Class. _.. -_ 6 oc> 3 Book ^.T±0'/ CopyrightN^ 110 C0PYR5GHT DEPOSIT. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/murmuringsfromruOObroo Murmu ring's from Rug'g'e< d Waters. a^ J^ jSf J0 ^ BY ^ £f j0 j& £/ JAMES P. BROOMFIELD. THE simple pleadings of the lowly swain Who trysts at gloaming tide his suo-brow^ned Jane^ Might sound uncouth unto the cultured ear, And cause, perhaps, a high-born maid to sneer ; But sweet to Jane, w^ho blushes like some rose That by the roadway, fragrant, freely blows. A lowly singer weaves a simple lay Of gurgling burn, of heath, and hodden gray : The learned critic spurns the proffered page For abler writings of some princely sage. The rugged murmurings of the simple heart Might lack the measured tone that^s gained by art : The rugged verse — uncouth to classic pen — Yet in their gurglings reach the souls of men. Internatioi^al Publlstiin^ Co., Detroit, Micliig'ao, U. S. A., 1901. Press of tHe Morrisoni Printing Company. THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, Two Copies Received MAY 31 1901 Copyright entry Trieste, f<^oi CLASS O^XXc. Nb. COPY g. J Copyright 1901, By jAM:es P. BroomFiei^d. tLo 1bon, Mllliam Xtvtno^tone, 3t» of Detroit, a ©entleman wbo bas Done mucb to encourage to a lustier growtb m^ bumble poetical aspirations anO to tbe ^ang ©tber TKHarm 3frien&s wbo bave cbeereD mg waig witb MnD wisbes, tbis 2lutO0rapb \3olume is IRespectfulls BeOicateO {Tbe autbor, ck^^-^e^' y^^^-^^^ii'-^n?^ .Ael/oC.^ INDEX Page. A Legend O' May Morning 9 The Dying Piper i6 I Wish I had a Mither i8 The Miller's Sally 20 Comrades All 22 Youth's Happy Home 23 What Auld Folk Say 26 The Miser O' Tadmhor Brae 29 Sandy's Three Wishes 35 Yesterday s^ Blinks O' Springtime 41 Good-bye, Daddy 43 Flora 46 Changes O' Nature 48 I-addie O' the Sea 49 For Queen and Country 51 Broom Blossom 53 Dyed Egg Day 55 To a Bud in March 57 Daddie's Comin' 61 The Silver-Haired Lady 63 A Bairn's Ambition 65 A Coast Lullaby 67 A Dream O' Jed 69 The Open Door 72 He Fell for Liberty 74 Rare Harvest Time 76 Oor Willie 77 The Sailor's Farewell 80 Piper Winter 82 Kirsty's Robin 84 To An Elocutionist 87 Where Heather Blooms 89 Annie, a Love Song 91 A Mother's Dream 93 The Shepherd to His Collie 96 A Brither Scott 99 North Birwick by the Sea lOi The Song of the Skater 103 A Soldier Boy's Letter to Mother 104 Ten Years To-Day 106 Page MacLeans of Fair Glenrhoe ; io8 Robert Burns II3 The Gleaner 1 16 The Widow's Tears Ii8 A War Brother 120 Our Golden Jubilee 122 Yon Bonnie Blue Bell 124 The Fairee Companee 127 The Heroes O' Dargai Gap 130 The Pairtings O' Yestreen 131 The Old Soldier 133 A' Body's Wean 135 Auld Scotia 138 In Memory of a Nation's Bard , 140 Papa's Dimples 141 In Loving Memory O' My Mither-Aunt 143 A Piper's Canary 145 Wee Miriam 147 The Miller O' Sweethope Lea 149 Where The Peesweips Fly 153 Mother's Song 157 Watching and Waiting 159 Castle Ony 162 The Pen O' Bacon 164 Robert Hopkin 166 A Shepherd's Lilt 168 Three 170 Wee Jessie Bhie-Eyes 172 Mither's Plaid O' Gray 174 Hame Again 176 Heather Musings 179 To a Wild Rose 181 A Borderer Bold 184 A Vision 190 Speed Ye Well 195 PROSE. A Roadway (Minstrel 199 Mona, The Brown-Haired 207 The Brownie 216 Graeme Douglas 233 Jean, The Gypsy 240 For Mother's Sake 251 Symon Meine's Awakening 265 Adam's Return 276 The Wishing Well 286 The Herd's Annie 294 • • • • P R £> FA C El' • • • • — " Caledonia, Stern and Wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child" ONE of the loveliest regions in the South-eastern part of Scotland, is where the author of the above lines delighted to dwell and muse amidst the charming surroundings of Abbotsfords and Melrose Abbey, receiving therefrom fertile inspiration which i nriched the world with unexcelled literature. It was in this enchanting district where our poet-author, James P. Broomfield, spent his early years, breathing the same fragrant air, viewing the same romantic scenery and listening to the same ' ' murmuring waters ' ' as his noble predecessor. Sir Walter Scott. With such a grand ideal, and under such nourishing influences, it is no marvel that the Divine Afflatus born in our poet-author should bud and blossom with tropical exuberance, enabling him to give to the world his most most exquisite, entertaining volume of " Murmurings i^rom Rugged Waters." The word " murmuring " in the title should not be interpreted as being symbolic of complaint, but rather as the joyful natural ripple of musical, meandering streams, leaping, laughing contentedly and merrily over the pebbly obstructions in their course, and bounding over the large boulders, on their way to the ocean, as genial optimists play a game of leap frog over the obstacles of life. Such is the tenor of our talented poet -author's productions, and taken in this sense the title is well chosen. Every piece in the book is intensely interesting, and contains gems of thought well worth treasuring in the memory and handing down to future generations. The volume and all that it contains speaks for itself. Many of the pieces have received most favorable press notices, as, doubtless the whole work will, for years of friendship and personal intercourse with the author has given his prefator opportunities of knowing that his themes are inexhaustible, his creations and descriptions ptire in thought, noble in character, and free from the objectionable. Being of a cheerful disposition, he constantly looks upon the bright side of life ; and being sincere, his facile pen faithfully portrays, truthfully and forcibly, his own sympathetic nature . Mr. Broomfield is a native of Roxburghshire, Scotland. Born in 1862, he received his education in that district and in Edinburgh, landed in America and located in Detroit, Mich., in 1885. Married Miss Annie McVicar, a Scotch Canadian L,ady, in 1888, and three daughters bless their union. They are a very happy, charming family, and their numerous friends in the United States, Great Britain and Canada, rejoice that our gifted Poet-Author now publishes in book form, his delightful and instructive compositions of Song and Story. Geo. WUyWAMSON, Detroit, Mich. A LEGEND O' MAY MORNING. Inscribed to My Cousins, the Broomfields and Gordons. OLD Sol still lingered Eastra's guest, The lark's sweet matin still unsung, When, springing from our couch o' rest. We hailed the dawn wi' merry tongue ; Then, hand in hand, gay lad and lass Tripped merrily the way along Through hawthorn lanes, 'mang dewy grass. Through glens that echoed wi' our song. We climbed o'er rocks wi' fearless tread. Both lads an' lassies licht an' strong; We startled wee birds frae their bed, While hill an' dale pealed wi' our song; For we must cross the Brownie rill Before the lark proclaims the day. An' we must climb the nearest hill To wash wi' first dew o' Fair May. For this the legend old folk told : How once, in Scotia's fair domain. There lived a chieftain, kind an' bold, Whose name was feared by plund'ring Dane ; One morn, as roaming through the glen. Enamoured wi' the wee birds' song, He spied a troop o' armed men With one fair maid amidst the throng. The Viking flag, an' short, rude spears, An' tawny beards, foretold the Dane; The maiden seemed urged wi' fears, An' slowly limped as if with pain ; An' as they gained the shoreland's crest She saw the Chief, an', weeping, pray'd : Oh, if you've feeling in your breast, Save, save me, sir, while yet a maid !" Up to his lips he put his horn An' blew a blast both loud and long; From moss-crowned rock, an' flow'ring thorn, Sprang Scottish warriors brave an' strong; They soon dispersed the pirate horde An' drove them backwards to the sea; The maid was saved, an', by my word, A fairer maid none e'er did see. Her een were o' the deep, deep blue, Her hair in golden tresses hung. Her cheeks were o' the moss rose hue. No queenlier grace was ever sung. There peeped from 'neath a mantle green A dimpled foot o' perfect mold, An' tears, like dew gems, from her een Fell down while this her tale she told: The cruel Danes, at dead o' night, Invaded fair lona's Isle — Ransacked our homes, put all to flight. An' robbed me o' my father's smile ; They tore me, weeping, from_ the dead, An' bore me to their ocean steed; Before their Chief I knelt an' plead, But to my prayer he gave no heed. They dragged me, fainting, from his feet, And then, kind sir, I knew no more Until my tear-sore eyes did greet The dawn upon this kindly shore; I knew not, sir, their barb'rous tongue. But by their rude an' lustful stares I feared a worse than death o'erhung Their captive ; but God heard my pray'rs." The Chief his trusty henchmen bade A litter make with plaid an' spears. An' carry the fair stranger maid To one who'd kiss away her tears ; The gentle mother of the Chief, With kindly hand an' woman art, Soothed the sweet orphan maiden's grief That touched the gracious mother heart. He manned his boat, at rise o' tide, With twenty clansmen, strong- an' true, An' placed the fair maid by his side. While o'er the waves they quickly flew. At dawn they reached the Sacred Isle, Where all was panic an' dismay; Great was their joy when, free from guile. The Scot brought them their Virgin May. The Chief was to the chapel led Where Christian priests did fast an' pray They poured fond blessings on his head. An' thus spake father old an' gray: Fot this brave deed that thou hast done I bless your country's fair domain ; Her maidens true — brave aye her sons — Her name aye free from coward's stain." But stay! For yet a small request I beg of you an' yours this day ; To keep it true 'tis my behest, An' God will bless your land alway ; Ere Nature gleams with Sola's light. Ere laverocks greet the opening day, Your youth must climb the nearest height — In every year, the first o' May. Their faces they must bathe with dew That on the hilltops lieth clear, An' they will be both fair an' true To one another all the year. 'Twill be a symbol, noble Chief, Of this bright morn in Virgin Spring, When you brought back, pure, though in grief. The daughter of our murdered King," The Chief bowed low, with bared head. In reverence to the holy sire. While o'er the scene great Sola spread A radiant robe of golden fire. Then spake the Chief, while all gave heed : " Your wishes, father, we'll revere ; But base the man, a coward indeed, That heedeth not a maiden's tear. Our hearths are humble, coarse our fare, An' rude the people of our land ; With you our humble fare we'll share ; Our swords are at your Isle's command; And woe befall the Viking horde That dare to raid your shores again, 13 For never yet hath Scottish sword Been proved a plaything of the vain." Again the Chieftain roams the glen When blossoms rare crown brae an' thorn, But happy maids, an' merry men, Sing songs of love this bright spring morn ; For she who leans upon his arm. An' smiles with love-light in her een, Is she he saved from Viking's harm, Now his fair wife — his clansmen's Queen. So ends the tale, but from that hour The Isle has blessed the Scottish pow'r. An' Scotia's youth have from that day Bathed with the first dew o' the May. We reached the bracken-crested height. An' bathed our faces wi' the dew ; Yes, bathed them to our hearts' delight. So we would bide aye fair an' true; An' now the glorious sun doth shine O'er frowning height an' rolling brae,, An' from the meads a song divine Soars upwards to the God o' Day. 14 We knelt enraptured side by side An' drank the beauties o' the morn; Then, rising, homewards happy hied. New pleasures in our bosoms born; The laddies pu'd the blossoms rare That fragrant burst along our way, An' crowned each guileless maiden fair A blushing Queen o' rosy May. 15 THE DYING PIPER. DONALD, my first born, come near me, I'm dying, And bring me my pipes till I bid them farewell ; I'll play them no more, for my breath now is flying, And this dust soon will mix with the sand of the dell. Loved pipes, my companions in mirth or in sorrow, In peace or in war we were ever as one; But fare ye well, for by dawn of the morrow My soul will have crossed to that mighty Unknown. How proud was I when, with gay ribbons streaming. You were placed in my hands by the Chief of our glen ; And my light boyish heart with bright hopes was o'er-brim- ming When I first played the slogan that rallied our men. I have 'woke the wild birds by thy notes in the morning; Thy pibroch's low croon's welcomed sleep to the vale ; Thro' war's bloody field, or in peace time's gay gath'ring, Thou ever-loved pipes thrilled the soul of the Gael. How oft have thy notes in the land of the stranger Soothed the exile's lone heart with the loved tunes of home — Brought glad tears in peace, firmed the step when in danger, Led his thoughts back to scenes where his feet fain would roam. i6 Thy war-notes have rung o'er the tombs of the Pharaohs, O'er Russia's bleak hills, 'neath India's hot sun ; 'Twas your clear, thrilling strains thrilled the souls of those heroes Whose ranks lay besieged on the field they had won. But, Donald, come nearer; take the pipes from thy father, And play me the slogan of the Chief of Glencoe, For the grim clan of Death round my bedside now gather, And I feel the damp breath of that conquering foe. But hush! I hear sounds as of armies rejoicing, And strains of sweet music now float thro' the air; And hills of rare beauty through the mist seem arising, And friends of the past gladly welcome me there. My pipes I bequeath thee, true son of thy father, May their strains as of yore warm the heart of the Gael ; 1 go to my God, as our kin round me gather. Play the slogan once more of the Chief of Kintail. 17 " I WISH I HAD A MITHER! " " I wish I had a mither," Said wee orphan Tammie Todd, Like yon crood o' happy bairnies That play alang the road ; She wad wash m)^ face an' fingers, An' wad patch my ragged claes, An' I'm shair I'd hae in winter Some wee shoon to hide my taes. " I wish I had a mither For to kiss me when I greet, To cuddle to her bosie, An' to hear her sing sae sweet Like wee Nellie Logan's mither, Whae aye claps me on the heid, An' says, ' Ma heart's aye sorry For the lad whaes mither's deid.' I wish I had a mither — I wad nae sulk or froon When she bade me rin a message. Like wee stuck up Geordie Broon ; i8 I wad rin an' dae her bidden, Leave my peerie, or my ba/ For I think a laddie ought to When he hears his mither ca'. My chums could ca' me nicknames — ' Mammie's lambie,' ' Mither's sweet '- But I'd only smile sae cheery — Nicknames canna make yin greet. Yes, I wish I had a mither," Said wee orphan Tammie Todd, But his mither, puir wee laddie ! Lies aneath the kirkyaird sod. 19 THE MILLER'S SALLY." GOLDEN the broom on the upland way, Purple the glove in the fairy hollow ; Green are the fields where the lambkins play, Silver the stream that the fishers follow ; But they dinna hae ony charms for me As I wander alane, through the shady valley. To meet, perchance, by the trysting tree, A winsome wee maid — the miller's Sally ! Trembles the birk where the rich leaves hang With the rich notes o' the kingly starling; To me there is only one true sang — The lichtsome lilt o' my queenly darling! Oh, the rich blossom hangs on bush an' tree. An' the red fragrant rose scents the dewy valley ; But there's no a flow'r on bush or lea Can equal my love — the miller's Sally ! Silken the goons o' the Lady Jean ; Titles an' gold will come wi' her dower; Winning the smile I got but yestreen Frae the red lips o' the stately flower; Oh, I wish not rank — no, nor pedigree — Just a wee cosie hoose, in some kindly valley, If one dear lass will share it wi' me, An' that dear wee lass — the miller's Sally! But hush ! She comes ! O ! she comes to me, Tripping alang sae neat an' sae cheerie, Lilting a sang. O ! there canna be A sweeter maid than my ain true dearie! An' the sweetest part o' the simmer day That bringeth true rest to the hill an' the valley, Is the lovesome hour o' gloaming gray When I meet my own true darling Sally. COMRADES ALL. SHAKE, comrade, shake, for I can tell By that empty sleeve and that ugly scar, That you carried a gun as well as I, And was scorched by the leaden rain of war. Well, yes, I come every year in May And march 'neath the best old flag that waves; Our ranks grow thinner, and maybe I — But come ! fall in ! be my mate to-day, To scatter rare flowers o'er our comrades' graves. Fall in! What's that? No place for you ! While we marched with Grant, you followed Lee? Well, you shouldered a gun at the Southland's call — You claimed it your duty ; no more did we ; So, come, fall in ! be my mate to-day ; Nail higher the flag that o'er us waves ; Shoulder to shoulder, we're comrades all. To scatter the rare sweet bloom of May With a two-fold blessing o'er comrades' graves. Shoulder to shoulder they march away, Flowers to scatter and graves to trim ; Shoulder to shoulder, Blue and Gray, Feeble of step, and eyes that are dim ; Two by two ; fall in ; fall in ; Two by two, for the ranks grow thin. And the Southland echoes the Northern call : Fall in ! fall in ! We are comrades all." YOUTH'S HAPPY HAME. Crailing_, Roxburghshire. I, musing, lie where mighty lakes Roll boundless as the sea, An' tow'ring pine trees proudly wave In Western majesty; Tho' grand the beauties o' this land, My thoughts roam far frae here, Where bonnie Oxnam gurglin' rins To Teviot waters clear. Where rich green haughs, an' gowden braes, An' hills o' purple hue. That glints at dawn o' simmer day Wi' gems o' fresh'ning dew, Embrace the village o' my youth, A spot to me aye dear. Where Oxnam, bubblin', roarin', rins To Teviot waters clear. Rare, shady lanes, where wild flow'rs bloom. An' red-cheeked maidens stray To meet the callant o' their heart At 'oor o' gloamin' gray, Jouk oot an' in like fairy paths Frae plantins growin' near, 23 That raurm'ring stream, that tumblin' flows To Teviot waters clear. The cushie's croon, the whaup's shrill wheep, The laverock's liquid sang Float upv/ards frae the dowie muirs Or groves that richly hang Wi' blossoms sweet, or berries red. Frae bush o' whin an' brier. To where the Oxnam, gushing, joins Old Teviot waters clear. Wide entries girt wi' stately trees. Whose spreading branches throw A cooling shade o' quiv'ring leaves O'er passers to an' fro. Wind past the neat-kept kindly bields. That spot to me aye dear, Near Oxnam's rumblin', rowin' stream An' Teviot waters clear. Romantic village o' the Sooth ! Thy ruined ha's reveal The handiwork o' Cranstone bold. Who fought for Scotland's weal; Rare tales are hid within thy wa's O' battle-axe an' spear. When Oxnam ran red, red with bluid To Teviot waters clear. 24 The deep dark caves akng the scaur Beyond the Primrose brae, Where noble Covenanters hid In Scotland's darkest day, Loom thickly, screened wi' twining vines. Quaint brownie haunts appear A'bune the stream that gurglin' flows To Teviot waters clear. The Whinstane Brig, the Water Mill, The Auld Kirk, an' the Free The "Smidd'ie," "Schule," the Village Cross, The ancient Rowan Tree, Are pictures that I'll ne'er forget — Loved scenes I'll aye revere — Tho' far frae Oxnam's bonnie stream An' Teviot waters clear. I'm prood to think that I can claim A season o' my days, The happy, guileless years o' youth 'Mang Crailing's bonnie braes ; An' weel I ken there waits for me A welcome that's sincere, Near yon rare stream, that rowin' rins To Teviot waters clear. 25 WHAT AULD FOLK SAY. I'VE heard the auld folk say "In winter days o' lang ago, When oor young cheeks wi' health did glow, An' fields as now lay white wi' snow, Times were harder than to-day. There were no trains to plunge alang If visiting we'd wish to gang; A bundle o'er oor shoothers flang; Shanks' naig we used that day." I've heard the auld folk say, "The fall-de-ralls you young folk wear Gars us auld bodies blink an' stare; 'Twas rigs like them we had to scare The craws in oor young day ; At kirk the congregation sung, An' wi' their notes the rafters rung, But noo they scarcely move their tongue — They've singers that they pay." I've heard the auld folk say, "Och, ay, you young folk dinna ken 26 The lang, lang 'oors we laboured then, An' little siller we'd to spen' On trash in oor young day ; We were contented if we got Enough o' meal to boil the pot; Nae cake or shortbreid we e'er got, Except on New Year's day." I've heard the auld folk say, "Nae automobiles, or 'lectric cars,' Or bags o' gas to frichten Mars, That cairry folk up 'mang the stars. Had we in oor young day. Ye maun hae this, ye maun hae that, A bicykeel, a new spring hat, Altho' ye dinna earn yer sa't, Ye maun be fashion gay." I've heard the auld folk say, "We were taught when we were young When elders spake to baud oor tongue ; But noo it's changed ; the knowing young Has aye the formaist say; Oor parents were oor dearest care, Oor every joy was theirs to share But noo — ah, weel ! we'll say nae mair — We'll find that oot some day." 27 An' yet they smile an' say, When neebour folk drap in to spen' A canty 'oor, at oor fire-en', Thir's no the equal o' oor Jen' For wit or modestie ; An' though we say't that shouldna say't. Sic callants like oor Tarn an' Pate Are hard to find — are hard to bate — In onything they dae. 28 THE MISER O' TADMHOR BRAS. LONG and bony, Wrinkled and gray, Was the old miser Of Tadmhor brae; Dour and silent, Deep as a pool, Loved by nobody, Shunned as a ghoul ; And deep in his memory, smouldering, lay A horrid vision of man's young day. Leaky, shaky. Was his old cot; Windowless, doorless, Crumbling with rot, Who would fancy That ever he Once was as happy As you or me? If you'd share the visions of Miser Gray, Go nurse the cravings of youth's young day. At last men found, One cold, bleak day. The frozen body 29 Of Miser Gray; From the body A letter fell, Marked : " The finder My story tell."> And this is the story as read to me Of the selfish Paul and generous Lee : Two fine, bright lads — And twins were they — Adorned the home Of Major Gray. Happy their youth, Well taught were they, For rich as a prince Was Major Gray; Oh, that tears would come to my old dry een. As I delve in the past for what has been ! In the Springtime Of manhood's day. Father and mother Passed away; And at their graves The strife begun — ■ What parents deemed just Turned son 'gainst son; Fathers broad acres were willed to Lee, And all mother's money was left to me. 30 Thousands of pounds Mother left me, Still I was jealous Of Brother Lee; Generous far Was Brother Lee ; He offered to share His acres with me; But the curse of greed had entered my soul ; I spurned his gift, for I craved the whole. Lee loved a maid Beloved by me ; Both craved her hand; Her choice was Lee. A jealous fire Burned in my breast, And murd'rous dreams Robbed me of rest; Oh ! could I recall that hour again, Before I was branded a worse than Cain! My pen now halts At the deed I done — But search the loch Near Clifford's Run- Beneath the shade Of a willow tree Lie the whitened bones 31 Of Brother Lee. His bride went insane, and cursed she me, For she knew in her heart I murdered Lee. I sold the land, I sold the home; Gold, gold I had. For peace I'd roam ; Where'er I went. On land or sea. Was the white, wan face Of Brother Lee ! And in this old hut, since " sixty-three," I have hid from the world — but not from Lee ! 'Neath the hearthstone Men found his gold; To touch the dross None was so bold; There it still lies Unto this day. Guarded by bones Of Miser Gray. For truth of this tale, you'll find to this day The ruins of the hut on Tadmhor Brae. 32 TOIL'S GRANDEUR. TOIL, and the arm grows strong- Sluggards are ever weak; Toil, and the earth gives forth Riches to those that seek; Toil, and the eye grows keen, Sure is the woodman's stroke ; With skill the craftsman molds Wonders from steel and rock. Not from the idler's dream Flows yonder miller's stream, Nor from the braggart's boast Gleams yonder guarded coast. Toil, and the heart grows light; Trembles the earth with song. Flowing in thrilling notes From the vast toiling throng; Up from the plains of waste Cities triumphant loom ; Where the fierce panther crouched Gardens of beauty bloom. Not from the shirker's moan Have our great v/astes been sown, 33 Nor from the coward's gun Did the fierce savasfe run. Toil, and the mind grows clear To the great work of God ; Flow'rs of contentment spring, Bright'ning our earthly road; Dearer becomes the land That we so proudly till, Stouter our bulwarks loom Daring invading skill. Not in the lawless hind Can we a patriot find. Nor with the godless band Dare we intrust our land ; Ever a nation's boasty Bulwarks around her coast. Ever a country's gain. Toilers with hands or brain. 34 SANDY'S THREE WISHES. An Old Story Told in Verse, With Variations. NEAR the foot o' Ben Mhor abode Sandy McNeil, Whose faither, the blacksmith, shod the horse o' the Deil- But it's no the bauld smith my rhyme has to deal wi'. But jist honest Sandy I gaed to the schule wi'. Sandy, yae bonnie nicht, I think in November — It's the tale, no the date, I need to remember — A wee drap in his pooch, a cure for lumbago, An' his braw sneeshin' mull steppit wast to Strathago. The road it's gey lang, an' mair, it is eerie, Withoot ere a hoose, or a milestane to cheer ye; But Sandy steppit oot, shoothers back, hold's a thistle, Wi' whiles a wee sup jist to weetin' his whistle But halt, Sandy, halt! "Govie Dick, what's acomin'? Is't a ghaist, or a witch, a fairy, or wummin?" Sandy whipped aff his cap, as the shade stept afore him. While a queer funny thrill creep, creepit a' owre him. 35 "Losh me," stuttered Sandy — noo Sandy's but human, An' his tongue loses pow'r in presence o' woman — "What's yer wants, bonnie lass, or should I say, fairy?" "Dinna fear," said the shade, "for I've no come to scare ye." "I hae heard" — an' her tongue burred wi' guid lowland doric- "O' yer fame that's gane forth, ay, as far as Glen Frolic, Yer brave deeds hae been sung in the courts o' Burr Barley, An' hae pleased the great mind o' the King Corn, Carley. "He called unto me — I was scoorin' the dishes — 'Find this cheil, let him hae what he wants in three wishes ;' For, brave sir, ye maun ken I'm the King's eldest daughter, An' my tocher's the hills lying north o' Burr water." "My fame! losh be here! some mistake," mutters Sandy; "But three wishes jist noo comes uncommonly handy. Bonnie lass, yer royal dad is the genuine stuff — For the first, gie's the height o' Ben Nevis o' snuff." "That ye'll hae, honest man ! it's made by my brither," An' she blushed as she speered. "Guid sir, what's the ither?" "I'll jist tak, gin ye please," Sandy twirrled his cheevit, "The fill o' Loch Lomond o' guid auld Glenlevit." 36 "It is granted, bauld Scot ! I've a 'still' mang the heather : But stay! bide a wee! for ye still hae anither." "Anither!" quo' Sandy. "Mair snuff's a wee risky; Bonnie lass, I'll jist tak a wee drappie mair whiskey." It was early next morning that auld Geordie Lye, As he marketwards gaed, heard a lang gurgling sigh ; Sae following the soond, where the road takes a turn, He found his bauld freend wi' his head in the burn. As auld Geordie drew near he could hear Sandy say — An' the story is tauld mang the hills to this day — As he gurgled an' sputtered an' to the heath clung, "I want nae mair whiskey — drive tight hame the bung." 37 YESTERDAY. IT seems but yesterday- He held my willing hand ; The Summer waves did wayward play Out o'er the golden strand. My heart beat joyfulie With love's rare melodie; He whispered, and his eyes o' blue Gleamed wi' a love-light kind and true, "My own sweet darling Sue." Ah, yes ! but yesterday I answered, "Love, I'm thine"; With rose-bloom blushed the village brae. The lanes wi' jesamine; He held me to his heart — "Sweet love, we now must part; But soon, dear Sue, I'll come again To you, and home across the main, To home an' you again." It seems but yesterday I looked 'way o'er the sand, 38 Watching my true-love sail away Unto a foreign land ; His lips released a sigh As he kissed me good-bye; With aching heart I waved adieu — Dear Jack — brave Jack — my lover true- Adieu, dear heart ! adieu ! Ah, yes ! but yesterday I watched upon the sand ; Behind me loomed great rocks o' gray, The guardians o' my land ; The eve-tide drifted me A farewell melodic — A message from across the bar — From my own love that sailed afar — My love that sailed afar. It seems but yesterday I lingered near the shore ; Up o'er the strand the whirling spray, The storm king's message bore — Came with a mad'ning sweep From the great changing deep — A figure-head — a good ship's name — Was all that ever shorewards came — Was all that ever came. 39 Ah, sad, sad yesterday ! O, heart, poor heart o' mine ! The bloom lies withered o'er the brae; Low droops the jesamine; . The murm'ring o' the sea Seems but a dirge to me ; The sea-birds' wailing, longing sigh Seems some poor sailor's drowning cry- Some sailor's last "good-bye !" 40 BLINKS O' SPRINGTIME. SUNSHINE glints on dale an' hill, Silv'ry loch an 'wimplin' rill ; Rocks an' woods now echoing ring Wi' the melodies o' Spring. Knowes now crowned wi' buddin' broom, Hawthorns nod their fragrant plume ; Feathered songsters train the wing O' their nestlin's, for 'tis Spring. Richly clad the field and glen. Varied beauties deck the den; Creeping ivy, upward cling O'er the ruined wa's in Spring. Merry lambkins romp an' play 'Mang the gowans on the brae. While the bonnie bairnies sing "Welcome, ever welcome, Spring!" Bursting buds deck bush an' tree ; Daisies clothe the grassy lea; Bee an' wasp noo whet their sting For the schoolboy in the Spring. 41 Bunnies jook noo, oot an' in, 'Mang the bracken an' the whin', While auld Blinkie trims his wing For his night's sport in the Spring. Fairies haunt the bramble dell ; Maidens seek the wishing well, Where fancy future's shadows bring In the lovesome days o' Spring. Pairted lovers noo agree 'Neath the auld-time trysting tree; Love's fond murm'rings ever cling To the gloamings o' the Spring. 'Neath the twin oaks on the green Auld folk gossip noo at e'en ; Freenship's breathings ever bring Gladsome news in lichtsome Spring. Now smiling Nature's crowned anew Wi' virgin buds o' ev'ry hue, In homage kneels to Nature's King, Whose hand beautifies the Spring. 42 GOOD-BYE, DADDIE. IN childish kilt an' bonnet blue — The kilt his Daddie's tartan — He stood, a tiny mite o' eight, But brave as ony Spartan; No tears were in his een o' gray, His wee lips scarce did quiver, As he bid good-bye to Daddie d'^ar- Perhaps good-bye for ever ! "Daddie," he said, an' stood erect, "Dinna be feared for mither, For I will work just like a man For her an' bairnie brither ; I'll rise up sharp at five o'clock When mither's sleepin' cosie. An' curly-heided brither Rab is cuddlin' in her bosie. "I'll rin doon stairs an' roon the street, An' in to Grannie Napier's, An' get a hunner at the least O a' the mornirg papers. 43 I'll sell them a', yes, ev'ry ane, An' 'fore there's time to miss me, I'll coont my earns in mither's hand An' then — an' then she'll kiss me. "Vk/nen schule is oot, I winna stay To play at tigg or peerie. But run straight hame, an' mither help, Or play wi' oor wee dearie. When you come back, a brave V. C. — I ken you'll be ane Daddie, — You'l! grip my hand, just like a man's, For bein' sae guid a laddie." The Daddie hugged up to his breast The sturdy little Spartan, An' said, "Wee lad, there's nae mistake, You're worthy o' the tartan ! Good-bye ; take care o' mither, dear, An' you're wee bairnie brither; God grant the time will be but short When we're again thegether," The pipers blaw, the engine shrieks, All ready now for startin' ; Some laugh, some sing,, some joke, some cry- And all bewail the partin'. 44 Oor we lad watches till the train Spurts frae the crowded station, Bearing away brave men who'll guard The honor of a nation. Then, gulping back a weakling sob — For he's nae mair a laddie — He's noo his mither's only man, Since sayin', "Good-bye, Daddie." Then runs for hame : the door it hides From us the tiny Spartan, But we are sure he'll prove to be A credit to the tartan. 45 FLORA. WHEN the balmy winds o' Autumn Softly whisper o'er the braes, An' fields o' golden waving grain Proclaim it harvest days, I gang a-courting Flora — The shepherd's bonnie Flora — In the gloaming, 'mang the fragrant ricks o' clover. Like rippling music o' a rill Is Flora's voice to me. An' her lips they are sae tempting That I'm forced their sweets to pree; Sae I maun see my Flora — The shepherd's lassie Flora — In the gloaming, 'mang the fragrant scented clover. Her hair in nut-brown ringlets hang Aroon a queenly broo ; Two perfect rows o' pearly teeth Shine through her tempting mou'. A dimpled chin has Flora — The shepherd's daughter Flora — An' I'll meet her in the gloamin' 'mang the clover. 46 Altho' her feet — her weel shap't feet — Are cased in heavy shoon, An' 'tho' her best o' dresses Is a common wincey goon, A queenly form has Flora — The shepherd's darling Flora — An' I'll press her to my bosom 'mang the clover. Altho' she is a bonnie lass She's naught but modestie, An a' the laddies in the glen Just wish that they were me To gang acourting Flora — The shepherd's guileless Flora — In the gloamin' 'mang the fragrant ricks o' clover. 47 CHANGES O' NATURE. MY heart was light, an' my thoughts were gay; Full o' joy for me seemed the morrow, As I watched the burnie wend its way Through the fruitful dales o' Yarrow ; No ripples rise on its silv'ry crest, Save where trout, in their glee, were dancing; And happy thoughts filled my youthful breast As I lay on the banks romancing. Ah ! youth's bright dream, Smooth glides thy way, Like a winding stream On a sunny day. Heavy my heart, an' I see but gloom On the brow o' the coming morrow, As I watch the burnie fret an' fume — Fit mate for me in my sorrow! Swollen an' black its troubled crest. Save where lightning's darts are flashing, An' the storms o' anguish tear my breast While the thunder's around me crashing. Grief's troubled dream, Rough rolls thy way, Like a swollen stream On a stormy day. 48 LADDIE O' THE SEA. CURLY headed laddie, Gie to me your hand, The life-lines show you'll wander Far in many a land ; Wave-rocked, bonnie laddie. Born upon the sea. Wild winds soothed your slumbers. Mermaids crooned to thee. Rocked upon the ocean By Neptune's royal command, And the deep sea graces Kissed an' lined your hand ; Mighty was the cradle, A queen upon the sea ; Ah, my bonnie laddie, Fortune smiles on thee. Thro' the ice-rock barriers Of the frozen way. You will carry tidings In your manhood's day ; 49 East an' west you'll travel, , At the torrid zone They'll hail the noble vessel Of Neptune's foster-son. Peace aye be your motto ; God will be your guide; Fav'ring winds will waft thee O'er the Ocean's tide; Many a hand will greet thee, Many a mother's e'e Will gladden at the tidings You carry o'er the sea. Many a prayer will follow In your good ship's wake ; Many a lad will join thee. Laddie, for your sake ; Many a daring venture Is hid behind that e'e. Wee curly headed darling, Laddie o' the sea. 50 FOR QUEEN AND COUNTRY. A HIGHLAND dame stood at her door And watched her youngest bairn, In kilt and plaid and jacket red Turn from the soldier's cairn — A cairn that told — told by its height Of many gallant men Who had for Queen and Country left The comforts of their glen. With martial stride and fearless eye Three sons had gone before, And left her with an aching heart Beside her lowly door; For Britain's glory they went forth — A glory that hath ta'en The pride of many a Scottish home For many a bloody plain. Her eldest fell in the Soudan; At Dargai Leslie died ; At Modder River Tom was slain By gallant Wauchope's side; And now her youngest, and her all. In kilt and plaid hath gone ; 51 The Queen gets one more soldier bold- The cairn another stone. She watches till his stalwart form Is lost beyond the trees, And then she turns within her cot, And, falling on her knees, Prays to the Guardian of us all To favor her last one. Who knows his brothers' bloody fate Beside stern Duty's gun. Her hair is white with many cares. Her heart's been cruelly riven. But Queen and Country needed men And she her all hath given ; And yet she wonders — simple dame ! — ■ At nations, great and wise. Who cannot for man's brotherhood Some nobler plan devise. We wonder all, and yet we rush Aye ready to the sword. And deeper, wider yawns the wound That needeth Wisdom's word ; And mothers weep for fearless sons Who love the martial row. And stretches far the battle line While cairns they larger grow. 52 BROOM BLOSSOM. Sent frae the Braes o' Yarrow by Miss Phemie Pennycook, of Hawick, 1900. BROOM blossom, broom blossom, Golden bloom sae rare, Fragrant wild flow'r, royal o' hue, Thy rich tassels, nodding, drew A sweet maiden fair — Lithe o' limb an' clear o' eye — Up the steeps where you grew high Above the rocks sae bare. Broom blossom, broom blossom, Surely she pleased you When she knelt, an' kindly brake You away, for friendship's sake. From where you tempting grew; Her dimpled hand did you not kiss? Yea, surely 'twas a moment's bliss ■^ That deepened your rare hue ! Broom blossom, broom blossom, Frae Nature's grandest scenes, My border land romantic, Beyond the broad Atlantic, Where many a poet gleans 53 There's no land can be grander Wherever I may wander Or whatever intervenes. Broom blossom, broom blossom, Frae famous Yarrow braes, Pu'd near that historic stream Where Hogg romantic oft did dream And wove immortal lays ; But he ne'er had a maid sae fair. For friendship's sake, to bravely dare Such steep an' rocky ways. Broom blossom, broom blossom, As she braved for me — You saw her smile, as I have not, With satisfaction, that she got To send across the sea A piece o' broom I longed to own ; I'll frame it now to look upon — A Hameland memory. Broom blossom, broom blossom. May her whose kindly hand Pu'd you near Ettrick waters Be favored 'mong the daughters Of Scotia's Borderland; O'er rocks be aye victorious. An' reach the heights aye glorious, Where all is pure an' grand. 54 DYED EGG DAY. Dae ye mind in bairnhood's day, In tliat auld land far away, How we rowed adoon the brae On Dyed Egg Day? Hand in hand we'd merry gang. Lads an' lassies in yae thrang; Braes were never steep nor lang On Dyed Egg Day. Without bannet, shoon, or cap, Oot o' breath we'd reach the tap. Where oor daffin scared the whaup On Dyed Egg Day. At the starter's ''Three, away !" We wad row adoon the brae, Oor eggs, green, red, or blae. On Dyed Egg Day. Laughin' at each ither's skill As we tumbled owre the hill. For o' fun we had oor fill On Dyed Egg Day. 55 Na, we'll no forget the days When we tum'led owre the braes, An' tore an' stained oor claes, On Dyed Egg Day. When, tired, we a' ran hame An' hung oor heids wi' shame, Tell't oor mithers that the blame Was on Dyed Egg Day. 56 TO A BUD IN MARCH. WEE, tender bud, why leave your bield? Still chilly breathes the air ; The snow has not yet left the field ; The forest's bleak and bare. I ken you're cheering to the een, But still I'm laith to see Thy tender stem, where naething green Yet marks the dreary lea. The sun's warm rays the stream might thaw, But night airs still are keen. And treach'rous March might blighting blaw And blot ye frae oor een. Was it some wee bird's warbling lay, Or elf folk o' the stream. Who, piping on their reeds o' spray, Awoke ye frae your dream? Or did some sunbeam lose its way. An' straying near your bed. Warmed your wee stemlet wi' its ray, An' raised your tender head? 57 False are those signs ! 'tis not yet Spring ! Creep 'neath your sod again, An' sleep till swallows trim their wing Upon our gable vane ! Ah, wee bit bud ! I thee portray A likeness kin to man, Who, warmed by fickle Fortune's ray, Freeze ere their Spring's began ! 58 ODE TO THE QUEEN. Inscribed to the Officers and Members of Detroit St. Andrew's Society, on the Queen's Diamond Jubilee, June 21 st, 1897, 'TIS Britain's Queen, a goodly Queen That's honored wide to-day, An' hill-fires gleam an' banners stream In tribute o' her sway. For lang she's reigned an' weel she's reigned O'er subjects leal an' free, An' a' the Earth holds holiday On this grand Jubilee. Her praise is sung in ev'ry tongue Where'er a Briton's been; An' nane can e'er the worth gainsay O' Britain's goodly Queen. For lang she's reigned an' weel she's reigned O'er hearts on land an' sea. An' God thro' peace looks kindly down Upon her Jubilee. An' we hae met in freenship's ring — For freenship rules to-day — To drap oor mite in Tribute's cup 59 Where starry banners sway. For lang she's reigned an' weel she's reigned Beloved on land an' sea, An' frae oor hearts her worth we'll sing On this rare Jubilee. Then here's a health, good noble Queen, A health to thee an' thine, Tho' roaming far we'll ne'er forget The days o' Auld Lang Syne; For lang you've reigned an' weel you've reigned Wi' love an' purity, An' a' mankind wi' love reveres Your Diamond Jubilee! 60 DADDIE'S COMIN'. DADDIE'S comin', my wee lambie, Frae the hill ; For the sun is sinkin' rosie Where his sheep is cuddlin' cosie By the rill. An' it's time wee bairns were sleepin', Sleepin' soon. Come awa, my toddlin' maidie, I will hap ye wi' my plaidie, Cuddle doon. Steek yer een an' sleep sae bonnie — Daddie's near; He is comin' through the hollie Wi' auld tousy, kindly Collie, My wee dear. Hush-a-bye, yer Daddie's comin' Up the brae ; The sun is noo clud-hidden, An' frae the West has ridden Gloamin' gray. 6i An' the Daddies fondly gether Wi' their ain, Where the mithers knit their stockin,' Or some, like me, are rockin' A wee wean. Sae close yer een, my lambie ; Sleep ye soon; Daddie's here an' supper's ready, But ye've gotten yours, my leddy, Sae lie doon. Hoots ! ye little waukrife lassie ! Close yer een ! I'm fair jealous o' my laddie — Yes, yer hav'rin' huggin' Daddie — Sic a scene ! 'Stead o' sleepin' ye are laughin' On his knee. An' withoot ae crumb o' feelin' Ye are a' the kisses stealin' Frae puir me. Na, na ! I winna tak' ye ! Sic a mou' ! Come awa', then, to my bosie — Come awa' an' cuddle cosie, My wee doo. 62 THE SILVER-HAIRED LADY. YES, lads ! 'Tis a letter from someone to me, A silver-haired lady that lives o'er the sea ; I'll read it, for maybe there's someone that's here Has somebody waiting — has someone that's dear, Whose heart's ever longing to welcome again A wandering laddie from far o'er the main. "My laddie, dear laddie, since faither has gane, I, wearying, sit by the ingle alane, At knitting or spinning, my fingers aye stray, My thoughts ever roam to my bairn far away. Your playthings, an' schule-books, your brownie land lore Tell tales o' your childhood I oft linger o'er. I watch oor auld "postie," an' feel my bluid thrill. As he climbs the wee stile, 'tween oor hoose an' the mill. I slip ben the room, no to let the man ken I hae followed his step since he entered the glen, I tremble a' owre, wi' a joy that's half fear As he cries oot, "A letter frae ane ye lo'e dear." ' ! Ah, laddie, dear laddie, it's little ye ken, The guid that ye dae wi' ilk letter ye sen', The brae sides in simmer far bonnier seem, 63 The bleak hills in winter, wi' bricht fancies gleam, E'en the wee birdies trill in lichtsomer key, I believe that they ken o' my bairn owre the sea. I'm nae hand wi' big words, no shair that I spell The wee anes a richt, but I'm shair that they tell, There's a wee thackit hoose, i' the lug o' a glen, Whaur whaups whirl roon i' their flicht to the ben, Whaur a welcome's aye shair — dinna linger for fame, For bats sune will build i' your forefaithers' hame." Are there ony amang ye by writing can cheer Some silver-haired lady or somebody dear, Some thoughtless wild laddie, that tarries through shame? Or someone too busy to think o' their hame? A few simple words wi' a pencil or pen Micht brichten life's roadway o' someone ye ken. 64 A BAIRN'S AMBITION. WHEN me grows up an' be's a man, An' works for heaps o' money, An' smokes a pipe, like Uncle Dan, Me'll buy a crutch for Grannie — Won't that be grand? Then she can roam the lanes wi' me, An' gather nice, sweet posies ; For me's of'en heard her say She loves the wild, wild rosies — They smell so grand. Poor Grannie's lame, an' sits an' sits In her chair near the windae; Sometimes she sews, sometimes she knits, Every day but Sunday — An' then she reads. My mammie says if she was rich As her big brither Dannie, She would get a cooshened crutch For oor ain dear wee Grannie — That would be grand. 65 Poor daddie he was drowned at sea, An' Uncle Dan he's married, An' says his wife she winna be Wi' his auld mither worried — That's my Grannie. But when me grows as big a man As Robin Gray, the caddie, I'll hae a ship — I'll ca'd the Swan — An' Grannie '11 be a lady — That will be grand. An' mammie, too, she is so good. An' works so hard for money To get good clo'es, an' nice good food For her an' me, an' grannie — She's awfully good. O, yes; me'll soon be big, so big! Me's six years old nex' Monday — T'anks ; me'll put them in me's penny pig- Me never buys no candy — Me save them all for Grannie. 66 A COAST LULLABY. HUSHABY ma bairnie, hushaby, An' I'll croon ye a bonnie sang. The wind sobs loud, an' the waves roll high. An' tae sea yer faither maun gang. Tae sea yer faither maun gang, ma bairn, P'or he's mate o' the lifeboat Sue, An' oor daily breid in the storm he maun earn — Baith him and his hardy crew. Then hush-hushaby-by, ma bonnie chairm, Cuddle tae ma bosie, ma doo. Keen is the e'e, an' strong is the airm O' the mate o' the lifeboat Sue, The white witch rides on the waves the nicht. An' cheers the mad song o' the gale, An' screechs in her rage at the lichthoose licht That warns o' her treach'rous trail. Hush! what soond is that, ma bairn? It's a big gun's mighty roar; There's a ship in distress aff the seaman's cairn. An' they're asking help frae the shore. Then hush-hushaby-by, ma bonnie chairm; Yer faither kens his duty noo ; Guid Lord, oh ! give strength to the heart and airm O' the mate o' the lifeboat Sue. 67 Guid Lord ! help them a' aff the seaman's cairn, Safe, safe tae oor shelt'ring quay — Baith the wrecked an' the lads wha bravely earn Oor breid on the stormy sea. Hush ! hush ! I hear a mighty cheer — "Hurrah ! for the lifeboat Sue" ; Tae mony a hame this nicht they're dear Baith the mate and his gallant crew. Noo sleep, sleep, ma hinny, ma bonnie chairm, Cuddle tae ma bosie, ma doo; Ye'll sune be as big an' as strong o' airm As the mate o' the lifeboat Sue. 68 A DREAM O' JED. LAST night I dreamed a grand, grand dream, As lying on my soldier bed, I dreamed I wandered o'er again The bonnie, bonnie banks o' Jed. 'Twas simmer time, the fields were green, An' lanes wi' flowers o' every hue Breathed perfumes sweet, an' oh, my heart Drank in the beauties that I lo'e. I thought I wandered to the tree Whose leaf-clad branches kindly spread, A shady bower for lovers true That roam the bonnie banks o' Jed. My Jean was there — her slae-black een Flashed me a welcome frae the heart. I pressed her cherry lips to mine. An' vowed nae mair frae her to part. Her nut-brown hair hung waving free, Blawn by the saft winds o' the west, Amang the curly locks o' gold That crooned the laddie she lo'ed best. 69 Her roonded cheeks, red as the rose That blooms beneath the sky o' June, Were dimpled wi' a winning smile That made my heart wi' gladness stoon. We wandered, arm in arm, among The bloom upon the "Sunny Brae," An' pu'd the fragrant cups o' gold. An' strewed them a' alang oor way. The river murmured clear an' sweet, The bushes throbbed wi' mellow song. While love and fancy pictured scenes When right seemed ever with the strong. The wild, rude scenes of long ago, When Dacre led fierce England's pride Across the Border, to lay waste The hallans o' fair Teviotside. Loud rang the slogan o' oor sires, As forth they charged with sword and spear To brave the conquest-loving hosts — "On ! on to victory ! 'Jethart's here !' " When bang! bang! and a cry "To guns!" Me from a dream o' Jed awoke. To charge a prowling, treach'rous race, Whose power was yet the Tyrant's yoke. 70 Onwards we rushed, and I am sure Above the conquering Yankies' cheer, A Border slogan could be heard — "On, on to vict'ry ! 'Jethart's here !' " Yes ! Jethart's here ! Where'er the call Of Freedom stirs heroic fires, You'll find — and ever to the front — Descendants of unconquered sires. With others o' that dauntless race, Whose land, tho' small, will ever be Known as the foremost o' the Earth, That's slogan rang for Liberty, 71 THE OPEN DOOR. THROW open wide the world's door To men who bravely dare The terrors of the flood and fire, Or fiends of earth and air; The age is past for man to fence A patch of earth's domain, And fancy God gave him the spot Where he supreme can reign. Stand back, ye loungers at the door, With never-ceasing wail ! Block not the way of men who dare — 'Tis such as you who fail. If there are dangers far ahead. The dangers we must see, And if there's treasure we will share It with a hand that's free. Our fathers pioneered the west, They scorned the savage wrath. And dared the raging elements To block their foremost path; So we, their sons, will brook no foe That tries to bar our way ; 'Tis progress urges us, and we Know naught but to obey. 72 To them who dare the earth gives up The jewels of her heart, And them who dare must and will have For all an open mart. We've grain to sell, we've gold to lend, We will exchange or buy, And as we're eager for the best. All markets we must try. And there is still a nobler cause To urge the power that's brave — To crush the bloody hand that makes Of brother man a slave. We wish for peace, but will not shirk The duty of the free — A duty that our sires bequeathed. Who gave us liberty. Then open wide the world's door. Fling up the clasping bar, No narrow entrance let it be. But let it swing afar; We see no failure, for we know It is the Great God's plan To bring together, hand-in-hand, The family of man. 73 HE FELL FOR LIBERTY. HE came from the banks of the Aragon To a country strange and new, But shouldered a gun Like a soldier's son, And marched with our boys in blue. He smoked our pipe, and he shared our watch, For a comrade true was he, With a heart aye light, And an eye aye bright, As he marched for Liberty. He was ready aye at the bugler's call, Tho' he dreamed of home afar. Of an aged pair, And a maiden fair. Away in his loved Navarre. He sang the song of his Fatherland, That rang of true chivalry, And his eagle eye Flashed a wild defy As he fought for Liberty. 74 Yes, he was my mate for many a day Thro' the bloody fields of war; And no heart more true To our lads in blue Than this hero from Navarre; And 'twas by my side he, fighting, fell, When our throats rang " Victory !" 'Neath that Southern sky Where so many lie For the cause of Liberty, Oh! I loved this lad from the Aragon, Tho' his tongue was strange to me; The clasp of his hand Was the linking band That joins the hearts of the free. I'll shoulder my old gun once again — A relic of victory — And fire o'er the grave Of my comrade brave Who fell for man's liberty. 75 RARE HARVEST TIME. RICH harvest days are here! O, let us roam again Thro' sylvan lanes and pleasant plains Where droops the golden grain — Thro' groves of spreading trees Where feathered warblers trill, And bells o' blue, a-gleam with dew. Nid-nods unto the rill. A-roaming, two by two, A lassie and a lad. With lightsome lays the season praise. The days that make us glad ; The orchard trees bend low; They wile us near, tho' mute; With hearts aflow and cheeks aglow, We pree the ripe red fruit. O, bonnie harvest days! That rare time o' the year When berries red hang overhead. When fairies haunt the mere; A-thro' the fields we go To gather in the gold, That we will store, and linger o'er When we are growing old. 76 OOR WILLIE. Inscribed to Wm. Mylne^ a Popular Member of St. Andrew's Society, Detroit, Michigan, A DROLL chiel' lives in oor toon — I'm sure ye ken him weel — He's famous 'mang his neebours as a painter, An' for a sang he taks the croon — He's humour tae the heel — He beats Rab Gibbs, St. Mungo's great precentor. He'd mak' ye dee o' lauchin' When he sings a comic sang, For, losh, man! he's jist perfect in his actin'; An' if yer sair for fouchen Wi' the day time's drivin' thrang, Jist hear him, an' yer ready for a fechtin. Hear him sing the sangs o' Hame — Man, he can sing them fine ! Ye'd roar an' lauch tae hear him sing " Mac Fadyin' Wi' " Bonnie Doon " or " Maggie Graham " He'd blur up baith yer een — I tell ye, man, oor Willie, he's a guid yin. 77 He'll imitate ilk bodie In "Auld Cronies o' Mine"; As I said afore, the man's a born actor, An' at rend'ring " Tamson's Smiddie," Ye'd think he was the yin That coorted Auld Robin's bonnie dochter. Ye ocht tae see him trip, man, The licht fantastic toe ; He's as yauld as a buck-flae owre a blanket; At tellin' o' a story, man. He's the capstane o' the row; For fish tales wi' the forrnaist he is ranket. It's no jist in his singin' ; He is famous in his clan ; His warks o' brain deck many a wa' an' mantel ; An' in gall'ries they are hingin'. For the critics' glow'rin' scan A perfect " creattibater's " 'neath his cantel. Oor Willie, withoot braggin', 'Mang best o' men can sit. His freenly pow, tho' bare, shields lots o' wit, man. Lang may his tongue keep waggin'. An' his cunning hand be fit — For kindly deeds he'll never be forgot, man. 78 Then here's a health tae Willie ! Lang may he ever sing " Auld Grannie's Pooch," " The Cronies " or " Mac Fadyin." Three stirring cheers for Willie That'll gar the rafters ring — Let the warld ken " Oor Willie " is a guid yin ! 79 THE SAILOR'S FAREWELL. He: FAVORING winds now blow, dear lass, And ready we're for sea; At Duty's call I go, dear lass, Far, far frae hame an' thee. She: I dread your gaun away, dear lad, Sae far frae hame an' me; A sailor's life's sae rough, brave lad. An' dangers haunt the sea. He: Keep up your heart, my ain dear lass, You needna fear for me. For dangers are as thick, dear lass. On land as on the sea. She: Your mither will grieve sair, my lad, When you are far away; An' she's had cares enoo, my lad ; Weave nae mair hairs o' gray. He: One voyage to the " Cape," dear lass, I'll then hae gold enoo To cheer my mither's heart, dear lass. And wed the lass I lo'e. 80 She: Maybe at ev'ry port, dear lad, A sweetheart waits for thee; Maybe they'll wile your love, dear lad, Away frae hame an' me. He: I hae nae lass but you, my love, Nae ither lips I pree; Sae dinna let such thoughts, my love, Drift in your heart 'boot me. She: I never doobt your love, dear lad, I ken you're true to me ; But still my heart is wae, my lad. When you are on the sea. He: My thoughts o' hame an' thee, my love, Where e'er we reef a sail; One kiss — one more for luck, my love — Farewell, dear heart, farewell! She: I'll pray for you, my ain dear lad. An' watch each hame-bound sail; My heart is yours for aye, my lad. Farewell, dear one, farewell! 8i PIPER WINTER. BRAW auld, Piper Winter, kilt an' plaid o' snaw, Keepin' frail folk pechin, wi' his furious blaw ; See him cock his bannet, jist a wee ajee, Pipes flung owre his shoother, striding gallantlie. Raidin' Piper Winter, a' the folk in toon Steeks thir doors an' windows, 'gainst the rattlin' loon; But he skirls the looder, shakin' wi' his din, Chimneys, wa's an' rafters, tryin' to get in. Lichtsome Piper Winter, tryin' for to pree Bairnies that are jookin' 'roon aboot his knee; Noo he'll grip a lassie, noo a lad he'll throw, Tintin' cheeks an' noses wi' a rosy glow. Mighty Piper Winter, garrin' big linns roar, Wi' his icy breathings, welding stream an' shore; Raising dykes o' danger wi' his giant feet, King o' hill an' valley, lord o' park an' street. Artist Piper Winter, thro' the forest goes Weaving fleecy laces o'er the naked boughs ; Tracing on the windows quaint enchanted bowers, Hanging from the bridges chains o' snowy flowers. 82 Kindly Piper Winter, rowin' in his plaid Some wee hameless bairnie, some forsaken maid; Soothing as he faulds them frae the World's care, Crooning 'till they fancy 'tis a mother's pray'r. Guardian Piper Winter, in the paths you go — Maidens' cheeks bloom rarer, roses sweeter blow; For you kill the canker wi' your biting colds, An' keep a' things cosy wi' your snowy folds. Welcome, then, Auld Winter, for the guid you dae, Makin' bairnies happy, shieldin' glen an' brae ; Stirring men to action wi' your thrilling tune, Striving, laughing Winter, persevering loon! 83 'KIRSTY'S ROBIN." A Romance in Hamespun. ROBIN TYNTOCK, "Kirsty's Robin," Left his loom an' gaed aroamin' — Left his true love sobbin,' sobbin', To cross the deep blue sea. Bid her farewell in the gloamin', When the hedge-rows were a-bloomin/ An' the gowans deck't the lea. "I'll come again," murmurs Robin, "When the hawthorn lanes are buddin' ; Dry your een, an' cease your sobbin', Wait one year an' a day — One short year, an' then I'll gladden My true love — my brown-haired maiden- One short year an' a day." Kirsty waited, weary waited ; Slowly seemed the time in passin' ; By the sea-side, watched an! waited, One long year an' a day. Days glide by; soon months are passin'. Since the tryste time. Robin, hasten — Oh, why, lad, this delay? Three months more, an' then came Jamie. "Kirsty lassie, quit yer greetin'; Say the word an' ye can hae me; I'll aye be kind to thee." Kirsty's fingers sought her knittin'; Turned to Jamie, who was sittin'. Idly sittin' 'gainst a tree — Stilled her grief, an' glanced at Jamie, Who sat 'gainst the tree a-smilin' — Careless, guid-for-naething Jamie, Wi' the laughin' roguish e'e — Thought o' him, perhaps, a-sailin' — Then looked seaward thro' the pailin', But no sign upon the sea. Turned again to lazy Jamie, An' said, "Weel, lad, gin yer willin' For to take me you can ha'e me ; A true wife I'll be to you. For there's nae use in bewailin' Owre a lad that went a-sailin' An' forgot a love sae true." Where was Robin? Was he sailin'? Was he other lands a-roamin'? Was he other maids beguilin', Wi' his frank an' winning way, 85 That he forgot the gloamin', When the hedgerows were a-bloomin' Wi' sweet blossoms o' the May? From the belt o' Fighting Otter Hang the auburn locks o' Robin — Tells a tale o' fight an' slaughter — Tells the cause o' his delay. Near a northwest settler's cabin Lie the bones o' Kirsty's Robin, An' no coward's bones are they. On the night o' Kirsty's weddin' Wi' the happy lichtsome Jamie, An' she's never rued that weddin', I had come frae owre the sea. Sorry tidings I had wi' me — The last message Robin ga'e me — But it still remains wi' me. 86 TO AN ELOCUTIONIST. After Hearing Miss Elizabeth Baker Recite at a St. Andrew's BtjRNsr^ Gathering in Detroit Opera House. LIKE the musical notes of a Summer's breeze As they murmuring- float thro' the green-robed trees, Sparkling and clear as a diamond set, Silvery toned as a rivulet. She binds us all with one great thought As it leaps inspired from the gifted throat As she feels and tells — such is true art — Of the sacrifice of another's heart. Her bosom heaves with passion's throb — Her soul unfetters one great sob — An echo that tells the company Of her heart's great power of sympathy. Her dark eyes gleam ; her rich cheeks glow With a rarer tint, as the gifted flow Of words that tell of a hero's fate — Of a mother's love — or a rival's hate — Floats thro' her lips in a spreading swell ; Leaps inspired from the mind's great well, 87 Soft and sweet, as the wood dove's call, Or strong as a bounding water-fall. Long may she live to sing and tell Of men and maids who bravely fell — Of kindly deeds of lovers true — Tales of the heart that's ever new — And coming years will find her name 'Neath a Queenly wreath at the throne of Fame. 88 WHERE HEATHER BLOOMS. OH, give me the hills and the valleys ! There wi' my sheep I will roam! I love not your towns, wi' their alleys; Where the heather blooms, there is my home. Away wi' your halls o' gay revels, They leave on my mind but a gloom; In your streets I am shadowed wi' evils — I'll away where the heather bells bloom. You are famed for your grand architecture ; You have parks that are wonders of art; Give me the wild woodlands of Nature, And the hills that are dear to my heart; Oh, grand are your art-flowing fountains, Where gracefully glides the proud swan, But give me the clear lochs of our mountains, Where drink the royal roe buck and fawn. I have drank from the goblet of pleasure — I have echoed the laugh of the fool — I've gained by the price a rare treasure, A lesson from Wisdom's wide school ; Your maidens are fair and enticing, Their beauty oft dazzles my een,' And their wit to a rustic's surprising — But my heart is for none but my Jean. I yearn for that auld mountain shieling — I crave for no mansions of stone — I long for yon peat-tinted ceiling And mother's fond arms round her son ; Sae farewell to your towns and their alleys ! Nae mair 'mang your beauties I'll roam ; And all hail to the hills an' the valleys Where the heather blooms — there is my home ! 90 ANNIE. A LOVE SONG. WHEN dew-drops are falling In simmer's lang gloaming, I through the rich meadows Lilt lightly away; I hear the maids calling, Their kye frae aroaming. Before nicht's dark shadows Loom over the brae. Where beds o' green bracken The hillsides adorning, My lassie's rare song-notes Are wafted to me ; The song birds that waken In simmer's fair morning, The glen wi' their flute throats Her mates canna be. Like hue o' the moss rose The cheeks o' my dearie ; Her hair it is nut-brown, Her een black as slae; 91 Milk white as new fa'n snow The teeth o' my fairie, Her skin soft as swan-down, An' pure as the May. Like mist-clouds that gather An' hides the sun's glory, The shades that droop over My Annie's dark een ; As we roam together I tell the auld story That many a lover Hath whispered at e'en. She answers wi' blushes, — I press her wee fingers, — For somehow her wee hand Hath slipt into mine; An* doon by the rushes As gloamin' still lingers, I gie her a wee band That true lovers join. 92 A MOTHER'S DREAM. Inscribed to Mrs. Editha J. McLean^ Port Arthur. LONG, long she waited for her bairn's return ; Her only one, her brave, Rin^-hearted boy. For he had gone, arrayed in garb of war. The same red path his father went before; He seemed his father back to earth again. As forth he went, her pride, her soldier son. How she did cling around her laddie's neck ; No charm for her, the sound of fife and drum That stirred the soldier's blood within his veins. Her lips were closed ; but from her eyes there fell The tell-tale tear that told of her great grief — He was her all — the widow's only one. "I go," he said, "but cheer up, mother dear; Our country calls, and I am duty bound." And as he spoke, the soldier blood leaped high ; His eyes grew black (they were a grayish blue) — "Ah, mother dear, our country's claim is strong, And a base coward could not be your son." 93 She answered not, but her poor heart did ache, For had she not already given one? And now her bairn has gone, her bonnie lad, And with him goes the sunshine from her heart. "Cruel War," she moans, "You robbed me of my Love, And now you wait, athirsting, for my son." And as she waited for her bairn's return, She dreamt she saw him on the field of War, With blood-stained sword, leading His comrades on, Into the very hell-bed of the fight; Down fell the foe before his mighty arm. And in her dream she gloried in her son. And still she dreamed; and with a mother's eyes She followed him thro' paths of human dead, Driving the foe as 'twere into the sea ; And as she dreamed, a man of giant form. Swarthy of skin, a chieftain of the East, With lifted sword turned fiercely on her son. And hate 'gainst hate, each eye ablaze with fire. Each arm strengthened in their country's cause, An equal fight, each trained for field of War, Sword rung on sword. So it seemed in her dream That as the fight she watched, she prayed, "Oh, Lord, Give strength of arm to him, my only one." 94 Perhaps another dreamed of her brave son, Awaiting by her tent for his return, And prayed for strength to Allah for her lad. For soon the widow saw each swordsman fall — Fall, each a victor of the deadly strife ; Both conquered lay, yet each the fight had won. She held her laddie's head upon her lap ; She smoothed the matted hair back from his brow; She cooled his lips with water that a mate Brought from a stream that gurgling ran near by; She heard him say, "Kiss me, mother dear; I die a soldier, and a soldier's son !" She kissed his lips — and wakened from her dream! And falling on her knees, spake thus to God : *'Good Lord, I thank You, that You led me where My laddie lay, crushed by the heel of War, To hear his last 'good-bye,' his closing lips to kiss, And know he died as should a soldier's son." Soon after to the widow's home there came A message mounted with the "Seal of War;" "Your son, dear madam, for his country fell A hero, and a leader in our cause ; His last breathings were, 'Kiss me, mother dear, I die a soldier and a soldier's son.' " 95 THE SHEPHERD TO HIS COLLIE. COME here, auld collie, shaggy freen, Come lay yer nose upon my knee; Yer once sleek body's frail an' lean, An' age has dimmed yer once gleg e'e; I mind the time, my faithfu' Shag, Ye could a' ither dowgs outrun ; Praise gars ye still yer auld tail wag, A praise ye honestly hae won. Yae nicht, when hills were clad wi' snaw. An' burns were bound wi' Frost's keen hand, I had to cross the Rubberslaw, An' errand to auld Gibbie Shand ; My mither tell't me how you whined An' pu'd an^ pu'd her to the door, An' when she op't it, like the wind You scud thro' snaw across the moor. Weel was't for me ye had the wit To snift the danger I was in. Or else some ither hand, puir bruit, This nicht wad rub yer auld dry skin ; 96 I mind fu' weel, my errand dune, I hameward turned. Faith! sic a nicht! The Storm King's mantle hid the mune That was to me my guide an' licht. Auld Boreas he madly blew The thick'ning snaw flakes in his wrath ; The big snaw drifts far bigger grew, An' deep lay hidden ditch an' path; I got confused; I scarce could gang; The whirling snaw flakes drave me blind ; To cheer me up I tried a sang, But grimmer thochts ruled o'er my mind. In some snaw trap my feet went foul ; I thocht my course was run at last; 'Twas then I heard yer welcome howl That mingled wi' the northern blast; New courage gained, I hallo'd "Shag," As weel's my weak'ning breath wad ca', An' by yer help, tho' dour the drag, I warstled frae my grave o' snaw. When Nature, in a reckless mood, Wild rivers made o' mountain rills, A' by yersel yeVe braved the flood An' drave the sheep up to the hills; 97 An', faith! ye were a lawless dowg! Aye, you an' me a tale could tell, How mune-licht nichts — you poachin' rogue !- But that's a story 'tween oorsells. But come ye here! lie on that rug! The best is no' owre guid for you ! An' honest freen's man's faithfu' dowg, 'Mong smiles or sneer they're ever true ; How often man, new freens to win. Will scorn the auld, an' ill words say; But dowgs — dumb bruits — are far abune Sic shallow freenships o' a day. A BRITHER SCOT. Inscribed to the Rev. James F. Dickie^ on His Call to the American Church, Berlin, Germany. THE bonnie flooers that come in May And beautify the field an' brae, Altho' in Autumn they decay, Their seed will bloom again. The songster sings, then goes away, Perhaps a while, perhaps for aye, But yet the echo o' his lay In memory remains. The wee burn rippling owre the brae Refreshes many on its way ; The bush that's drooket wi' its spray Wi' richer blossoms hang. This man whose deeds are ever kind — Whose eye reflects a noble mind — His grasp a proof unto the blind — What tho' he's called away LofC. 99 To other lands that wish to share Those talents that to men are rare — To lead in study or in pray'r The seekers o' our Lord? The seed o' Truth — that he has sown; Look ye around how well it's grown ; E'en frae amidst the brier an' stone We see its sprouts to-day. His kindly deeds in life portray The rippling burn's refreshing spray, That drooks the bushes on its way Unto the mighty sea. An' like the songster's lichtsome lay, Altho' by dreamy Spree he'll stray, His teachings will remain for aye In many a heart an' home. NORTH BERWICK BY THE SEA. On the Death of a Wandering Scot. THE mighty pine trees darken. A glorious view frae me — Wild, boundless, trackless prairies, roll 'tween me an' the sea; A burning, wasting fever has chained me, laid me low, And, oh ! my heart is far away, where caller breezes blow. I hear — I ken 'tis fancy — the sea-mews' eerie cry. As roond an' roond they circle, between the sea an' sky ; I hear the breakers roaring, telling o' treacherie That lurks alang yon auld toon's shore — North Berwick by the Sea. I roam by auld Tantallon, an' climb its ruined wa's ; My bluid athrill wi' Douglas, wha strode within its ha's ; A bairn again, a-dreaming o' lang syne chivalry That haunts ilk stane in yon auld toon — North Berwick by the Sea. I see the sands a-gleaming, a field o' pearl an' gold; The Bass wi' mist cap frowning like some gray witch of old; I see a blue-eyed maiden that's ever true to me, That I hae trysted in yon toon, North Berwick by the Sea. I see a whinstane biggin, the last ane o' the Raw, That guards the auld road's turning that leads up to the Law ; A hame it's noo for strangers, but weel I mind the day When in its cosy but an' ben a bairnie 1 did play. I stand where sleep my parents, amang the auld toon's dead; A hawthorn spreads its glory abune their earthy bed ; I fain wad lie beside them, but, oh ! it canna be. For many a trackless prairie rolls 'tween me an' the sea. Hold — hold me up, dear campmate ! A Singer's drawing near Who sings a sang that thrills me, with rich notes long an* clear ; The trees gleam wi' His glory ; A Guide He comes to me, To lead my soul beyond yon toon, North Berwick by the Sea. THE SONG OF THE SKATER. A KING you may feel on your favorite wheel Over roads that are level an' wide, But give me the mere, smooth, solid, an' clear. And a sure-footed lass by my side; Let the wintry winds blow, the faster we'll go. Shod with steel from the toe to the heel; With laughter an' song we'll join the gay throng, As in circles they merrily wheel. The calm summer days the poet can raise As he drinks from the cup of his Muse, An' sings of the flow'rs, an' jessamine bow'rs, An' red lips of the lady he woos ; But rime drooping trees, an' keen winds that freeze, Are the beauties to me of the year, As I merrily glide, a lass by my side. O'er the thick frozen, smooth, glassy mere. When leaves turn an' fall, the stirring foot-ball Is a sport that is fit for a King, But when comes the snow, an' wintry winds blow. An' the frost o'er the river beds cling, Oh, give me the mere, wide, solid an' clear, An' a bonnie lass, jolly an' leal; Then, ho ! merry ho ! a-singing we'll go. As forward an' backward we wheel. 103 A SOLDIER BOY'S LETTER TO MOTHER. DEAR mother, I ken you'll be waitin' For news frae your wild laddie Graeme, But you ken I'm a puir hand at writin', Tho' I never forget o' my hame. I received your dear kindly letter. An' was glad to get the guid news That faither was now getting better, An' had rented the croft o' the Hews. An' Maggie still sticks to the teachin' — She'll soon hae a school o' her ain — But Jock he's no fit for the preachin', Let him stick to his chisel an' plane. Wha'd ever hae thought that oor Mary Could be dux for over six weeks — An' Kate does a' the wark o' the dairy, An' wee Rab has his first pair o' breeks ! Weel, mother, there's word that oor reg'ment Soon will get orders for hame. An' I've got promoted to serjeant! Hoo's that for your wild laddie Graeme? 104 I saved the life o' oor captain — Nae mair than I ought to hae done — Frae the sword o' a wild Arab chieftain, Wi' a blow frae the butt o' my gun. God bless you, my dear loving mother, Tho' thoughtless, I think aye of thee; I ken I hae been lots o' bother An' brought many tears to your e'e ; But my hand's noo beginning to tremble ; This climate seems bad for the een; My thoughts are beginning to ramble ; I'm better wi' bay'net than pen. My tent-mate — brave fellow — lies sleepin', You ken him — 'tis big Charlie Hall — An' it's time 'neath my plaid I was creepin', Sae I'll finish wi' love to you all. Good-night, my ain dear auld mother, I think we'll be hame aboot June, An' altho' I'm rechristened wi' poother, You'll find I am still your wild loon. 105 TEN YEARS TO-DAY. Verses to My Wife on Our Tin Wedding. DEAR partner, maker o' oor hame, An' dearer still, "wee mither," Ten years hae gane since we agreed Wi' love to toil thegether; Oor fields hae aften yielded burrs When we expected clover, An' when we needed sunshine maist Oor sky's been clouded over. Ten years to-day ! A span o' Time That's drawn oor hearts still nearer. An' toddlin' feet, an' chubby cheeks. Hath made oor hame mair dearer. My task's made lichter by your smile. An' brichter gleams oor ingle, Where bonnie curls o' broon an' gold Wi' beard an' tresses mingle. No ugly frowning Gorgon's head — A sculptor's horrid vision — Stares demon-like above oor gates All jealous of intrusion. Oor doorway's sma' ; the rooms are wee ; io6 An' humble is oor table ; But comfort gleams in ev'ry neuk Frae woodshed to front gable. Ten years to-day ! God grant we may Be many more together, Ere Death the Farter's siccar blow Asunder cleaves life's tether. Ye've learned my ways ; ye ken my faults- Ferhaps they grieve ye often — An' yet I ken to some o' them Your heart begins to soften. We men-folks lack the virtues rare , That make divine the human — It only can be reached by her, Man's fair companion, woman ! Sae at oor best we men hae faults, But to fair woman's given The virtues, and the power to lead Us willingly to Heaven. Again, dear wife ! I say to thee I bless our first fond meeting, When I found out this heart o' mine For love of you was beating. Ten years hae gane; the heart still loves- Yes, with a love that's stronger — While life it lasts true love lives long. While life it lasts and longer. 107 MacLEANS OF FAIR GLENRHOE. THE heath bell withered on the ben Grass yellowed on the lea, And shallower, shallower sunk the stream That zig-zagged slowly thro' the glen — A throbbing string of silver gleam — With story to the sea. Of simple Gael whose patriot soul Links grandeur to Auld Scotia's scroll Of song and chivalry. Yet forced in distant lands to roam In quest perhaps of kindlier home, For cause men oft bewail. Ah, well, 'tis better for the land That opens wide with welcome hand Their gates unto the Gael. For western wild and eastern mine Bare the imprint of Ossian's line — At college, church, or busy mart. At seat of war or fount of art ; In all the New World's paths to fame We hear the clink of Highland name. But turn we with the stream, Past bush and flower and half ripe grain, That shrinks and droops for lack of rain To the wee shieling of MacLean The burden of my theme. io8 "Speak man!" what brings ye o'er the hill What seek ye in Glenrhoe! What message did the chieftain send To the MacLean, his father's friend — Speak man, we fain would know ! The chief — our chief! hath sold the land; They'll tear our shieling down, And drive us forth, unjust command. Why, man ! this land's our own. "The old chief was my husband's friend. When death claimed his young wife. To nurse his son he gave the land From "Mona's Height" down to the Strand To us while lingers life. My Hugh, my first-born bonnie lad, He that was drowned at sea. Was but a bairnie at the breast. When Donald brought the nursling guest. Our good chief's son to me. "He learned God's grandeur at my knee. Our songs, our country's tale — And Donald trained his eager hand To guard our homes — protect our land From foemen of the Gael. At Delhi, in the hated strife, Angus, my soldier son. 109 Saved him, our chief, an ingrate's life. And lost, brave lad, his own. 1 "My bairns all dead, my husband blind, Our kin all o'er the sea; Ah, happy days, no more again The slogan of the Clan MacLean, The music of the free. Will gather is as it did of yore Our tartans in the glen. Our good chief dead, his son no more A leader of our men. "A Sassenach has bought the land, For deer parks, did you say? The Sass'nach own our braes, our bens , Our father's cairns, our bonnie glens — Woe, woe befall this day. His birthright sell, false be your tale. How could he e'er have sold Land that was bought with blood of Gael For hated Southron gold. "Our bodies frail, bent o'er with Time Where, man! where can we go? He offers a dependent's bed, A pauper's homeless, cheerless shed To us of fair Glenrhoe. Go back to him who dares to sell The lan^ his father gave — Tell him to-morrow it will be Unburdened, tenantless and free — From height to Ocean's wave." That night, from sea to river's head The hills were all aglare — Wild rolling waves of lurid red Like hell-winged furies fiercely sped Sweeping before the frantic herds Of sheep and deer, and blinded birds Whose shriekings rent the air. From cot to cot went forth the cry Awak'ning all Dunyre, A troubled, ling'ring, thrilling cry, "The heather is on fire." At mirk the smoke-veiled heavens burst ; Down, down in torrents came The saving rain with roaring gush, Quenching the furious rolling rush Of dire destructive flame. At dawn Old Sol looked o'er the ben On miles of blighted heath, At dawn the factor sought again ' The straw-thatched shieling of MacLean, Thro' footways strewn with death, No stir of life fell on his ear, Save sob of swollen stream. That carried to the northern sea The smitten growth of hill and lea. Grim mourners of my theme — Some flame-swept bushes on the brae A patch of blackened grain, A smould'ring heap of stone and clay A reeking cairn of yesterday — The shieling of MacLean. No more to man MacLeans will plead, For near "Gray Malcolm's Stone," Some crofters found at ebb of tide Their lifeless bodies side by side, Their shroud a gathering of sea-weed, Their dirge the Ocean's moan. ROBERT BURNS. July 2ist, 1796. LOW lay the singer, Scotia's ploughman Bard, Neglected by the hands that urged him forth. Knowing his gifts, feeling his words of fire. Yet dare not whisper, would not breathe his worth. But hid behind his faults, the faults they nursed. That loomed awhile, clouding his rarer skies ; They hid with tightened purse and closed eyes. The cry went out, "toll, toll the city bell," In mourning drape the hallan, ha' and throne." The cry went out, and all the great world heard, "Our poet's dead," Auld Scotia's gifted son. He that has sang a song for Scotia's sake And felt as only a true poet can, The inward throbbings of his fellowman. "Our poet's dead," and those that stood aloof. Behind his faults that shadowed forth his worth. With hurried steps, lips ready to him praise. Sought where he lay, to idolize the earth. Awakened to the grandeur of the soul, In life delayed — now eager to atone By raising to his memory, a stone. Ii3 July 21 st, i8g6. A hundred years and yet but half awake We grasp the jewels of that gifted brain, Of the rare bard, that sang for Scotia's sake A living song. A wreath of gems, that ever radiant gleams And flashes over all man's wide domain, Wooing the throng. Past worlds of art, to where the golden broom. And blue-bells wave and nod and linties trill. Where lads and lassies meet at gloamin's gloom. By iDurn an' brae. Wiled by that pow'r that leadeth heart to heart. That hidden sympathetic subtle thrill, Love's mighty sway. Woos thirsty minds from ev'ry man-trod clime, Unto that tomb, where fell a poet's dust, Whose genius created gems sublime For all the world. Who felt, and met the righteous bigot's sting. With scorching wit, and at the niggard, just Keen satire hurl'd. He of the mighty soul, the rare foresight. That fearless, grandly sang, "A man's a man, Whate'er his rank" (our pampered brother's hight), The master line. 114 Whose jeweled links encircles all the world, Welded by love. The great Creator's plan, The chain divine. A hundred years, brief period of man, Still bigots teach, bigots of every creed, And cynics sneer — and narrow minds still ban With closed eyes. And gold still rules a tyrant over worth. And gilded rank, the boast of Adam's seed, Pride's steel-forged ties. But speech rules free, words of the heart now soar, And ranic lies bare, before the wak'ning mind. From sea to sea, from distant shore to shore — "A man's a man." Hand claspeth hand. Quakes now the tinseled pow'r- "A man's a man" re-echoes all mankind, Bright gleams worth's dawn. A hundred years, a field of golden grain. Mown down and garnered by old Farmer Time — Years of great triumphs of the human brain. And yet man turns To idolize a tiller of the soil? A horny-handed follower of toil? Far more! A singer of the heart's rare song, A cunning workman of the art sublime, Our Robert Burns. 115 THE GLEANER. HER frail, lean body, bent with age and care. Long since robbed of the maiden's rounded charms, She stoops and gathers o'er the reapered field The scattered straws — within her shrunken arms. The faded, much patched, oft washed gown, Tucked up to give her limbs more ease to creep, Tells of hard times, and yet of cleanly ways. Of busy hands, when others, resting, sleep. A wide-mouthed bonnet, tied beneath her chin, Protects the wrinkled face from glaring rays ; A chin wherein a dimple still remains — A mark of beauty, gone with better days. The sound of reapers in a near-by field Awake, perhaps, fond mem'ries of the past — Bring back a village belle's romantic dreams. Ere with a heartless ne'er-do-well her lot was cast. She sees, perhaps, a rosy blushing lass. Sought, for her charms, by many a rural swain, Following the reapers, with a lightsome heart. To ready fields of ripened golden grain. ii6 With supple limbs, beEind the flashing knives, She runs and lifts within her rounded arms The rich, ripe sheaf, and lays it in the band For him, her binder, one wooed by her charms. From bench or anvil, or some shepherd lad Who leaves awhile his sheep and trusty crook, To help his master get the harvest yield — In drying rows of shapely, goodly stook. At noon, beside a hedge, they sit them down ; He, man-like, asks her to become his bride; But she, the village belle, has heart for only one- The master's son, who reckless past them rides. Ah, me ! the poor frail gleaner feebly moans, "1 scorned the reaper for the horseman gay. And now, alone, I creep and trembling glean The stubble fields in life's sere autumn day." 117 THE WIDOW'S TEARS. THE queen lies dead, in the royal house, And a good, good queen was she — And around the casket rich and grand Weep many of high degree. The cathedral bells ring in solemn chimes And singers of names far known Chant the classic dirge of the royal dead For the truest that wore a crown. Away from the court, its pomp, its pride, From halls of rich display. On a bleak hillside, in a peasant's cot Weeps a widow frail and gray. She weepeth because her queen lies dead, For a good, good queen was she, Who was loved for her noble woman-heart And not for her royalty. The widow remembers one sad day — A day in years long gone; When her husband was laid in his lowly grave, Near the banks of their native Don. She remembers the lady — the first of the land, ii8 How she came t-o her cottage drear, And tried in her kindly, goodly way The widowed heart to cheer. "I, too, am a widow," the good queen said, "So a sister I am to you, And our hearts both ache for the love we have lost For the men we loved so true." They sat hand in hand for many an hour. The queen and the cotter dame, — It left a great love in the lowly cot And honored the royal name. Let the royal bards chant the classic dirge, The princely mourners pray. While castle, church and all are draped In sombre, wide display. But she who kneels in her lowly cot, With heart sad, tear-wet e'en. Is a greater proof of the noble heart That beat in Britain's queen. 119 A WAR BROTHER. BRAVE fellow! he's dead, let us bury him deep From the vulture's blood searching claws ; For he is a brother, tho' little he loved Our power as a maker of laws. He has fought like a soldier, an' died like a man; Ev'ry shot it is gone from his belt; So we, his war brothers, will lay him away In the bowels of this wild rocky veldt. Here's a letter that's fallen from out of his kit. The writing is strange unto me, But it's proof that there's someone awaits his return, Whoever that someone may be. Lift him gently, brave chums, fold around him this plaid — It belongs to a generous clan, Who have loved in all times the true spirit that guides To the front the brave fighting man. Lay his gun down beside him, he used it with pride, We know with an accurate aim. But such a bold foeman, we'll treat with respect. As we hope to be treated the same. Come, Mac, throw over your shoulder the pipes An' play up "Lochaber No More;" It's a dirge of the mountains appropriate now O'er the grave of this patriot Boer. An' Bill, you are handy, come carve on this stone — Never mind, do the best that you can — Use that bay'net, it's broken, the words — let them be- "Here lies a true fighting man." They buried him deep from the vulture's cruel claws, They marked his lone grave with a stone. An' turned to forget, as soldiers will do, Their deed ere the breaking of dawn. But the stone it may stand for many a day. When war's bloody carnival's o'er. Perhaps as a plea to unite for all time The hand of the Briton and Boer. OUR GOLDEN JUBILEE. Inscribed to the Officers and Members of St. Andrew's Society anb Sung by Robert S. Rankin^ Nov. 30th, 1899. 'TIS fifty years ago since first Within this city fair, St. Andrew's bairns did celebrate With song and speeches rare. Some have been gathered to their Sires, Beyond the azure sky; But what they've done for Scotland's sake Will never, never die. Now, some of them are with us yet, Heads white as driven snow, Who sang oor sangs — brave Scotia's sangs- Just fifty years ago. Come, let us toast them, one and all ; Fill high the festive bowl. And drink them health and happiness. With wines that cheer the soul. For Scotland's sake they proved their worth, Whatever was the test; And carved forever are their names Among Columbia's best. They guarded aye Old Glory's folds, And so with pride will we, Altho' at times we sing, like them, Of Scotland, owre the sea. Then rise, rise to your feet again ! Stand brithers side by side, Auld rugged Scotland's sturdy bairns, And fair Columbia's pride. This glorious night our Jubilee Around the festive bowl. To lasting friendship we will drink In wine that cheers the soul. 123 YON BONNIE BLUE BELL. PU' me, dear sister, yon bonnie blue bell That grows on the bank, near the wishing well; To-night comes a gallant, handsome an' fair, Sae I wish the bloom for my nut-brown hair; Haste ye, an pu' me yon bonnie blue bell. Sister o' mine, sister dear, Frae yon bonnie bank, near the wishing well, Sister o' mine, sister dear. T'll pu' ye a rose near the trysting tree, A bonnie red rose, an' gi'e it to thee ; You'll wear it to-night in thy nut brown hair, To please your true gallant, handsome an' fair; I'll pu' ye a rose near the trysting tree. Sister o' mine, sister dear, 'A bonnie red rose, an' gi'e it to thee, Sister o' mine, sister dear. Pu' not the red rose near the trysting tree, 'For its sworded stem thy rich blood might pree, An' a bluid-bought trophy I'd never wear. Tho' it please a gallant handsome an' fair; Sae pu' not the rose near the trysting tree, 124 Sister o' mine, sister dear, For its sworded stem thy rich bluid might pree, Sister o' mine, sister dear. I'll pu' ye the primrose frae the green brae. The first born flow'r — o' flow'r mother May ; I'll weave it wi' green, an' to-night you'll wear The yellow an' green in your nut brown hair; I'll pu' ye the primrose frae the green brae, Sister o' mine, sister dear, The first born flow'r o' flow'r mother May, Sister o' mine, sister dear. 'No ! no ! not the primrose frae the green brae, Or the rue I'll wear ere summer decay; The eye now love-lit be dimmed wi' a tear. The red-rounded cheek be hollow an' sere; "No ! no ! not the primrose frae the green brae, Sister o' mine, sister dear^ Or the rue I'll wear ere summer decay, Sister o' mine, sister dear. I'll pu' ye, sister, the bonnie blue bell That sparkles wi' dew near the wishing well. That gem o' true love, dear sister, you'll wear On a snow white band in thy nut brown hair, I'll hasten an' pu' ye the bonnie blue bell, Sister o' mine, sister dear. 125 That sparkles wi' dew near the wishing well, Sister o' mine, sister dear. The Fairy o' Love, sweet Queen o' the well. Searched a' around for the bonnie blue bell ; But she looks in vain, for a maiden fair Has pu'd the wee flow'r for her sister's hair, An' Cupid, gay Cupid, sings over the hill, "Sister o' mine, sister dear, A string for my bow, my quiver refill. Sister o' mine, sister dear!" 126 THE FAIREE COMPANEE. My grannie had often said to me, When I toddled a wee thing at her knee: 'When the woods hang ripe wi' nut an' slae, An' the hawthorn's red on the auld mill brae, Through the Birk grove, past the auld white thorn, Gang yer lone-way i' the first peep o' morn. An' in the green glade, near the big elm tree, Ye'll find the Fairee Companee. I dreamed o' their doings nicht an' day — 'Till I reached the age of six times twae; Then, when the cherries were sweet to pree, An, the berries hung red on the rowan tree, Frae oor hoose I crept, one early morn. When the dew still hung on the rip'ning corn, To seek the green glade, near the big elm tree, Where bide the Fairee Companee. I crept past the kirkyard on the hill, Roon by the schoolhouse, an' doon by the mill, Doon the dam side, then over the rail. An' crossed by the steppin' stanes over the Kayle, 127 Syne thro' the grove, past the auld white thorn, Whose branches hung wet wi' the dew o' the morn ; Then' ent'ring the glade, I hid 'hind the tree, To watch the Fairee Companee. The flickerin' licht o' incomin' day Threw shadows 'roon me gruesome an' gray. But a soond o' mirth garred me keek roon the tree, An' there was a sicht brang the sun to my e'e; Roon' a big stane, singin' an' cheerin'. Funny wee folk, hand in hand, were careerin'. Red-cheeked, roon' Bellied, a' shakin' wi' glee, A queer wee broon-coated companee. Dame Nature, who ever is kind to her ain, Had covered wi' moss the roon' muckle stane; On top, mang a glitter that dazzled my e'en. Sat a bonnie wee lass I s'posed was their Queen; She held in her hand a tiny sheep's horn That was fu' to the brim wi' ripe golden corn; An' aye as she waved it, they sang merrilee, An' thus sang the Fairee Companee : 'Before the dew drops off the thorn. We'll gather nuts, we'll store our corn ; Before the sunbeams kiss the lea We'll dance and sing right merrilee, 128 For a happy, busy folk are we, The merry, merry Fairee Companee." The rest o' their sang I dinna ken. For the sun blinked through the trees just then, An' like a flash the fairees were gane, While a tJree toad croaked on the moss covered stane ; I looked a' aroon, mang grass an' mang corn, But naething I found but this wee sheep horn, Wherever I wander, I carry 't wi' me A token o' Fairee Companee. 129 THE HEROES O' DARGAI GAP. ONCE again they have saved old Britain's proud name, An' curbed the fain cry that was ready wi' shame Have awakened the world to Scotia's worth, As the pipes stirred them on wi' the cock o' the North. Smoke an' blood dimmed the hue o' the bright tartan plaid As they rushed thro' the zone wi' bayonet an' blade But Gordons will take it an' brave Harry knew There was no, no retreat wi' the bonnets o' blue. From the gun bristling fidge came death sweeping rain, Stirring Findlater's pipes to an angrier strain; Both legs they were torn an' shattered wi' shot. But to glory he piped the unfaltering Scot, With back 'gainst a boulder, he played an' he played While the furious blacks dropped their weapons dismayed, Then wi' fear driven yells to the hollows they flew, Leaving fortress an' guns wi' 'oor bonnets o' blue. What say you, alarmist, has Britain decayed; Has rust eaten thro' her once-conquering blade? No, never as long as auld Scotland has sons To blow her rare pipes, or shoulder her guns ; Then hurra' for the heroes o' Dargai Gap, Rank their names wi' the laddies that humbled proud Nap. There is mist in our een for the lads that we lo'e But it comes wi' oor pride for the bonnets o' blue. 130 THE PAIRTINGS O' YESTREEN. Inscribed to My Cousin, Mrs. James Pennycook, Hawick. WE miss the pitter-patter O' the wee feet on the flair, The lichtsome guileless laughter We'll hear on earth nae mair; For oor bonnie bairns lie sleepin' Aneath yon sod sae green, An' the tears rin doon as we lay away The wee shoes o' yestreen. In ilka neuk's a something To remind us o' oor weans — A wee doll here, a bookie there, That bare wee finger stains ; Sae oor hearts are heavy, heavy. An' tears will dim oor een, As we gather up to lay away The playthings o' yestreen. We watched wi' pride oor darlings Grow bonnier day by day. An' thocht they'd be oor comfort When we were frail an' gray; 131 But the shadow crossed oor threshold An' darkened hope's fair scene, An' the tears rin doon as we hide away The pictures o' yestreen. At the wee bed we linger, Where we aye at sleeptime's 'oor Knelt near oor slumb'ring darlings. Praying the Heavenly Pooer To keep them pure an' happy, Fit for a fairer scene, An' the tears rin doon as we fold away The goonies o' yestreen. It's hard, hard, to lose them, But there's a future day. When freens an' kin that's pairted Will meet again for aye; Sae we will join oor bairnies When love will reign serene, Tho' oor hearts are sair, an' we sob to-day O'er pairtings o' yestreen. 132 THE OLD SOLDIER. He stooped, for he carried Time's burden, And his step was shaky and slow, But his heart was as brave as ever, And his eye had a youthful glow; Men told of his country's danger From a bold war-thirsting foe. And his hand clutched the trusty broadsword. But it tired with his fancy's blow. He sought his couch, body-wearied. Where his eyes were soon closed in sleep, And in a dream his life rolled backward. O'er the sands of Time's great deep; He held to his heart his mother — He kissed the red lips of his Mame — He strode with a soldier's bearing. And yearned for a warrior's name. He marched to the field of battle, Inspired by the roll of the drum. And he laughed where the fight was thickest At the joke of a soldier chum; He leaps with a leader's daring 133 To the brave color-bearer's aid, And a foeman falls at ev'ry blow- That he strikes with his goodly blade. But safe is his country's banner, Driven seawards back the bold foe, And he wakes an honored victor — A brave victor of long ago; And in voice that is strong and steady, Altho' trembles his willing hand, He urges his children to stand aye true To God and their native land. "Remember the blood of your kinsmen, That ran in streams to the sea. To buy what is now your birthright — The home of the brave and free." Too strong was the warrior spirit — For its tottering, time-worn cell , And — they laid him to rest on the hillside. Where his warrior comrades fell. 134 'A' BODY'S WEAN.' Deep the blue o' Dame Nature's ceiling, Rich wi' dew shone her mantle o' green, When auld Rab frae his auld thacket shelling, Hirpled doon to the foot o' the Dean ; Soon his auld een they bulged out wi' wonder, For there, side the roond muckle stane, A basket — an', maist extraordner. Within it, asleep, a wee wean. The basket auld Rabbie soon shouthered, Awa' up to his lanely auld hame, Where the gossipin' neebours soon gathered, Wond'ring a' frae where the wean came; They gossiped an' wrangled thro' ither 'Boot the feet an' the e'en o' the wean, An' wondered wha could be its mither? An' where could its daddie ha'e gaen? But their tongues soon ceased their waggin', An' kind hands soon fed the wee loon ; An' for mithers he needna gang beggin'. For ilka wife claimed him in toon. He grew up a fine bonnie laddie. Ilk ane treated him as their ain; 135 Auld Rab was a kind-hearted daddy, An' we ca'd him "A'body's wean." At schule, I mind fine o' wee Rabbie — Such curls an' such bonnie blue e'en — Ae day he was brither to Babbie An' next he was brither to Jean; At jumpin', or rinnin', or wrestlin' Wee Rabbie could aye stand his ain, An' he was either lauchin' or whistlin' — This loon that was A'body's wean. He turned oot a brave-hearted fellow ; To auld Rab he was noble an' kind. Na, his folk they were never heard tell o', But the laddie seemed never to mind; The rambles that we had together Come back to my mem'ry again, As I roamed thro' the rich, fragrant heather Wi' oor Babbie an' a'body's wean. I thought — but my heart's for anither — When he ca'd me his wee pawky Jean, That he meant to be mair than a brither — But then, I was only sixteen, An' Babbie, tho' just twa years aulder, Was sae quiet, an' wad roam aff alane, When I, aye a talker, an' baulder. Wad be daffin' wi' A'body's wean. 136 But auld Rab he dee'd, an' the laddie, Ambitious Fame's ladder to climb, Went to sea on a ship called the Naddie, That sailed for some far distant clime; Months an' years they rolled past, an' no letter Frae him that we loo'ed as oor ain, But we aye lived in hope, 'twas far better Than dwell on such thoughts as gave pain. Ae day I was thrang makin' butter, An' Babbie was cairdin' some 'oo; When oor faither cam' in wi' a letter Frae the lad we a' loo'ed sae true; He'd got lost frae his ship in the Indies, An' through many hardships he came. But oor hearts they grew licht as the Unties When we read he was on his way hame. 'Twas aboot the last days o' September, We had cut doon oor last sheaf o' wheat. O'er the dyke sprang a big-bearded stranger, Wha hugged 'till I fair had to greet; It was that loon, oor auld farrant Rabbie, Come back to his auld freens again. An' noo, though he's married oor Babbie, Still to us he is A'Body's Wean. 137 AULD SCOTIA. WE love oor dear auld mitherland, Ilk wimpling burn, an' roaring river; Her rugged glens an' rock-bound strand Are scenes that cling to mem'ry ever; The pink tipp'd gowans on the lea, The yellow broom, the purple heather, An' blue bells noddin' saucilie For winsome maids to stoop an' gather. The frowning rocks where eagles nest, Stern thrilling proofs o' nature's graudeur, The crumblin' scaurs wi' golden crest, An' brae-sides strewn wi' Flora's splendor; The highland tarns an' mountains steep. The princely ha', the lowly shieling, The moss-grown moat, and ivied keep, A storied past to all revealing. And aft did Ossian sing the praise Of highland maid and warrior stern. Of fighting clans — in bygone days Marked by rude cross and Celtic cairn; Rare highland maids ! brave highland men ! Time only addeth to your glory ! Auld Scotia's rugged mount and glen To-day is making Britain's story. 138 The lowland haughs and border dales, Clothed in rich grass and waving corn, Land where Scott wove enchanting tales Of lady fair, of hawk and horn, Of Douglas, and of Cranstone bold. Of Philiphaugh, and Otterburne, — Rare visions did his eyes behold In ruined tower and sacred urn, Auld Scotia's dear! much favored landt Your exiled son, with pride aye turns — The home of him, alone, who'll stand Our Chief of Bards, Immortal Burns! He sang not of the might of kings; The pomp of courts he held in scorn; And yet his song with royalty rings The grandeur of the lowly born. Farewell, dear land ! though now we roam Far from your lochs and hawthorn dens, Far from those scenes of childhood's home, Your heath-clad hills and rugged glens, Unsullied will remain your name; Thy honor aye we will uphold; Thy standard, aye rising, be the aim Of us — as in the days of old. 139 IN MEMORY OF A NATION'S BARD. (John Greenleaf Whittier.) FREEDOM'S sweet bard ! And has that spirit fled That moved the feelings of the just and true; Whose inspired songs for the poor negro plead, Or thrilled the lads that wore the garb of blue? But thy rare songs, forever shall they live, To cheer the home of many a simple man; Thy task well done. For thee we should not grieve; Your years were blest beyond the 'lotted span. At last you've found the islands of thy quest; Thy lyric barque has reached the golden shore; No more by life's rough highway need you rest; Thy labor done, with Nature evermore. Thy every musing breathed of wood and dell; Your songs are flowers that strew our life's pathway; Sweetest of singers! may thy mem'ry dwell Forever green, a household name for aye. 140 PAPA'S DIMPLES. My Oldest Lassie When a Baby. SHE'S the sunshine o' oor dwelling, A mischievous little queen, Brimming fu' o' love an' laughter That fair sparkles in her e'en ; Is there anything that's cuter Than a baby in a hame, Like oor ain wee rosy darling — Papa's little dimpled dame? Just look then at her dimples That lie in her fat wee cheeks. An' her mou' just like a rosebud, An' two teeth that thro' it peeks. No, there's naething that's so charming For a cosy little hame Than is mamma's precious darling — Papa's blue-eyed dimpled dame. Now she's fooling wi' her uncle. An' a-pulling at his nose ; Now she's swinging in her hammock. An' a-playing wi' her toes ; She's her uncle's little fairy — 141 A bright, mischievous dame, Is her mamma's blue-eyed darling — Papa's dimples just the same. Yes, money will buy diamonds, And those costly gems so rare; But for a balm that's healing, And a grand relief for care, Is a little dimpled darling, A priceless gem o' hame. Like oor mamma's precious darling — Papa's bonnie blue-eyed dame. May God's blessing aye gang wi' her. Where'er her wee feet go ; May the cloud that's dark an' stormy Aye a silver lining show ; What sphere of life she's destined for, May she aye remain the same — Her mamma's blue-eyed darling, Papa's own wee dimpled dame. 142 IN LOVING MEMORY O' MY MITHER-AUNT. (Ann Gordon.) I thocht that I again wad clasp The dear auld kindly hand, And hear a welcome frae her lips, A welcome leal and grand. But I ha'e lingered, lingered lang, Self-exiled o'er the main, And death has garnered, and I'll ne'er See her on earth again. I gaze in sadness thro' the mist, Wi' bairnhood's e'en I see My noble-hearted mither-aunt And hear her say to me : "Ah, laddie, laddie, dinna greet, Oor hoose it might be sma', But there's aye room for your wee heid, Sae dinna bide awa'." She'd hap me up wi' mither hands As if I was her ain ; I ken she prayed frae her pure heart. Prayed o'er and o'er again. To God to guide my wayward steps 143 And keep me frae black shame, And hoped to see me grip the rungs That raises man to fame. "Keep up your heart," she'd ever say. "The brave heart makes the man ; Keep aye this motto in your mind And dae the best ye can." j I'll ne'er forget the cheery words |j That ever eased my load, And turned me back when fain I'd stray The glitt'ring downward road. I fain would ask, I crave nae mair, God grant it unto me, To drop a tear abune her grave For lang syne's memory; And pu' a daisy fresh and pure, A sacred bit o' bloom. To cherish for the hope I ha'e Beyond the earthly tomb. 144 A PIPER'S CANARY. Verses Written on Witnessing the Grief of Mr. Rattray, a Detroit Piper, Over the Death of His Canary. PUIR bird, nae mair yer wee bit sang Will cheer oor hame, For Death, dour chield ! has stept alang An' smoored life's flame; An' noo, in bitter grief, I hang Oot owre yer frame. Yer wee bit breist, an' tufted croon O' orange hue, An' warblin' notes, raised ye abune The chirpin' crew Whaes sangs, folk claim, awake the toon To life anew. Lang, lang I'll miss yer bonnie sang In early morn, When daylicht wiles the toiling thran^ To tend their corn ; Yer cage will empty, silent hang, While I maun mourn. 145 Sae on yer grave I'll drap a tear, My puir wee bird; Yer task in life was hearts to cheer, An' by my word, Wha e'er yer wee bit sang did hear Was grandly stirred. 146 WEE MIRIAM. My Second Daughter, When a Baby. MY wee love's een wi' mischief shine; Her g^uileless smile bewitches me. Her dimpled hand I hold in mine — A dimpled hand, sae soft an' wee — Wee love o' mine, my Miriam ! The fairies surely kissed her mou' ; Like ripened cherries is their hue ; To test their sweets I'll pree them noo — Sweetheart o' mine, my Miriam ! She smiles again, a winning smile, That shows a dimple in her chin ; I'll press her to my heart awhile To pree those sweet lips free o' sin- The cherry lips o' Miriam ! I ask if she'll be ever true. But ne'er a word comes frae her mou'. Except a rippling "goo-a-goo" — Sae quaint is my sweet Miriam ! 147 The mither watches, wi' a smile, Her daughter fair bewitching me ; She maybe minds when she did wile The laddies wi' her ain dark e'e. Like her wee daughter Miriam! My ain sweet love wi' een o' blue, An' dimpled chin, an' cherry mbu', At thy wee feet wi' love I boo, My bairn, my bonnie Miriam ! And as I hold that hand in mine — A dimpled hand sae soft an' wee — A speaking glance, a smile divine, Reveals the mither's heart to me. She prays, God guard wee Miriam ! Yes, guard her. Lord, we ever pray. An' keep her pure as she's to day. For like a flow'r o' Virgin May Is oor wee bairn, oor Miriam ! 148 THE MILLER O' SWEETHOPE LEA. A story I'll tell, if you wait awhile, O' the miller o' Sweethope Lea, Who was known for many a broad long mile, An' a well-loved man was he; For he made fine flour for the Laird o' Beal, An' he ground fine oats for the peasant's meal, An' steady was the dip o' the water wheel, O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea. Tho' friends were many, an' busy his mill. An' unhappy man was he; His hair grew white as the mist on the hill. An' trouble gleamed in his e'e. Oh, what is wrang wi' the miller ,puir chiel? His wife looks happy, his bairns are weel, An' steady is the dip o' the water wheel, O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea. "Oh, what is the matter?" quo' neighbor Lynn, "What's wrang, guid freen, wi' thee? You look careworn, your cheeks are thin. An' trouble lies in your e'e; You grind fine flour, you make good meal, 149 Your bairns are fat, your wife looks weel, An' steady the dip o' the water wheel, O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea." "My freens are many, my foes are few, An' it's happy I should be ; My bairns are guid, my wife she's true, Tho' a something troubles me ; The grain comes rolling to my mill, The water comes tumbling over the hill, An' never a stane lies ever still, O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea," "My man he is eident, an' I have found Him a trusty help for me; He's been wi' me, when March comes round, Twenty good lang years an' three; But the truth, guid Lynn, I canna conceal — My debts grow many, an' I just feel Like staying the dip o' the water wheel O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea. "My food is plain ; I have drank no wine For many an' many a day, Tho' my mill runs plenty, yet, neighbor mine, My mouter a' runs away; Nae wonder I look in your e'en unweel. For I seem mysel' in a constant reel. 150 For ruin grins grimly o'er ev'ry wheel O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea." "I sorrow wi' thee, guid Miller Swan ; Nae wonder you're turning gray; You say you are blessed wi' an honest man, Yet your mouter runs away ; I'm sure there must be a leak in the kiln, Or a hole somewhere i' the floor o' the mill, Where the rats steal in, when the wheels are still, O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea." "My advice to you," quo' neighbor Lynn, "If you'll take advice frae me, Is to watch by the light o' the midnight mune Frae ahint the auld saugh tree; Go an' watch when King Sleep rules hill an' fiel', When the witches dance wi' their sire the Deil; When the water jooks past the resting wheel O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea." By the midnight mune watched Miller Swan, An' a strange sicht did he see; He saw Reuben Drum, his trusty guid man, Drive roon' by the auld saugh tree; He saw him unlock the door o' the mill An' carry to his cart frae oot o' the kiln Seven sacks o' flour, when the wheels were still O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea. 151 "Losh !" quo' the miller, as he rubbed his een, "This is a strange sicht to see ; For twenty lang years fair blind I've been — Ay, twenty lang years an' three ; Wha'd ever hae thocht that lang-faced chiel, Wi' his smooth slid tongue, wad ever steal? He deserves to be tied to the water wheel O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea." Long were the pray'rs o' the miller's man, But he sailed for Bot'ney Bay, An' a happy man is the Miller Swan As he rolls the mouter away; An' he makes guid flour an' grinds fine meal For the baron's ha' an' the peasant's shiel, An' steady is the dip o' the water wheel O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea. He chuckles as he rubs his double chin, For a jolly man is he. As he tells what he saw, thro' neighbor Lynn, To his grandson on his knee ; "Look out for cracks, or the rats may steal The fine white flour, or the round full meal'; Remember the mouter, when still stood the wheel O' the mill o' Sweethope Lea." 152 WHERE THE PEESWEIPS FLY. Inscribed to My Friend, Edmund R. Dowdney. WHEN we were bairns, Tom, Jack, and I, And played as such Where the peesweips fly, Three bonnie maidens Joined in our play — Primrose and Hazel And bonnie wee May. Three stems o' fern In her hand held May, To draw for loves In oor bairnhood's day; Tom drew for the maid O' the dark-blue e'e > And ringlets o' brown — Bonnie Primrose Lee. Merry Jack came next. And happy was hey For he drew the maid O' the slae black e'e— Black as corbie's wing Her waving hair— A fun-loving maid Was Hazel Adair. The sweetest o' a' Was left to me — The choice o' my heart, ■ The light o' my e'e ; Her hair was golden, Her e'en were gray, And a dimpled chin ■ Had the miller's May. And oor merry laughs Rippled over the bracy When we drew for loves In bairnhood's day; An' we lingered long 'Till the bells o' blue Hid their hearts o' gold Frae the evening dew. We drifted away, Tom, Jack and I, Frae oor border dales Where the peesweips fly,- Tom as a soldier, Jack to the sea, 154 And I — well, I'm not What I ought to be. And the maids we loved In bairnhood's day — Primrose and Hazel And bonnie wee May — Primrose is married To Dominick Blye, < Who teaches the young Where the peesweips fly. And Hazel Adair — Her name I see As a possible bride ■ For the Laird o'Dee ; And that love o' mine In bairnhood's day, Wi' the golden hair, And the e'en o' gray. This letter I hold In my hand to-day. Tells my brother's bride Is the miller's May; . I've read it o'er 'Till I scarce can see^ And I wish them joy As they wish it me. 155 Will Tom and Jack, As well as I, In their dreams roam back Where the peesweips fly, To the lingering clasp And the trembling sigh Of our bairnday loves As we kissed good-bye? 156 MOTHER'S SONG. SING on, rare singer, sae bonnilie, Sing on, for I love that song; 'Tis a link o' the past, a loved memorie, The song my dear mother sang; I have tasted o' death, both on land an' sea; I've joined both in fight an' song; But no shot or note has ever thrilled me Like the song dear mother sang. I see the auld schule, near the turn o' the brae. The mill, an' the "Dookin' hole," An' the village green, where the bairnies play At "peerie" or "jing-ga-ring," Where I marched soldier-like, a broom for a gun, Or mimicked the sailor's roll ; Ah, little thought I, in my bairnday fun O' the war-god's bitter sting! Oor quaint wee auld hoose, wi' its but an' its ben. The wa' where the fiddle hung. An' the ingle neuk — ah, little ye ken What's awakened wi' that song!' 157 The cosy peat fire, where we gathered 'roon', The crook where the kettle swung On the winter nights, when, a wee bit loon, I listened to mother's song. Ah, rarest o' charms o' oor bairnhood's day, Tho' crooned in a simple tongue, 'Twill live in oor hearts, refreshing for aye — Sic power has a wee bit song. Then sing, bonnie singer, wi' voice sae clear, At your feet rich gifts are flung; But the rarest of all is a soldier's tear In tribute for mother's song. 158 WATCHING AND WAITING. I. Spring. THE bracken curled thro' stones o' gray, The rosebuds burst their cells o' green, When first upon the village brae I lingered, held by Mora's e'en! Ah! youth's rich blood leaped high in me, And none saw fairer maid than she — But such rare charms were not for me, I breathed my love ; man could but dare When such red lips were man's to pree. And west winds kindly blew her hair In golden wavelets over me; "Sweet love, be mine! I love but thee! Dear heart, but thee — just only thee!" But she looked seawards o'er the brae Where masts to ocean's music sway. II. Summer. Leaf-laden branches kiss the stream And shield the kine from summer's heat ; The bogs with myrtle blossoms gleam — A silv'ry path for fairy feet; 159 But still she shades her e'en o' gray "f To watch the ships sail up the bay, f While fades away the summer's day. | Blood-red the summer sunset glowed Where sky and ocean seemed to meet; The radiant streams that earthward flowed Jewelled the waves that kissed our feet; I whispered, "Love, sweet love, be mine!" While yet with roses red the vine Her red lips moved — 'twas but a sigh That drifted with a sea-mew's cry. III. Autumn. The wild dun stream, whose goal's the sea, — A runner for unwearied Time Carried the robes o' wood and lea, The red and gold o' Autumn's prime. Still she looked seawards as of yore, Where frenzied waves like mad bulls gore The stubborn rocks that guard the shore. "Linger no more," I sadly said, "For drear November days are near; The murky clouds float overhead, And strewn the beach with visions sere." A moan, a tear, that glist'ning fell. And drifted outward with the swell, i6o Told me a tale her lips delay — Her love was far beyond the bay. IV. Winter. The hedgeway running to the pier Droops with its borrowed robes o' white ; The sun that glides thro' azure mere, Tints hoary crest with ruby light; The rime that rises from the sea, In frozen figures wreathes the quay, Like white-draped nymphs o' minstrelsy. Ah ! wintry days ! I stand alone, Watching and waiting on the brae; She that I loved has heav'nward gone — She that forever said me "nay;" We loved, yet lived a life o' pain With loving what we loved in vain ! i6i CASTLE ONY. I LONG to roam — to roam again — By Teviot's crystal waters, Where shepherds sing in blithesome strain Of Scotia's border daughters; I'd love to muse an' dream awhile Where fragrant broom blooms bonnie, Or, ling'ring, ^aze frae yon auld stile, We climb to Castle Ony. Athro' the. glens I long to gang In gowden harvest weather. Or o'er the hills, when dew-gems hang In clusters frae the heather; By shady lanes, amang the whins Where wee birds trill sae bonnie. Or stand a-dreaming near the linns That glints wi' Castle Ony. Adoon the haughs, where saugh-trees bow, By crumblin' scaur or corrie. Where burnies gleam, an' ruins glow Wi' rare romantic story; Where Cheviot mountains proudly loom O'er Teviot's dales sae bonnie, I'd fain inhale — drink the perfume — That floats frae Castle Ony. 162 Ah! this I ken, my Borderland, While saugh trees kiss your waters, An' Venus waves her subtle wand Oot o'er your sons an' daughters; While Tweed an' Teviot seawards go O'er beds baith smooth an' stony. Romantic sangs an' tales will flow Frae dear auld Castle Ony. 163 THE PEN O' BACON. YE writers o' the present days, Poets and ithers. Authors o' novels, or of plays, And rhyming blethers, A ghostly chiel, wi' phantom pen O' by-gone ages, Wi' ancient flourish signs his name Upon your pages. An' clever chiels — in their ain mind — Our modern sages, Can read the ghostly name that's signed Upon your pages. The bones o' Shakespeare, I've heard said, Wi' fear lie quakin'; His poems and plays — tremble ye dead! — Were writ by Bacon. Those chiels hae proof that Francis B. Was Lord Macaulay, And wrote the works o' Pope and Lee, Campbell and Shelley; 164 Ev'n Burns, auld Scotia's poet chiel, May get a shakin' ; They'll prove those lines unto the De'il Were writ by Bacon. He wrote Lord Byron's Don Juan; He wrote Poe's Raven; In Darwin's History o' Man His name's engraven; The London Times, the New York Sun, Their truth's been shaken; Ev'n Puck, and Punch, wi' a' their fun. Are fried in Bacon, His Anagram they'll find within The verse I've scribbled; And raise a reg'lar Derry din, And swear I've nibbled Frae oot the bulks o' ither men. And prove puir me Has used the ancient goose-quill pen O' Sir Francis B. 165 ROBERT HOPKIN, Michigan's Veteran Artist — A Native of Scotland. UPON the canvas scenes arise, With touch of Genius' brush, Forest and fields in summer's guise, And streams that seawards gush; A lowly glen, where mountains grand Rise, king-like, to the skies. Bring to the watcher's gladdened eyes A glimpse of motherland. And now upon the canvas gray. There comes a stretch of angry sea — Wild leaping waves, white scatt'ring spray — An' inspired tEought, a memory; Again, from the creative brush, Black, bursting clouds, the lightning's flash; We seem to hear the thunder's crash, So gifted is his touch. A ship, tossed by the Storm King's breath, With wind-rent sails and wave-swept deck, Trembles upon the sea ; i66 We seem to feel the rime of death That rises from the painted wreck. And as the inspired scene we scan, We're drawn, souls nearer, to the man Of such true poetry. And yon wee flower's modest head Scarce rising 'bove its grassy bed, Or the wee, tumbling, tinkling rill That's runway's over some bleak hill, Lowly and perhaps unknown, Far from the haunts of fair renown, Yet beauteous in the Maker's plan, Are not more modest than this man. 167 A SHEPHERD'S LILT. I MET a fair maid doon the lane — Red was the rose on her heaving bosom — Doon in the west auld Sol had gane, An' fresh'ning dew fell on the blossom. Chorus : Red was the rose; dark were her e'en; And I was young and only human ; My heart it gaed lowp at sicht o' fair Jean, For my faither before me was fond o' the women. Frae her full lips flowed a sweet sang; Ruby lips that made my ain lips quiver. I bowed and said, "Sweet maid, I'll gang And see thee safely o'er the river. Chorus : Red was the rose. She curtsied low, and sweetly said: "Oh, thank you, kind sir, there is nae danger! My mither's warned me ne'er to wade Across the stream wi' ony stranger." Chorus : Red was the rose. i68 "Sweetest, o' maids/' I quick replied, I hae fourscore yowes amang yon clover; And now I seek a winsome bride, Sae wi' your leave I'll be your lover." Chorus : Red was the rose. "Kind sir," she said, "you flatter me, But I hae anither shepherd laddie; He's gane the nicht, wi' love bricht e'e, To ask my hand frae my auld daddie." Chorus : Red was the rose, "Ah, bonnie maid," I whispered low, "Those red full lips I would fain be kissing." She turned her head, and said, "Oh, no. Go seek your ydwes ere thej go missing!" Chorus : Red was the rose. And frae my side the fair maid ran, As swift as a young deer, thro' the heather. While echoes murmured, "Simple man, Why ask for sweets that you can gather." Chorus : Red was the rose. 169 THREE. "They Gang in Stirks an' Come oot Asses." — Burns. IN one of Scotland's ancient toons That blossoms rich wi' knowledge, There lodged three would-be learned loons Whose dads had sent to college; They studied law in college days, At night they studied pleasure, So thus, in treading Learning's ways, They'd little time for leisure. So, when Dame Nature clothed was In rich brown, green, an' yellow, An' country lanes hung red wi' haws. An' fruit was ripe an' mellow. Full o' conceit, these students three, An' wearied wi' much learning, Wi' one consent they did agree The country to go roaming. They made the simple rustics gaze Wi' their amount o' knowledge. Inclines they ca'd the bonnie braes, An' heather was hill foliage; A spade they gave some learned name The rustics ne'er heard tell o'; A lass they ca'd a rural dame, A chield to them was "fellow." 170 While coming o'er a heath-clad hill, As night was o'er them stealing, Nestlin' beside a mountain rill They 'spied a shepherd shieling. An' there upon the door-stane sat, Wi' flowing beard an' hoary, The herd himsel; an' near him squat His twae dowgs, Clyde an' Rory. "Ah, here's a subject for our wit," The three exclaimed thegether; "Our bumps of humor let us whet Upon this shepherd father; "My faith," says ane, "we've found, I see. Our ancient friend ; Methus'lah Art thou, old man, or art thou he Who fled from out Gamorrah?" He shook his head, an' syne he spake: "I'm dootin', sirs, you're wrang; But gi'es your hands ; I'd like tae shake Wi' anes I've looked for lang; I'm Saul, the Patriarch Kish's son, Whose asses strayed alea ; Step in ! you're welcome ! do not run ! For surely I've found three !" 171 WEE JESSIE BLUE-EYES. My Youngest Toddler. WHAES wee feet are pattering Doon oor in-bye stairs? Whae can be the early riser Amang oor winsome fairs? A wee face, fu' o' sunshine, Greets oor laughing glad surprise; It is oor youngest darling — Sweet wee Jessie Blue-Eyes ! What made ye stir sae early? Auld Frostie's no' yet gane; I see his busy fingers yet Upon the window pane; Ye needna stand there laughin'. Nor yet look sae wondrous wise In your woolen cosy goonie. Sweet wee Jessie Blue- Eyes! Listen to the kettle singing — What can be its morning sang? "Come an' get your breakfast, daddie, To wark you soon maun gang; 172 Go an' earn some mair siller, For the hoose it needs supplies, An' some wee cosy dresses For sweet Jessie Blue-Eyes. Come, sit doon beside your daddie, An' drink this cup o' milk. It's the stuff to make cheeks rosy, And the skin as smooth as silk ; We want oor bonnie bairnie To grow Big as well as wise ; Yes, just you, my blink o' sunshine, Sweet wee Jessie Blue-Eyes. Give me a good-bye kiss, dear, The wark bell soon will ring, An' I maun pairt the wee bit arms That roon' my rough neck cling; Ta-ta, my bonnie darling, Soon your mates will rise ; To play at school wi' sister dear, Sweet wee Jessie Blue-Eyes. 173 MITHER'S PLAID O' GRAY. IN faither's straw thack't shepherd cot, Abune the lanely moor, Where whaupnebs shriek, an' peesweips wheep, Near hills that skywards too'er, I crept a wee bit callantie, When eerie gloomed the brae, Within the cosy fleecy faulds O' mither's plaid o' gray. An' when auld Cheviot's rugged peaks Were roonded owre wi' snaw, An' surly winds frae oot the north Gae Border folk a ca', An' sheep ran bleating to the bields Frae Frostie on the brae, I' cuddled cosy in the faulds O' mither's plaid o' gray. An' when at schule I got the taws For no' behavin' weel. An' maister labeled me a sumph Or dour contrary deil. My wee heart burstin' like to break, I didna stay to play, But ran for comfort to the faulds O' mither's plaid o' gray. 174 An' when I strutted frae my name, O' mither's strings ashamed, A youth in years — a man in thocht — A heid wi' pride inflamed, An' met the victor o' conceit, A chield o' every day, I humbly turned to hide my shame In mither's plaid o' gray. I see her noo, tho' years hae fled, An' I hae wandered far; But time nor distance never can The hameland picture mar; I see the cheerie, kindly face. An' hear her saftly say, "Come, cuddle, my wee callantie, In mither's plaid o' gray." Ah, sweet, sweet words ! — words frae the heart That fain I'd hear again ! But snaw-draps peep, an' gowans bloom Where kindly freens hae lain The voiceless clay — whose soul hath fled Beyond the weary brae, Where lang she watched for him who lo'ed Her cosy plaid o' gray. 175 HAME AGAIN. Inscribed to Florence D. Eatherly, of Detroit, When Leaving FOR Scotland, 1894. Farewell, dear land of my adoption, Land of freedom, fare-ye-well ; Though I still love your protection, I must cross the ocean's swell To view ance mair my auld freens' faces ; To grasp again their kindly hand ; To roam again the auld kent places O' my ain dear mitherland. Ah, how impatient I'm becoming As I pace the proud ship's deck ; Ah, 'tis hame that I am going; Now I see land's distant speck ; Past the green dales of old Erin, Like a swan our ship doth glide, 'Tis my hame — my hame I'm nearin' ; As our keel now cleaves the Clyde. I can see the mountains looming Grandly through the fading mist. Crowned with waving heather, blooming Purple, dew-wet to be kissed ; By the Royal Orb of morning. 176 Rising from a sea of gold, Scattering gray clouds, and adorning Forest stream and grassy wold. My heart with feelings grand o'erfloweth; Proud I am of Scotia's shore ; Ah ! the stranger little knoweth How the wand'ring Scots adore Their auld land, that distance never Lessens in their loyal hearts. For a Scot's a Scot forever Tho' he's aye a lad o' parts. But I'm getting nearer, nearer, To the village o' my youth, An' the hame that's now still dearer, Near the burnie's silver mouth ; What a longing expectation. As the village looms in sight,' What can make this hesitation As I from the train alight? Doon the road, where hawthorns olden Hang wi' tempting blood-red haws, Past wide fields all waving golden, And green rows of fragrant shaws, I can hear the waters falling O'er the rocky bedded linn, 177 And the linties softly calling To their mates among: the whin. Now I pass the whinstane schoolhoose, Past the kirk, an' village well ; At last I see — I see the auld hoose Where I ken leal hearts do dwell ; Can I tell my joyous meeting, Not for glad tears that will flow ; Ah, 'tis grand, a wanderer's greeting Where the bramble berries grow. 178 HEATHER MUSINGS. Written on Receiving Some Sprigs o' Heather from my Cousik Tom Gordon. Wee sprigs o' mountain heather, What message bring ye me? I know kind freens did gather To send you owre the sea ; Their thoughts wi' love did wander, Where mighty pine trees sway, To one who oft meandered 'Mang heather on the brae. This message it is written Upon your petals rare : Kind hearts are ever waitin' — Kind hearts that miss 3^e sair; They've sent ye as a token Across Atlantic's sea, O' freenships that's forever O'love that ne'er will dee. Again I climb the mountain, When simmer skies are blue. Where heather bells are glintin' Wi' gems o' morning dew ;< 179 I hear the linties singing, . Oot owre the broomy knowes, While larks up high are soaring Frae oot the grassy howes. I see a straw thatch't shieling Wi' garden 'fore the door, An' folk wi' hearts aye kindly Flit thro 'it as of yore ; Wee sprigs, o' hillside heather, Wee ruby-tinted flower, You've bound me wi' a tether — A lasting unseen power. I'll keep thee as a token Frae loved ones owre the sea, Whose message, tho' unspoken. Engraved is on thee; I'll prize thee as a treasure Frae Scotia's bonnie braes, — Wee sprigs frae freenship's measure, I'll keep thee a' my days. 1 80 TO A WILD ROSE. Pulled from a Bank that Overhung the Slitrig Water in September, 1894, BY A Cousin of the Author. WEE Border rose, whose sweet perfume Hath mingled wi' the heath an' broom O'er Slitrig's bonnie braes, A kindly greeting I give thee For love o' them across the sea — My freens o' bygone days. C bygone days, I thoughtless say: Na, na, they're freens that last for aye, Tho' oceans roll between ; An' as I hold ye in my hand, I see thro' mist oor Border land — O' Hameland parts the Queen. Auld Hawick, guarded by the hills, Her auld gray towers, her busy mills, Romantic Border town ; Her sons as brave as those who fell For Scotland's cause in Flodden's dell, Round him who wore her crown. i8i Her maids like to her maids of yore, Who girt the war-sword on their wooer For Scotland's weal or fame ; Or for God's open Bible stood, An' showed a noble womanhood, Martyrs to flood and flame. May be, wild rose, your petals blew Near where a famous thorn grew Whose branches held a steed, Whose master, Scotland's bravest knight, Her warrior hero, Wallace wight. Who fell by Judas greed. Or else the blood o' bold Buccleuch Enriched the soil whereon ye grew, Or far-famed Hogg or Scott Immortalized some lady's bower. Your native bank or nearby tower, In gifted song or plot. I'm sure some callant oft did woo. Beside the bush whereon ye grew. Some bonnie Border maid; An' some wee bird, whose lichtsome lay Awakes the echoes o'er the brae. At gloaming sought its shade. 182 Still gurgles on the Slitrig's stream, An' wee birds sing, an' lovers dream Where once your petals blew; An' on the bush your bonnie bloom Burst forth in fragrant, rare perfume, Or drank the freshening dew. Another rose will burst anew As rich o' perfume, rare o' hue, An' maybe some kind liana Will pu'd to send it o'er the sea To one who loves — as well as me — Oor ain brave Border land. 183 A BORDERER BOLD. Written on Receiving a Walking Stick Made from a Sapling from THE Old Hanging Tree near Hawick and Sent to the Author by a Cousin^ Mr. James Pennycook, in 1899. I. SOUTHWARD rode King James. And bloody was his way, For a maiden royal had craved a boon — ■ A boon from his Kingly sway ; And never had gifted James, The fifth of the Stuart race, Refused a favor to lips o' red That curved on a comely face. ii. And England's Princess fair, Of Edward's royal linfe, Had pledged her hand to Scotland's King At Scone's romantic shrine ; Whenever he stilled the, hand That reddened the Saxon heath. Whenever the sword of the Borderer bold Clung dry to its rusting sheath. 184 III. The King- to his courtly scribe Dictated this command, And death to the Borderer, high or low, Who scorneth the King's command. "No more shall you raid the land — The land of your English foe; No more must you strike in Scotland's cause A foeman's deadly blow." IV. By Tweed's gray stately towers By Leader's banks o' broom, Up Ettrick's rocky winding, paths Waved Scotland's Kingly plume ; Ten thousand belted men, With spear and bared sword, From highland hill, and lowland glen, Follow their warrior lord. V. Follow their beardless King To humble the Borderer free, Who signs not his name to the scroll, Or bends not the servile knee ; Few are the names that line 185 The cream of the royal page, But many a home lost sire and son From the heat of a young King's rage. VI. The Teviot banks were green ; Steep Cheviot mountains brown ; Brown with the bracken's turning leaf, When they camped near Hawick town; At dawn one sought the King, With forty horsemen bold, All sons of Scotland's Borderland, And true as their sires of old. VII. 'Twas fearless Armstrong, The King of the Borderland, And never a suppliant craved in vain A boon from his strong right hand ; And England's King himself Hath promised a rich reward, To know full sure that this dauntless Scot Lies deep 'neath his native sward. VIII. Frowned Scotland's poet King- As the bold chief drew near. Scorning the bristling ready guard i»6 Of winged shaft and spear; "Come, ye bold men, to sign. Or from yon trees to swing; Down ! down, bold serfs upon your knees ! Know not I am your King?" IX. "It never will be said Or told in minstrel song, That ever to man the knee was bent Of bold John Armstrong ; We come not for to sign The scroll that will curb the hand That's feared as the lightning's siccar stroke O'er all King Harry's land." X. "I'm here, most noble King, With forty Borderers true; Our swords are keen and ready aye For Scotland and for you; But from dun Flodden's side, And from the Till's red vale. We hear as 'twas but yesterday Our kinsmen's dying wail. XI. "Command us, Royal James, Command us for to bring 187 The English leader to your camp, Or even your rival King; And ere another sun Arise o'er Hawick town, The boast of the people south the Tweed Will kneel to brave Scotland's crown." XII. Dark loomed the young King's brow ; Flashed fire his haughty eye ; "\\i hat means this knave who bears himself As much a King as I ? Ho, serfs! bind every one Unless they kneel and sign ! From yonder trees they'll hang to-night, A long and goodly line !" XIII. " 'Tis folly," quo' Armstrong, For us to seek for grace From one' tho' honored as Scotland's King, Has nought but a graceless face ; Our fathers fought and fell At Flodden with his sire, And now the son of the warrior King Becomes King Harry's squire. XIV. "But never will we sign Our names to stay our hand, And let the English prowlers gut The homes of our Borderla,nd ; You can do your worst, young King, But ere your head grows old, You'll wish for the sword of an Armstrong And his forty Borderers bold." XV. They hanged them side by side From forty growing- trees; 'ihey hanged the brave of Teviot-side, A beardless King to please ; For never could gifted James, The fifth of the Stuart race, Refuse a favor to lips o' red That curved on a comely face. A VISION. After Reading an Article on Solomon's Misconduct. SOME new-born theories I had read From modern sage, 'bout ancient dead (Perplexing theme !) With such grim thoughts I sought my bed And thus did dream : There seemed to float from out the gloom A noble form, long past the bloom Of youth's young day, That filled with light my humble room, And thus did say : "Why search ye, mortals? Why your quest? Can ye not let our ashes rest 'Neath Eastern sand? I come invited — yes, your guest- Yet here I stand." Wi' trembling hand I got the chair, For be it kent, I hae nae mair, And urged my guest To crook his knee an' share my fare— A sma' request. 190 His ell long beard, a silvery white, Like moonlit lake in Autumn night ; Kingly his brow ; His deep-set een showed learning's light And Genius" glow. A diamond circle lustre threw O'er silken robe of azure blue That's graceful fold Fell to his feet, half-hid in shoe Of burnished gold. His voice — as musical as when The stream in torrents floods the glen, So strong and grand. As one who ruled the sons of men And empires planned. "I'm Solomon, once called the Wise, Whose bones now dust 'neath Eastern skies,- As scribes doth tell. — Whose truths your sages now despise. And misdeeds swell." "What if the sayings that I writ Were gleanings from some courtier's wit? Their truth's the same. Base man ! who would with honor sit Thro' other's shame?" 191 "Some barren spot doth oft contain. Deep 'neath its crust, a golden vein. And from the slums. With chastened lips, as one to reign, Rare Virtue comes." "Why hunt for knowledge in the tomb ? To-day is yours to pluck the bloom : The past's a snare ; The fate of souls whose faults now loom In time you'll share." "Some search for truths before the flood, An' claim that all of human blood From apekind came ; Base, unbelieving, mocking brood!. From whence your claim ?" "Th€ Greatest Master Hand did plan A perfect form, and called it man — A noble name ! And at the sixth day's virgin dawn He made the same." "From Nature's mold of heav'nly grace, Like to Himself in form and face ; Then from man's side He made the motlier of our race — Man's joy and pride." 192 '"Oh, poor deluded modern men! The tangled flight of Darwin pen But leads you blind ; The face is but an open ken Of soul and mind." "liut turn, frail mortals! seek no more To shake the history of yore, And do not moan O'er sin that's told in ancient lore — Look to your own !" "Ye cannot turn the ocean's tide, Nor the sun's glory can ye hide From mortal een ; Nor can ye make the bleak hillside In Winter green." "Men's theories oft, like cobwebs gray,' Mere weavings of a life's short day When Time's sure hand Sweeps with his brush all trace away Of what was planned." "But God's great glory never dies ! On earth, in sea, or changing skies, A proof to man Who would their Maker's work despise For some crude plan." 19.3 "But fare-ye-well ! for dawn again Awakes the life on hill and plain, And I must go And write — do not my words disdain— And let men know." I woke just as the orb of day Burst glorious, flooding field and brae With amber light ; But he, my guest, through cloudway's gray Had ta'en his flight. 194 SPEED-YE-WELL. AWAY with the tide, To sink or float, A few waif rhymes In a paper boat; Will the wind be smooth As it bobs along O'er engulfing depths Of the sea of song? I do not know; Ah, yes ! I care ; And this the refrain Of the rhymer's pray'r, That someone may Find a line to cheer, Or a thought that'll bring To the eye a tear. A wee bit sang That'll reach the hearts ; Then the pray'r is heard "O' a lad o' parts," As it goes with the tide To sink or float — A few waif rhymes In a paper boat! 195 TAI.es of OOR MITHERLAND By JAMES P. BROOMFIELD "•'W' A ROADWAY MINSTREL. A quaint old figure looms up out of the past, a figure ben^ with age and shrunken with want of proper care, a hameless body with the soul of a mighty musician. An old Balmoral bonnet, yellowish green with age and exposure, covered in a' seasons o' the year his brainy old pow. Long straggling locks that would have been of a silver whiteness if they had not been bleached by many showers, and fire-frizzled by many suns, hung limp and dead-like over his bent shoulders, that were usually covered by an old gray plaid or maud. His thin bare face (for it was ever close shaved) was weel kent at kirn or fair, market or tryst, on both sides of the Border. In our village every one had a bawbee to spare for the auld minstrel, whose gifted hand un- loosened such rare melody frae the auld age-blackened fiddle that rested beneath the skinny auld chin. Never was there a bite, a smoke, or a seat by the ingle neuk refused him at any door — ^^ha' or hallan — for the fiddle in the hand of a true mu- sician has the voice of a siren. Sometimes his voice (which must have once been as gifted as hand), inspired by his own playing, would burst forth in song — a song that would stay the hand of the smith as he fashioned a shoe upon the anvil, or stop the softer c-wish-ish of the plane of the carpenter. Paitched and threadbare though his clothes were, "the bodie was as clean's a new preen/' auld Nannie would say. At oor hoose he often res:ted, summer and winter, and auld Nannie's 199 banno's an' hiame-brewed yiU loosened bis ready tongue, an' so we heard man)^ a tale o' Border raid and o' lovers' trysts, betwixt the gloamin' and the mirk. Such late hours were forbidden me, but auld Nannie would forget me, being herself romantic, and grandfather would never disturb the talk of a guest to tell a callant who lay on the rug with his arm around auld "Collie's" neck drink- ing in story or gossip to "get to bed." "Foxie," a Scotch terrier, had been the minstrel's companion ever since I first saw him. A puir little lean beastie it was. It followed, limping behind its master, in the lightsome days, and was carried in the auld gray plaid, like a mitherless lamb, when the days were cauld and stormy. One winter day, just at the dark'ning, auld Nannie opened the door to the auld minstrel and his terrier, both nearly frozen stiiT, for it had been a terrible cold day. Nannie soon thawed them out with good waiTm gruel — 'giving the auld minstrel a wee drap first to loosen the ice frae his throat. After the panritch bowies were cleared away, grandfaither and the auld minstrel sat down to a game of draughts. Grandfaither was a keen player and the minstrel always had some new move to show wheii he called, but this night, after repeated careless plays, he threw his men into the center of the board with the remark: "I'm no masel' the nicht, miaister ; no' masel'. I ken there's something gaun to happen tae me. I've haen a presentiment oavre a week noo, an' I'm sure my wanderings are nearing an end." "Hoot's man !" said grandfaither ; "mony a lilt we'll hear frae ye yet, before the robins chirrup abune yer kirkyaird beild. Licht yer cutty, man, an' smeek away sic dowie thochts." "Na, na, maister; baccy reek'll no' smither what I ken is comin' sune ; an' that's what brought me your gate the nicht as muckle as onythiiiig. I've been a wandering ne'er-dae-weel, but I hae managed to save twa or three punds; enetich to bury me. It's in Saunders Yule's Bank. I hae left a bit line wi' him to give you the pickle siller if ony thing should happen to me. He kens fine what it's for ; I dinna want to be buried as a pauper. There's something else he's keepin' for me. It's my black claes. Pit them on me. They were my marriage claes ; they're braiddaith. The last time I had them on was when they buried my Peggie. And lay my auld fiddle asidte me ; it's been my companion sae lang that I feel it's a pairt o' masel'. Gallant, come here. Ye'U be guid to 'Foxie' should onything happen it's maister? I ken fine you will. He'll no' ruin ye wi' his appetite; an' ye'll find him a grand ratter. I can sleep in ony laft or shed when I ken 'Foxie's'' aside me. "Ay, ay, maister," the minstrel continued, "I've gien a puir aocoont o' masel' for a' the talents I've been blessed wi'. Faither an' mither dune their best for me. I learned a guid trade, but had aye a cravin' to be a great musician. — ever since the time my Uncle Tiam cam bame frae the Indies. He was my mither's brither. He was a grand fiddler, and he noticed I had a guid bow hand; sae he gave me my first lessons; and when he went away again he left me his fiddle. When my apprenticeship was through — I had learned the tailoring — I went to Edinboro'. My room- mate was a singer, and it was not long before he had me persuaded to throw aside the needle and earn a living by my talents, which I was rapidly cultivating. My room-mate was a very popular young man, and I soon got introduced into some of the best society, and I gradually rose to the front rank of the musicians. While at the height of my fame I returned to my native village and married the love of my youth — ^an angel of goodness, Peggy Gowan. For over a year our happiness was complete. Not an angry word had passed between us ; and we would have ever remained so had I kept from the stage; but that was the ruin of me. I could not stand the tongue of the flatterers, when the flatterer was a bewitch- ing woman ; so I neglected my Peggie, and my voice for the com- pany of the gay . Well, I cannot tell you how I fell — 'got hissed off the stage, for I was intoxicated^ — ^yes, a common drunk- ard — and my poor Peggie died of a broken heart. I rallied for a time, then my parents died, and I sank deeper, and gradually drifted where I am to-day. But rax me my fiddle, callant. Noo dinna pit yer fingers on the strings." I was startled for a minute at the request; for he had wan- dered as he was telHng his story from the broad Scotch to pure English ; but I hastily got him his fiddle that hung in an auld faded green bag on a crook near the door, taking care not to touch the sacred strings with my fingers. He had noticed they were sweaty, for I had been huggin' auld "Collie" as I listened open-mouthed to his story. Tune after tune, merry and sad, he wiled frae that auld black fiddle. One by one the villagers tip-toed into the house. Nannie was footing a sock in her cosy chair, but when he struck up "The Wind That Shakes the Barley" away flew the sock, and she had fairly to grip the arms of her chair or her auld feet wad hae gotten the better o' her. Grand faither said he "never heard him play as he played that night." The tailor shook his head and said, "The buddy's fey." Still he played on, uncon- scious of everyone around him. The auld arm at last gave out, and when he played his own favorite, "The Land o' the Leal," the bow dropped to the floor, and the villagers slipped out as they had slipped in. Auld "Collie" was lying curled up on a rug near the hearth. "Foxie" lay near him. Grandfaither was refilling his pipe. The auld fiddler still sat, the fiddle in his hand, the how on the floor. I went to lift the bow, when grandfaither gave a cough. I looked in his direction, then he pointed to the stairway leading to the loft and my bed. I looked at the auld minstrel, as I turned to the stair- way, and I saw tears, big tears, dropping from bis eyes. Then my young mind thought grandfaither thinks such a scene is too waesome for a licht-hearted mite o' a callant; but I could hear them talk long after I had gone to bed, for I was beginning to understand and gather what men carry with them for all time. Next morning the clouds around the hill-head showed that a storm, and a bad one, was brewing, but the auld minstrel, although grandfaither urged him to stay, had to gang beyond the "Shep- herd's Yett;" and go he would — storm or no storm. Seeing he could do no better, grandfaither made him take the loan of an extra plaid, and oS the auld fiddler set by the high road. But the heart o' the terrier was not in the tramp, for it turned many a longing look back — maybe yearning for the warmth o' the rug that it had shared with auld "Collie" all night. Thick and fast fell the snow. By mid-day every inch of the hard-frozen ground was covered with a white mantle. Before the darkeninig set in sheep scurried to the bieldy side o' the plantin', even the hardy cheviots sought with head to the ground the fast disappearing stretches o' dry-stane dykes. The rising wind wi' an eerie soo-ooch came plowing down the roadway and round the hillside, gathering the snow into weird-looking sihapes, and leveling, as with a mighty trowel, mak- ing them treacherous snow traps, the deep-cut flood ditches with 203 the roadway. By fothering time it was impossible even for a hill herd to find a cart track, far less a sheep path. "It's an' awfu' nicht,*' grand'faither said; "a fearsome nicht. I wish I had garr'd that auld wandered bide. I hope he got as far as Guidfallow's ; but I feel uneasy aboot him." "Nae fears," quo' auld Nannie. "The wandering haveril's toastin' his taes by this time at auld Rab's ingle, an' makin' the weemdn folk eerie wi' some o' his ootlandish tales. Keep yer mind easy, maister ; he's seen owre mony Hansel Mondays tO' be caught in a snawstoirm when he kens o' a fire blink?" It was noon next day before the storm stayed its worst, and then it seemed sweer to give in, for it soughed an' raged till night, when the stars came out, showing the callant the awful whiteness everywhere below beginning to glitter and harden with the icy breath of the frost king. At grandfaither's request next morning some of the villagers, with the callant and auld "Collie," tried to make their way around the plantin' to Rab Guid fellow's, but the snow was too deep. The next day we again tried it, this time by the high road, with Tam Muckle to lead the way. Tarn was the molecatcher, and grandfaither thought he was so used to kicking and spreading flat the molehills with his big tackety boots that he would make a grand pathmaker through the snow. And he was a success, for, after many a fa' and get-up again, we reached Rab's straw-thatched whinstane cottage, that was more like a huge white cocket hat, with a long lengthening reeky feather atop, than any- think else I could fancy that morning. To Tam's query auld Rab replied, "Na, na ; I hevnae seen the auld rake-aboot for twa months, altho' I've been thinkin' aboot him for a couple o' days." * * ♦ "Ye dinna tell me sae! I hope he got tae shelter afore that storm 2o4 came up, for it's been a fearsome yin. I hevna seen its marrow for a quarter o' a century, and that wis the winter that Cessford's herd lost his life in the snaw." We were still in conversation with Rab when the herd o' the Yett and his dogs came plunging thro' the snow round by auld Rab's hen-house. "Ye must be in awfu' need o' baccy to bring ye village-wards this moirn," says Tam Muckle as the herd drew near. "It's no ibaccy I'm aifter this morn. I wis gaun doon tae the cai- lant's grandfaither. I've a bit message for him that the callant can noo take; but I can guess what's brought you folk frae the village ; you're lookin' for the auld fiddler ? I thought sae. Ye'il find him in my hoose — gey still; but 111 gie ye my story. Early this morn I went up by the Scroggy glen. I had 'Dane' wi' me, for he's a guid dog amang snaw, and I had lost a tup, missed him frae the ithers when the storm was at its warst ; sae I thought that mebbe he had run for shelter doon by the auld dyke. It wis a terrible warsle through the snaw doon by the glen, for the wind' had swirled an' swirled roon the banks until it looked like a big milk bowie, and no' a very temptin' hole to go into to look for a lost tup. I wis returning bame again when 'Dane' rushed from my side like a flash, plungin' an' sputterin' thro' the snaw to a clump o' bushes on the braeside, where he started to howk and yowl, as if he had found the whul o' a wild cat. I follov/ed as fast as I could, thinkin' it was probably where the tup wis, an