
 that we're sae closely connected by mairrage tae oor 
 feelin^-he'rted freens — th' Germans !" 
 
 "But, Rab, ye hinna forgotten, shairly, that th' Japs 
 are faur better aff than they used tae be. Look at th' 
 presents Japan got frae Roosia durin' that unpleesint- 
 ness. Whither it wis for past services rendered, or th* 
 gallant wark they were daein' I canna say; but while th' 
 thing was gaun on you could read i' th' papers every 
 ither day o' some sympathetic Roosian general giein' th' 
 Japs a present o' aboot fifteen batteries o' cannon, an' aye, 
 mind ye, wi' th' briefest explanation. Some ither Roo- 
 sian — nO' tae be ootdune an' tae vary th' thing — wad mak' 
 some ither noted Jap a present o' aboot a hunner thoo- 
 san' rations for his men an' never less than twenty thoosan' 
 tons o' hay for their horses, no speakin' o' th' saiddles, 
 bridles, an' sic' things. Some o' th' Roosians even gaed 
 sae faur as tae express a wush tae leeve in Japan raither 
 than Roosia." 
 
 "Weel, Wull, I've leeved in th' neebourhood o' Kil- 
 
Lays o' tW Hameland 221 
 
 syth, Croy, an' Condurrit th' feck o' my days, an' I'm free 
 tae tak' an' oath that I never heard onybody speakin' th' 
 wey ye dae. Whut wey dae ye mak' oot that a' this 
 material that th' Japs got were presents?" Rab asked. 
 
 ''Whut else could it be?" Wull retorted. "If some 
 yin wis tae lay — we'll say — ^a box wi' a curran bun in't 
 in my back yaird a nicht or twa afore th' New Year, 
 jcould ye hinner me frae thinkin' that it maun be for me? 
 It shairly couldna be for you, else they wud hae laid it in 
 your yaird !" 
 
 Rab asked his wife, Mary, tae haun' him ower a 
 drink of watter, making the excuse that he thocht it wis 
 th' win' blawin' sae strong that made him sae droothy. 
 
 "Mair than that," insisted Wull, "hev ye no read 
 whar th' Japs had a regular line o' ships rinnin' frae 
 Laio Yang tae Nagisaka wi' naethin' else but war ma- 
 terial that had been gien them by thae kind-he'rted 
 Roosian generals? There wis never th' like o't kent in 
 man's remembrance !" 
 
 Rab confessed ''that he must, by some wey or an- 
 ither, hae overlooked that phase o' th' question a' th'- 
 gither." 
 
 *'An' th' Japs, no tae be ootpinted in coortisey," con- 
 tinued Wull, ''invited a wheen o' th' leadin' hauns tae 
 mak' a veesit tae Japan, an' tae bring owre aboot seven- 
 ty-five or eichty thoosan' o' their men wi' them, an' 
 hang my skin if they didna a' gang! Sic a polite an' 
 cleen-cut war wis never focht sin' th' Fa' o' Jericho. 
 Then, again, look at yon fearless admiral o' th' Roosian 
 fleet — th' yin that blew th' heid afif o' a puir inoffendin' 
 
222 Lays d* th' Hameland V 
 
 fisiherman i' th' North Sea, jist tae see if his guns were 
 in guid workin' order. Th' Japs got yon chap at last, 
 bobbin' aboot in a wee boat on th' Sea o' Japa, wi' his 
 claes a' torn aff his back. An' see hoo tenderly they 
 cared for him — took him tae Japan — fed him Ike a 
 fechtin' cock — then sent him hame, jist as if naething 
 had happened. Whether he kissed them when he wis, 
 leevin' or no, I couldna say. Then, again, look at yon 
 chap, Stossel, in Port Airther, sae gled wis he tae see 
 General Nogi that he made him a present o' a braw 
 white horse. Nogi telt him it was faur ower much kind- 
 nss, but Stossel insisted that he tak' it, at th' same sayin' : 
 'What's a horse between freens?' An' in order tae prove 
 beyond th' shadow o' a doot that t'h' Roosians had th' 
 greatest respect for th' Japs, Stossel had a' th' warships 
 drawn intae shallow watter, inside Port Airther, an' sunk 
 so that th' Japs wid hae nae difficulty whatever tae tak' 
 them awa'. Ye needna speak tae me nae mair, Rab, 
 aboot ceveelity on th' field o' battle. I tell ye there never 
 wis a war focht on siccan terms in th' recollection o' th' 
 human race !" 
 
 Wull noticed that everybody in th' house wis sleep- 
 ing but himsel', got up an' tapped Rab on the top of the 
 head with his fingers, notifying Rab "no tae tramp on 
 his pipe" which had fallen out of his mouth, and with a 
 satisfied expression on his countenance that he had fairly 
 got away with him in his argument. 
 
 Rab got up, saying: *'Th' win' seemed tae be still 
 .at its heicht." 
 
 Wull rather dryly bade Rab ''Guid Nicht," and 
 
Lays o' th* Hameland 223 
 
 groping his way with his hands along th' sides of the 
 liouses, with burnng tobacco flying in sparks out of his 
 newly-lighted pipe, he sought his ain fireside. 
 
 MOUNTAIN ASH MALE CHORUS 
 
 Lines to the Mountain Asli Male Singers, of Soutli Wales, after 
 hearing them sing in McKeesport, March 3d, 1911. 
 
 Hail sons of Wales ! your glorious song 
 
 Hath wakened thoughts of heaven before us, 
 
 When all the nations, freed from wrong, 
 Shall join in one harmonious chorus. 
 
 To you sweet harmony was given 
 
 To praise our God — His name extol — 
 
 Your bardic sires look down from heaven 
 To hear the thrillings of your soul. 
 
 On Britain's ancient, rugged shore, 
 
 Among whose hills the sea winds weep ! 
 
 Your fathers met in days of yore, 
 And lulled the savage breast to sleep ! 
 
 And when despoiling foes assailed 
 The home of song, from ages hoary, 
 
 You nursed "the gift" — no power prevailed 
 To rob your land of song and story. 
 
224 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 A humble bard his homage pays 
 To you, whose voices blend so sweet, 
 
 Long life be yours in pleasant ways, 
 And heaven attend your wandering feet. 
 
 DESPONDENCY 
 
 By the sad sea waves, on a nameless coast. 
 
 Far, far from the haunts of men; 
 Where the white sea gull, like a spectre ghost, 
 Flits past on the waves that are tempest tossed, 
 
 There, let me abide and remain. 
 
 For the cruel world with its taunts and jeers. 
 
 Its falseness and fitful love — 
 Its praise and blame, has been ever the same 
 Since the Son of Man to this world came 
 
 From His Heavenly Home above. 
 
 The heart that beats in the human breast 
 
 No earthly one can know; 
 Save the one who yearns for a happier sphere. 
 Where the sunrise is bright and the day is clear — 
 
 Where there's never darkness nor woe. 
 
 O give me a cave where the stormy winds rave, 
 
 By the side of the murmuring sea. 
 Let me watch the waves as they came of yore 
 On the pebbled beach where the breakers roar. 
 
 Till the messenger comes for me. 
 
Lays o' th' Hameland 225 
 
 A REVIEW OF THE "LAYS" 
 
 By a. T. LiddelIv 
 
 By courtesy of Mr. Murdoch, it has been my good 
 fortune to read these poems before going to press. I 
 never like to rush into print unless I have a reason for 
 doing so. In this instance I feel impelled to make some 
 brief comment on what is surely a wonderful collection 
 of pure, uplifting verse, and which will undoubtedly be 
 hailed as such by English-speaking people everywhere, 
 when the book is properly brought before the public. 
 
 First of all, I must state emphatically that the sub- 
 jects written on, and the manner of depicting them, re- 
 veal a depth of knowledge of Scottish life and character 
 that is remarkable on the part of Mr. Murdoch. No na- 
 tion can bast of a purer, sweeter, more v^holesome life 
 than that of the plain, old-fashioned Scottish people 
 and their progeny — than whom there are no finer in all 
 the world. Scotland has given to humanity's service 
 sons and daughters whose rugged and fearless honesty, 
 grandeur of character, and brains and 'brawn, have 
 blessed any locality in the broad universe in which they 
 have located. Poets may well sing the praises of Scot- 
 land amd her people, past and present, for in that field 
 they ha've an inexhaustible mine of riches. Mr. Murdoch 
 himself is an apt illustration of what Scotland has pro- 
 duced and still produces. His is the impressionable na- 
 ture which marks the true poet. He can see, as Shake- 
 
226 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 speare has written, "books in the running brooks, ser- 
 mons in stones, and good in everything." He has lived 
 among those scenes so graphically portrayed in his 'Xays" 
 — ^been a part of them. The friends of the long ago are 
 with him still, though many of them have fallen asleep. 
 He has the brains to comprehend, the ready pen, and the 
 happy faculty of putting into words t!he superabundance 
 of exalted thoughts that course quickly through his 
 active mind. Above all, he is true to Nature — and that's 
 what counts ! 
 
 While ably depicting past scenes and people, the author 
 doesn't forget the present busy, throbbing world and its 
 tireless makers of history — especially the Scotch. True 
 to the land of his adoption, he gives us some choice 
 specimens of his skill about portions of America familiar 
 alike to himself and all of us. 
 
 In addition to his quaint dialect poetry he has 
 given us in this collection some very fine work in choice 
 English diction on themes that are edifying. They will 
 live — they are classics. 
 
 I have always contended that anyone who has a 
 message — something good to bequeath to the world^s 
 guilty of woeful and lasting negligence if he does not give 
 it, and with all the power that's in him. It is to his 
 eternal credit, therefore, that Mr. Murdoch, a working 
 man, has evolved these beautiful poems, often amidst 
 harassing circumstances and in the necessarily limited 
 time at his disposal. I am sincerely glad, as very many 
 others doubtless will be, to see him publishing this first 
 edition of his works — a lifetime's labor of love— though 
 
Lays o' th' Hamelmid 227 
 
 hard beset by the trials and sorrows which enter into 
 life, and of which he has had his full share. These poems 
 will surely brighten existence for many-nb ringing back 
 scenes of the past, and entertaining the younger element 
 with sentiment that is for their enlightenment and good. 
 There is not an impure thought in the whole collection ; 
 but this is only to be expected of such a man, wliose 
 private life is in keeping with his exalted verse. 
 
 Many people (especially Americans) rush through 
 Scotland and come back with "impressions," so-called — 
 but they don't get, somehow, into the inner life of the 
 Scottish people, nor understand the romance that lies, 
 behind the vales, mountains, lakes and rivers of that 
 beautiful land. This book will help all such to understand 
 things about Scotland and her people they never knew. 
 Scotland is not a rich country, in a material way — but she 
 has an inheritance that money cannot duplicate. Hers are 
 a peculiar people, always to the front in freedom's cause, 
 and who have contrbuted more to the world's progress 
 than any nation under the sun. They are a kindly sort, 
 when you break through their natural though becoming 
 reserve — wth a droll sense of humor — and when they like 
 you, anything you want is yours. "The heights of High- 
 land hospitality" is no mere figure of speech in Scotland. 
 The natural, simple life of our forefathers is not yet ex- 
 tinct, thank God. "Kind hearts are more than coronets." 
 
 To write poetry that will attract and hold the atten- 
 tion of various-minded readers — as these will surely do — 
 is a task calling for extraordinary qualities of mind and 
 observation, and these this gifted man possesses. True 
 
228 Lays o' th' Hameland 
 
 poetry must be spontaneous — a part of one's ivery ex- 
 istence. Anyone with an average brain can write com- 
 mon rhyme or "doggerel." But poetry with a soul and 
 a purpose is a diiferent matter; it comes only to those 
 whose natures are surcharged with poetic melody and 
 who feel and see things that average people do not ex- 
 perience. The Muse, like Fortune, is a fickle jade, and 
 it is not given to everyone to court her successfully. 
 'It's juist like this," said a worthy old Scottish poet once 
 to the writer: "Ye may coort the Muse for days or 
 weeks, and deevil a haet wull she respond ; for the sim- 
 ple reason that you're not en. rapport (have I got it 
 richt?) wi' her. She is capreecious, ye ken. But at ither 
 times, when she's willing and ye feel the poetic fire 
 yerser, ye may set the Thames a-bleezin. But ye maun 
 hae in your soul the proper ihumility and reverence; 
 there's nae royal road tae her affections. When ye catch 
 her, hand om tae her. Efter a', it depends a guid deal on 
 yer ain sel'." True, O king. But I think in Mr. Mur- 
 doch's case it's no great effort for him to catch the wan- 
 dering Muse, because his soul seems always en rapport 
 He has composed poetry, as I have stated, amid harassing 
 circumstances — amid the whirl of machinery or in the 
 quiet of God's temple in the woods — with a preference, 
 of course, like all true poets, for the more natural 
 places. He is an inspired man ; no one could write such 
 poetry if he wasn't. The fact that he devotes his spare 
 hours — outside of the busy workshop and his many fam- 
 ily cares, as well as the otlier countless duties devolving 
 upon any good citizen — stamp him as a man with a pur- 
 
Lays o' tW Hamelcmd 229 
 
 pose, an ideal, in the pursuit of which he is giving unstint- 
 edly of the best that's in him — his life, in fact. When you 
 remember the limited time at his disposal, it is a wonder- 
 ful feat for this son of toil to produce such a splendid col- 
 lection of poems — portraying various themes and people 
 and places in language that lifts one out of himeslf and 
 transports him to the places written about. 
 
 Mr. Murdoch may not be rich in this world's goods, 
 but he has in his make-up treasures greater far than 
 sordid, material wealth. As a good steward of God's 
 manifold gifts, he is giving the best that's in him, in or- 
 der that many may Ibe edified and led to see the beauty 
 of life and character, as well as Nature's grandeur. His 
 heart is ibig, open and sympathetic — anyone who reads 
 these poems can. see that — and responds eagerly to any 
 cause or duty that is worthy. Things that are natural 
 always appeal to him. This book cannot help being a 
 very great success, and this assurance will be made 
 doubly sure when his legion of friends and the Scottish 
 puiblic generally do their part, as they are bound to do. 
 The poems will speak for themselves, once they are in- 
 troduced to the attention of the people for whom they 
 are written, as well as all others who enjoy pure English 
 diction. 
 
 There is a delightful swing to Mr. Murdoch's poetry 
 that reminds one alternately of Thomas Campbell, Rob- 
 ert Burns, Tennyson, and other great poets. Many of 
 them will be recited and sung in public — indeed, that is 
 already the case. They carry you back to the *'auld 
 hameland" again. Take "The Mountain Torrent," for 
 
230 Lo^ys o' th' Hameland 
 
 instance: it is a classic, with its ^beautiful rhythm and 
 phraseology, as well as tlie theme itself. ''Shattered 
 Hopes" is one of the finest poems I have ever read, re- 
 minding one of the poet Whittier's lines : 
 
 "Of all sad things of tongue or pen, 
 The saddest are these — ^^it might have ibeen." 
 
 You can in imagination see the queer auld ''Candy Man," 
 a happy conception, in the author's best style, quaint 
 and unique, carrying us back to childhood days, and 
 which the Scottish people are now singing. 
 
 Auld grannie and grandfather are fittingly shown 
 — typical of that grand Scottish old age, the most beau- 
 tiful thing of its kind in the world. In the delineation of 
 boyhood experiences, our poet is unrivaled. You will 
 agree with me after you read "The Sabbath School 
 Suree," "The Wee Show," "Oor Wee Jock," "Early 
 Vows," "My First Pair o' Breeks," "The Wat Cloot," 
 "Memories o' Youth." They could easily be, and doubt- 
 less have been, a part of your life, dear reader. 
 
 Mr. Murdoch strikes the right chord in his disserta- 
 tions on love. Wihere will you find anything to-day like 
 "Mother's Love," "Have You Seen My Lassie?" "What 
 Is Love?" "My First Valentine," "Parted," "I Wonder 
 If We'll Meet Again," "Nae Love at Hame," etc. In 
 describing the seasons, you will find it hard, indeed, to 
 locate anything better than "Spring Time," Come, Gen- 
 tle May," "October," "Cauld, Dreary Winter," and "The 
 Soochin' of the Wind." 
 
 In describing familiar places he is very successful. 
 These poems will carry the heart by storm : "The 
 
Lillys o' th' Hameland 231 
 
 Quiet Inglenook," ''New Year in the Country," ''Doon 
 By Yon Dyke Side," "Sailing Up the Clyde," etc. His 
 "Wandering With the Muse" is rich in sentiment; and, 
 as if to illustrate the poet's kindly heart, he has given us 
 a very choice morsel in 'Xet the Wee Doug Alane." 
 
 Natural scenes — such as woods, braes, mountains, 
 rivers and landscapes — are given the real color; you can 
 see, as you read, the various domestic and wild flowers, 
 the hawthorn hoar, and the rose. In describing the 
 song-birds he is at his best. What is more humorous 
 than "The Craws and the Tattie Bogle," and have you 
 ever seen such glorious effusions as he has penned to 
 the wee linnet, the robin, bluebird and thrush — one of 
 which had "lost its mate" and sang its mournful lay? 
 The peesweep with its sorrowful dirge is vividly portrayed. 
 
 The author has a natural gift in describing persons. 
 Mayor Arthur, of McKeesport, William Congalton, Chief 
 John Rae, Samuel Gibb, Wm. B. Kay (managing editor 
 of the McKeesport Times), and Mr. and Mrs. Millar, of 
 Cambusbarron, are among those who receive warm 
 eulogies. He helps the cause of the Scottish Clans by 
 his fervent verse, being a good clansman himself and be- 
 lieiving in the Order. 
 
 The "Bannocks" and "Pease Meal" have suitable 
 recognition in splendid effusions, as they well deserve, 
 for they have done much for Scotland. In patriotism 
 you have "The Scottish Patriot" and in friendship the 
 "Rale Guid Freen" strikes a responsive chord. The bag- 
 pipes and the heather are not forgotten. There is some- 
 thing grand in "The Wee Cozy Kirk in the Glen/' and 
 
fiOV 23 1911 
 
 232 Lays & tK Hameland 
 
 in "The Fisherwife's Lullaby" the beautiful sentiment is 
 very touching. ''Dinna Craw" is very refreshing as a 
 warning to the boastful. In "The Prayer" we have a 
 very fine example of wihat the writer can do in this line, 
 written amid the whirr of machinery at his daily toil. 
 Reverence to the Creator is exemplified in a beautiful 
 poem. 
 
 I would fain dilate further on the other poems of 
 this truly great collection, but space forbids, and your 
 patience, dear reader, may be tried by this time. The 
 wihole book is full of good things. Seek them out for 
 yourself. These poems should be circulated far and 
 wide. They will help you to see things you never saw 
 before, and will touch the heart by their greatness and 
 simplicity. 
 
 , Let us not make the mistake so often made in times 
 past, of waiting until one is dead ere we place the 
 laurel wreaths of our appreciation upon him. Do it now. 
 Mr. Murdoch desenves the best that can be said and 
 done for Tiim. And we'll say and do it, too. 
 
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