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POEMS AND SONGS 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 JOHN PALMER, 
 
 NURSERYMAN, ANNAN 
 
 (priutrir Car $riinttc CxrattoikK.) 
 
 PRINTED BY W. CUTHBERTSON <fc SON, 
 
 HIGH STREET, ANNAN. 
 
 187 1. 
 
■ 
 
 
 film 
 
 GIFT 
 
 , £OE* 3AWES S. CH1LOERS 
 ~^>^ ilULY 26, 1944 
 
 V 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The present little volume is intended almost wholly for 
 circulation among those who personally knew Mr Palmer, 
 and makes no claim, or at most a humble one, for admission 
 into the republic of Poetic Literature, although perchance 
 more ambitious books have less of stamina about them. The 
 carte-portrait prefixed will at once be recognised by the 
 friends of the author as characteristic, while students of the 
 "human face divine" will discern in it a good deal of 
 vigour, shrewdness, humour, and pawkiness (in a good sense) 
 not untouched of kindliness : in short, a genuinely Scotch 
 physiognomy, looking at "men and things" through eyes 
 that tell of a compact brain behind them, and a firm and 
 strenuous will. 
 
 Mr John PALMER, the writer of these " Poems and Songs," 
 was born with the century (1800) in Annan, Dumfriesshire, 
 and spent his early years in the Vale of the Milk, renowned 
 m Scottish minstrelsy and exploit, from Hoddam Castle to 
 ( lastlemilk ; and later transfigured by memories of two mighty 
 
 sons of Annan and Annahdale Bdwabd [rving and Thomas 
 ( Sabltle. His occupation was that of a " herd-laddie" with 
 
 his grandfather at Brocklerigg farm. There doubtless began 
 his love of "kintra" things and ways that showed Itself in 
 afterlife. About his tentli year lie returned to his father's 
 house — a lowly one— m Brydekirk Village, the "New Brig" 
 
of one of our Worthy's best lilts, viz., " The Boys at the Brig. n 
 After a time, the family removed to Annan — only three miles 
 distant— where the father and John were employed in the 
 one cotton factory of the place, as billyers or the last opera- 
 tion on the cotton before it passes to the spinner. Here he 
 remained for about ten years, but, wishfuFto raise himself in 
 the world, he left the rut in which he had hitherto moved. 
 This was about 1826. The change was an intellectual 
 advance on the factory's monotonous and semi-mechanical 
 *' daily toil," and he was led to it by his bookish likings and 
 tastes, which very early shewed themselves, spite of educa- 
 tional disadvantages and interruptions in availing himself of 
 the village " dominie's" attainments, who, as old Willie 
 Smith, comes up in these poems pretty frequently. He 
 became a travelling agent for Messrs Blackie and Fullarton 
 (since separated), publishers, through their agent, Mr Richard 
 Bell, of Carlisle. The works he sought " orders" for were 
 books of well-established name and value — e.g., " Bell's 
 Geography," "Cunningham's Eminent Englishmen," "Cham- 
 bers's Eminent Scotsmen," and latterly, "The Popular 
 Encyclopedia," and the like. The thing was new at the 
 period — not over-driven and degenerated in the rush of 
 competition — and proved a success in every way : in fact, laid 
 deep and wide the foundation of that competence pecuniarily 
 which Mr Palmer latterly enjoyed. He used to tell that he 
 did not think he had done a fair week's work if he had not a 
 twenty-five pound bank-note in his pocket after paying all 
 expenses. He had a fine instinct of discernment of character, 
 and rare tact in dealing with weaknesses revealed to his keen 
 eye. It were not hard to fill many a page with anecdotes of 
 his interviews in "huts where poor men lie," and in the 
 mansions of the nobility and gentry. His order-book shows 
 the autographs of most of the distinguished names of those 
 days, including Lord Chancellor Henry Brougham. His 
 "wanderings" embraced the whole length and breadth of 
 England and Scotland. Lancashire and Yorkshire continued 
 his richest fields, and many a shelf to-day bears witness to 
 
his judiciously-recommended selections. People, "gentle 
 and semple," prized his " cracks." He was a natural-bom 
 gentleman, and wearing a kind of clerical black-dress and 
 white tie, his appearance was very different from the 
 vagabondish-looking book-canvassers now-a-days. In the 
 metropolis (London) and elsewhere doors were opened and 
 audience given to Mr Palmer that would not readily be 
 gained by the fraternity now, spite of their push, and noise, 
 and pretence. 
 
 About two years after his engagement with Messrs Blackie 
 and Fullarton, he rented about three acres of land in Annan, 
 and here began those acquirements that went on from the 
 "Moor Nursery" to the broad acres of his fully-developed 
 nursery. He kept his two irons in the fire — his book-can- 
 vassing and his nursery of trees, plants, seeds, &c, &c. 
 Ultimately, having accumulated a goodly capital, he re- 
 signed his book-selling, to the deep regret of his employers, 
 who, on his resignation, presented him with a finely-bound 
 set of the numerous and valuable works they had published. 
 He thereupon settled in a small cottage belonging to Mr 
 William R. Grahame of The Moat, Annan, from whom he also 
 rented the nursery ground adjoining. Here unto his dying 
 day he remained, happier than any king. He had married, 
 in 1820, ISABELLA SMITH, of Lochmaben, who proved a true 
 helpmeet in every way. They were devotedly attached to 
 each other ; and, as they aged, they might have sat for 
 "John Anderson, my jo," and his " better half." She died 
 3d April, 1864, leaving a family of three daughters and one 
 ■Oil, all worthy of their parentage. Their fireside had the 
 usual lights and shadows of joy and sorrow, births and 
 
 deaths. While "eident" at his business proper, Mi 1 Palmer 
 public-spirited and took an intelligently active part in 
 
 the pnblic affairs of his native town and country and national 
 politics. He was a Libera] of the right stamp, neither ultra- 
 Radical nor Whiggishly ulira-raiit ions, lie filled the local 
 offices of Bailie and Provost — having been elected and re- 
 elected to the latter in rapid succession. In 1808 he retired 
 
very much from the front, paralysis having laid its chilling 
 and mortal touch upon him. He was very contented, sub- 
 missive, and " ready." He fell asleep peacefully on 30th 
 August, 1870, and was buried in Annan New Churchyard on 
 2d September, when a vast assembly met to do his memory 
 honour as a good and true man. More is not called for. 
 His humble, homely verse speaks for itself without laudatory 
 phrase. His vernacular poems are the better, being racy 
 and terse, and not without gleams of dry, sly humour, and 
 even real poetic inspiration. Local pieces will be relished by 
 many living still. 
 
 A. B. G. 
 
THE LATE MR JOHN PALMER. 
 
 (From the Annan Observer of October 20, 1870.] 
 
 He sleeps in peace ! his work is done ! 
 And Annan mourns a gifted son, — 
 One^from the ranks who rose to fame, 
 And won 'mong men an honour'd name. 
 
 Thougn from his friends Death hath him reft, 
 
 He has not lived in vain, but left, 
 
 In deeds and in poetic rhyme, 
 
 " His footprints on the sands of time." 
 
 His^skilful hand, on progress bent, 
 Raised on the Moor his monument, 
 Where roses, tint with heavenly dyes, 
 Seem all too fair for mortal eyes. 
 
 He o'er " The Eash Buss" threw a spell, 
 And sang of " Flowers" he loved so well, 
 Of snell " John Frost," of leafy " June," 
 And " Weary Wadnesdays in toon." 
 
 To higher themes his muse oft soar'd : 
 His loved ones, lost, but now restored, 
 Shone on him from their blissful sphere, 
 And tuned his harp to memories dear. 
 
 Religion's pure and holy glow 
 With him was not a thing of show ; 
 But shed, amid sectarian strife, 
 A halo o'er his blameless life. 
 
 A little while, and then, above — 
 Where Christ's the centre of our love, 
 And sad farewells are heard no more — 
 He'll greet us kindly as before. 
 
 Jane M. Cuthbertson. 
 Annan, October, 1870. 
 
CONT ENTS. 
 
 Page, 
 
 Introduction iii 
 
 The late Mr John Palmer vii 
 
 Contents ix 
 
 Poems. 
 
 To the Memory of Burns 1 
 
 The Village School 3 
 
 Lines on Visiting the Grave of the Rev. Edward Irving, 
 
 A.M., at G-lasgow 5 
 
 To the Spring 7 
 
 Lines suggested on Reading a Newspaper attack on the 
 
 Character of Lord Brougham 9 
 
 The Brig 10 
 
 The Oak . . 13 
 
 Flowers ........... 15 
 
 The Christmas Rose 17 
 
 Lament of the " Rash Buss" ....... ibid. 
 
 The Guidwife's Complaint 20 
 
 Little Robert . . 22 
 
 The Merchant and his Easy Chair 23 
 
 The Christian's Rest 25 
 
 To Jannet Thomson, my First Grandchild ... .27 
 
 Our Hawkie's Gane Yell . . 28 
 The Good alone the Great ...... .29 
 
 The Wife's Grave 31 
 
 To the Memory of Br Chalmers 32 
 
 Impromptu Verses : the Market Night . . . . . 35 
 
 Gilsland 36 
 
 Description of Edinburgh ........ 37 
 
 Elvers : Annan, Nith, Tweed, Clyde .... ,38 
 
Page. 
 
 The Emigrant Lover 40 
 
 Pastor Harms of Hermannsburg 41 
 
 Scotland's Lament for the Loss of the " Education Bill" . 43 
 To the Annan Schoolboys at their Play ... .45 
 
 The Sough o' War 47 
 
 The Battle of Inkermann 49 
 
 The Returned Convict ........ 51 
 
 Address to Davy Drummond 52 
 
 Ireland to the O'Donoghue 55 
 
 Hymn— Eight the Good Eight 57 
 
 Recollections of Boyhood 58 
 
 Children at their Play . . 60 
 
 Christ and His Love 61 
 
 To my Departed Wife 63 
 
 Puff! 65 
 
 A Eragment 67 
 
 Songs. 
 
 Song for the Centenary of Burns 69 
 
 Song of the Larch Tree 70 
 
 The Barn- Yard 's Pinning O'er 72 
 
 I'll Earm like my Eathers Before me 75 
 
 Avenham Walks 77 
 
 The Maid of Solway Shore 78 
 
 Bonnie Annie 79 
 
 Oh ! Mary, Chase away the Sigh 81 
 
 AGudeWife 82 
 
 The Song of Steam „ .83 
 
 Epistles. 
 
 A Poetic Epistle to Brother William 87 
 
 Epistle to Mr Robert Elliot, Hardgrave, on his leaving 
 
 Dumfriesshire , 89 
 
 Epistle to Tarn Samson, nurseryman, Kilmarnock . . . 93 
 Epistle to Abraham Stanfield, Todmorden ... .95 
 
 Epistle to Mr Mechi ........ 98 
 
 Second Epistle to Alderman Mechi 101 
 
 Epistle to a Eriend 105 
 
XI 
 
 LOCHAR MOSS. 
 
 Page, 
 
 The Humble Petition of Lochar Moss 109 
 
 Second Humble Petition of Lochar Moss . . . Ill 
 
 Complaint of Lochar Moss . 114 
 
 Occasional Pieces. 
 Lines on the Examination of Annan Infant School — 
 
 August 1835 117 
 
 The Biding o 5 the Marches 118 
 
 To the Electors of the Dumfries District of Burghs. . . 120 
 On Reading the Reply of Lord John Russell to the 
 
 Plymouth Address (1841) 122 
 
 Tribute to the Memory of James Smith of Deanston . . 123 
 
 Lines on the Death of a Friend in America .... 125 
 
POEMS AND SONGS 
 
 JOHN PALMER. 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 
 
 Immortal Burns ! though born by humble hearth, 
 
 Apollo came with all his train divine, 
 Attendant on the hour that gave him birth, 
 
 And in their arms the infant bard entwine, 
 
 Baptizing him at the fountain of the Nine. 
 The priest Apollo, Nature said the vow 
 
 Baptismal : she's repaid in many a line. 
 His country's Genius found him at the plough ; 
 She came and bound a wreath around her poet's brow. 
 
 Protege of dame Nature, he did trace 
 
 The lines of beauty all her works among ; 
 The fairest lineaments of her fair face 
 
His genius seized and moulded into song 
 That shall to latest times his fame prolong. 
 Where'er his peasant footsteps deign'd to rove, 
 
 The humblest flow'ret found in him a tongue ; 
 He sang the streams, the fields, the woods, the groves. 
 And all the fairy haunts of youthful rural loves. 
 
 He tasted not of ancient Learning's springs, 
 
 No classic lore inspired his youthful brain ; 
 Yet, when his muse spreads forth her buoyant wings, 
 
 How passing sweet, how deathless is the strain, 
 
 Such as fair Scotia shall not hear again. 
 That manly frame,— too soon of death the prey ! — 
 
 That for a while his spirit did contain, 
 O'er-inform'd by the soul — as spirits may — 
 Consumed all premature the earthly dross away. 
 
 Our fancy hears and sees., through that night's mirk, 
 
 The Souter's laugh, the pliant landlady, 
 The Doon, and Alloway's auld haunted kirk, 
 
 With all the gloom, the grandeur, and the glee 
 
 Of witches holding hellish revelry ; 
 Thence to Nanse Tinnock's, every beggar's haunt, 
 
 And human nature's various phases see ; 
 Carousing o'er their bowls the beggars rant, 
 Nor dread the ill-match'd pair, of future Woe and Want. 
 
 His fancy rich to various themes could turn, 
 
 See Edward's hosts where England's banners fly 
 Upon the bloody field of Bannockburn ; 
 
 Amidst his country's ranks the Bruce descry, 
 
 Urging his warrior sons to do or die. 
 Such patriot strains his patriot soul become. 
 
 OVr thee, Glencairn, soft Pity wipes her eye, 
 
He pours his grateful sorrows o'er thy tomb ; 
 All feel his Daisy's fate, his Mouse's ruined home. 
 
 Who hath not melted o'er his mournful lay 
 To Mary's sainted shade in heaven addrest ? 
 
 Who hath not felt his spirit borne away 
 
 - To view, to share, the Cottar's evening rest ? 
 Touch'd by his Muse's influence, every breast 
 
 Some chord reverberates. The Muse returns 
 To the cold grave in which his ashes rest ;; 
 
 O'er that grave still Caledonia mourns, — 
 
 No bard inspired hath caught the mantle of her Bu&ns';- 
 
 March, 1837. 
 
 THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 
 
 There's scarce a bairn in a' the toon 
 But kent the wecht o' Watty's taws ;; 
 
 And then his voice had sic a soun', 
 His golly shook the schoolhouse wa's. 
 
 The very spiders seem'd to ken 
 
 And dreed his awfu' voice an' look ;; 
 
 He glower'd a moment frae his den, 
 Then, tremblin', socht the inmost nook, 
 
 Flees durstna up the lozen creep. 
 But sat aboon the window sole ;■ 
 
 The vera mouse, it durstna cheep, 
 Sat cowerin' ben within its hole ;; 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Or if it made a noise ava, 
 
 We surely thocht it must be fear ; 
 The Maister got the wyte o't a', 
 
 The dool that cam' the school-door near. 
 
 Some three or four took Watty's pairt ; 
 
 But ane, quiet Geordie Steel, 
 Said it was hunger at its heart 
 
 That made the wee bit mousie squeel. 
 
 Then sympathy would gar us slip 
 Some moolins doon aside its hole, 
 
 For we had sometimes felt the grip, 
 And kent that hunger's bad to thole. 
 
 That morning when his wig was brunt — 
 (A deevilish trick o' Sandy Eeid, 
 
 Wha set its honour'd hair alunt, 
 And singed it like a black sheep's heicl) — 
 
 The scholars crooded roun to watch, 
 With curious e'e, the greasy low * 
 
 Alas ! no more its hairs shall thatch 
 A barber's block or don/nie's pow. 
 
 I'll mind his look till stiff and deid, 
 And happet up amang the mools : 
 
 His face was first 'tween black and reid, 
 His e'en like glowin' fiery coals. 
 
 No saul divulged, though frae each loof 
 The skin was tirled aff in flipes, 
 
 But tell-tale Dick, the yammering coof — 
 And Sandy got five dizzen stripes. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 But I maun stop and say nae mair, 
 I winna, canna wrang the deid ; 
 
 His scholars werena pincht o' lear, 
 For he had plenty in his heid. 
 
 And mony a wee bit bairn was brocht 
 To say its lessons on his knee ; 
 
 And had ye seen him then, ye'd thocht 
 That kindness gleam'd in Watty's e'e. 
 
 LINES 
 
 On Visiting the Grave of the Rev. Edwaed Irving, A.M., 
 at Glasgow. 
 
 Here rest the ashes that a while sustain'd 
 
 A mighty spirit, giv'n to holy deeds — 
 
 A brilliant star shot from the hand of Heaven, 
 
 To light the road to immortality — 
 
 A blazing meteor cast upon the gloom, 
 
 To teach mankind to triumph over death. 
 
 I've seen him stand amidst his kindred's graves? 
 
 And raise the raven tresses from his brow, 
 
 Then cast his eye to Heaven, and as he look'd 
 
 His very look seem'd stamp'd with holiness ; 
 
 I've listen'd to his burning eloquence, 
 
 Till the rapt spirit left its mansion here, 
 
 And for a season dwelt above the stars. 
 
 He stood in modern Babylon, as Paul 
 
 Once stood in ancient Athens, and pour'd forth 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Rich streams of eloquence to listening thousands f 
 Till Folly's cheek turn'd pale ; and fashionable 
 Vice look'd back astonish 'd at the fearless man 
 Who dared to beard her in her very den ; 
 Senators sat and heard with wondering awe, 
 Philosophers admired, and sceptics quail'd : 
 Believing hearers had their faith confirm'd, 
 The unregenerate their souls alarm'd : 
 He laid his hand upon the monster Sin, 
 And show'd its black and leprous nature forth 
 In all its hideous horrible deformity. 
 
 And when he would discourse of future worlds, 
 
 The realms of bliss, or dark abodes of woe, 
 
 He half withdrew the veil — things that were dark 
 
 To human ken Imagination saw, 
 
 And marvell'd at the picture words had drawn. 
 
 Great spirit ! thou art gone to thy reward. 
 
 And if thy judgment err'd in minor things, 
 
 'Twas human — yea, and like our fallen nature ; 
 
 But who can tell, amidst the war of sects, 
 
 And parties, and opinions, who is right ? 
 
 Where is the man dare lift his face to Heaven, 
 
 And swear, ' ' I'm right, while all the world is wrong V' 
 
 Angels behold and pity the blasphemer. 
 
 Oh ! man, live with thy fellow-man in peace — 
 
 In Christian peace and Christian charity : 
 
 We journey all to an eternal home, 
 
 And different roads may reach the goal at last. 
 
 Bear witness, ye whose tears are not yet dry. 
 Who still lament your pastor's early doom ; 
 Ye were the flock of his peculiar case, 
 
POEMS. 
 
 That sat beneath his zealous ministry ; 
 'Twas you that fully knew and felt his worth : 
 He was a faithful herald of the Cross, 
 A champion in the bless'd Redeemer's cause ; 
 With fervent piety and heavenward zeal, 
 And Christian love for all the human race, 
 He sought the drear abodes of want and woe, 
 And scatter'd charity with lavish hand ; 
 He pour'd in many a bleeding heart the balm 
 Of hope and consolation. He is gone, 
 But leaves a bright example to mankind : 
 His life was holy, and his end was peace. 
 
 May, 1837. 
 
 TO THE SPRING. 
 
 5 Tis sweet to wander forth in cheerful Spring 
 
 O'er the fresh field with early flow'rets drest, 
 When every breeze brings health upon its wing, 
 
 And every sound brings gladness to the breast. 
 
 Reviving Nature weaves her glorious vest 
 Of buds and blossoms in her cunning loom, 
 
 And kindlier now the cheering sunbeams rest 
 Upon the teeming earth, whose pregnant womb 
 Brings forth her herbs and plants and flowers of every bloom . 
 
 Now from the South the milder breezes come, 
 To chase the Winter's lingering steps away, — 
 
 Kissing the flowers, and gathering their perfume 
 Upon their wings that now so softly play 
 On every bud just opening into day. 
 
6 POEMS. 
 
 The trees put on their vernal robes again, 
 
 The fields their green and beautiful array, 
 While busy with the plough the blythesome swain 
 Upturns the furrow'd field where falls the coming grain. 
 
 In snow-white sheet the farmer now comes forth : 
 
 (What countless blessings from his labours spring !) 
 In the kind bosom of the fruitful earth, 
 
 With measured step, the seed he skilful flings ; 
 High overhead the soaring laverock sings 
 T' the husbandman its morning melody — 
 Mounting to heights where roar'd the flashing levin, 
 
 As if to list seraphic hymns on high, 
 Its song the sweeter still the nearer Heaven. 
 
 The air is mild, and in the sunniest hours 
 
 The insect that all others doth excel 
 Ventures, yet dubious, 'mong the early flowers, 
 
 Alighting where the honied treasures dwell. 
 
 Haste, sip thy nectar — hie thee to thy cell — 
 Far from thy habitation thou dost roam ; 
 
 The sky is treacherous yet, and Boreas snell, 
 With icy breath, may from the mountains come 
 And chill thy little heart ere thou canst reach thy home. 
 
 The woods are redolent of varying notes — 
 It stirs the pulse of joy to hear the sound — 
 
 Instinctive melody of tuneful throats, 
 Making the tide of harmony resound — 
 Earth, air, and sky with revelry abound. 
 
 Great Spirit of the Universe ! to Thee, 
 
 While vernal beauty breathes on all around, 
 
 Oh, may we lift the heart and bend the knee, 
 And in thy wondrous works the God of Nature see. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Suggested on" Reading a Newspaper Attack on the 
 Character op Lord Brougham. 
 
 The hireling hand may dip the pen in gall, 
 And scrawl vindictive slander o'er the page — 
 On Brougham 'twill ineffectual fall ; 
 He stands aloof, nor heeds their puny rage, 
 Nor stoops he warfare with the crew to wage. 
 His lofty soul its consolation draws 
 From nobler thoughts, which all its powers engage- 
 T' improve the spirit of his country's laws, 
 And stand a champion still in freedom's holy cause. 
 
 The fleecy clouds the sun's face passing o'er 
 Him darken not, only briefly dim his ray — 
 They pass, and leave him glorious as before, 
 Holding on in pure azure his bright way. 
 So clouds of calumny in dark array 
 May for a season dim the fairest fame ; 
 But honest worth shall chase such clouds away — 
 No stain shall rest upon a Brougham's name : 
 The homage of the good is sterling meric's claim. 
 
 His mighty intellect, with giant strides, 
 Walks through the realms of science unconfined ; 
 His potent arm instruction's ploughshare guides 
 T' improve and fertilize the human mind — 
 To loose the field of thought, and to unbind 
 The deep and pregnant intellectual soil ; 
 In being's scale to elevate mankind : 
 For this a Brougham burns the midnight oil — 
 Ages unborn shall bless his memory and his toil. 
 
10 POE 
 
 'Tis from such spirits light and truth arise <5 > 
 To fling their radiance on the brow of Time ; 
 The mist of prejudice before them flies — 
 A mass of error, and a mass of crime ; 
 Exploring Science lifts her head sublime, 
 Unfolding wonders new on Nature's face — 
 Bearing her treasures hence to every clime. 
 Unbiass'd minds must in such spirits trace 
 The friends and benefactors of the human race, 
 
 Jan., 1838. 
 
 THE BRIG.* 
 
 Again to mine eyes noo appear, 
 
 At the Brig, 
 Those scenes to remembrance dear 
 At the Brig. 
 Auld memories rush, 
 Wi' heart-flowing gush ; 
 I dicht aff the unbidden tear 
 At the Brig. 
 
 'Twas Buonaparte's time when 1 lived 
 
 At the Brig, 
 And wi' his exploits we were deeved 
 At the Brig — 
 His retreat frae Moscaw, 
 Through the frost an' snaw, 
 Was sae awfu' it scarce was believed 
 At the Brig. 
 
 * Brydekirk Village, where the author lived in boyhood. At 
 Uiat time the village was called " New Brig." 
 
POEMS. 11 
 
 It comes like a saft wakin' dream 
 
 At the Brig, 
 I fish'd for the troots in that stream 
 At the Brig : 
 Wi ? bait or wi' flee, 
 It was a' ane to me,— 
 Life had nae mair glorious gleam 
 At the Brig. 
 
 Now whare are the cronies I had 
 
 At the Brig ? 
 The thocht maks me dowy and sad 
 At the Brig — 
 A' scatter'd abroad, 
 Or 'neath the green sod, 
 And scarce a kent face maks me glad 
 At the Brig. 
 
 That year the frost lay sae lang 
 
 At the Brig, 
 The ice was sae thick an' Strang 
 At the Brig, 
 For ilka day's sport 
 To the ice we'd resort, 
 And curlin' and skatin' was thrang 
 At the Brig. 
 
 The school callans that couldna agree 
 
 At the Brig, 
 Had mony a lickin' to dree 
 
 At the Brig ; 
 For Willie's big tawse 
 Was sae sharp on our paws 
 That we focht whan nae maister could see 
 At the Brig. 
 
12 POEMS. 
 
 Our sports were the best I e'er saw 
 
 At the Brig : 
 What glorious games at the ba' 
 At the Brig ! 
 For peeries or buttons 
 We'd throw doon our Huttons ;* 
 But shinty was king o' games a' 
 At the Brig. 
 
 W T hen Buonaparte fell, our folk phrased 
 
 At the Brig ; 
 After Waterloo, gran' bonfires blazed 
 At the Brig. 
 Sic rinnin' an' noise 
 Amang dugs, men, an' boys ! 
 Wi' gladness the folk maist went crazed 
 At the Brig. 
 
 To my speerit sae young, fresh, an' warm 
 
 At the Brig, 
 Pleasures cam' just like a bee swarm, 
 At the Brig ; 
 Words hae nae power 
 To express the rich dower — 
 A' things had a marvellous charm 
 At the Brig. 
 
 In Spring time, wi' skies without cluds 
 At the Brig, 
 
 On Saturdays aff to the wuds 
 At the Brig ; 
 
 * Hutton's Arithmetic. 
 
POEMS. 13 
 
 Sic peerin' and pryin', 
 Wee birds' nests descryin', 
 Sae cosy amang the young buds, 
 At the Brig. 
 
 The wuds, fields, an' streams that surroun' 
 
 The New Brig, 
 To me seem a' hallow'd ground 
 At the Brig ; 
 When a wee laddie, 
 Wi' a heart fu' o' joy, 
 There was nae spot on yirth to be found 
 Like the Brig. 
 
 I kent neither sorrow nor dule 
 At the Brig, 
 Whan I was langsyne at the schule 
 At the Brig ; 
 And memory aft strays 
 To the warm simmer days 
 Whan the callans a' dooked i' the pool 
 At the Brig. 
 
 THE OAK. 
 
 And shall this tiny acorn, which I fling 
 
 Into Earth's bosom, rise into a tree ? 
 
 Yes ; and perhaps from this same germ shall spring 
 
 The monarch of some forest yet to be, 
 
 Spreading with ample arms majestically ; 
 
14 POEMS. 
 
 Beneath whose shade the deer may crop their food, 
 And in whose leafy top, from danger free, 
 The rook, — that clamorous tenant of the wood, — 
 May build her airy home, and rear her callow brood. 
 
 Ye infant forests ! how I love to tend 
 And watch your progress with assiduous care ; 
 Ye fostering showers, ye cheering sunbeams, lend 
 Your warm and genial influence, to prepare 
 Food for the young and tender rootlets, where 
 They may imbibe a full and just supply. 
 Away each adverse influence ! nor impair 
 The promised boon, which gladly T descry— 
 Leaf after leaf expanding 'neath the observant eye. 
 
 When Time shalFcrown thy head with hoary age, 
 Mature thy heart to breast the ocean's foam, 
 Then shall the woodman's axe and shipwright's adze 
 Perform their office,— mould thee to become 
 Ribs to some merchantman, — it may be, some 
 Mighty timbers in a ship of war : 
 The pride and guardian of our island home, 
 Bearing the British thunder near and far, 
 To win another Nile, another Trafalgar. 
 
 Ye British patriots ! plant your native oak, 
 The sturdy king of all the sylvan race : 
 Commerce and war, with busy, vigorous stroke 
 Have thinn'd the ancient forests ; to replace 
 Which be your care. Is there not ample space ? 
 Go count the untill'd acres, bleak and bare, 
 "A heedless nation's palpable disgrace. 
 Let prudent foresight future stores prepare, 
 And Albion's naval glory risk not nor impair. 
 
POEMS, 15 
 
 Away intrusive thoughts of present gains ! 
 In those of ample wealth a mean desire ; 
 And when you look around your wide domains, 
 Let noble, generous thoughts your hearts inspire ; 
 Think what your children's children will admire— 
 A leafy monument, fresh, green, and free. 
 For this the son will venerate the sire, 
 And say, with honest pride, — " That stately tree 
 My father planted : sacred be his memory !" 
 
 March, 1848. 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 Wildings of Nature, or cultured with care, 
 Ye are beautiful, beautiful everywhere ; 
 Gemming the woodland, the glen, and the glade 9 
 Drinking the sunbeams or courting the shade ; 
 Gilding the moorland and mountain afar, 
 Shining in glory in garden parterre. 
 Ye bloom in the palace, ye bloom in the hall, 
 Ye bloom on the top of the mouldering wall ; 
 Ye bloom in the cottage — the cottager's pride — 
 The window looks cold with no flowers by its side 
 Ye twine up the trellis, ye bloom in our bowers, 
 Ye carpet creation, O beautiful flowers ! 
 
 Did angels descend from their home in the skies 
 To pencil those petals with exquisite dyes ? 
 To store in your cells the rich odours of heaven, 
 Was employment so meet unto seraphim given ? 
 
16 POEMS. 
 
 Ye answer me, no ; 'twas an Almighty hand 
 That clothed you in beauty and bade ye expand — 
 Rich gems of creation, that ravish the sight 
 And pour on the senses supernal delight ! 
 Wildings of Nature, or cultured with care, 
 Ye are beautiful, beautiful everywhere ! 
 
 When morn's early beams gild the glorious east, 
 
 Your incense ascends unto Nature's High Priest ; 
 
 When sunset foreshadows the day's dewy close, 
 
 Ye fold up your petals for welcome repose. 
 
 Your odours impregnate with health every breeze ; 
 
 Ye furnish a feast for the banqueting bees ; 
 
 Ye promise in eloquent language, though mute, 
 
 Boughs bending with offerings of delicate fruit ; 
 
 Ye tell, when your glory and fragrance is o'er, 
 
 That Autumn shall come with his rich gushing store ! 
 
 Sweet'ners of life, ye are infancy's play ; 
 
 To boyhood's bright dreams, oh, what charms ye display ! 
 
 In years more mature we but love you the more, 
 
 As tracing veil'd beauties undreamt of before. 
 
 To childhood, to manhood, to age ye are dear ; 
 
 Ye are strewn at the bridal and spread on the bier : 
 
 Fair flowers even there soothe the lone mourner's woes, 
 
 And hallow the turf where loved ashes repose. 
 
 Wildings of Nature, or cultured with care, 
 
 Ye are beautiful, beautiful everywhere ! 
 
POEMS. 17 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. 
 
 No sunbeam smiled on my natal hour, 
 
 Nor the gladsome look of one kindred flower ; 
 
 I was born in the tempest, and rock'd in the storm- 
 
 A cradle how rude for my fragile form ! 
 
 No warbling choristers sung at my birth, 
 For mute was the voice of their joyous mirth ; 
 The redbreast alone of the feather'd train 
 Has paid me his homage again and again. 
 
 I hang, like a lone and neglected thing, 
 Unpress'd by the bee or the butterfly's wing ; 
 All my companions are dead or flown, 
 And I am left in the desert alone. 
 
 I drink no tears from the summer skies ; 
 N o balmy zephyr receives my sighs ; 
 But Winter comes with his icy breath, 
 To strew my leaves on the breast of death. 
 
 LAMENT OF THE "RASH BUSS." 
 
 I'm an auld residenter on mony a farm, 
 And never yet dreamt that I did ony harm ; 
 Amang Nature's gentry I held up my heid — 
 Took up wi' nae greedy or grovelling weed ; 
 My food is the rains, an' the dews, an' the springs, 
 My neebors, a' happy and innocent things ; 
 
18 POEMS. 
 
 I canna weel tell what offence I can gie, 
 A sponsible, douce residenter like me. 
 
 Frae cauld sleety showers I defended the lamb, 
 
 That grateful' play'd roim' me when simmer days cam' ; 
 
 The gowans an' buttercups fand me a bield ; 
 
 Each humble companion I'd shelter an' shield ; 
 
 The lark in my bosom aft biggit her nest, 
 
 And nursed her brood till they fled frae my breast ; 
 
 The paitrick, the peeweit, the wild humble bee, 
 
 Look'd up to an auld residenter like me. 
 
 When schuils they wad scale, how the bairnies wad scrow 
 Around me, and ilka ane pook at my pow ! 
 They thochtna o' lesson, o' question or creed, 
 While plaiting o' caps for each wee curly heid ; 
 Wi' whips or wi' rattles, the simmer day lang, 
 The wee bits o' birkies were happy an' thrang. 
 But alas ! for their daffin, their fun and their glee, 
 There's a plot laid to starve an' exterminate me. 
 
 When threaten'd, I thocht I never could fail 
 O' safety, while lasted the law o' Entail. 
 My last hope is vanish'd, for noo ye maun ken 
 My doom is decreed ; for the parliament men 
 Have loosen'd the strings o' the purse o' the State, 
 And lavish'd forth gowd for to hasten my fate. 
 The high and the low men o' every degree 
 Have leagued for to starve an' exterminate me. 
 
 They've cuttit lang cundys, I think they ca' drains, 
 The de'il tak' the hale o' the pack for their pains ! 
 They've ta'en my heart's bluid wi' their newfangled plans, 
 I wither an' pine 'neath their merciless han's. 
 
POEMS. 19 
 
 There's Smith,* and there's Parkes, f and there's Mechi, J 
 
 and ithers, 
 Although just no banded thegither like brithers, 
 Yet in their great object they steivly agree, 
 And that is to starve an' exterminate me. 
 
 They say that there's multiplied mouths on the earth — 
 A " spirit"§ abroad — I must yield, an' so forth ; 
 I'll lift up my voice, an' as lang as I'm able, 
 I'll cry like the puddocks in the auld fable — 
 " This sport may be brimfu' o' hope to mankind, 
 This sport may heap blessin's on blessin's behind ; 
 Though sport unto them, ah ! it's death I maun dree : 
 Sad fate for an auld residenter like me !" 
 
 July, 1847. 
 
 * James Smith, Esq. , of Deanston, was a native of Scotland, 
 but afterwards resident in London as a Draining Engineer. 
 His name is intimately connected with furrow draining, and the 
 subsoil plough and subsoiling; and latterly he directed his 
 attention to the most economical methods of applying liquid 
 manure to soils by means of pipes or hose. 
 
 f Josiah Paekes, Esq., also a Draining Engineer, and general 
 Engineer to the Royal Agricultural Society of England. Mr 
 Parkes' system of draining differs in some respects from Mr 
 Smith's, in so far as Mr Parkes is an advocate for deep draining. 
 Mr Smith is supposed to be an advocate for shallow draining — • 
 not shallower, however, than 30 inches. 
 
 X Mr Mechi is a merchant in London, and is eminently dis- 
 tinguished in the agricultural world for his enthusiasm in the 
 cause of agricultural improvement. By precept, and by example 
 on his farm at Tiptree Hall, in Essex, Mr Mechi is doing much 
 to recommend thorough draining, and other modes of increasing 
 the productive powers of the soil. 
 
 § Spirit of improvement. 
 
20 poems. 
 
 THE GUIDWIFE'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Wherefore should I sit sae late 
 
 Here by the ingle cheek ? 
 I wadna mind an orra time, 
 
 But oh, it's ance a- week ! 
 My ain guidman's as guid a man 
 
 As steps in leather shoon ; 
 But, oh, the weary Wadnesdays, 
 
 When he gangs to the toon. 
 
 There's horse, and nowt, and swine to sell, 
 
 An' corn, an' hay, an' strae ; 
 An' ilka week in a' the year 
 
 He to the toon maun gae : 
 And no a bargain can be made 
 
 But whisky it maun croon, — 
 Sae that maks weary Wadnesdays 
 
 When he gangs to the toon. 
 
 Ance a' the market business done, 
 
 The day yet far frae late, 
 He's aff to whaur the beast's put up, 
 
 Intent to tak' the gate ; 
 He meets wi' this ane and wi' that, 
 
 And when they ance sit doon, 
 It's ill to lift on Wadnesdays 
 
 When they get to the toon. 
 
 And here I sit my laefu' lane, — 
 
 The bairns are a' asleep, 
 And man an' maid are gane to rest, 
 
 While waukrife watch I keep. 
 
POEMS. 21 
 
 1 hear nae fit — the dogs are quait— 
 
 I'll wad my best new goon, 
 'Twill no be this same Wadnesday 
 
 That he'll come frae the toon. 
 
 I'm sure it's no the love o' drink, 
 
 For John's a sober man, 
 And guid and kind to me e'er sin' 
 
 Our courtship first began ; 
 An' weel respeckit far and near 
 
 By a' the country roun' : 
 Yet, oh, the weary Wadnesdays, 
 
 When he gangs to the toon. 
 
 He'll no sit doon wi' smith or wright, 
 
 Or miller ower the meal, 
 Like Tarn, that glower'd through auld kirk wa's 
 
 At witches and the de'il : 
 Yet 1 can sympathize wi' Meg, 
 
 Though love my wrath maun droon ; 
 For I maun thole the Wadnesdays 
 
 When he stops i' the toon. 
 
 I dinna grudge him what he spends, 
 
 Though that were better hain'd — 
 The siller that gangs sic a gate 
 
 Had better ne'er be gain'd. 
 'Twad be unto my luvin' heart 
 
 A sweet and precious boon, 
 Wad my guidman on Wadnesdays 
 
 Come early frae the toon. 
 
 I've heard my mither an' my aunt 
 Aft speak o' former years, 
 
22 POEMS. 
 
 And tell what awfu' splores took place 
 Amang their auld forbears : 
 
 They prophesied the time would come 
 (And oh, that that were soon !) 
 
 That men would a' on Wadnesdays 
 Come early frae the toon. 
 
 July 1849. 
 
 LITTLE ROBERT. 
 
 Where is little Robert, mamma, 
 
 Where is my brother gone ? 
 Why did father leave him, mamma, 
 
 Beneath the churchyard stone ? 
 
 He stops too long from me, mamma ; 
 
 I cry for him all day ; 
 He knows I love him well, mamma, — 
 
 Why does he stop away ? 
 
 When will Robert come back, mamma, 
 
 To play with little Jean ; 
 And hold me on Carlow's back, mamma, 
 
 While I ride o'er the green ? 
 
 And when will he come back, mamma, 
 
 To sail his little ship ; 
 And ride on his rocking horse, mamma, 
 
 And crack his little whip 1 
 
23 
 
 His horse stands in the hall, mamma, 
 
 His whip hangs on the pin ; 
 His ship has lost a mast, mamma, 
 
 Since father brought it in. 
 
 And when will he come back, mamma, 
 
 To pull sweet flowers for me — 
 Daisies and buttercups, mamma, 
 
 And roses from the tree 1 
 
 And when shall we say our prayers, mamma, 
 
 Both kneeling at your knee ? 
 When will you kiss and praise, mamma, 
 
 And bless both him and me ? 
 
 Robert will never come back, my child, 
 . To arms of earthly love ; 
 Angels have taken him, my child, 
 To the dear God above. 
 
 THE MERCHANT AND HIS EASY CHAIR. 
 
 Abel Piper was a mercantile man, 
 
 That had little or nought when he began : 
 
 By dint of industry, efforts to please, 
 
 Abel, he won into cash by degrees. 
 
 His name and his credit soon had such a range, 
 
 He soon took his place 'mong the merchants on 'Change. 
 
 Hope cheer'd him on amidst bustle and care, 
 
 And pointed at last to an easy chair. 
 
24 POEMS. 
 
 Abel was punctual as punctual could be, 
 E'en old Time himself was not more so than he ; 
 Abel was punctual, as thousands can tell, 
 And his clerks were a copy of Abel himseF. 
 He had warehouses stored, and ships at the sea, 
 And business went on most prosperously — 
 A man of his word, straightforward and fair : 
 Such men are deserving an easy chair. 
 
 The merchant was temperate, as merchant should ; 
 
 His mind was collected, for calm was his bloodj 
 
 He oft conn'd a page in the book of health, 
 
 As a means to an end — the attainment of wealth. 
 
 He was firm in his purpose ; a servant's neglect 
 
 He brook'd not, — they obey'd him from love and respect; 
 
 His manners were bland, and his dealings were fair, 
 
 His ultimate object an easy chair. 
 
 The merchant had learn'd neither Latin nor Greek, 
 
 For in foreign lingo he cared not to speak ; 
 
 He had been to school, he had not been to college, 
 
 Yet his mind was well stored with practical knowledge. 
 
 In most conversations he bore well his part, 
 
 In history, geography, science, or art ; 
 
 And prices and profits he knew to a hair — 
 
 Such knowledge oft leads to an easy chair. 
 
 The political pages he oftentimes scann'd ; 
 
 Like a patriot the good of the nation he plann'd ; 
 
 He knew all its interests — his knowledge was such, 
 
 Of joint-stock companies he had known rather much ; 
 
 The science of banking he also learn'd — 
 
 'Twas natural, for he was a party concern'd ; 
 
 In the railway interest he too had a share — 
 
 The dividends fall to his easy chair. 
 
POEMS. 25 
 
 That Abel was gen'rous you will freely grant, 
 His purse-strings were open to worth and to want ; 
 To the funds of each charity his bounty extended. 
 In every good cause was some portion expended ; 
 He toil'd not for gold for the sake of a hoard : 
 He was generous by nature, and deeply abhorr'd 
 All miserly feelings : his wish and his prayer 
 Was a green old age and an easy chair. 
 
 The merchant's religion I must not neglect,— 
 My readers on that hand will something expect : 
 He mix'd not in turmoils of party and creeds — 
 Abel at heart was a Christian in deeds ; 
 The paths of externals he soberly trod : 
 I judge not the heart — 'tis the province of God ; 
 I firmly believe, and as freely declare^ 
 His conduct deserving an easy chair. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN'S REST. 
 
 " There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God. 55 — I!eb* 
 iv. 9. 
 
 Yes, there is a rest, let the Christian trust, 
 
 When the spirit shall leave its frail mansion of dust. 
 
 When the dim fleeting day of probation is o'er, 
 
 And the place that now knows us shall know us no more— 
 
 The purified soul into heaven ascending, 
 
 And a choir of angels, triumphant attending, 
 
 Sing, as they soar, of Mount Calvary's story, 
 
 While journeying on to the mansions of glory ! 
 
 Yes, there is a rest, let the Christian rejoice, 
 
 In the midst of life's sorrows, its cares, and its joys ; 
 
 E 
 
26 POEMS. 
 
 'Midst the fiery trials of vice and of sin, 
 Of temptations without and temptations within. 
 Let the armour of faith be our buckler and shields, 
 And in war with the foe let us learn not to yield. 
 Let Christians rejoice midst their spiritual strife, 
 For their prize is a crown and eternal life. 
 
 Oh ! Christian, exult, for beyond the blue sky, 
 Among pure, happy spirits thy rest is on high, 
 Where sin is no more, and where sorrows shall cease*, 
 Nor tear dim the eye, in the regions of peace : 
 But clustering blessings, eternal delight, 
 And joys, never-ending, each spirit invites ; 
 Through fields ever green, and by streams ever pure, 
 God shall feed them and lead them immortal, secure. 
 
 This life hath a rest from its cares and its woes, 
 Which frail nature seeks on the bed of repose ; 
 But the rest of eternity is not like this — 
 The angels shall then teach a science of bliss. 
 With zeal ever active, each spirit above 
 Will speed on its Saviour's errands of love ; 
 Or from planet to planet careering afar, 
 Trace the greatness of God in each luminous star. 
 
 But what can the highest conception attain ? 
 And words are as weakness and language is vain, 
 What prophets, apostles, in glorious array, 
 In splendour of metaphor try to display : 
 The eye hath not seen, nor can heart understand. 
 The glories of saints in Immanuel's land. 
 Then, Christian, hope that to thee will be given 
 A Sabbath of rest in the kingdom of Heaven. 
 
 Oct., 1839. 
 
POEMS. 27 
 
 TO JANNET THOMSON, MY FIEST GRANDCHILD. 
 
 Dear. Jannet, while I thus caress thee, 
 While in my arms thou do'st recline, 
 
 With warm paternal heart I bless thee : 
 May life, and health, and peace be thine. 
 
 And when I view thy infant face 
 
 As cradled on thy mother's knee, 
 I, with a grandsire's eye, can trace 
 
 The blended beauties met in thee. 
 
 I see thy mother's soft dark eye, 
 
 Her cheek, where ever bloom'd the flower ; 
 
 Thy father's forehead broad and high, 
 Denoting intellectual power. 
 
 Methinks I see thy mother's smile 
 
 As when a child she play'd around me, 
 
 With many a soft enticing wile 
 
 That in a spell of witch'ry bound me. 
 
 And round about thy bonnie mouth 
 
 In fancy I can clearly trace 
 Thy father's rectitude and truth. 
 
 That breaks like sunshine o'er his face. 
 
 Oh ! may thou be thy mother's pride, 
 May thou repay her hopes and fears, 
 
 And grow up by her gentle side 
 In virtue as thou grow'st in years. 
 
 Oh ! may it be thy sire's delight, 
 
 As by the great High Priest assign'd, 
 
28 POEMS. 
 
 To pour a flood of purest light 
 
 Upon thy young and opening mind. 
 
 Young voyager on life's rough sea, 
 That by all mortals must be pass'd : 
 
 The pathway to Eternity, 
 
 Where all that live must land at last ; 
 
 May gentle breezes fill each sail, 
 The Holy Book thy glorious chart ; 
 
 Should adverse wind or storm prevail, 
 Thy ballast, purity of heart. 
 
 And when at length, life's ocean o'er, 
 Oh ! may thou reach the better land, 
 
 'And stand upon the eternal shore, 
 Among the Saviour's ransom'd band. 
 
 OUR HAWKIE'S GANE YELL. 
 
 I ha.e a wee wifie, and sax bits o' weans, 
 
 They keep me richt busy baith mornin's an' e'ens ; 
 
 I toil ilka day wi' a hearty gude-will, 
 
 A' their wee backs to deed an' their bellies to fill. 
 
 My wife* she is thrifty, an' tries ilka plan 
 
 To spin oot the penny as far as she can ; 
 
 Through lang simmer days we did wonnerfu' weel, 
 
 But cauld Winter's come, and our Hawkie's gane yelL 
 
 'Twas hard-hained siller that bocht our bit coo, 
 An' proud we were o' her, as weel ye may trow ; 
 
POEMS. 29 
 
 Our sonsy bit beast, as she grazed on the lea, 
 'Mang white clover blooms, was a pleasure to see. 
 Her butter we sellt in the next burrow town, 
 To fill the aik last when the Winter cam' roun' ; 
 We thocht we wad hae baith our milk an' our meal, 
 And didna think then o' our Hawkie gaun yell. 
 
 The nichts they are lang an' the mornings are dark, 
 My heart's aften wae as I'm gaun to my wark, 
 To think o' my bairns an' my ain faithf u' wife, 
 The stay an' the comfort, the pride o' my life. 
 The big anes will gloom an' the wee things will cry, 
 And sugar and treacle an' a' things will try ; 
 The parritch they dinna gang doon noo atweel, 
 Nocht kitchens them richt sin' our Hawkie's gane yell. 
 
 But Winter will gang wi' his frosts an' his snaws, 
 And Spring, like a bride, will come buskit in braws ; 
 Ilka flow'ret will wauken an' open its e'e, 
 And young grass grow green ower loanin' an' lea. 
 And when Hawkie ca's, there'll be milk in galore, 
 The bairnies will lauch wi' their tins rinnin' o'er ; 
 And Jamie richt crousely drives her to the fiel', 
 The skrimp days a' gane when our Hawkie was yell. 
 
 Feb., 1848. 
 
 THE GOOD ALONE THE GREAT. 
 
 I have faith in the onward march of man 
 
 To a higher and purer state ; 
 I have faith that the day is about to dawn 
 
 When the good shall alone be great. 
 
30 POEMS. 
 
 Ye large of heart ! come forth ! come forth ! 
 
 To the warfare lend your life ; 
 Roll back the tide of sin from earth : 
 
 'Tis a high and holy strife. 
 Come — like stars let your light illume — 
 
 Make the clouds of error flee ! 
 Chase the darkness — dispel the gloom 
 
 From man's moral destiny ! 
 
 What temple's this the millions throng ? 
 
 What Idol's adored within ? 
 Mark the sot as he reels along — 
 
 'Tis the gilded mart of sin. 
 Drink — fell curse ! — Britain's Upas tree ! 
 
 Oh, how baleful are thy fruits ! 
 Crimes and woes are thy progeny. 
 
 For thou pois'nest Virtue's roots. 
 
 Think, Man, on drink's awfnl price, 
 
 And from the tempter flee ; 
 Burst the fetters of sloth and vice. 
 
 And assert your dignity ! 
 A brighter day on all shall shine : 
 
 Drink's Temple shall be forgot ; 
 Millions shall wake, and leave the shrine 
 
 Of the British Juggernaut. 
 
 Look up, look up ! What mark we now ? — 
 
 A Newton, of godlike mind ! 
 Virtue throned on that noble brow — 
 
 A seraph might call him friend. 
 That lofty mind from earth is gone 
 
 To the realms of light afar ; 
 With angel guides now journeying on 
 
 To view the remotest star. 
 
POEMS. 31 
 
 Yon Alpine steep attracts mine eyes 
 
 To a soul of purest flame ; 
 To Christianize and civilize 
 
 Was his high and honest aim. 
 Pastors of every clime and creed ! 
 
 Oh, wide let your zeal expand ; 
 Be pure in heart and great in deed, 
 
 And vie with an Oberland. 
 
 Higher still let your thoughts extend 
 
 To the pure and Holy One, 
 Frail Humanity's dearest friend, 
 
 Even God's Eternal Son. 
 Oh ! may those precepts fill each breast 
 
 That his sacred lips have given — 
 Only guides to the land of rest ; 
 
 The good are the great in heaven. 
 
 How I exult in the march of man 
 To a higher and purer state ! 
 
 According to God's eternal plan, 
 The good can alone he great. 
 
 June, 1849. 
 
 THE WIFE'S GRAVE. 
 
 Within the sacred precincts of the dead 
 I stood, in silent and in musing mood ; 
 I saw a man approach, with hoary head 
 And venerable aspect. On a grave he stood, 
 
32 POEMS. 
 
 And on the waving grass he pour'd a flood 
 Of tears : for in Death's chamber low 
 The partner of his life was laid — his good 
 And pious Wife — and hither in his woe 
 He came, a tribute on her memory to bestow. 
 
 What tender recollections fill his breast, 
 While memory rushes o'er the happy years 
 Of sober bliss in holy wedlock past ! 
 The loss of those we love but more endears ; 
 Their memory is embalm'd in sacred tears. 
 He feels the world desolate and in gloom, 
 And every object to his mind appears 
 Stript of its charms ; while he laments her doom^ 
 He almost longs for death, to meet beyond the tomb, 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF DR CHALMERS, 
 
 Another star hath ta'en its flight ; 
 Oh God ! we bow to thy behest. 
 The oil that fed that brilliant light 
 Is spent, and he's at rest ! 
 
 The vineyard of his Lord to keep — 
 
 To nurse the fruits, to pluck the weeds ; 
 His master hand essay'd to reap 
 A crop of blessed deeds. 
 
 Neglected haunts he loved most, 
 Therein to scatter gospel seed. 
 Mourn him, ye poor, for ye have lost 
 In him a friend indeed ? 
 
POEMS. 33 
 
 His heart, like some perennial spring, 
 
 Well'd forth a sympathetic tide : 
 Such as shall o'er his memory fling 
 A halo, and a pride. 
 
 More daring minds have o'er the steeps 
 
 Of learning soar'd, with eagle eye ; 
 And subtler spirits plumb'd the depths 
 Of proud philosophy : 
 
 But none on whom the nations gazed 
 Did they more reverently admire ; 
 Than his, no spirit ever blazed 
 With purer, holier fire. 
 
 With tongue and pen, his lofty soul 
 
 Was aye on human weal intent ; 
 Philanthropist, he grasp'd a whole 
 Kingdom or continent. 
 
 Yea, more, even mankind in the gross : 
 He yearn'd to Christianize the world, 
 To see the banner of the Cross 
 In every land unfurl'd. 
 
 The Sceptic, with malignant eye, 
 
 Would penetrate beyond man's ken 7 
 And fetch a message from the sky 
 To chill the hearts of men. 
 
 Where would such speculations reach ? 
 To crush eternal hopes, their aim. 
 
34 
 
 He stands a champion in the breach, 
 And wields a sword of flame.* 
 
 And w r hen he spreads his glorious feast, 
 
 What myriad minds are cheer'd and fed ; 
 Behold in him a great high-priest, 
 And Faith to Science wed.f 
 
 As in some Alpine bold retreat, 
 
 Where some great river has its source^ 
 Converging rills together meet, 
 
 And swell its onward course. 
 
 Anon, it more impetuous sweeps, 
 
 Now broad and deep, now calm and clear ; 
 Thence every rocky barrier leaps 
 In proud and far career : 
 
 So pour'd his eloquence along ; 
 
 Sedate and calm his opening course ; 
 Anon the ideas crowding throng, 
 With all a torrent's force. 
 
 Then like some mighty river's roll, 
 
 Strong, deep, and rapid, on it speeds ; 
 Stirring, with Christ-like power, the soul 
 To high and holy deeds. 
 
 Now mute the tongue, and seal'd the eye, 
 
 Of him we held in w^arm regard ; 
 His spirit, pass'd to realms on high, 
 Receives its rich reward. 
 
 * See his "Astronomical Discourses." 
 f See his " Bridgewater Treatise." 
 
 
POEMS. 
 
 There needs no monumental urn 
 
 To blazon forth his high deserts ; 
 The memory lives of him we mourn, 
 Enshrined in Christian hearts, 
 
 June 1847. 
 
 IMPROMPTU VERSES : THE MARKET NIGHT. 
 
 Through the green wintry sky the flichans are fleein', 
 And robing the earth in a blanket o' white ; 
 The shepherd in terror the tempest is e'ein' : 
 Alas ! the puir sheep ! What a terrible night ! 
 
 Hame frae the market the farmers are hiein' ; 
 The wind in their teeth, they can scarcely draw breath ; 
 About Bonshawside there is sobbin' an' cry in' — 
 The Poverty cuddy has stuck in a wraith ! 
 
 While some o' the workfolks are boozing the whisky, 
 Nor knows on the morrow hoo they're to get meat, 
 Scott trips down the nursery, blythesome an' frisky, 
 Putting lime in the bark for to raise up the heat. 
 
 The window-sole's clothed wi' my faither's auld stocking, 
 A' darned by wee Jeanie, 'cause faither is poor ; 
 Grey pussie sits there singin' grey things and rocking, 
 While mother is sweepin' the kitchen floor. 
 
 And then Isabella sits plying her needle, 
 Makin' slips o' calico boucht frae the shop. 
 Alas ! hoo the saxpences frae me does she wheedle ; 
 1 fear 1 hae naething to put in the crop. 
 
36 POEMS. 
 
 GILSLAND. 
 
 Oh, Gilsland ! health-restoring spring ! 
 With grateful heart thy praise I sing ; 
 The breeze brings health upon its wing 
 
 Thy walks around, 
 The Irthing sweetly murmuring 
 
 With soothing sound. 
 
 Here we can drink by night or day, 
 And have no doctor's bill to pay ; 
 And that's a blessing, I may say, 
 
 To all poor folks : 
 It's often hard for to defray 
 
 The doctor's books. 
 
 When summer clothes the fields in bloom, 
 From distant climes the swallows come — 
 With what unwearied wing they roam 
 
 In quest of food, 
 And build 'neath balconies their home, 
 
 And nurse their brood. 
 
 Within yon glen there is a spot, 
 A stone, that ne'er can be forgot, 
 Where our immortal Walter Scott 
 
 First woo'd and won 
 A lady fair, to share his lot 
 
 Beneath the sun. 
 
37 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF EDINBURGH. 
 
 But lo ! Edina fills my longing eyes ; 
 
 Metropolis of a kingdom fitly meet. 
 What rows of stately palaces arise 
 
 To greet the stranger's gaze in every street. 
 
 Ascend the Calton, sit on Arthur's Seat, 
 And view the glorious windings of the Forth, 
 
 Spread like a shining mirror at your feet ; 
 
 The fertile shores of Fife, — fair spot of earth, — 
 
 And, piled amidst the clouds, the mountains of the North. 
 
 Proud city of my native much-loved soil, 
 
 The nurse of learning, once the abode of kings, 
 There Science trims her lamp with midnight oil, 
 
 And sheds a radiance over men and things. 
 
 Philosophy hath o'er thee spread her wings, 
 And men of genius fill each honour'd chair ; 
 
 Thy far-famed schools from every country brings 
 Thick-thronging eager students, late and ear, 
 To drink from fountains of the best and purest lair. 
 
 The frail memorials piled o'er human dust, 
 Avenging Time sweeps with oblivious wings ; 
 
 The sculptured marble soon forgets its trust ; 
 The peasant's humble stone, the urn of kings 
 Are swept away as are the meanest things. 
 
 Time is impartial, and hath no respect ; 
 The costliest monument to dust he brings ; 
 
 His potent hands man's proudest triumphs break, 
 And strew this changing world with one promiscuous wreck. 
 
 O'er buried Athens, see where Science weeps 
 Her domes and temples into ruin hurl'd ; 
 
38 POEMS. 
 
 And o'er his victories Time revel keeps, — 
 For not a land is but his flag's unfurl'd. 
 Where now the imperial mistress of the world ? 
 
 The seven-hill'd city into fragments torn — 
 Her proudest trophies to the dust are whirl'd ; 
 
 Time lifts his finger in derisive scorn, 
 And points to grandeur faded and to glory shorn. 
 
 To give a Brougham birth, Edina's lot — 
 Learning's illustrious champion refined ; 
 
 Statesman, philosopher, and patriot, 
 Whose giant intellect walks unconfined 
 Through all the labyrinths of the human mind. 
 
 His splendid eloquence, even foes must own, 
 In Freedom's holy cause we ever find : 
 
 His master spirit, by innate power alone, 
 Has earn'd a coronet and England's legal throne. 
 
 RIVERS. 
 
 Come, Annan, come, my own native stream, 
 Peopled with recollections of the past ; 
 
 By thee I spent my boyhood's early dream, 
 Ere yet one cloud of care had overcast 
 My soul's fair sunshine ; dear to me thou wast, 
 
 And art, and ever shall be. Roll away ! 
 Many a nameless charm for me thou hast, 
 
 And on thy verdant banks I love to stray, 
 And woo the unwilling muse to aid my humble lay. 
 
39 
 
 NITH. 
 
 Roll on, fair Nith, thy waters to the main : 
 Romantic beauties on thy banks abound — 
 
 Beauties mine eyes delight to see again : 
 
 As where yon green and thickening woods surround 
 Drumlanrig's lofty pile and pleasure-ground — 
 
 A noble mansion, seat of the Buccleuch ; 
 The young plantations rising all around, 
 
 Making the face of Nature fair to view : 
 Improvers of her soil, Scotland owes much to you. 
 
 TWEED. 
 
 What stream invites my song ? It is the Tweed ; 
 
 Maternal drops some mountain side distils ; 
 Rugged the path his infant current leads ; 
 
 Nursed by a thousand little patt'ring rills, 
 
 That run like threads of silver from the hills ; 
 Hills rich in every pastoral beauty ; there 
 
 The shepherd-swain his pleasing task fulfils, 
 Leading his fleecy charge with gentle care, 
 To crop the grassy blade on pastures green and fair. 
 
 Approach we now the Clyde's majestic falls ; 
 
 But words are weak and language fails t' express 
 The sight and sound the eye and ear appals. 
 
 Prone to the brink the rushing waters press, 
 
 Then headlong leap into the wild abyss ; 
 The very element is changed : the Clyde 
 
 Blown into foam, boiling in dread excess ; 
 Millions of bubbles burst upon the tide, 
 Till far away again the pure blue waters glide, 
 
40 POEMS. 
 
 THE EMIGRANT LOVER. 
 
 Wae was my heart when I parted frae Jamie, 
 And saut was the tears that stole doon frae my e'e ; 
 The last lovin' look an' sweet kiss that he gae me. 
 I'll mind it, I'm sure, till the day that I dee. 
 
 'Cause wark was fu' scarce, an' the prospect f u' dreary, 
 An' tidings o' wark cam' across frae Lake Erie, 
 My Jamie's ta'en leave o' his ain native land, 
 To seek a new hame on that far foreign strand. 
 
 It's sair, sair to leave the hame o' our childhood, 
 An sairer to think o' him far i' the wild wood ; 
 But Jamie's kind words come to banish my fears ; 
 My heart loups wi' joy, while my een swims wi' tears. 
 
 The dark clouds o' doot never darken my brow ; 
 I ken that my Jamie is faithfu' an' true ; 
 For my sake he'll brave ilka fear an' danger, 
 And manfully strive in the land o' the stranger. 
 
 I dinna want wealth for its pride or its fame ; 
 I want nae distinction, but my Jamie's name ; 
 Contented an' happy wi' him I could live, 
 With aught the good God condescendeth to give. 
 
 My prayers shall ascend baith mornin' an' e'en 
 
 To One — that All-powerful, All-wise, though unseen — 
 
 That He may protect him by land or by sea, 
 
 And bring him safe back to auld Scotland and me. 
 
POEMS. 41 
 
 Be still, my fond heart ! Oh ! how fast flows thy tide, 
 To think on the hour whan I shall be his bride ; 
 What peace, luve, an' plenty shall then be my lot, 
 By yon wimpling burnie in oor sweet shelter'd cot. 
 
 PASTOR HARMS OF HERMANNSBURG. 
 
 The shepherd of a numerous flock 
 
 To feed and guide ; 
 Thy parish, hill and vale and rock, 
 
 A country side. 
 Far, far thine influence extends ; 
 Thy meek and gentle spirit lends 
 Such grace, that foes become thy friends, 
 Pastor Harms. 
 
 And hast thou foes 1 All good men have. 
 
 Since Time began ; 
 Though gentle, thou art very brave, — 
 
 A valiant man. 
 Life controversy can't afford : 
 Thou takest thy buckler and thy sword, 
 And points them to the written Word, 
 Pastor Harms. 
 
 Within thy soul that inner light 
 
 Serenely dwells, 
 The faith that makes e'en darkness light, 
 
 And doubt dispels : 
 That guileless trust, that humble hope, 
 That ardour nothing e'er will stop ; 
 a 
 
42 POEMS. 
 
 Faith garners here her richest crop, 
 Pastor Harms. 
 
 Surely thy noble enterprize 
 
 High Heaven will bless ; 
 To colonize and Christianize, 
 
 There's nought like this : 
 You sent them love instead of strife, 
 The arts of peace where war was rife, 
 And, best of all, the bread of life, 
 Pastor Harms. 
 
 When tidings came the ship was lost, 
 
 Ship built by prayer ! 
 And Hope almost resign'd his post 
 
 To dark Despair ; 
 Borne down with grief they could not smother, 
 What shall be done ? inquired each brother ; 
 " Just pray in faith and build another," 
 Said Pastor Harms. 
 
 Oh, for a million spirits fired 
 
 With love like thine ! 
 With holy zeal and faith inspired, 
 
 And light divine ; 
 To spread the truth from pole to pole, 
 The clouds of error backward roll, 
 And water every thirsty soul, 
 Pastor Harms. 
 
 And Afric's sons shall tell thy fame 
 
 In future years, 
 And Afric's maids embalm thy name 
 
 In grateful tears : 
 
POEMS. 43 
 
 " What man was this in Germanie 
 Sent ships and men across the sea, 
 To bring us Christ, and set us free ? 
 Pastor Harms." 
 
 We cannot estimate thy worth, 
 
 Great, earnest man. 
 May God prolong thy stay on earth 
 
 Till life's last span. 
 
 Though I have never seen thy face, ■ 
 
 Yet for His sake that loved our race, 
 
 I could thy very knees embrace, 
 
 Pastor Harms. 
 
 January 1861. 
 
 SCOTLAND'S LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF THE 
 4 * EDUCATION BILL." 
 
 What heavy news ! — yes, heavy news, I ween ! 
 
 My hopes, my plans, all in the dust are laid ! 
 I wring the tears from out my aged een, 
 
 Like mountain mist from out my tartan plaid. 
 
 Oh ! why did Sects and Selfishness combine 
 To thwart my purpose, in Saint Stephen's hall ? 
 
 Oh ! why did not all hearts and hands incline 
 To frame a measure full and free for all ? 
 
 What Senators opposed me ? Let me see : 
 
 'Twas not my children ; — no ! they muster'd strong, 
 
 Like filial sons around their mother's knee : 
 1 should have had my Bill ; I've suffer'd wrong. 
 
44 POEMS. 
 
 My Parish Schools, I'm proud— I'm free to own, 
 Have been my glory (I will not despond), — 
 
 The springs perennial of my vast renown — 
 But yet, alas ! how wide the field beyond ! 
 
 And shall this worse than barren waste still lie 
 Uncultured and uncared for — oh my soul ! — 
 
 A seething hotbed of iniquity, 
 
 Filling my prisons and my paupers' roll 1 
 
 Where are the stars that blazed upon my brow— 
 My stalwart sons of science and of song ? 
 
 A glorious galaxy ! — where are they now ? 
 They sleep in dust, yet still to me belong. 
 
 Yes, they shall live upon the roll of Fame ! 
 
 And as Time sweeps along its ceaseless tide, 
 Maternal fondness claims each honour'd name, 
 
 Whereon to build the fabric of her pride. 
 
 Is there no future Burns, that tills my soil ? 
 
 No future Watt amid the anvil's din ? 
 No Held, no Chalmers, 'mong my sons of toil ? 
 
 No future Scott mine ancient realm within ? 
 
 Oh ! for a Campbell, whose poetic fire 
 
 Would kindle " England's mariners" to life ! 
 
 Oh ! for a Shepherd, with his mountain lyre, 
 To cheer my kilted squadrons through the strife ! 
 
 Give full reward to Teachers — men of worth ; 
 
 Increase my schools, and wide instruction spread ; 
 Then sons of song and science will come forth, 
 
 And twine fresh laurels round my aged head. 
 
POEMS. 45 
 
 Perhaps, now cradled on some humble hearth, 
 Are infant hearts where embryo genius lies ; 
 
 And schoolboy spirits, struggling into birth, 
 Shall waft my fame and honour to the skies. 
 
 Ten thousand patriot spirits burn to see 
 Instruction spread to the obscurest nook, 
 
 Until the veriest child of penury 
 
 Hath felt its influence, and can upward look. 
 
 My thanks, Moncreiff ! my loved, my honour'd son ! 
 
 Despair not ! Rise again ; renew thy strength, 
 And carry onwards what thou hast begun — 
 
 The Truth, as erst, shall nobly win at length. 
 
 June, 1854. 
 
 TO THE ANNAN SCHOOLBOYS AT THEIR PLAY. 
 
 Glory on each little hero ! 
 
 Now's the time — the golden hour ! 
 Let not future prospects fear ye : 
 
 Glory on while in your power ! 
 
 In your playground, blythe as Unties, 
 
 Every season has its game, — 
 Bools or peeries, ba's or shinties ; 
 
 Glory on ! — it's all the same. 
 
 Through each heart the life-blood streaming, 
 Mantling in each ruddy cheek ; 
 
46 
 
 In each eye excitement beaming, 
 Telling more than words can speak. 
 
 Now Hope lifts her rosy finger ; 
 
 Sunny paths before you gleam : 
 Oh ! how memory loves to linger 
 
 Over boyhood's early dream ! 
 
 Though my head with age grows hoary, 
 
 Still I feel so much a boy, 
 I can bless ye in your glory, 
 
 And participate your joy. 
 
 Masters ! far as it's consistent, 
 
 Smile without, though stern within : 
 
 Oh ! remember time's not distant 
 When life's earnest cares begin. 
 
 Let the joy-buds be expanded ; 
 
 Store up strength in limb and brain : 
 All that strength will be demanded 
 
 Ere they cross life's stormy main. 
 
 Here once play'd our great Evangel* ; 
 
 Mark the meteor coarse he ran ! 
 Little lower than an angel ; 
 
 Fearless — childlike — godlike man ! 
 
 Mark another child of merit ! 
 
 Here once play'd heroic HuGHf : 
 Never a more dauntless spirit 
 
 From the heather brush'd the dew. 
 
 * The Rev. Edward Irving. 
 f Hugh Clapperton, the African Traveller. 
 
POEMS. 47 
 
 Another still and meet companion- 
 Mighty Tom,* the Chelsea sage, 
 
 Who has gain'd a wide dominion 
 O'er the spirit of the age. 
 
 Let such bright examples kindle 
 In your hearts ambition's fire : 
 
 Strive with noblest souls to mingle ; 
 Upward, onward still aspire ! 
 
 Glory on each little hero ! 
 Now's the time — the golden hour ; 
 J Let not future prospects fear ye : 
 Glory on while in your power ! 
 
 December, 1858. 
 
 * Thomas Carlyle. 
 
 THE SOUGH O' WAR. 
 
 The sough o' war's gaen through the Ian' 
 
 The Turk was like to topple ; 
 And Nicholas thocht he'd fund a plan 
 
 T' tak' Constantinople : 
 He tried each wile, he tried each art, 
 
 Ane statesman, syne anither ; 
 But France an' Britain scorn the part 
 
 To strike a weaker brither. 
 
 Nick swore the'man was like to dee, 
 Andjgasping at the thropple ; 
 
48 POEMS. 
 
 And, richt or wrang, his heir would be 
 
 And hae Constantinople : 
 J ohn Bull swore by his guid roast beef, 
 
 The Frenchman his moustashio, 
 To help the Turk, and send relief 
 
 To gallant Omar Pasha. 
 
 And now they've met on Turkish ground,. 
 
 And pledged their vows fraternal ; 
 All Europe prays, with voice profound, 
 
 Those vows may be eternal ; 
 When Gaul and Albion draw their swords r 
 
 They'll pare the Eagle's pinions, 
 And drive the plunderin' Russian hordes 
 
 Back to their ain dominions. 
 
 Britannia, mistress o' the main, 
 
 Resolved to quell him fairly, 
 Sends forth her gallant tars again,. 
 
 Commanded by her Charlie ; 
 And Charlie Napier's just the lad 
 
 That Nick will find a Tartar ; 
 He'll gie him kiltie at Cronstadt, 
 
 Or somewhere near that quarter, 
 
 Where dark the Danube's waters roll 
 
 A glorious navy thunders ; 
 Odessa and Sebastopol 
 
 They'll drive them a' in flinders ; 
 And Nicholas, cow'd, for peace will pray r 
 
 When once he's humbled sairly, 
 And Europe hail a peacefu' day, 
 
 An' cry — " Hoorah for Charlie ! " 
 
 June, 1854. 
 
POEMS. 49 
 
 THE BATTLE OF INKERMANN. 
 
 The morning rose in gloom, 
 When Russia's hosts began 
 In fierce array to loom 
 On the heights of Inkermann, 
 if they might Britain's warriors surprise ; 
 In pride of numbers flush, 
 In serried ranks they rush, 
 Resolved at onee to crush 
 The Allies. 
 
 War's varied engines ply, 
 Hell's demons shout with mirth, 
 The angels weep on high 
 O'er carnage done on earth • 
 God held the trembling scales in His glance : 
 Through winged showers of lead, 
 On, on the foemen sped, 
 O'er dying, o'er dead, 
 They advance. 
 
 As Ocean on our coast 
 In fury spends its waves, 
 So pour'd the Russian host 
 On our little band of braves, 
 Where they stood like an adamantine wall ; 
 Upon that glorious day, 
 To aid us in the fray, 
 In terrible array 
 Came the Gaul. 
 
50 POEMS, 
 
 The gallant sons of France 
 Charge home upon the foes, 
 Like some dread avalanche. 
 A British cheer arose, 
 Such as Time hath heard not since his birth 
 The sternest stood aghast ; 
 Muscovites fell as fast 
 As leaves in Autumn's blast 
 Strew the earth. 
 
 Now comes the level charge, 
 And steel o'er steel is crost. 
 Stand firm, ye Britons now, 
 Or, woe ! woe ! ye are lost ! 
 But hark ! the cheer of " Victory !" rings ;. 
 Blood pour'd like thunder rain ; 
 Death's angel swept the plain ; 
 Exulting o'er the slain, 
 With great wings. 
 
 I hear the orphan's wail, 
 I see the widow's tear ; 
 But Britons will not fail 
 Their drooping hearts to cheer, 
 While patriotic souls fill the land. 
 With liberal hand and free, 
 Uphold fair Freedom's tree : 
 This sacred Liberty 
 Doth demand. 
 
 Our chronicles shall tell 
 The prowess and the might, — 
 What glorious spirits fell 
 Contending for the right : 
 
 
POEMS. 51 
 
 They sleep well on the Crimean strand. 
 While time our woes shall 'suage, 
 Live on from age to age, 
 Writ large on History's page, 
 
 Inkermann. 
 
 Dea, 1854. 
 
 THE EETURNED CONVICT. 
 
 Though I've shed, within a prison, 
 Showers of penitential tears, 
 
 Yet to steal or starve I'm driven 
 By the cold world's selfish fears. 
 
 True, I'm fallen : what more common ? 
 
 I appeal to common-sense— 
 Is it wise, or is it human, 
 
 To deny all future chance ? 
 
 None to succour, none to save me, 
 None sincerely take my part ; 
 
 Sneers oppress me, frowns distress me — 
 All combine to crush my heart. 
 
52 POEMS. 
 
 ADDRESS TO DAVY DRUMMOND.* 
 
 Ay, there ye stan', auld Davy Drummond ; 
 It must be own'd ye look a rum un ; 
 There's something 'boot ye sae uncommon 
 
 In Annan toun, 
 There's neither man nor lad nor woman 
 
 Wad pu' ye doun. 
 
 Noo, Davy, jist suppose I wantit 
 To ken the day when ye were plantit, 
 The auldestjnan, it must be grantit, 
 
 Kens nocht aboot it ; 
 Is every trace for ever santit ? 
 
 I rather doot it. 
 
 Wha christen'd ye ? I maist think shame ; 
 I'm ignorant — perhaps to blame ; 
 I'll try the spirit-rapping game, 
 
 And forthwith summon 
 Ane wha can tell me why your name 
 
 Is Davy Drummond. 
 
 But wha of Annan's sons, grown hoary, 
 Will be familiar with your story ? 
 I think I'll summon Jamie Corrie, 
 Gin I get means : 
 
 * A very aged tree, standing on the line of the ancient fence or 
 " Town's dyke," which, for defensive purposes, extended from 
 Galabank towards Battlehill. The tree is supposed to be about 
 150 years old, and was planted by David Drummond, great- 
 grandfather of Thomas Drummond, tailor, Annan, who is himself 
 now [1863] upwards of 80 years of age. 
 
POEMS. 53 
 
 He maun hae kenn'd ye in your glory, 
 Before his teens. 
 
 Oh, by the bye, there's Lawyer Little,* 
 At knotty questions keen an' kittle : 
 He kenn'd our history to a tittle ; 
 
 I think at least 
 He will this vexing question settle 
 
 At my request. 
 
 Ye stan', a landmark on the mound, 
 That once the borough did surround, 
 Built for defence and battle-ground 
 
 Against their foes, 
 And where our sires, I will be bound, 
 
 Lent lusty blows. 
 
 In your young days ye lookit o'er 
 
 Nocht but a dreary barren moor, — 
 
 Nae house, nae hedge, — wild, rouch, an' poor, 
 
 Wi' scarce a bound, 
 Whare every body's beast micht scour 
 
 Ower common ground. 
 
 Time's changed, and sae it did betide 
 The burghers wad the bounds divide, 
 An' cultivate wi' muckle pride, 
 
 An' biggit beilds ; 
 Noo ye look ower a kintraside 
 
 0' smiling fields. 
 
 * The late Mr James Little, writer, who delivered a lecture to 
 the members of the Annan Mechanics' Institute entitled "Annan i 
 Ancient and Modern." 
 
54 POEMS. 
 
 And whaure to me an' mine's been lent 
 A spot,* with whilk I'm weel content ; 
 Beneath the sun a bonnier stent 
 
 Naewhere reposes, 
 Whaure years o' happy hours I've spent 
 
 'Mang trees an' roses. 
 
 Had ye look'd on wi' living een, 
 
 What wondrous change ye wad hae seen : 
 
 Ay, Davy lad, the world has been 
 
 In michty stir 
 Sin' ye were clad in sombre green 
 
 0' a Scotch fir. 
 
 Impruvements spread as if by stealth ; 
 Lan' a' aroun' in finest tilth ; 
 Folk sober, decent ; public health 
 
 Improved indeed, 
 An' honest burghers wax in wealth 
 
 Wi' decent speed. 
 
 Though auld, yet still ye stan' erec, 
 An' whan ye dee, I do expec 
 The Annan folks will no neglec, 
 
 Baith man an' woman, 
 To pit on mournin' in respec 
 
 For Davy Drummond. 
 
 The western winds, baith loud an' Strang, 
 Hae gi'en ye mony a bitter bang, 
 Still there is sap an' life amang 
 
 Your tapmost branches, 
 
 * The author's Rose Nursery at GuysgilL 
 
POEMS. 55 
 
 But Time I see's been knawin' fchrang 
 Aboot your hainches. 
 
 But, Davy, we maun a' decay ; 
 
 Your heid is thin, an' mine's grown gray ; 
 
 Baith trees an' men maun pass away, 
 
 Race after race, 
 That comin' generations may 
 
 Tak' up their place. 
 
 Fareweel ! for I maun noo away ; 
 I'll see ye syne some ither day ; 
 While simmer rains an' sunbeams play, 
 
 Our lives to nourish, 
 Baith you an' I will heartily pray — 
 
 Let Annan nourish ! 
 
 July, 1863. 
 
 IRELAND TO THE O'DONOGHUE, 
 
 ON HIS REMOVAL FROM THE COMMISSION OF THE PEACE, 
 
 O'Donoghue ! O'Donoghue ! 
 
 Ye're no the clane potato ; 
 Disloyal — troth, the likes o' me 
 
 Will have no more to say t'ye. 
 
 D'ye think to be another Dan, 
 
 And lead the whole battalion % 
 By jabers ! ye are no the man, 
 
 Ye durthy ould rapscallion ! 
 
56 POEMS. 
 
 A Justice ! — sure ye'll feel it sore ; 
 
 Your own self you've outwitted : 
 Your name from that distinguish'd corps 
 
 Henceforth will be omitted. 
 
 In troth it was a durthy trick, 
 
 O'Donoghue my jewel ; 
 And sure I'm glad ye've got the kick 
 
 For being so disloyal. 
 
 And when ye go to Parliament, 
 What will the mimbers say t' you 1 
 
 Sure every club and every print 
 Will blackball the O'Donoghue. 
 
 God bless the Queen of all the Land ! 
 
 She came to see her own green isle, 
 And tuk fair Erin by the hand, 
 
 And greeted her with queenly smile. 
 
 Just let now ould Ireland alone, 
 
 And don't be agitatin' ; 
 Faiks there's no doubt she's getting on, 
 
 As sure as I am spakin'. 
 
 Och ! but she's doing illigant ! 
 
 Improving every day she is ; 
 There's nothing raisonable she'll want — 
 
 Work's plenty and the wages riz. 
 
 The farming's good, and bastes and pigs, 
 And every kind of butcher's meat, 
 
 And fowls and butter, cheese and iggs, 
 Are selling at a furious rate. 
 
POEMS. 57 
 
 Pace ! boys, I say, and wait awhile ; 
 
 Case blarney and batheration, 
 And soon there'll be no happier isle 
 
 In all the wide creation. 
 
 Dec. 1861. 
 
 HYMN.— FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT. 
 
 Tune — " Cheer, Boys, Cheer." 
 
 Fight the good fight while life is still before ye — 
 
 Keep to the path of the virtuous and the wise : 
 Remember there's an Eye that's ever watching o'er ye, 
 
 Remember there's a mansion prepared in the skies. 
 What though your station be humble and lowly, — 
 
 What though your portion be labour day by day ; 
 Remember that labour is blessed and holy : 
 
 Then faint not, but bravely proceed on your way. 
 
 Fight the good fight ; let Hope's rosy finger 
 
 Point to the regions of everlasting day ;. 
 Why should a soldier of Christ wish to linger 
 
 When the great Commander beckons him away ? 
 Fight the good fight, whatever clime or nation, — 
 
 Conquer your foes, of Satan and of sin ; 
 Fight the good fight — obtain the great salvation ; 
 
 The golden doors stand open that you may enter inv 
 
 November, 1860. 
 
58 POEMS. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF BOYHOOD, 
 To a Linnet Caught in the Snow. 
 
 Rude Winter o'er the earth did sweep, 
 And storms deform'd the day, 
 
 And underneath the drifted heap 
 The downy thistle lay ; 
 
 When thou my habitation sought'st — 
 
 For scanty was thy fare — 
 And soon thy little feet thou caught'st, 
 
 Entangled in a snare. 
 
 Conceal'd, I kept my zealous watch 
 
 With eager, anxious eyes ; 
 Exulting, how I flew to catch 
 
 My panting, fluttering prize. 
 
 I bore thee off with boyish glee, 
 
 Unmindful of thy pain ; 
 I thought how sweet thy song would be 
 
 When Spring came back again. 
 
 Confined within a narrow cage, 
 
 My little bird 1 keep ; 
 And nothing doth thy time engage 
 
 But eat, and sing, and sleep. 
 
 Attendant hands thy atmple meat 
 
 Supply from day to day ; 
 Thou feastest on the kernel sweet, 
 
 And drop'st the husk away. 
 
POEMS. 59 
 
 The water pure from crystal fount 
 
 Mellows thy warbling throat ; 
 And on thy perch I see thee mount, 
 
 Tuning thy sweetest note. 
 
 Sweet bird ! my care thou dost reqmte, 
 
 Escaped from the busy throng ; 
 While in my quiet room I sit, 
 
 Thou pay'st me with thy song. 
 
 Say, when thy music fills the room, 
 
 Does joy inspire thy lay ? 
 Or dost thou mourn thy lonely doom — 
 
 Thy mates far, far away ? 
 
 Say, doth thy little heart still cling 
 
 To fields and woodlands fair ? 
 Say, wouldst thou love to poise thy wing 
 
 Amidst thy native air ? 
 
 If that thou might'st, say, wouldst thou flee 
 
 Away to haunts of love, 
 Where thy fair, sweet companions be, 
 
 Within the sylvan grove ? 
 
 Doth whispering Nature make thee long 
 
 To nurse thy callow brood — 
 An infant progeny of song — 
 
 Deep in some shady wood 1 
 
 For now I feel within my heart 
 
 Some pity for thy fate ; 
 Perhaps 'tis better we should part 
 
 Ere yet it is too late. 
 
CO POEMS. 
 
 Away., thou warbling thing, away ; 
 
 Thy prison doors are free ; 
 The sun is bright, the earth is gay, 
 
 There's gladness there for thee. 
 
 f Come, let thy fluttering pinions press 
 
 And cleave the vernal air : 
 Away into the wilderness — 
 Thy home, sweet bird, is there. 
 
 May never prowling hawk come nigh 
 
 To threaten or molest ; 
 May never schoolboy's prying eye 
 
 Find out thy little nest. 
 
 July, 1867. 
 
 CHILDREN AT THEIR PLAY. 
 
 I've listen'd, at the early dawn, 
 
 The lark salute the morn, 
 The mavis and the lintie's note 
 
 Pour'd from the blooming thorn ; 
 I've heard at evening's dewy close 
 
 The blackbird's mellow lay, — 
 But there's no music half so sweet 
 
 As children at their play. 
 
 I've heard unrivall'd Wilson sing 
 Auld Scotland's sweetest strains, 
 
 And lend even poesy a grace 
 Beyond the poet's pains ; 
 
POEMS. 61 
 
 And Catalani's matchless voice 
 
 Hath borne my soul away, — 
 Yet there's no music half so sweet 
 
 As children at their play. 
 
 I've sat within enchantment's spell. 
 
 And lost to meaner things, 
 While Paganini's master hand 
 
 With magic touch'd the strings ; 
 But there's no sweet-tuned instrument 
 
 Which canning hands essay, 
 Can yield a music to my heart 
 
 Like children at their play. 
 
 All nature teems with holiest sounds, 
 
 On listening ears they fall : 
 Ye rushing streams, ye winds, ye waves— 
 
 There's music in ye all ; 
 But see the schoolboys, just let loose, 
 
 Exulting bound away, 
 Then say if earth has e'er a sound 
 
 'Boon children at their play. 
 
 Jan., 1845. 
 
 CHRIST AND HIS LOVE. 
 
 When Christ, our Lord, on earth sojourn'd, 
 
 And found no resting place, 
 With love divine His bosom burn'd 
 
 To all the human race. 
 
62 POEMS. 
 
 A new commandment He hath given, 
 
 That all should understand, 
 A prelibation here of heaven 
 
 Vouchsafed to sinful man. 
 
 'Tis more divine than love to friends, 
 
 To father, mother, brother ; 
 Its influence over earth extends — 
 
 'Tis love to one another. 
 
 What length, what breadth, what depth, w T hat height 
 
 Those glorious words afford ! 
 The essence of that blessed light, 
 
 That shines through God's own word. 
 
 Oh ! hear the message from above, 
 
 And to its voice give heed — 
 Let Christian truth and Christian love 
 
 Direct each word and deed. 
 
 What countless ills from earth would fly, 
 
 Spoilers of every clime ; 
 What countless streams would soon run dry 
 
 Of folly, vice, and crime ! 
 
 Blind man, alas ! is very prone 
 
 To pass the wise and good, 
 And rear the monumental stone 
 
 To mark the man of blood. 
 
 The stately urn, the marble bust, 
 
 Should mark the man of peace ; 
 Then swords would in their scabbards rust, 
 
 And wars and tumults cease. 
 
POEMS. 63 
 
 Oh ! Burritt, give thy talents scope ! 
 
 And over all the land, 
 Thou'lt kindle gleams of peaceful hope, 
 
 That few yet understand. 
 
 As pebbles cast in water, still 
 
 The circle shall extend, 
 Till sacred love its mission fill 
 
 To earth's remotest end. 
 
 Hail to the bright Millennial day ! 
 
 Hail love to one another, 
 When man to man o'er earth shall say, 
 
 " Thou art indeed my brother ! " 
 
 TO MY DEPARTED WIFE. 
 
 Now thou art gone from every earthly care, 
 
 Joy of my life ; 
 And left me here to mourn, but not despair, 
 
 My own dear wife ; 
 
 Thy warfare's ended, I am left alone. 
 
 Thou wert and art 
 So dear to me, that none can fill thy throne 
 
 Within my heart. 
 
 Angels have borne thee to thy Father's home 
 Of pure delight, 
 
 Where sin, nor pain, nor death shall ever come, 
 Where all is light. 
 
64 POEMS. 
 
 The conflict's o'er ; the victory is complete 
 O'er death and sin ; 
 
 Triumphant songs around the mercy-seat 
 Now greet thee in. 
 
 Thou hast been dipp'd in that all-cleansing river, 
 
 The sacred flood ; 
 And all earth's stains are wash'd away for ever 
 
 In Christ's own blood. 
 
 In gifted garments, spotless white and clean, 
 
 Thou art array 'd ; 
 And on thy head a glorious crown is seen, 
 
 That cannot fade. 
 
 No falling there ; thy feet securely cling 
 
 Unto the Rock : 
 No straying there, where Christ, the Shepherd King, 
 
 Doth lead His flock. 
 
 No wringing of the heart, no burning tears, 
 New dim thine eye ; 
 
 Seraphic music fills thy ravish'd ears 
 To ecstasy. 
 
 Conception's vain until the veil is rent i 
 
 That blessed land 
 The prison'd soul in its clay tenement 
 
 Can't understand. 
 
 And doth thy gentle spirit hover o'er 
 
 Our earth's abode ? 
 Oh, may we tread the path thou trod'st before — 
 
 The heavenward road ! 
 
POEMS. tid 
 
 Was it permitted in that world of bliss,' 
 
 Amidst its joys, 
 To meet with those so dear to thee in this, — 
 
 Our own sweet boys ? 
 
 They were a precious loan unto us given, 
 
 But for a space ; 
 Odd claim'd His own, and bore them back to heaven. 
 
 His dwelling-place. 
 
 I hope to meet thee in that better land, 
 
 Life's warfare o'er ; 
 And there, among the ransom'd millions stand, 
 
 To part no more. 
 
 What priceless rapture would my soul inherit, 
 
 Words cannot tell, 
 To hold communion with thy sainted spirit, 
 
 My Isabell ! 
 
 PUFF! 
 
 Puff ! puff ! puff ! 
 
 Ointment, powder, and pill ! 
 There's a Dr H. hath a certain cure 
 
 For every human ill. 
 
 With pestle in hand 
 
 He takes his stand, 
 And defies the terrible king ; 
 
 By ointment and pill, 
 
 Live on if you will 
 Till Time's last bell shall ring. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Puff! puff! puff! 
 
 Fat of Greenland bear, 
 And lots of other infallible things — 
 
 Manures for human hair. 
 
 Now, ye beardless crew, 
 
 Hear what news for you : 
 A splendid crop by grease or herb ; 
 
 Whiskers and beard 
 
 By inch or yard, 
 Moustaches all superb. 
 
 Puff ! puff ! puff ! 
 There is a railway the deuce knows where ; 
 
 A cunning prospectus 
 
 Is forthwith prepared 
 To make cupidity stare ; 
 
 And with itching fingers 
 
 Clutch the scrip, 
 Thinking fortune's been their friend ; 
 
 But the weary calls 
 
 The heart appals, 
 And no hopes of a dividend. 
 
 Puff! puff! puff! 
 I like John Bull for sport ; 
 
 His back is strong, 
 
 His purse is long, 
 His heart's of an honest sort. 
 
 There is no land 
 
 The sun shines on 
 Like the island of the free ; 
 
 But a host of quacks 
 
 Bide on our backs, 
 , And a nation of dupes are we. 
 
POEMS, 6? 
 
 Puff! puff! puff! 
 There's a sale of drapery goods ; 
 
 The window's stuck full 
 
 Of staring bills, 
 To catch the gaping crowds. 
 
 " The cheapest lot 
 
 That ever was sold ! " 
 " What an awful sacrifice ! " 
 
 But those flaming words, 
 
 If you must be told, 
 Are, in general, flaming lies. 
 
 Puff! puff! puff! 
 When locomotives start 
 
 The sound is sweet, 
 
 For the fiery steed 
 Hath a warm and honest heart; 
 
 I have sympathy — 
 
 1 can heave a sigh 
 When honest madness raves ; 
 
 But upon my soul 
 
 There's nothing so foul 
 As the puffs of designing knaves. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 When storms deform the air, T love to be 
 Within the influence of a cheerful fire, 
 
 A book, a friend, or my wife's company — • 
 The greatest luxury I desire — 
 
gg 
 
 POEMS-. 
 
 And sometimes too I strike my humble lyrey 
 And quaff the Chinese leaf with social glee. 
 
 Delightful beverage ! who does not admire 
 The fragrant, cheering, friendly cup of tea ? 
 My song would be unsung if it were not for thee. 
 
 I love to wander forth in musing mood, 
 
 Along the banks of some meandering stream ; 
 Beneath the shade of the o'erhanging wood, 
 
 That lends its shelter from the noontide beam. 
 
 I love to see the silvery fishes gleam 
 Beneath the waters, dimpling oft the wave, 
 
 Whose surface now with summer insects team ; 
 When July's sun makes us the coolness crave, 
 How sweet in the translucent stream our limbs to lave. 
 
 I love to see the evening's dewy tears 
 Gleaming in silent drops upon the earth ; 
 
 I love to see the moon, when she appears, 
 And all her starry train comes dancing forth, 
 Singing the nightly chorus of their birth, 
 
 Gemming heaven's canopy. The eye 
 Gazes in rapture, the heart in holy mirth 
 
 Breaks forth, joining the anthem high, 
 Swelling the bounding strain of heaven's melody. 
 
SONGS 
 
 BONG FOE, THE CENTENARY OF BUENSl 
 
 Tune — " Scots, wlia ha'e wi' Wallace bled." 
 
 Wave the banner ! wind the horn ! 
 Let the joy-bells greet the morn 
 Scotland's brightest son was born ! 
 We hail his memorie. 
 
 Scotchmen, scatter'd o'er the earth, 
 Celebrate your Poet's birth ! 
 Genius rare and manly worth — 
 
 Of precious memorie, 
 
 Sympathies so deep and wide, 
 Nature's self his wedded bride ; 
 Scotland's joy and Scotland's pride ! 
 We bless his memorie ! 
 
 His was love's impetuous flow ; 
 His was friendship's warmest glow ; 
 His a tear for every woe : 
 
 Oh, guard his memorie ! 
 
70 SONGS. 
 
 He that mourn'd the daisy's doom, 
 Mourn'd the mousie's ruin'd home', 
 Scatter incense o'er his tomb — 
 
 Embalm his memorie ! 
 
 He that sung the Cottar's Nicht, 
 Honest men 'boon monarchs' micht ; 
 Champion of the poor manVricht ! 
 We love his memorie ! 
 
 Scotland's sons, his fame prolong 
 While the centuries roll along ; 
 Peerless peasant — prince of song — 
 Of glorious memorie. 
 
 Let the concord onward roll ! 
 
 " Feast of reason — flow of soul ! " 
 
 We will drain the festal bowl 
 
 To his mighty memorie. 
 
 January, 1859. 
 
 SONG OF THE LARCH TREE. 
 
 From royal lineage I am sprung ; 
 
 I claim a sylvan throne ; 
 My sisters are, the Cedar tree 
 
 That grows on Lebanon, 
 And Deodar', on Him'laya's steep 
 
 So graceful to be seen : 
 But I'm the pride of all my race, — 
 
 The British Forest Queen. 
 
SOJSTGS. 71 
 
 Go bring to me yon ducal crown, — 
 
 How gorgeously 'tis set ! — 
 And I'm the brightest, richest gem 
 
 In Athol's coronet ! 
 Ye wanderers through the Highland glens, 
 
 To feast your longing een, 
 Oh ! come to Athol's bonny braes, 
 
 To see the Forest Queen ! 
 
 I stand amidst my kindred trees 
 
 In queenly dignity ; 
 I wave my branches in the breeze, 
 
 So graceful, fresh, and free ; 
 And my dominion shall increase 
 
 Within the sylvan scene : 
 The oak is monarch of the wood, 
 
 And I'm the Forest Queen ! 
 
 When hoary age shall crown my brow, 
 
 And woodman bring me down, 
 I'll sleep beneath the iron ways 
 
 That link each busy town ! 
 And Britain's sons, as on they speed 
 
 Through fields and woodlands green, 
 Careering on their fiery steed, 
 
 Shall bless the Forest Queen ! 
 
72 SONGS. 
 
 THE BARN- YARD 'S RINNING O'ER. 
 
 A Harvest Song for 1848. 
 Tune — " There's nae luck about the house." 
 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er, guidwife ; 
 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er : 
 The bairns they canna count the stacks ; 
 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er. 
 
 I've heard them say, a Spanish Don 
 
 A Squire ance did keep,* 
 Wha pray'd for blessings on the man 
 
 That first invented sleep : 
 But I will bless the cunnin' ehiel 
 
 That first invented drains ; 
 And did he need our biggest stack 
 
 I'd gie't him for his pains. 
 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er, guidwife, 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er ; 
 
 A single stack would scarce be miss'd >^— 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er. 
 
 Ye ken the field ayont the croft, 
 
 It wasna worth a preen ; 
 Rashes were the standing crap, 
 
 Wi' taits o' girse atween : 
 But since we've drain'd it deep an' weel, 
 
 And stirr'd wi' Deanston's plough, 
 
 * Sancho Panza. 
 
SONGS. 73 
 
 Nae mortal een e'er saw sic stooks,— 
 I'll brag Dumfriesshire through. 
 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er, guidwife ; 
 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er : 
 The bairns they canna count the stacks ; 
 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er. 
 
 It's wonnerfu' to think, guidwife. 
 
 How things tak' sic a turn ; 
 Ye mind sin' our deep midden hole 
 
 Ran black into the burn : 
 But now we hoard each precious drap, 
 
 As misers hoard their store ; 
 It's ae great thing amang the rest, 
 
 That mak's the yard rin o'er. 
 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er, guidwife, 
 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er : 
 The bairns they canna count the stacks ; 
 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er. 
 
 There's mony things were wasted then, 
 
 That we think precious noo ; 
 t look aroun', and wonder aft 
 
 Hoo our forbears gat through : 
 Guano, tae, 's an unco help, 
 
 And sae is broken banes ; 
 Our turnips stan' alang the grun' 
 
 Like raws o' channel stanes. 
 
 The barn- yard's rinnin' o'er, guidwife ; 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er : 
 
74 SONGS. 
 
 The bairns they canna count the stacks ; 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er. 
 
 I'm wae to see our stalwart chiels, 
 
 Wi' willing heart and hand, 
 Aft forced, for want o' work and bread, 
 
 To leave their native land : 
 Oh, could they stay and till the soil 
 
 That's ne'er been till'd before, 
 How many million stooks would rise 
 
 To gar the yard rin o'er ! 
 
 Our barn-yard's rinnin' o'er, guidwife, 
 Our barn-yard's rinnin' o'er : 
 
 The ae best sicht that een can see, 
 Is barn-yards rinnin' o'er. 
 
 We've warsel'd up the brae, guidwife, 
 
 Through mony a weary dark ; 
 There's ae thing I can say, guidwife, 
 
 We ne'er were swear o' wark. 
 Gin a' were tight 'neath thack and rape, 
 
 Sin' noo we ha'e the means, 
 We'll tak' a flicht alang the rails, 
 
 And see our distant friens. 
 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er, guidwife ; 
 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er : 
 There's peace and plenty round the house ;- 
 
 The barn-yard's rinnin' o'er. 
 
SONG*. 75 
 
 I'LL FARM LIKE MY FATHERS BEFORE ME. 
 
 When my landlord says, " John, 
 
 You must really get on, 
 Just see how your neighbours are striving ; 
 
 We must be improving, 
 
 And onward keep moving : 
 Depend that's the right road to thriving. " 
 
 " Sir, I pay when I can ; 
 
 I'm a hard-working man ; 
 At elections you know you get o'er me : 
 
 Let them do as they may, 
 
 I prefer the old way, — 
 I'll farm like my fathers before me. 
 
 " There is Berwickshire Dick, 
 
 Of the fellow I'm sick — 
 They say that his crops are so charming ; 
 
 And there's East Lothian Will, 
 
 He is worse and worse still ; 
 They boast, — how they boast of his farming ! 
 
 Every thing is so good, 
 
 And so well understood ; 
 It's all just to chafe and to bore me : 
 
 But I care not a jot, 
 
 For I value them not, 
 I'll farm like my fathers before me. 
 
 " There's nothing but toiling 
 
 At draining, subsoiling, 
 And grubbing old hedgerows and fences ; 
 
 It is all very neat, 
 
 When the thing is complete, 
 But dreadful to think what expenses t 
 
' 6 SONGS. 
 
 Should 1 spend on the land, 
 
 I can not understand 
 How cash it again would restore me : 
 
 I shall therefore take care, 
 
 Aught that I get to spare 
 I'll keep, like my fathers before me. 
 
 " To the markets they ride, 
 
 In the flush of their pride, 
 As if they were pinks of creation ; 
 
 On the best they will dine, 
 
 And sit over their wine, 
 And talk about crops and rotation ; 
 
 But how they do contrive 
 
 To get rich,— man alive ! 
 That certainly rather gets o'er me ! 
 
 But I care not a jot, 
 
 For I envy them not, — 
 I'll farm like my fathers before me. 
 
 " There's such newfangled ways 
 
 About dung now-a-days, 
 Whole islands have gone to destruction ; 
 
 It's absurd to suppose 
 
 That so tiny a dose 
 Can greatly increase the production. 
 
 About liquid manure 
 
 I am not quite so sure ; 
 But, trouble and tanks, I abhor ye ! 
 
 'Twas my old father's song — 
 
 1 Jack, thou It never do wrong 
 To farm like thy fathers before thee.' 
 
 " Improvements in breeding ; 
 And new modes of feeding ; 
 
SONGS. 77 
 
 'Bout science they'll preach you a sermon ; 
 
 They may boast of Liebig, 
 
 But I care not a fig, 
 He's nought but some cunning old German. 
 
 They talk about gases 
 
 Like thundering asses ; 
 Such nonsense shall never get o'er me ; 
 
 I have just this to say — 
 
 I prefer the old way, 
 I'll farm like my fathers before me. " 
 
 AVENHAM WALKS, 
 Tune — "Annie Laurie." 
 
 Avenham walks are bonnie 
 
 When Spring's first flow'rets blaw ; 
 'Twas there 1 met wi' Annie, 
 
 The fairest flower o' a' : 
 Her cheek was like the rose-bud. 
 
 Her skin was like the snaw ; 
 The witching smiles o' Annie 
 
 Soon wiled my heart awa\ 
 
 Avenham walks are bonnie 
 
 When trees put on their bloom ; 
 An' there I stray wi' Annie, 
 
 Amidst their rich perfume : 
 But oh, her breath is sweeter 
 
 Than gales frae Araby ; 
 And oh, her form is neater 
 
 Than aucht on earth can be. 
 
78 SONGS. 
 
 Avenham walks are bonnie 
 
 When leaves fa' frae the trees. 
 For there I breathe with Annie 
 
 The fresh Autumnal breeze ; 
 'Twas there our hearts were plighted, 
 
 'Twas there our vows were said ; 
 'Twas there I clasp'd, delighted, 
 
 The dear consenting maid. 
 
 Avenham walks are bonnie 
 
 Through hoary Winter's reign ; 
 There still I stray wi' Annie, 
 
 For she is now my ain. 
 Through Avenham 's walks delighted 
 
 All seasons we can rove, 
 With hearts and hands united 
 
 In bands of purest love. 
 
 THE MAID OF SOLWAY SHORE. 
 
 My bark is moor'd in the silvery tide, 
 
 Where the Annan joins the sea ; 
 But before I cross the ocean wide 
 
 I must go, my love, to thee. 
 The hours are sweet when I have to meet 
 
 The maiden that I adore ; 
 There is no bliss like a balmy kiss 
 
 Of Mary of Solway shore. 
 
 Mary is beauteous, virtuous, and meek, 
 Her eyes like the dew-drops shine ; 
 
SONGS. 79 
 
 The blush that steals o'er her soft warm cheek, 
 
 It tells me her heart is mine. 
 Her look of love can never remove 
 
 From my bosom's innermost core, 
 When my vow was said to my dear maid— 
 
 My Mary of Solway shore. 
 
 Oh ! the time is nigh when we must part, 
 
 And I must over the main ; 
 But hope shall cheer my own Mary's heart 
 
 Till her sailor comes again. 
 When the watch I keep, or rock'd to sleep 
 
 By the ocean's lonely roar, 
 I think with delight, and dream at night, 
 
 Of Mary on Solway shore. 
 
 That hour my homeward prow I find 
 
 So proudly plowing the sea, 
 I'll spread every sheet to woo every wind 
 
 That will waft me home to thee. 
 When I hail my strand, my native shore, 
 
 My perils and dangers o'er, 
 A gladsome face and a warm embrace 
 
 Shall greet me on Solway shore. 
 
 BONNIE ANNIE. 
 
 I'll gang the morn to the market toon, 
 Bonnie Annie ! lovely Annie ! 
 
 And I will buy the wedding gown 
 
 For my sweet bride, my Annie. 
 
80 SONGS. 
 
 Sandy Oslem shall read the bands, 
 Bonnie Annie ! lovely Annie ! 
 
 Auld Mess John shall join our han's, 
 My bonnie, winsome Annie. 
 
 Then we sail be man and wife, 
 
 Bonnie Annie ! lovely Annie ! 
 
 And we sail lead a happy life, 
 
 My bonnie, winsome Annie. 
 
 I'll work for thee baith late and soon, 
 Bonnie Annie ! winsome Annie ! 
 
 And kiss thee weel when a' is done, 
 My bonnie, winsome Annie. 
 
 My father's boucht me a spinnin'-wheel, 
 Bonnie laddie ! canny laddie ! 
 
 And I can mak' it birr fu' weel, 
 
 My bonnie, handsome laddie. 
 
 I'll spin ye sarks to mak' ye braw, 
 
 Bonnie laddie ! canny laddie ! 
 
 And linen sheets as white as snaw, 
 My bonnie, handsome laddie. 
 
 Annie, lass, ye promise fine, 
 
 Bonnie Annie ! winsome Annie I 
 
 But ye'll hae something else to min', 
 My bonnie, lovely Annie. 
 
 I doot ye'll no your promise keep, 
 
 Bonnie Annie ! lovely Annie ! 
 
 For ye'll hae to sing the bairn to sleep, 
 And rock it— rock it— Annie. 
 
SONGS. 81 
 
 Tuts ! Jamie lad, hoo fast ye speak, 
 Bonnie laddie ! cannie laddie ! 
 
 Ye bring the blushes to my cheek, 
 My bonnie, handsome laddie. 
 
 But if we should a babby get, 
 
 Bonnie laddie ! cannie laddie ! 
 
 I'll rock the cradle wi' my fit, 
 
 My bonnie, handsome laddie. 
 
 I ken fu' weel ye'll do your best, 
 
 Bonnie Annie ! winsome Annie ! 
 
 An' I will try to do the rest, 
 
 My bonnie, lovely Annie. 
 
 Your mither she's been crying lang, 
 Bonnie Annie ! lovely Annie ! 
 
 Ae sweet kiss afore ye gang : 
 
 Gude nicht, my lovely Annie, 
 
 OH ! MARY, CHASE AWAY THE SIGH, 
 
 Oh ! Mary, chase the sigh away 
 
 That rises in thy bosom fair, 
 And from thy mild blue speaking eye 
 
 The briny tear that lingers there. 
 Come, let the smile light up thy cheek — 
 
 That witching smile that won my heart - 7 
 There is no longer cause to weep, 
 
 For I no more from thee shall part, 
 
 M 
 
82 SONGS. 
 
 My father's gi'en consent at last 
 
 That she I love shall be my bride. 
 Come to my arms, our griefs are past, 
 
 My bosom's joy ! my soul's first pride ! 
 My constant heart still clings to thee, 
 
 Which nought could shake, nor aught could move ; 
 I knew that thine beat true to me 
 
 With all a woman's tenderest love. 
 
 I'll lead thee through the sunny bowers 
 
 Where we by stealth did often rove ; 
 I'll cull for thee the fairest flowers, 
 
 And weave a garland for my love. 
 I'll take thee to yon cottage sweet, 
 
 That stands beside the winding rill ; 
 Our days shall pass on rosy feet, 
 
 And grief no more thy heart shall fill. 
 
 A GUDE WIFE. 
 
 To hae a wife, and rule a wife, 
 
 Tak's a wise man, tak's a wise man ; 
 But to get a wife to rule a man, 
 
 Ay, that ye can ! ay, that ye can ! 
 For the wife that's wise we aye maun prize : 
 
 They are few, ye ken, they are scarce, ye ken- 
 Solomon says ye'll no find ane 
 
 Amang hundreds ten, 'mang hundreds ten. 
 
 When a man is wed, it is aften said 
 He's aye ower blate, he's aye ower blate ; 
 
SONGS. 83 
 
 He tries to improve his first calf love 
 When it's ower late, when it's ower late. 
 
 Ye maun mak' o' them, and daut o' them, 
 Or they'll tak' the gee, the barley-hood ; 
 
 If the honeynmne wad ne'er gang dune 
 
 They wad aye be gude, they wad aye be glide. 
 
 If ye marry when ye're auld, 
 
 Ye will get jeers, ye will get jeers ; 
 An' if she be a bonnie lass, 
 
 Ye may hae fears, ye may hae fears : — 
 For if she's tall, when she grows bauld 
 
 She'll crack your croon, she'll crack your croon ; 
 An' if ye plea wi' ane that's wee, 
 
 She'll pu' ye doon, she'll pu' ye doon. 
 
 Sae a man that gets a guid-gi'en wife 
 
 Gets gear eneuch, gets gear eneuch ; 
 But he that gets an ill-gi ? en wife 
 
 Gets care eneuch, gets care eneuch. 
 For a man may spen' and hae to the en' 
 
 If his wife be oucht, if his wife be oucht ; 
 But a man may spare an' aye be bare 
 
 If his wife be nocht, if his wife be nocht. 
 
 THE SONG OF STEAM. 
 
 Harness me down with your iron bands ; 
 
 Be sure of your curb and rein, 
 For I scorn the power of your puny hands 
 
 As the Ocean scorns the chain. 
 
S4 SOXGS. 
 
 How I langh'd, as I lay conceal'd from sight 
 
 For many a countless hour, 
 At the childish boasts of human might, 
 
 And the pride of human power. 
 
 When I saw an army upon the land, 
 
 A navy upon the seas, 
 Creeping along, a snail-like band, 
 
 Or waiting the wayward breeze ; 
 
 When I mark'd the peasant faintly reel 
 With the toil which he daily bore, 
 
 As he feebly turn'd at the tardy wheel, 
 Or tugg'd at the weary oar ; 
 
 When I measured the panting courser's speed, 
 
 The flight of the carrier dove, 
 As they bore the law a king decreed, 
 
 Or the lines of impatient love ; — 
 
 I could not but think how the world would feel 
 
 As these were outstripp'd afar, 
 When I should be bound to the rushing keel, 
 
 And chain'd to the flying car. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! they found me at last, 
 They invited me forth at length, 
 
 And I rush'd to my throne with thunder blast, 
 And I laugh'd in my iron strength. 
 
 Oh ! then ye saw a wondrous change 
 
 On the earth and ocean wide, 
 Where now my fiery armies range, 
 
 JSTor wait for wind nor tide. 
 
SONGS. 85 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the waters o'er, 
 
 The mountain's steep decline ; 
 Time — space — have yielded to my power, 
 
 The world — the world is mine ! 
 
 The rivers the sun hath earliest blest, 
 
 Or those where his beams decline ; 
 The giant streams of the queenly west, 
 
 And the orient floods divine : 
 
 The ocean pales where'er I sweep 
 
 To hear my strength rejoice ; 
 And the monsters of the briny deep 
 
 Cower trembling at my voice. 
 
 I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, 
 
 The thoughts of the God-like mind ; 
 The wind lags after my flying forth, 
 
 The lightning is left behind. 
 
 In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine 
 
 My tireless arm doth play, 
 Where the rocks ne'er saw the sun decline, 
 
 Nor the dawn of the glorious day. 
 
 I bring earth's glittering jewels up 
 
 From the hidden cave below ; 
 And I make the fountain's granite cup 
 
 With a crystal gush o'erflow. 
 
 I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, 
 
 In all the shops of trade ; 
 I hammer the ore and turn the wheel 
 
 Where my arms of strength are made. 
 
86 SONGS. 
 
 I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint ; 
 
 I carry, I spin, I weave ; 
 And all my doings I put into print 
 
 On every Saturday eve. 
 
 I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay, 
 No bones to be " laid on the shelf ;" 
 
 And soon I intend you to " go and play" 
 While I manage the world myself. 
 
 So harness me down with your iron bands 
 Be sure of your curb and rein, 
 
 For I scorn the strength of your puny hands 
 As the tempest scorns the chain. 
 
EPISTLES 
 
 A POETIC EPISTLE TO BROTHER WILLIAM. 
 
 A guid New-Year 1 wish ye, Willie, 
 My ain kin'-hearted, darlin' billie ! 
 My hearty prayer I wad gie till ye ; 
 
 If I'd my way. 
 Pang fu' o' hope an' joy I'd fill ye 
 
 This verra day. 
 
 I min' the day when ye were born — 
 To me it was a gledsome morn ; 
 To drink your health I gat a horn 
 
 Frae granny kin' : 
 And, Willie, ye've ne'er been a thorn 
 
 To me or mine. 
 
 Ye aye seem'd unco fain to please me, 
 Ye aye seem'd unco laith to grieve me, 
 Aye glad to meet an' wae to leave me, 
 
 Hame or awa' ; 
 An' then, ye never did deceive me — 
 
 The best o' a' ! 
 
88 EPISTLES. 
 
 I see ye yet, a lauchin' boy, 
 Garrin' the house to ring wi' joy ; 
 At every funny trick an' ploy 
 
 Ye bore the bell — 
 Stumpit, stibbled, an' wee bit shy, 
 
 But uneo fell. 
 
 But ye grew up, an' in a crack 
 
 Ye seized the stick an' swung the pack. 
 
 To gather siller be na slack, 
 
 Whate'er betide us ; 
 And, wi' a pouchfu 7 , jist come back 
 
 An' live beside us. 
 
 But has a stoun o 7 love ne'er smit ye ? 
 Ye e'en maun try a wife to get ye : 
 Scotland has lasses sweet an' pretty, 
 
 An 7 guid an' bonnie, — 
 There's ane in my min's e'e wad fit ye 
 
 The best o 7 ony. 
 
 An', Willie, may ye lang be spared, 
 Wi' worth an' wisdom for your guard ; 
 An' may ye reap a rich reward 
 
 0' peace an' plenty ; 
 An' may ye claw an auld man's beard 
 
 Fu' crouse an' vauntie. 
 
 I'm glad to tell ye, in this letter, 
 My cantie wifie's growin' better, 
 An 7 tak's her meat noo like a hatter — 
 
 Sleeps weel at e'ens ; 
 An' sen's her kin' love ower the water 
 
 To a' her frien's. 
 
EPISTLES. 89 
 
 We've clam the hill o' life thegither, 
 
 An' cantie been wi' ane anither, 
 
 An' Fortune's been nae cauld stepmither 
 
 Wi' niggard hand ; 
 The bite an 7 sup we've had wi' ither, 
 
 Aye at command. 
 
 While through life's rugged ways we travel, 
 We may get mony a dunt an' bevel, 
 Hope lifts her rosy finger level, 
 
 An' points the road, 
 The path o' virtue aye to travel ; 
 
 It leads to God. 
 
 I had amaist forgotten clean : — 
 Remember me to ilka f rien' — 
 To sister Janet, James and Jean, 
 
 Gie my love to them ; 
 An' honest John, and Mrs Graham, 
 
 Neist time ye see them. 
 
 EPISTLE TO 
 
 MR ROBERT ELLIOT, HARDGRAVE, ON HIS 
 
 LEAVING DUMFRIESSHIRE. 
 
 Dear Sir, I'm tauld that ye're gaun North, 
 
 Awa' ayont the Frith o' Forth ; 
 
 And numerous friens, that ken your worth 
 
 An' public spirit, 
 Some day, ere lang, are comin' forth 
 
 To own your merit. 
 
 N 
 
90 EPISTLES. 
 
 There is nae frien that can be there ? 
 I'm certain, can esteem you mair ; 
 Sae, having a bit blink to spare, 
 I can't do better 
 Than sen' you, jist in rhymin' ware, 
 A frienly letter. 
 
 When seated roun' the festive board, 
 Presided ower by a lord, 
 Each heart's delighted to afford 
 
 Their honour'd guest 
 A meet, appropriate reward 
 
 For labours past. 
 
 By tongue an' pen, wi' ardour keen, 
 A lift to culture ye ha'e gi'en ; 
 And mony a youth by you has been 
 
 Taucht an* admonish'd. 
 Till Lothian farmers dicht their een, 
 
 And glow'r astonish'd. 
 
 A spot, erst little else than waste, 
 Displays your energy an' taste — 
 An oasis in a desert placed ; 
 
 Your fields appear 
 In Nature's greenest livery drest 
 
 Throughout the year. 
 
 For Hardgrave ye were jist the man ; 
 Ye cam' wi' a decided plan ; 
 An' keepit steedfast i' the van 
 
 Of each impruvement, — 
 An' always ready, heart an' han', 
 
 To aid the muvement. 
 
EPISTLES. 91 
 
 How trim an' neat a' renin' your steadin' ! 
 Your stalls proclaim your skill in feedin' ; 
 And none can doot your skill in breedin' 
 
 That sees your flock, — 
 For far an 5 wide the fame is spreadin' 
 
 O' Hardgrave stock. 
 
 I min' sin' pleughs ran dour an' shallow, 
 An' craps were stunted, seer, an' yallow : 
 The Ian' received a naked fallow, 
 
 Withoot a plant ; — 
 Flesh poor an' lean, maist minus tallow, 
 
 An' unco scant. 
 
 But noo the pleughs work deep an' clean ; 
 The craps are healthy, glossy, green ; 
 Field after field o' bulbs are seen 
 
 In gran' array ; 
 An' trains o' stock, nae langer lean, 
 
 Are borne away. 
 
 An' then such lots o' new manure 
 Have pruved their fertilizin' power ; 
 The rainless islands send their dower 
 
 O'er stormy seas, 
 That's gi'en to barren waste and moor 
 
 A famous heeze. 
 
 That man's a patriot, I'll maintain, 
 While we depend on foreign grain, 
 Wha strives, wi' steady han' an' brain, 
 
 For its reduction ; 
 Wha tills the wastes or digs the drain, 
 
 To aid production. 
 
92 EPISTLES. 
 
 Impruvement marches forward still ; 
 We've men o' capital an' skill, 
 Whase motto's " Onward aye until 
 
 (Oh ! sweet reflection !) 
 Our dear auld Scotland's farmin' will 
 
 Come to perfection." 
 
 There's Howes, Redkirk, an' Hoddamtown, 
 In science an* in practice soun' : — 
 Think not, dear Sir, I'm partial grown, 
 
 Because I name 
 My neebors ; — tak' the kintra roun', 
 
 There's scores like them. 
 
 May ye a kin'ly welcome feel, 
 An' Perthshire bodies use ye weel ; 
 They'll soon ^.i? ye're nae common chiel' 
 
 For heart an' head, 
 At? sterling worth, aye true as steel, 
 
 In word an' deed. 
 
 Although Dumfriesshire sair will miss ye, 
 Where'er ye gang richt weel we wiss ye ; 
 May health, an' peace, an' plenty bless ye. 
 
 An' length of days, 
 An' dire misfortune ne'er distress ye, 
 
 Your Poet prays. 
 
 May, 1856. 
 
EPISTLES. 93 
 
 EPISTLE TO TAM SAMSON, NURSERYMAN, 
 KILMARNOCK. 
 
 " Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly, 
 Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, 
 Tell every social, honest billie 
 
 To cease his grievin', 
 For yet unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 
 
 Tarn Samson's livin'. " — Burns. 
 
 Yes ! faith, Tarn Samson, ye're alive, 
 An' hale an ? weel, an' like to thrive, 
 An' complicated business drive, — 
 
 Sagacious, — able ; 
 There's no a kinder man alive, 
 
 At your ain table. 
 
 Sprung frae a famous stock, I ken ; 
 Immortalised by Burns's pen ; 
 Ye're faither was the wale o' men, 
 
 Whare men were rife, 
 An' set his son a gey bit ben, 
 
 To start in life. 
 
 Ye've been a worthy son, that's clear, 
 (A credit to your great forbear) ; 
 Kenn'd an' respeckit far an' near 
 
 Amang the trade ; 
 An' local frien's an' neebors dear, 
 
 Rowth ye hae made. 
 
 That kittle jade they ca' Dame Fortune, 
 Wha' mankind seem sae fond o' coortm', 
 
94 EPISTLES. 
 
 Ae day, when o'er her nick-nacks sortin', 
 Cam' oot riclit hansome, 
 
 An* smilin' said, while favours sporting 
 
 " I'll mind Tarn Samson." 
 
 O' sportsmen ye maun be the faither ; 
 Whate'er the thrang, whate'er the weather, 
 For sax-an'-fifty years thegither, 
 
 Withoot a halt, 
 Ye've ne'er been mist amang the heather 
 
 Upon the twalt. 
 
 The eleventh ye keep open hoose, 
 
 And mount your shootin' gear fu' crouse ; 
 
 The dugs are yelpin' to be loose : 
 
 I'll tak' my aith, 
 Around Muirkirk the sleepin' groose 
 
 May dream o' skaith. 
 
 On hospitable thouchts intent, 
 
 Weel f urnish'd, ye maun tak' the bent ; 
 
 The season's best, up to content, 
 
 Your hampers fill, 
 To be 'mang ancient cronies spent 
 
 Wi' richt guidwill. 
 
 Lang may ye live to toom your bicker, 
 To charge your gun an' draw the tricker ! 
 Wi' e'e richt gleg, and han' richt sicker, 
 
 An' steady aim, 
 That no a brither sportsman quicker 
 
 Can bag the game. 
 
EPISTLES. 95 
 
 May a' that's guid beneath the skies 
 Still cheer your heart an' glad your eyes ; 
 An' lang may infant forests rise 
 
 Beneath your care. 
 As ye've been blest, may ye be wise : 
 
 I add nae mair. 
 Aug., 1855. 
 
 
 EPISTLE TO ABRAHAM STANFIELD, TODMORDEN, 
 
 Dear Sir, — Although you naething owe, 
 While I am wanderin' to and fro, 
 The pleasure I can na forego, 
 
 To come an' see ye, 
 And shake your han'. I want to know 
 
 Just hoo's a' wi' ye. 
 
 I also want to see, belive, 
 
 How your cultured wildings thrive, 
 
 And what a roarin' trade ye drive 
 
 Amang the breckan ; 
 The gains must mak' your pouches rive 
 
 Ere this, I reckon. 
 
 Dame Fortune, she's a kittle wicht, 
 And seldom treats puir mortals richt, 
 Else ye, wi' skill an' genius bricht, 
 
 And stores o' knowledge^ 
 Had been a burnin', shinin' licht 
 
 In some gran' college, 
 
96 EPISTLES. 
 
 Oot ower Ben Lomond ye hae dannert, 
 
 Ower wild Ben Lawers your footsteps wannert, 
 
 Ower lofty Snowdon ye ha'e ponder't 
 
 Wi' eyes intent ; 
 Whare mony a nameless stream meander'd, 
 
 Sweet days ye've spent. 
 
 The eagles screich'd at your intrusion, 
 The red deer flew in wild confusion, 
 Thinking your staff, by some delusion, 
 
 A rifled Manton ; 
 But breckans here grew in profusion, 
 
 And those were wantin'. 
 
 The grouse whirr'd aff richt sair afraid, 
 Sheep turn'd an' glower'd, and parley made ; 
 But bird or beast nae influence bad — 
 
 'Twas a' the same ; 
 You in your secret soul had said, 
 
 There's nobler game. 
 
 What cared ye for the eagle's cry I 
 
 Ye scarce saw wild deer bounding by ; 
 
 'Twas noucht to you whare grouse micht fly :— 
 
 Ye came to learn 
 If in these regions ye could spy 
 
 Some unknown fern. 
 
 Say, by what deep botanic lore 
 
 Are ye thus fitted to explore 
 
 The uncultured dell, the wildest moor ? 
 
 In search o' ferns, 
 And when ye've gather'd up your store, 
 
 Name them like bairns ? 
 

 EPISTLES, 97 
 
 And bairns to you they seem indeed ! 
 Like doatin' faither, wi' what speed 
 Ye big glass-houses ower head 
 
 To guard your treasure,, 
 An' multiply an' cross the breed 
 
 Jist at your pleasure. 
 
 The family, I must avoo, 
 
 When brought thus side by side by you, 
 
 Are beautiful — and rare ; 'tis true, 
 
 A grand display — 
 Nature's sweet children brocht to view 
 
 In fine array. 
 
 Dear sir, here let us take our stand, 
 And praise the Great Creator's Hand 
 That clothed the earth at His command 
 
 Wi' herb an' flower ; — 
 They all proclaim, in accents grand, 
 
 Almighty power. 
 
 Be't fronded fern or rose's bloom, 
 That loads the air with sweet perfume, 
 All plants that on the earth find room, 
 
 All, all are Thine, 
 Woven in Nature's cunning loom 
 
 By hand Divine. 
 
D8 EPISTLES. 
 
 EPISTLE TO MR MECHI. 
 
 Bear Sir, I've a' your speeches seen, 
 
 Ye lately spak' at Aberdeen ; 
 
 I wad hae something leebral gi 7 en 
 
 To seen an' heard ye ; 
 The British Farmer's steadfast frien ? 
 
 1 must regard ye. 
 
 I think some wise man said o 7 yore, 
 That he who swell'd his kintra's store, 
 And grew twa blades for ane before, 
 
 Was greater far 
 Than he who deluged fields wi' gore 
 
 In wicked war. 
 
 Your courage hath surmounted all 
 The sneers once thrown at Leadenhall ; 
 While lingering prejudices fall 
 
 From foes and friends, 
 Your noble, patient spirit shall 
 
 Work out its ends. 
 
 When deeds are valued at their worth, 
 The Mechis may stand proudly forth ; 
 The meed of praise from South to North 
 
 They justly crave, 
 Who make the barren wastes of earth 
 
 With harvests wave. 
 
 I see vast cities throng'd, — and then, 
 Beyond the ordinary ken, 
 
99 
 
 Lies many a dark an' dismal den 
 0' filth an' fever. 
 
 Are scenes like these, my fellow-menj 
 To last for ever 1 
 
 To me a fearful waste it seems, — 
 Wealth, boundless as a miser's dreams^ 
 Cast forth for to pollute our streams, 
 
 An' taint our air, 
 While Death's stern weapon awful gleams 
 
 'Midst black despair. 
 
 But why this waste, while English gold 
 Investment seeks, in hoards untold ? 
 Adopt some scheme, gigantic — bold — 
 
 For public health, 
 An' thus increase a thoosand-fold 
 
 Our nation's wealth. 
 
 Hale be your head, hale be your heart ! 
 For ye have nobly done your part, 
 And show'd how Science, link'd wi' Art, 
 
 Might soon produce 
 All kefuse on the public mart, 
 
 For public use. 
 
 Gin Russia ance could set her paw 
 XJpo' the Black Sea — save us a' ! 
 An' shut the ports by ukase law, 
 
 Then Guid preserve us ! 
 'Twad mak' famed Albion look but sma ? 
 
 If she could starve us. 
 
 Then up, brave hearts ! and let us try 
 The Northern Despot to defy ; 
 
100 EPISTLES. 
 
 Our own resources all apply, 
 
 An' sow an' plant ; 
 
 Our fertile fields would then supply 
 Our every want. 
 
 Let Yankee bodies keep their corn, 
 Or send it yont around Cape Horn ; 
 Were Britain's idle acres torn 
 
 Up wi' the pleugh, 
 An' fertilised, 1 wad be sworn 
 
 We'd hae eneugh. 
 
 Eneugh ! ay, troth, an' muckle mair ; 
 Millions o' quarters we could spare, 
 An' keep our girnels f u' an' fair 
 
 When har'sts were scant, 
 An' no to foreign ports repair 
 
 Thro' dreaded want. 
 
 Onward ! aye onward, — that you may 
 Still pioneer Production's way : 
 Long may your annual festal day 
 
 Present a charm, 
 To gather crowds in bright array 
 
 At Tiptree farm. 
 
 But now my Muse grows sair distrest, 
 An' I maun let her tak' some rest ; 
 She's but a thowless jade at best, 
 
 But true and fervent ; 
 Sae I remain, wi' gratefu' breast, 
 
 Your humble servant. 
 
 September, 1853. 
 
EPISTLES. 101 
 
 SECOND EPISTLE TO ALDERMAN MECHI. 
 
 The lazy Muse, I've aft been at her, 
 To thank you for your frienly letter ; 
 But she's sae blate I scarce can get her 
 
 To drive or lead, 
 Till fairly roused, — then, like a hatter, ' 
 
 She's aff -full speed. 
 
 I thank you for the invitation 
 Unto your Summer's great ovation, 
 Whan men o' science, rank, an' station 
 
 Together meet, 
 Frae every corner of the nation, 
 
 To grace your fete. 
 
 An' a' the guests assembled there 
 To view your fields of culture rare, 
 Your hospitable court'sy share 
 
 At Tiptree Hall, 
 While Ceres, with benignant air, 
 
 Smiles over all. 
 
 Bold, ardent, first you took your grun', 
 Begarding neither smile nor frown ; 
 Even prejudice itself must own 
 
 Your public spirit : 
 If rural worth deserves a crown, 
 
 Let Mechi wear it. 
 
 Ye saw the British Islands bounded, 
 And by the girding seas surrounded ; 
 
102 EPISTLES. 
 
 Where engines, looms, and anvils sounded, 
 They spoke to you, 
 
 And loud the mighty truth propounded, 
 " Go, speed the plough." 
 
 You saw the population vast, 
 And teeming millions coming fast ; 
 But while maist ithers stand aghast, 
 
 You a plan found : 
 Yes, you set forth a way at last — 
 
 Plough deep the ground. 
 
 But is there naething mair required ? 
 Does not the land get worn and tired ? 
 Sae guid a servant must be hired 
 
 To cheer its toil : 
 Yes, there's a stimulant required — 
 
 Enrich the soil. 
 
 This is a question wondrous wide, 
 For towns and cities to decide : 
 Surely 'tis better to provide 
 
 From vast resources, 
 Than float their wealth into the tide, 
 
 Down watercourses. 
 
 This brings me to the subject-matter 
 Why I have written you this letter : 
 Great Britain I proclaim your debtor 
 
 For counsels wise — 
 The agricultural world had better 
 
 Tak' your advice. 
 
EPISTLES. 103 
 
 But first let's thank our friend the German,* 
 For his important, weel-timed sermon ; 
 With keen sagacity discernin' 
 
 Our future want, 
 He has not fail'd to give us warnin' — 
 
 This all must grant. 
 
 There's also Smith, f of Deanston fame. 
 May blessings rest upon his name ! 
 He also saw, when sewage came, 
 
 ? Twad lift improvement*, 
 An' strove with steady, vigorous aim, 
 
 To aid the movement, 
 
 When the Peruvian Islands fail, 
 An' fears o' sterile fields prevail, 
 Then bitterly we may bewail 
 
 Our errors past ;— - 
 The only thing that can avail 
 
 Must come at last. 
 
 Great cities in our Isles abound ; 
 Three millions London calls her own : 
 Even Lancashire itseF has grown, 
 
 As it appears, 
 To almost one continuous town 
 
 In ninety years. 
 
 Shall wealth beyond a miser's dreams 
 Be squander'd to pollute our streams ? 
 
 * Baron Liebig. 
 
 f The late James Smith of Deanston. 
 
104 EPISTLES. 
 
 Let speech and pamphlet fly in reams 
 From hand to hand, 
 
 Dispel the apathy that seems 
 
 To fill the Land. 
 
 What though the British Isles are small— 
 I'm nae Malthusian, by my saul ! 
 We've wealth and science at our call 
 
 Whene'er we need 'em, 
 And we have — what is best of all — 
 
 Our glorious freedom. 
 
 Then let the coming millions throng ! 
 The prospect animates my song : 
 May Providence for aye prolong 
 
 Our liberty : 
 A population's great and strong,- 
 
 If wise and free. 
 
 Save all resources — much we'll need them, 
 To fertilize our fields an' feed them ; 
 Set more machines to work to deed them 
 
 In fair attire ; 
 Let wise and faithfu' teachers lead them 
 
 To virtues higher. 
 
 Then stir the cause by tongue and pen, 
 An' rouse our scientific men ; 
 'Tis surely not beyond their ken 
 
 Means to devise 
 To turn to profitable end 
 
 The mighty prize. 
 
EPISTLES. $05 
 
 Slay health attend you wi' her store. 
 An' length of years ayont fourscore, 
 An' wealth an' public honours pour ! 
 
 Ye're weel deservin't ; 
 Sae I remain, dear sir, once more, 
 
 Your humble servant, 
 
 March, 1860. 
 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 
 
 I ha'e ta'en up my guid auld pen 
 To write to you, the wale o' men, 
 J ist to inquire how ye do fen 
 
 In Lancashire ; 
 Nae doot ye're sittin' cosy ben, 
 
 Aside the fire. 
 
 Maybe o'er Bourienne ye're porin', 
 An' hear Napoleon's cannon roarin'. 
 See armies up St. Bernard soarin' 
 
 Wi' stern devotion ; 
 Maybe the fate o' Ney deplorin', 
 
 Wi' deep emotion. 
 
 My dear, my lang-tried, honest Men'— 
 But here, I fear, my scrawl must en' ; 
 I'll tak' my knife, my pen 111 men' ; 
 
 Maybe the Muse 
 Such preparation may atten', 
 
 An' words diffuse, 
 
106 EPISTLES, 
 
 Maybe o'er Burns's gloom or glee 
 Your fancy lingers joyously ; 
 O'er pathos deep, o'er revelry 
 
 Sublime an' gran', 
 Unbidden tears start to the e'e 
 
 At his com man'. 
 
 Does Thomson's verse reward your pains ; 
 
 Or Milton's yet sublimer strains ? 
 
 With eagle glance, through Hell's domains., 
 
 He saw afar, 
 And angels upon heaven's plains 
 
 In rebel war. 
 
 Maybe ere this you've ope'd the store 
 O' Brougham's philosophic lore, 
 An' held rich converse ; but before 
 
 Your comprehension 
 Can grasp the truths, his pages pore 
 
 Wi' deep attention. 
 
 The Simmer's gone, the Autumn's past ; 
 I hear November's surly blast ; 
 Leaves frae the trees are fa'in fast, 
 
 A' brown an' sere, 
 An' Winter stern has come at last 
 
 To rule the year. 
 
 I hear nae mair the woods among 
 
 The birds pour forth their rowth o' song, 
 
 As if ilk tree had found a tongue ; 
 
 The blended notes 
 Come mellow, clear, an' sweet, an' strong 
 
 Frae thousand throats. 
 
EPISTLES. 1Q7 
 
 My saul was glad, on Spring's bricht days, 
 To see the sun's enlivenin' rays 
 Burst into life the leafy maze 
 
 That now are strewn, 
 All sear'd and blighted, on the ways 
 
 I tread upon. 
 
 Such is man's life, his joys, his hopes, 
 In spite o' artificial props ; 
 Time never tires, an' never stops 
 
 Frail man to save, 
 Till like a wither'd leaf he drops 
 
 Into the grave. 
 
 Life's Spring is past with you and I, 
 Our Simmers yet shine gloriously ; 
 In sober earnest let us try 
 
 Time to improve, 
 And cast our thoughts beyond the sky 
 
 To worlds above. 
 
 Your canty wife your company keepin', 
 Wee Johnnie in his cradle sleepin', 
 An' you yoursel' intently peepin' 
 
 In Wisdom's springs, 
 While Richard's bow is finely sweepin' 
 
 Out o'er the strings. 
 
 Here I shall close this rhyming letter, 
 For rhyme the pen doth sairly fetter ; 
 Nae doot ye'll think it micht been better 
 
 In style an' grammar, 
 .Sae I remain your humble debtor 
 
 An' frien', John Palmer. 
 
LOCH A E MOSS. 
 
 The great interest Mr Palmer took in every tiling connected 
 with the cultivation of the soil, and in agricultural improve- 
 ments, led him to form very decided opinions as to the desire- 
 ableness of efforts being made to reclaim the extensive morass 
 which stretches from near Dumfries to the shores of the 
 Solway, known as "Lochar Moss." The following two 
 " Petitions," and the ' ' Complaint, " were attempts to give 
 expression to his opinions and feelings on the subject. The 
 following note was appended to the first "Petition" : — 
 
 "If the above humble effort should be the means of calling 
 public attention to what the author considers an im- 
 portant subject, he will have his reward. This is not, 
 however, by any means the first time the attention of the 
 public has been directed to this subject, — though it is, 
 perhaps, the first time it has been attempted to be done 
 in verse. So long ago as 1734, Mr Smeaton, an eminent 
 civil engineer, drew up, for the then Duke of Queens- 
 berry and others, * A Report on the Drainage of Lochar 
 Moss,' in which he pointed out a method of thoroughly 
 draining the Moss, and entered into particulars as to the 
 probable expense of effecting this object. Since then 
 small portions of the Moss have been reclaimed from 
 time to time by various individuals ; and a late attempt, 
 on the part of Mr Heathcote, to bring a large portion q£ 
 
LOCHAR MOSS. 109 
 
 tt uncler cultivation by means of a steam-plough, is well 
 known. This attempt has been a failure, as will every 
 other attempt of the kind that may yet be made, until 
 some effectual method of draining the moss is carried 
 into effect. When this is done, this large tract of land, 
 at present valueless and noisome, may then be expected 
 to make a profitable return for all the labour and capital 
 expended upon its improvement." 
 
 THE HUMBLE PETITION OF LOCHAE MOSS. 
 
 Nature hath woven fair, I ween, 
 
 The robes that deck the Southern Queen : 
 
 Just cast your eye on Nith's sweet vale, 
 
 How loudly it confirms the tale ! 
 
 And every height that rises round, 
 
 Is with the greenest verdure crown'd. 
 
 Gaze where you will, no eye can see 
 
 A black and barren spot save me, — 
 
 A stain upon her garment's hem, 
 
 That might become the fairest gem 
 
 That sparkles in her diadem. 
 
 It matters not what once I was, 
 I'm now a wild and wet morass ; 
 Let Lyell or Buckland tell the cause, 
 Who study geologic laws. 
 
 My heart rejoiced when I was able 
 To yield desserts for Frazer's* table ; 
 Where daintiest stomachs often dine, 
 My fruits gave gusto to the wine. 
 
 * Mr Frazer, of the King's Arms Inn, Dumfries, who '. 
 '•on verted a portion of Lochar Moss into an excellent garden. 
 
110 LOCHAR MOSS. 
 
 To Willis,* too, I owe my thanks : 
 
 Who has not seen those stately ranks 
 
 Of lusty stooks in thick-set rows, 
 
 That on my fertile bosom rose ? 
 
 And hundreds more I need not name, 
 
 Have toil'd my acres broad to tame, 
 
 And inroads on my borders made 
 
 By vigorous dint of plough and spade. 
 
 But oh ! what strength and wealth are wasted, 
 
 And full fruition never tasted ! 
 
 A dire disease afflicts me still, — 
 
 Pray call it Dropsy, if you will. 
 
 Hope sat exulting on my brow, 
 When Heathcote brought his famous plough. 
 That now we both neglected lie, 
 Has cost me many a tear and sigh. 
 
 Now in this age of marvellous schemes, 
 When every hour with projects teems, 
 And wealth is pouring forth in streams, 
 I, Lochar Moss, do humbly pray, 
 That engineers may me survey, 
 My capabilities report, 
 Then men of capital exhort. 
 But first some plan or plans, secure, 
 Efficient, practical, and sure, 
 Whate'er the name it makes no matter, 
 To drain me of my surplus Water ; 
 My surface then with ease would yield, 
 And soon become a fruitful field. 
 Then say my produce will be ample, 
 Of which I've given many a sample ; 
 
 * Mr Willis, formerly farmer at Brocklehirst, in the parish of 
 Mouswald, who reclaimed, with profit, a considerable portion of 
 the Moss. 
 
LOCHAR MOSS. Ill 
 
 Say that the rail will traverse o'er me ; 
 Say that the sea lies just before me ; 
 That lime and coal are cheap and good, 
 Manures may come by land or flood ; 
 The best of markets I'll command, 
 For Liverpool is just at hand : 
 In short, instruct them, till they learn 
 To form a grand Joint-Stock Concern, 
 My scrip would be a certain thing, 
 My shares a certain premium bring ; 
 And if a patriot spirit burns, 
 Besides the yield of large returns, 
 Instead of now a dreary waste, 
 Offensive to enlightened taste, 
 I'd be an ornament and pride, 
 And beautify the country-side ; 
 And should there come a time of need, 
 Oh, think what thousands I would feed ! 
 Then listen to my fervent prayer, 
 And I will bless ye evermair. 
 
 Sept., 1846. 
 
 SECOND HUMBLE PETITION OF LOCHAR MOSS, 
 
 Anither har'st's been shorn and stackit ; 
 
 Anither winter's past an' gane ; 
 Wi' tearfu' e'e, and bosom rackit, 
 
 Again I mak' my waefu' mane. 
 
 Maun I cry till I be roopit ? 
 Will nane listen to my tale ! 
 
112 LOCHAR MOSS. 
 
 Truth to say, I fondly hopit 
 Frien's wad hear my last appeal. 
 
 Must I lie a black, unsichtly, 
 
 Wet and wild neglected thing ? 
 Cultured, I wad shine fu' brichtly ; 
 
 Gowd in gowpens I wad bring. 
 
 Thanks to Willis, thanks to Frazer,* 
 
 Thanks to a' I noo bestow, 
 Wha hae proved what lades o' treasure 
 
 Even on my skirts will grow ! 
 
 Here I've lain for mony a century, 
 
 Naething but a fruitless flow ! 
 Hear ! oh, hear ! Dumfriesshire gentry ? 
 
 My appeal is made to you. 
 
 Mark the railway creeping o'er me, 
 Kindlin' hopes that mak' me fain ; 
 
 Prosperous days are noo before me, 
 Could I but your ears obtain. 
 
 See Lord Lonsdale, 'cross the waterf — 
 His example tak', I pray ; 
 
 * See first "Petition." 
 
 t Allusion is here made to an interesting experiment, on a 
 large scale, in the reclamation of barren moss, commenced about 
 three years ago by the Earl of Lonsdale, on the portion of Bow- 
 ness Flow which belongs to that nobleman. The experiment has 
 so far been conducted under the superintendence of Mr Stewart, 
 a gentleman who has had considerable experience in the reclama- 
 tion of moss land in Ireland. He resides at Port Carlisle ; and 
 evinces great willingness to communicate information to strangers 
 in reference to the work in which he is engaged.— [Note by th* 
 Author.] 
 
LOCHAR MOSS. 113 
 
 Aft I've wonner'd what's the matter 
 Sic a frien' ne'er cam' my way. 
 
 Lord Kinnoul,* an' scores o' ithers, 
 Freely spent, and hae their gains ; 
 
 Honest faithers — loving mithers — 
 Gie them blessin's for their pains. 
 
 Oh, what hands are hangin' idle ! 
 
 Oh, what mooths o' meat are scant ! 
 Faith, my tongue I canna bridle 
 
 Whan I see sic needless want I 
 
 Set thae han's to drain an' dress me ; 
 
 Work an' meat I sail provide ! 
 Thoosand hungry hearts wad bless ye : 
 
 I could feed a kintra-side ! 
 
 What prevents ye 1 Is't the miller ? 
 
 Aiblins him an' twa three mae ; 
 Toots ! toots ! — dinna spare the siller — 
 
 Buy them oot, an' let them gae ! 
 
 Men o' worth, an' wealth, an' station, 
 
 Listen to my fervent prayer ! 
 Need nae mair soleecitation — 
 
 I'll reward your dentiest care. 
 
 * Lord Kinnoul of Kinnoul, Perthshire, a nobleman honourably 
 distinguished among his compeers for his zeal in the conversion of 
 barren wastes into fertile fields. 
 
 April, 1848. 
 
114 LOCHAR MOSS. 
 
 COMPLAINT OF LOCHAR MOSS. 
 
 Really I can thole nae langer ; 
 
 Slichted claims I maun maintain ; 
 Nearly mad wi' wrang an' anger, 
 
 I maun lift my voice again. 
 
 Prood ? Ay, prood ! an' just occasion : 
 
 Had ye seen my craps cut doon — 
 Stooks, nae man in a' the nation 
 
 Could hae lookit ower their croon ! 
 
 Angry, that I'm sae negleckit : 
 
 They're ower few that ken my worth \ 
 
 Lang ere this I weel expeckit 
 'Troops o' frien's wad hae come forth. 
 
 It's nae wonner that I'm fretfu' — 
 
 Lairds an 7 tenants dull an' dour ; 
 But there's ane to whom I'm gratef u'~ 
 
 Neilson o' the Langbriggmuir.* 
 
 Cheaper Ian' was never rentit ; 
 What I yield jist at him speer ■:— 
 
 * In former productions, the author introduced the names of 
 several gentlemen who have been extensively engaged in the 
 reclamation of moss land. He has now great pleasure in noticing 
 the successful labours of the enterprising farmer whose name 
 occurs in the text. The author has lately had an opportunity of 
 examining a portion of Lochar Moss, extending to about 100 
 acres, which has been brought under profitable cultivation by 
 Mr Neilson, whose improvements well deserve the attention of 
 parties interested in the reclamation of moss land. 
 
LOCHAK, MOSS. 115 
 
 Tatties, meally an' untainted, 
 Worth some hunners i' the year. 
 
 As for aits, it's quite notorious 
 I can beat baith holm an' craft ; 
 
 Try me, I will prove victorious, 
 Though my bosom seems but saft. 
 
 Sister Bowness sings richt cantie,* 
 In a blythe an' cheerfu' strain ; 
 
 It's nae wonner that she's vauntie 
 Sin' the day is a' her ain. 
 
 For her sympathy I thank her ; 
 
 Hopefu' still I will remain ; 
 Were some Lonsdale but my banker, 
 
 I'd become a wavin' plain. 
 
 Criffel's croon is growin' hoary ; 
 
 Forty-nine is near a close ; 
 Fifty has to tell his story — 
 
 Wondrous things he may disclose. 
 
 Since the railway fever's ower, 
 Fu'-pang'd purses to set free, 
 
 Some new spec, ye maun discover — 
 Will ye cast your thochts on me ? 
 
 Shares in ships, canals, an' railways 
 Aft in disappointment en' ; 
 
 As for me, depend I'll always 
 Gi'e a swingin' dividend. 
 
 * See " Song of Bowness M< 
 
116 LOCHAR MOSS. 
 
 Talk o' Ian' an' it's production ! 
 
 Drain a' mosses ; then, I'll bet, 
 Profits sune wud mak' reduction 
 
 O' Great Britain's awfu' debt. 
 
 Twa petitions I hae sent ye,* 
 Wi' an earnest, humble prayer ; 
 
 If what's said '11 no content ye, 
 I maun lie an' say nae mair„ 
 
 Noo, I downa talk nae langer, 
 
 Since I'm treated wi ? disdain ; 
 Ye may starve o' eyne-doon hunger 
 
 Ere I'll lift my voice again. 
 
 * See "First" and " Second Petitions of Lochar Moss, 13 
 Dec, 1849. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON THE EXAMINATION OF ANNAN INFANT 
 
 SCHOOL— August 1835. 
 
 Hail thee, age of education ! 
 
 Hail the glorious march of mind ! 
 Infants now of humble station 
 
 Cheap and good instruction find. 
 
 Education ! yes, I hail thee, 
 
 Parent of each noble art ; 
 The hard bigot who assails thee, 
 
 Hapture never warm'd his heart. 
 
 Breathing o'er the infant spirit 
 
 The first rudiments of truth, 
 That our children may inherit 
 
 Wisdom from their earliest youth : 
 
 Mental darkness cannot linger 
 
 Long o'er the expanding soul ; 
 Here proud Science lifts her finger, 
 
 Pointing to each distant pole. 
 
118 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 Parents, cast aside the notion 
 That child-learning's premature : 
 
 Knowledge caught with youth's devotion 
 Must and will through life endure. 
 
 Ask your memory ; it unfailing 
 Will respond to this great truth — 
 
 That the lessons most availing 
 Were the lessons of your youth. 
 
 Come, Instruction ! Power all-seeing ! 
 
 Mental clouds of darkness chase ; 
 Raise man in the scale of being, 
 
 Civilize the human race. 
 
 May true Learning's flag unfurl'd 
 Shine afar with glorious beam r 
 
 And watch over all the world 
 The vast intellectual stream ! 
 
 THE RIDING 0' THE MARCHES. 
 
 In dark days of yore, when the feud and the foray 
 
 Spread death and dismay and destruction around, 
 'Mong the disasters sustain'd from the foemen, 
 
 Our good town was oftentimes burnt to the ground. 
 But still, like a phoenix, she rose from her ashes ; 
 
 And now, when the rude Border warfare is o'er, 
 Each passing year brings her increasing importance, 
 
 And long may she flourish on Solway's shore. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 119 
 
 Now, Provost and Bailies, town councillors and trades- 
 men, 
 
 Come muster your forces in joyful array, 
 And trace all the boundaries of our ancient burgh, 
 
 Lest they be encroach'd on at some future day ! 
 But riding the marches demands some refreshment : 
 
 And there is one duty that must be fulfill'd — 
 Let each, with a generous bumper o'erflowing, 
 
 Drink ' ' Health and long life to our good Dean of Guild. " 
 
 Let bards sing of Nithsdale, of Eskdale, of Clydesdale, 
 
 And boast of their rivers, their hills, and their dales, 
 My muse she shall sing of a scene as delightful, 
 
 Where fair winding Annan glides through the green vales. 
 The Queen of the Solway, the trim burgh of Annan, 
 
 There's none that is fairer under the moon — 
 From the very Closehead to the place where John Shannon, 
 
 The cobbler, once sat a-mending auld shoon. 
 
 We boast of a Charter from famous King Robert, 
 
 (A name that to Scotsmen shall ever be dear,) 
 £)onfirm'd and extended by wise Jamie Stuart — 
 
 !N o wonder Auld Bess is right proud of her gear. 
 The free winds of heaven blow round us untainted, 
 
 Our water is pure from both river and springs ; 
 The breezes that sweep o'er the bosom of Solway, 
 
 They come to us laden with health on their wings. 
 
 October, 1845. 
 
120 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 TO THE ELECTORS OF THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT 
 OF BURGHS. 
 
 Thanks, General Sharpe, for service lent ! 
 Since you retire frae Parliament 
 To Hoddam's fair domain, intent 
 
 On peace an' rest, 
 Noo, whare's the man will represent 
 
 The Burghs best? 
 
 I'm tauld that three hae ta'en their stance, 
 An' a' their separate claims advance 
 To the electors ; but perchance 
 
 You will permit 
 Ane humble brother jist a glance 
 
 At what seems fit. 
 
 That a' are honest men an' true 
 I hae nae doot : it is for you 
 To calmly, candidly review 
 
 Each separate claim ; 
 Then steadily your course pursue 
 
 Wi' honest aim. 
 
 I think a man that's tried an' leal 
 Wad represent the burghs weel ; 
 An' William Ewart is the chiel, 
 
 In calm or storm — 
 The steady, steadfast, true as steel 
 
 To real Reform. 
 
 To aid that cause he first consented, 
 Each sound Reformer was contented ; 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 121 
 
 And had not Tory gowd prevented, 
 
 An' seal'd his lips, 
 This man wad still hae represented 
 
 The pool o' ships. 
 
 We want not men that sigh for fame ; 
 Let modest merit suffrage claim ; 
 Seek talents, worth, an y honest aim 
 
 When noo we need 'em ; 
 An' Ewart still has been the same 
 
 Firm Men' o y freedom. 
 
 I dootna ithers promise fair : 
 
 But words, ye ken, are sometimes air, 
 
 An' wad-be M.P.s seldom care, 
 
 In contest keen, 
 To promise a' ye want, an* mair, 
 
 Whate'er they mean. 
 
 But stay, my pen, nor speak o' those 
 But wi' respect ; for frien's or foes 
 I scorn to flatter or abuse 
 
 Through party spirit ; 
 I wish sincerely ye may choose 
 
 A man o' merit. 
 
 Queen o' the South, I trust in you ; 
 Auld Margery o' the Lochs, ye'll do ; 
 An' Sanquhar an' Kirkcudbright too 
 
 Will lend a han* ; 
 My ain guid toon, I ken ye'rc true 
 
 Maist to a man. 
 
 Jan., 1841. 
 
122 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 ON HEADING 
 
 THE REPLY OF LORD JOHN RUSSELL TO THE 
 
 PLYMOUTH ADDRESS. 
 
 There's a word — there's a word from the Plymouth strand, 
 
 That has gone through the length and breadth of the land I 
 
 It will reach every corner, however remote, 
 
 For the starving millions prolong the note. 
 
 Hear — hear it, ye proud, in your gorgeous halls ! 
 
 And listen, ye humble, within naked walls ! 
 
 Oh ! hear it, ye rich, midst your feasting and glee, 
 
 Let the sound be a pause to revelry. 
 
 There are cries r there are tears, there is want and woe ; 
 
 Think — think from what sources these agonies flow ! 
 
 Tis self-seeking principles, rooted and twined, 
 
 With laws and with statutes fell combined. 
 
 'Tis class-legislation has wrought our undoing, 
 
 Till our beloved land seems verging on ruin. 
 
 Shall our hives of industry cease their hum ? 
 
 Shall the triumphs of Watt and of Arkwright be dumb ? 
 
 Shall a grinding penury shackle the hands 
 
 Of our skilful, industrious artisans ? 
 
 Shall the sound of the shuttle be heard no more ? 
 
 Shall our ships lie and rot on a desolate shore ? 
 
 Shall Britain, the boasted, the proud, and the free, 
 
 Whose keels plough the waters of every sea, 
 
 Be for ever cursed with monopoly, 
 
 Let poor men starve or let poor men die ? 
 
 No i The word we have heard is prophetic and loud ! 
 
 Though on our horizon's an ominous cloud, 
 
 The finger of Hope points through darkness and gloom, 
 
 The star of these isles shall its brightness relume ; 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 123 
 
 Our rulers shall yield (though perhaps not from choice) 
 To the powerful appeal of a Nation's voice ; 
 The laws of restriction— fell curse of our age! — 
 Shall remain but as blots upon history's page. 
 Then mark how the anvil, the plough, and the loom, 
 In concert harmonious their labours resume ; 
 Dissension's rank weeds shall be pluck'd by the roots, 
 When labour shall yield its legitimate fruits. 
 Then commerce, unfetter'd and free as the wind, 
 Shall clothe every mast, and each sheet shall unbind 
 To waft forth our produce o'er every sea 
 In a peaceful and just reciprocity. 
 Britannia ! thy sons shall be prosp'rous and free, 
 And stamp on 4:he grave of monopoly ! 
 
 Dec, 1841. 
 
 TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES SMITH OP 
 DEANSTON. 
 
 Fame lifts her trump, and Eulogy her voice, 
 When patriots, statesmen, warriors, poets die ; 
 
 Shall he who makes the wilderness rejoice 
 Receive no tribute to his memory ? 
 
 All praise to him whose genius and whose toil 
 Brought forth an era in our husbandry ! 
 
 There's not an honest heart that tills the soil 
 But will accord in gratitude with me. 
 
 In boyhood's glowing, glorious dream, he seem'd 
 To gaze intent upon this wond'rous earth ; 
 
124 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 His pregnant mind with infant projects teem'd — 
 Yet undefined— which manhood bodied forth. 
 
 He look'd abroad with calm, sagacious eye, 
 
 A solid footing eager to obtain ; 
 Improvement's starting-point he did descry, 
 
 And laid its basis in his thorough drain. 
 
 He look'd on barren wastes with dauntless brow — 
 Made stubborn soil the richest harvests yield ; 
 
 He taught us, by the aid of subsoil plough, 
 To bear our garden culture to the field. 
 
 He saw, without dismay, our island home 
 Increase her sons — which others did appal ; 
 
 He bid the teeming population " Come !" 
 And boldly cried, " There's work and food for all I* 
 
 All praise to him — Improvement's pioneer ! 
 
 Its mighty onward march each eye can trace : 
 In field on field the rushes disappear, 
 
 And waving harvests occupy their place. 
 
 The Deanston Works, that long had known decay, 
 He undertook with youthful, honest heart ; 
 
 The people ownM with joy his moral sway, 
 And bore in all his schemes a willing part. 
 
 His large benevolence his labours prove : 
 
 He sought his peopled good with steady aim ; 
 
 His generous soul with lofty purpose strove 
 The waste of mind to culture and reclaim. 
 
 He scann'd the humblest, crowded haunts of man, 
 Where Nuisance vitiates the public health : 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 125 
 
 His fertile mind at once devised a plan 
 To turn even sewage water into wealth. 
 
 Green be the daisied turf upon his grave ! 
 
 Let future annalists record his worth ! 
 He sleepeth well among the good and brave, 
 
 Who dying are not dead e'en in the earth. 
 
 July, 1850. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FKIEND IN 
 AMERICA. 
 
 Friend of my youth — companion dear — 
 A tribute let thy memory crave. 
 
 Alas ! I'm doom'd to drop a tear 
 Upon thy hallow'd, early grave. 
 
 When life was young, and hope beat high, 
 And friendship's purest flame was burning, 
 
 I little deem'd the time was nigh 
 That I for thee should thus be mourning. 
 
 Fond memory lingers o'er the past, 
 Alas ! with mournful pleasure now ; 
 
 Scenes that can never be forgot, 
 For they were all endear'd by you. 
 
 Oan 1 forget those dear resorts 
 
 Of Dalston's woods and Caldew's stream ? 
 
126 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
 Can I forget our youthful sports 
 In simple boyhood's early dream ? 
 
 In Corby's walks and Eden's bowers, 
 How happy oft we've linger'd there, 
 
 Midst leafy woods and verdant flowers, 
 Far from the busy haunts of care I 
 
 But far away from Albion's strand 
 
 Thy youthful steps were doom'd to roam, 
 
 In hopes, in yon green forest land, 
 To find a better, happier home. 
 
 But soon — too soon ! — life's brittle thread 
 By cruel death's asunder riven ; 
 
 And now my friend is with the dead — 
 I trust his soul's at rest in Heaven. 
 
 W. Cuthbcrtson & Son, Printers, Annan. 
 
[supplemental leaf.] 
 
 EPISTLE TO JOHN FKOST. 
 
 Ye're a splendid artist, John Frost, John Frost, 
 In the silent and midnight hoiirs ; 
 For, as onward ye pass, 
 How ye pencil the glass 
 With your beautiful trees and flowers, John Frost, 
 With your beautiful trees and flowers ! 
 
 Ye're a workman o' skill, John Frost, John Frost, 
 Ye're a workman o' skill, I trow ; 
 For I mair than suspect 
 There is nae architect 
 Could bridge a deep river like you, John Frost, 
 Could bridge a deep river like you. 
 
 Ye're a famous farmer, John Frost, John Frosfc, 
 Ye're a famous farmer, John Frost : 
 Wi' ae grip o' your han' 
 Ye sae mellow the Ian' 
 That ye save us a hantle o' cost, John Frost, 
 That ye save us a hantle o' cost. 
 
 Ye're a social fallow, John Frost, John Frost, 
 As a body wad wish to see, 
 
 When kettles are steamin', 
 And faces are beamin ? 
 Ower cupfu's o' congou tea, John Frost, 
 Ower cupfu's o' congou tea ! 
 
 Ye're a social fallow, John Frost, John Frost, 
 At the ingle in cauld dark nichts ; 
 We draw in our chairs, 
 An' set a' the affairs 
 
O' the church an' the state to richts, John Frost, 
 O' the church and the state to richts. 
 
 I've tauld ye a bit o' my mind, John Frost, 
 And it's time for to end my sang ; 
 Ye're no an ill chiel, 
 An' I bid ye fareweel, 
 But dinna stay wi' us ower lang, John Frost, 
 Pray dinna stay wi' us ower lang. 
 
 December, 1848. 
 
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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