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Hamespun Rhymes Frae The Spinnin' Jenny
Singer, John
Published 1896
Scotland for Ever Land of the mountain an' clear sparkling fountain, Aince again will I sing in your praise : Sae ancient and hoary, enshrined aye in story, Ilk upland an' valley an' green flowery braes. Oft do I ponder, when o'er thee I wander, On thy beauty majestic, sae stern an' grand ; Resplendent in glory ilk strath, hill, an' corrie, Ilk streamlet an' loch o' oor ain native land. Sae rugged an' stern is each mountain and cairn, As the mist like a mantle enshrouds them in gloom, Which slowly arising frae off the horizon Shows drest in their beauty the heather an' broom. The sun brightly glancing, thy beauty enhancing, Throws sweetly its light over muirland an' fell ; The woodlands are ringing wi' birds sweetly singing ; The burn meanders round hill and fair dell. Thy scenery the rarest, thy daughters the fairest, Like gems o' rare brichtness that dazzle the een Wi' their beauty bewitching an' charms sae enriching— Sae modest an' gentle, sae graceful in mein. Thy sons fought like heroes frae tyrants to free us, And give us the freedom that Scotchmen hold dear ; Such tyrants will never the ties again sever, For Scotland stands steady, nae foe does she fear. The Bonnie Bairnies Dae ye ken yon bonnie bairnie Wi' the witchin' een sae blue, Cheeks like simmer roses, An' red ripe cherrie moo' ? Aye laughin', daffin', dancin' Frae mornin' licht tae e'en ; He ne'er will gie his mither peace, Her wark is never dune. See him playin' at bo-peep At the screech o' day, Winna cuddle doon again Tho' his mither say That there is an auld carle Coming up the stair, Seeking bairns that winna sleep ; But he disna care. Saw ye sic a bairnie, Foo o' fun an' glee, Winna sit a minute still On his mither's knee ; Noo he's at the auld cat, Poking oot its een- Sic a steerin' laddie I'm sure was never seen. There he's at his tricks again, Heard ye sic a din ? Turnin' a'thing upside down, Rinnin' oot an' in. Guidsakes, laddie, sic a mess ; Where has my laddie been ? Wi' glaur yer ower the very heid, Yer like was never seen ! He's surely unco quiet like ; What's he daein' noo ? Sittin' like an auld man, His hands upon his broo ; What the laddie's thinking It cowes us a' tae kenIs he biggin' castles Like mony muckle men ? Heaven bless the bairnies ! Keep them free o' guile, For they cheer oor cosy hames Wi' their sunny smile. May they a' be happy, For childhood sune will flee ; The warld wi' its cauldrife care Will chase awa' their glee. Dae ye min' o' Gala's Braes ? Dae ye min' o' Gala's braes, Whaur we spent our youthfu' days Climbin' trees an' hedges, Tearin' a' oor claise ; An' we ran wi' lichtsome speed Ower the hills doon tae the Tweedd ; Syne gumpit for the minnows till the gloamin'. Dae ye min' o' Pate McNeil When laddies at the schule, Hoo the maister used tae ca' him A lazy ne'er-do-weel ? Noo he's climbed the tree o' fame, And made himsel' a name, Though aince sae fu' o' pranks in the gloamin'. Dae ye min' auld Tam McQueen When he lived in Cuddy Green, Hoo aften we wad fash him Frae morning until e'en ? Hoo his cairt we'd tak' an' turn Ower into the Baker's Burn, Syne wad rin frae the bobbies in the gloamin' ? Dae ye min' o' Lucky Broon, The plague o' ilka loon ? Hoo we used to tak' her cat awa' To the Tweed tae droon ? She swore, wi' muckle din, That she aye wad gie us in, Syne oor mithers gied's oor licks in the gloamin'. Dae ye min' o' Lammas Fair, Wi' the fun an' daffin' there ? Hoo we joined amang the busy thrang, Wi' hearts aye free o' care ? Wi' what loving glances sweet, We ilk bonnie lass wad greet, Syne wad tryst wi' ane anither in the gloamin'. But noo thae days are gane, Life's trials are a' but dune, An' unco sune we'll be at rest In heaven fair abune ; Whaur we'll sing sweet joyfu' sangs, Wi' the bright angelic thrangs, When oor spirit tak's its flicht in the gloamin' . Sandy MeCraw Nae far frae the Birks o' bonnie Blynlee, E'er Gala joins Tweed as it rows tae the sea, In a toon famed for claith an' lasses sae braw There lived a queer chiel named Sandy McCraw. For telling a story his like was ne'er seen, An' to hear him lay aff the deeds he has dune, Wi' hair-breadth escapes it's a wunner at a' He's aye living yet, auld Sandy McCraw. He could spear ye a saumon, or rabbit can trap, For bailies or keepers he cared nae a rap ; There wisna a bailie in a' the Tweed's length Could grapple wi' Sandy in a trial o' strength. He'd tell to his cronies he made sax bailies rin Till, fair oot o' breath , they had to gie in ; But ' atween you an' me that wis naething ava, For first in the race wis Sandy McCraw. But the best o' the stories that gied him his name, An' first raised oor freen' to the tap o' his fame, Wis ae nicht in the Harrow, amang a wheen mair , He wis sitting an' speaking an' drinking his share. Some lang-winded stories had gaen roon an' roon, But, as usual for Sandy, he put on the croon Wi' - There's nane can tell whaur I wis yestreen, Believe me or no, I wis up at the mune. I wis tryin' the fishin', an' sat down awee To tak' a bit rest an' pu' aff a flee, An' as I sat watchin' the mune shinin' clear I heard a queer buzzin'-like soun' in my ear ; Sae I turned roon' aboot, an' , to my surprise, A muckle big bird flew doon frae the skies ; Ye can believe me or no, it's the truth I declare The size o' the bird wis sax feet or mair. I wis up on my feet, ye may be sure, in a crack, An' sune flung my legs across its braid back ; It fluffered aboot for a meenit or twa, Syne spread oot it's wings an' flew far awa'— Left houses an' trees an' hill taps a' ahin' , An' ne'er gied halt till close on the mune, An', wad ye believe it, I kent the man fine That wis taen up for stick-breaking ae Sunday lang syne. An Auld Man's Last Sang Ance mair I rax me doon my harp tae sing anither sang, For weel I ken my time on earth it canna noo be lang, For I hae passed the threshold noo o' life's allotted span, An' oh ! I'm longing sair to be in that fair heavenly lan'. For noo I'm auld an' feckless, an' my locks are like the snaw, An' a' the freens o' youthfu' days frae me are far awa' ; An' oh ! I miss the kindly smile o' her that shared my lot, An' aye kept a'thing clean an' trig within oor wee bit cot. Oor bairns a' hae left the hame that sheltered them sae lang : The parting wi' them, ane an' a' , cost me fu' mony a pang, For weel I kent I never mair wad see them here again : For sune beside their mother dear my body wad be lain. But oh ! I ken fu' brawly I'll meet them a' abune, In that land o' fadeless glory, when their wark on earth is dune, For I ken they lo'e their Saviour, and they promised ane an' a' Tae meet again in glory, afore they gaed awa. Auld age should aye be honoured an' respected, sae I'm tauld, Yet how often are the old folks left oot stannin ' ï' the cauld ; It seems a man that's auld an' frail is o' nae use ava, And there's aye some ready tongue tae say he'd better be awa'. But oh! there's aye a welcome in our Faither's hame abune, Where a' the auld an' frail may rest, frae care an' trouble dune ; Wi' joy I'll hail the comin' o' that grand and glorious day, When on angels' wings I'm borne tae realms far away. There I'll help tae swell the chorus, till heaven's echoes ring Wi' a' the glad hosannas tae Christ, oor lord an' king ; Then wi' joy I'll be united tae her I haud sae dear, Though lang we hae been pairted frae ane anither here. Selkirk's Corby Linn. (Inscribed to R. G.) In the simmer time I wander By the bonnie Corby Linn, Wi' its waters rinnin' ower the rock, Far frae the noise and din ; An' I canna think to leave it Till the gloamin ' fa's aroon' The bonnie vale o' Ettrick, An' Selkirk's ancient toon. Hoo often when a laddie Hae I wandered through the wud ; Nae thocht o' care or sadness, O' sorrow ne'er a clud : An' ken't nae o' the weary strife, The warld's cauldrife froon, But ilka day mair brichter still In Selkirk's ancient toon. When first aroon' my youthfu' heart Love threw its witchin' spell, Beside the Corby Linn I woo'd The flooer o' Ettrick Vale. Beneath the glamour o' her een Hoo fast the hoors gaed roon' ; Twa fonder hearts ye ne'er wad find In Selkirk's ancient toon. An' though the years hae fled since then, It's aye as dear tae me As when I wandered through the wud, A laddie fu' o' glee. Frae carkin' care an' weary strife My heart it lifts aboon, Whene'er I see the Corby Linn An' Selkirk's ancient toon. Poem When wintry winds blaw cauld and snell, Wi' angry souch, through Gala's vale, An' Buckholm Hill is cled wi' snaw, An' simmer's floo'ers are a' awa' ; When warbling birds amang the trees Seek shelter frae the biting breeze, An' ragged bairns alang the street Gang cauldrife noo wi' hacket feet : Hoo blythe it is to meet wi' glee At this our annual mill soiree, Wi' witchin' sang an' music sweet, An' ilka yin like brithers meet. Freed frae the noise an' din o' wheels, Hoo lichtsome ilka heart noo feels , As to the winds they fling dull care, This nicht o' fun to hae their share. We've heard hoo, when the cauld win's blaw, An' Jock o' Hazeldean's awa' ; O' Stirling Brig, and what is mair, That witchin' sang, Robin Adair ; Down by the river side we've been, Our sweetheart when a boy we've seen ; Old Virginia still we'll sing ; We've seen the hornpipe an' the Highland fling. Noo lads an' lassies a' are fain To hear the fiddle's blythesome strain Strike up some guid auld-fashioned reel, Till auld folks they begin to feel Their hearts grow light, an' fain wad join The dancers yet for auld langsyne ; An' ilka yin sae happy an' content, Wi' smilin' faces, a' on pleasure bent. Gala's famed for tweeds an' bonnie lassies, An' braw, braw lads that far surpasses The Flow'rs o' the Forest, Teri Odin, Sons o' heroes slain at Flodden. But faith, gin ye'll believe me still , The best o' a's at Wheatlands Mill. Hearts will be wooed an' won this nicht, For love glints in their een sae bright ; An' ilka yin's weel pleased to see Their masters sharing in their glee ; Their wives an' a' their bairns fair Are here this nicht our joy tae share. Gin ilka maister in oor lan' Wad only try the self-same plan, An' let their workers ever feel They had some interest in their weal, Instead o' trying a' they can To crush the very soul o' man. Sic scenes like these gar auld an' young Forget dull care an' poortith cauld, An' lift the heart abune the strife An' a' the weary cares o' life. Nae doot ye're prood as well as me Oor worthy maister noo tae see As Provost o' oor toon, sae braw He'll be a credit tae us a'. Lang may he rule the Council ban' Aye wi' a firm an' steady han', For faith I ken, ' tween me an' you, They sometimes are a kittle crew. Wha kens but under him we'll see A pleasure park at Mossilee, An' maybe see the Corn Mill Doon at the fit o' Gala hill ; An' biggins braw, ranged in a square, Is what we'll maybe yet see there ; An' doon the length o' Gala fit A braw new brig ye'll see ower it ; An' Channel Street be opened wide The fairest in the Border side. Frae Gala Lodge tae Mossilee, Frae that richt tae the Seven Tree, New streets be opened yet, I ween, Or else I'm surely sair mista'en. It aiblins yet may be oor lot To hae a famous Hawick Moat ; But as for that we dinna care As lang's we only hae a share O' guid trade, and that we may see The spindles turn right merrily, An' weavers nae mair idle be, But aye the shuttles backward flee. Lang may we see warp mills gang roon', Success aye a' oor efforts crown, An' may the future years aye still Bring plenty wark tae Wheatlands Mill. An' noo I wish tae a' that's here A happy, prosperous, guid New Year ; As lang as Gala rins to Tweed, An' Tweed rins to the sea, It's may the tweed o' Wheatlands Mill Aye foremost bear the gree. The Maiden's Bustle. A maiden, to a pic-nic bound, Cries, " Coachman, coachman tarry, For I am late, so you maun wait Me on the road to carry. " " And wha be ye that I maun wait, This unco burning weather ?" O, I'm a weaver lass, " she said, "And live here wi' my mither. " And sair I've worked the hale week lang, The quickly- flying shuttle, To gather gear to buy mysel' The latest style o' bustle. " "But I am late, " the coachman cried ; “ I daurna tarry langer, For sair I dread my master's tongue When ance he's in his anger. ' The coach drove on along the road ; The wind the leaves did rustle ; While to the door the maiden ran, Clasped in her hands her bustle. "Stop, coachman, stop, " she cried, wi' tears That ower her cheeks did hustle ; And as she ran the maid let fa' , And left behind, her bustle. Twa muckle dogs upon the green, Engaged in friendly tussle, Wi' one consent left aff their play And seized the maiden's bustle. "Come back, come back, " she cried, in vain ; The coachman loud did whustle. The dogs held on ; the maiden cried, "My bustle ! oh, my bustle !" The coachman he drove on tae Stow, Wi' laughter nearly fainting ; And left the maiden fair behind, Her bustle sair lamenting. To Effie, Galashiels. Oh, come ! fair muse, inspire my lay, That I may sing the lea lang day O' ane o' thine ain brichtest rays Wha wooed thee lang : But noo has climbed Parnassus brae Fu' steep and strang. For far and wide has spread the fame O' the Border lass, o' modest name Sure when she gangs tae her last hame It's there before her ; And though in ither parts I roam, I'll aye adore her. Fu' sweetly does she weave ilk sang, Well worthy o' a place amang Fair Scotland's famed and honoured thrang O' bardies rare ; And may she yet be spared fu' lang Tae gi'e us mair. Lang may she wield her tuneful lyre, That's strung wi' true poetic fire, And may the muses never tire O' a' her wooing, But keep her aye through strife and ire Her way pursuing. Gloamin's Fa' . When simmer winds fu' saftly blaw Ower heather hills and daisied lea, In Elwand's glen at gloamin' fa’ I'll meet the lassie dear to me, Whaur grows the bonnie hawthorn bush, An' blooms the bricht blue bell, An' sweetly sings the blythesome thrush In yon green fairy dell. The laverock echoes wi' its sang Ilk glen an' fairy glade, The cushat coo's the hale day lang Doun in the thickest shade, An' sun-glints kiss the murmuring rill Afore the nicht cluds fa', Twa bonnie een my bosom thrill, An' love's sweet thochts reca'. I lo'e the bonnie birken bower, Whaur zephyrs saftly blaw, An' dewdraps glint on ilka floo'r, Like pearly gems sae braw. I lo'e the witchin' hour at e'en, The blythesome gloamin' fa' , To rove alang wi' bonnie Jean, The dearest lass o' a'. F'u' bonnie is the lark's sweet sang At break o' early day : When soaring high, the clouds amang, It lilts a cheerie lay. But O I lo❜e the gloaming ' oor, When fond hearts seek the dell, The sheltered glen, and shady bower, And love's sweet story tell. Anither Screed frae Life. (An Epistle to Ettrick) When sitting dreaming late at e'en. Ae weary, wintry nicht my lane, Afore the fire, The muse cam' jinkin' saftly ben An' gaur'd me firmly grip my pen, An' tune my lyre, To woo the fickle jade again, That's left me lang, An' lilt aince mair, in hamely strain, Awee bit sang. Sae cheerie, no weary, Aye daeing a' I can To cheer aye the heart aye, O' oor brither man. Amid life's weary strife an' din We see hoo fouk will strive to win The warld's gear an' pelf ; 'Gainst sorrow's cry their heart they steal : A brither's woes they never feel : Their only cry is self. They plan an' scheme baith day an' nicht, Aye daein' a' they can To gain ambition's giddy heicht, An' rob their fellow-man. Nae heeding tho' bleeding Puir hearts e'en may be, An' crying an' sighing Thro' want an' misery. Hoo true what Robbie Burns aince said : Man's inhumanity to man aye made His ither brithers mourn. Hoo aft we hear the bitter cry, The deep, despairing, heart-wrung sigh, Nae matter hoo we turn ; It's a' the same the warld ower : The puir they aye maun slave, An' ' neath the rich man's whip maun cower Frae cradle to the grave. Aye strivin' an' rinin' : They look wi' greedy e'e, Nae carin' tho' despairin' A brither's heart may be. Eh, sirce ! to think that men will spurn God's law divine, an cause to mourn His ither brithers a', Wha toil frae morn till late at e'en, Until life's weary strife is dune— His back aye at the wa' ; If but the Poo'ers aboon wad gie Awee bit licht To them that hae the gear, to see An' spen' it richt. Ne'er hain it but spen' it, The god- gifts gi'en to share, To lichten an' brichten The hearts o' thousands mair. The sneaking, cringing, knavish loon That tries tae haud his neibours doon, I heartily detest ; Wha becks an' boo's wi' mony a smile, Yet in his heart he lo'es the while Hissel' the best, An' tries a' airts an' plans to gain The warld's pelf ; E'en tramplin' ower his fellow-men For sake o' self. Aye stanin' an' plannin' Hoo the gear to gain ; Nae carin' nor sharin' Wi' their brither man. A plague upon those greedy, grasping men Wha e'en wad skin a flea if it wad gain To them a pickle gear ; Whase only prayer by nicht, an' cry by day Is gie us mair ; we carena what fouk say ; There's nocht we fear. I'd scorn sic actions ; low, mean, selfish loons : Nae worth the name o' men, Wha e'en for self wad haud their neibours doon, Like some I ken. Then blame them, an' shame them, Wha haud their brithers doon ; In heaven they never Will gain the gowden croon. Oh ! that the law of love divine, Within ilk human heart wad shine, An' men be brithers a' : Hoo sune wad cease the waefu' sigh, The deep, despairin', heart-wrung cry, Nae bitter tears wad fa' ; Sweet peace wad reign, an' cank'rous hate Wad vanish unco soon ; The rich man frae his high estate In freenship wad look doon. Nae sighin' nor cryin' , Each daein' a' they can To act aye, their part aye, To their brither man. Then richtly steer yer course alang, Aye croonin' to yersel' a sang Tae keep yer spirits licht ; An' ne'er gie heed tho' fouk may froon, An' knavish loons may haud ye doon, As lang as ye dae richt. Aye heavenward cast yer thochts, abune Life's weary strife an' din : Sae when yer life on earth is dune, The gowden crown ye'll win. Then sing aye, an' bring aye, That bricht day nearer han When brither wi' ithers Shall live ilk brither man. Auld Tammy Broon At the side o' a wud where Gala rins doon, In a wee thacket cot lived Auld Tammy Broon : As cheerie an auld carle as e'er ye wad see Tho' ye searched thro' the hale o' the sooth countrie. A packman was Tammy, an' at markets an' fairs Ye were sure aye tae meet him displayin' his wares ; There wasna a farm or cottar hoose roon' , But aye had a welcome for Auld Tammy Broon. A muckle broad bannet aye happit his heid, His cleedin' was made o' oor ain Gala tweed ; The threeds micht be rough, but they suited him fine, For Tam wasna o' the pernickity kin' That canna wear this or canna wear that, An' maun e'en sen' to Lunnon for this new season's hat. Contented, there ne'er on his face was a froon, Aye cheerfu' an' blythe was Auld Tammy Broon. A kind word for the bairns, for the lassies a smile, The hearts an' the purse o' the guidwives he'd wile Wi' some pauky story, as he spread oot tae view Sic a lot o' braw things, a' sae bonnie an' newThe maist winnerfu' pack that ever you sawThere were buttons on cardboard, a' stuck in a raw, An' trimmin's o' a' kind, baith narra an' wide, An' bonnie breast knots to busk a braw bride. Wi' stays an' staylaces, some needles and threed, An' wabs o' fine linen an' a' kinds o' tweed, Some frocks for the bairns, wi' baith hooks an' eyes, An' bricht coloured ribbons an ' brawest o' ties, Wi' shirtin' an' towels, hame-made socks an' hose, An' muckle big hankies for blawin' yer nose ; Some yairds o' fine wincey frae famed Aberdeen, An' glasses for auld folks an' a' kinds o' een. Awa' in a corner were some odds an' ends, Sic as sleeve-links an' studs, an' a' kinds o' pens, An' ear-rings an' brooches, an' hair-preens an' kaims, An' braw muslin mutches for crusty auld dames, An' books wi' fine pictures, an' knives for the boys, An' peeries an' bools an' a' kinds o' toys, Wi' a lot o' fine print to mak' a new goon, Ye'll find in the pack o' Auld Tammy Broon. The Woods o' Torwoodlee. When sinks the summer's sun oot ower The tap o' Meigle Hill, I love to wander through the glen, Beside the murmuring rill, An' fondly muse when floorets bloom , An' Gala rins wi' glee Aye singing as it rows amang The woods o' Torwoodlee. There nature lo'es tae shower its wealth, An' dress wi' beauty rare : Ilk tree, an' field, an' meadow green, An' flooret blooming fair. O, blissfu' ' oor, at gloamin' time, Frae care an' labour free, Wi' lichtsome step I fondly rove The woods o' Torwoodlee. Heart sair an' weary aft I roam, When nicht's dark shadows fa', Amang the flowers an' fairy bowers Whaur fragrant zephyrs blaw ; The beauties on the bushy dell Gaur lurking care aye flee, An' pleasure come, whene'er I roam The woods o' Torwoodlee. When ' mang the weary strife an' din, An' noise o' factory wheels, Back to the fields an' woodlands green Fond memory aften steals : I hear the wee birds lilt ance mair Their sangs o' joyous glee, Until their echoes ring again The woods o' Torwoodlee. My Ain Bonnie May At the fit o' the glen Whaur the burnie rins doon, An' the wind it souchs by Wi' an eerie-like soon', In a snug little cot, On the crest o' the brae, There lives a young lassie My ain bonnie May. Her twa bonnie een Are as black as the slae That grows on the bush At the top o' the brae : Her lips like a rosebud Half opened to view, An' her heart wi' love beating Sae fondly an' true ; An' sae blythesome an' cheerie I gang aye sae fain , To tryst in the gloamin' At the fit o' the glen. 'Mang the broom an' the bracken Hoo the ' oors speed away ; I'm wae aye to leave her My ain bonnie May. Doon yon dell the mavis lo'es Tae sing its blythesome strain ; The cushat lo'es the shady grove : I lo'e yon bonnie glen, Wi' the snug little cot On the gowan- cover'd brae, That shields frae the blast Aye my ain bonnie May. In Freen'ship Sweet In freen'ship sweet wi' yin anither At Jamie Hair's there did forgather, Το pass the ' oors wi' sang an' clatter, Some braw, braw lads o' Gala Water. I'm sure, thro' a' the land o' Scott, Ye ne'er wad find a blyther lot : Ilka yin sae cheerie an' sae happy As aye they took anither drappie ; An' rantin' sang gaed roon' wi' glee, That garred the ' oors like minutes flee ; An' then sic stories some wad tell Aboot some bird they'd bred themsel'. A braw buff cock or yellow hen, Piebald, green, or Belgian, Or some plain-head, or Norwich crested, Was what some ither's fancy rested . Some ither yin will tell ye hoo They'd bred some awfu' famous doo, A pouter, jack, or yet a homer, An English owl that is nae roamer, Turbit, fantails, short-faced tumblers, Wad please the very warst o' grumblers ; Some yellow, black, or red magpie That never missed the judge's eye. We'd hear o' blacks, an' beards, an' bald That wisna yet a twalmonth auld ; To hear them speak o' homer fle'ers Wad gar yin think some folk were le'ers, As if the warld didna ken Bird fanciers a' were honest men ; An' faith I ken, ' tween me an' you, They are a blithesome, jolly crew, Though ilka yin may think their ain Is better far than ither men. The Wuds o' Traquair Brichtly the sun shines o'er The wuds o' Traquair, Whaur I roamed in days o' yore Heart free o' care. But noo they canna gie Pleasures aince dear to me: Nae mair again I'll see Jamie, sae fair. Sweet was the wee bird's sang, Liltin' sae rare, As fondly we roved amang The wuds o' Traquair ; But noo it's past an' gane Wearie I roam my lane- Ne'er will I meet at e'en Jamie, sae fair. Dear were the ' oors we spent 'Mid scenes sae rare : Nae thocht o' sorrow ken't Ne'er had a care : Fondly we used tae stray O'er bank an' flowery brae, But noo he's far away Jamie, sae fair. Dowie I roam my lane The wuds o' Traquair : The licht o' life has gane- my My heart is sair ; Far o'er yon stormy sea Jamie has gane frae me ; Sair was the parting wi' Jamie, sae fair. The Big Channel Stane (Inscribed to the Gala Curling Club) When winter comes roon' wi' its cauld blasts o' snaw, An' the lochs are a' covered wi' ice grippin' keen, Though the wind may blaw cauld, its up an' awa' To the pond wi' the broom an' the big channel steen. Ye talk as ye may like o' lawn tennis an' cricket, Yer billiards an' baseball, an' bools on the green, Yer gowf an' yer shinty an' fitba that's kickit, ་ But the king o' them a' is the big channel steen. To hear the stane whirrin' it sets the bluid stirrin' , Gaurs young men an' auld men gang loupin' wi' glee, The rich an' the puir meet-nae sic thing as sir-in'- Losh, Tammas, my man, ye are richt on the tee." Frae daylicht tae gloamin' the ice is aye steerin', Wi' the shoutin' an' sweepin' an' whirr o' the stane ; Sic laughin' an' daffin' an' rinnin' an ' cheerin'- " Ye played that yin bonnie ; it was unco weel dune. " " I want it richt here noo, " ye hear the skip cryin' ; "Tak' tent what yer daein' ; noo, just let us see ; Come richt in atween whaur the muckle stane's lyin'- Its a beauty that's comin' across ; lat it dee. " " Can ye gie me anither like that noo, my sonny, Ye'll ha'e tae be cautious ; noo tak' a guid look ; Its comin', man, bonnie-na, dinna soop ony ; Yer richt on the tee, ye've played like a book. " Then hurrah for the curlers noo, baith married an' single, An' the grand roaring game that brings strength tae the bane : Whaur the rich an' the puir in freen'ship aye mingle : They're brithers wi' ithers when playing the stane. Sick o' the Toon I'm sick o' the toon, wi' its strife an' sin, An' I lang for to hasten awa' : Whaur the floorets grow an' the burnie rins , An' the wee birds sing fu' braw, An' the sun-glints kiss the green hill taps Ere they sink in the gowden west ; Whaur the fragrant zephyrs saftly blaw, An' my wearied heart lulls to rest. For the heart's sae sair wi' the waefu' sin An' strife ane sees i' the toon, That it langs for a peacefu', quiet retreat Far awa' frae the terrible soon' : Where nocht is heard but the bird's sweet sang Or the hum o' the gentle bee, The bleating o' sheep frae the green hillside, An' the burnie wimpling wi' glee. I lo'e to sit in the lanesome dell Whaur the burn sings sweetly alang, An' the woodlands echo the lea- lang day Wi' the wee bird's blythesome sang ; An' the heart grows licht wi' a joy abune The warl' an' its weary care, The sorrow an' sin, the strife an' din, 'Mid the scenes o' beauty rare. My Native Hills Alang by the hillside I wandered fu' weary As the sun sunk in splendour awa' in the west : A' nature rejoicing, the birds singing cheery, Ablythesome bit lilt ere they gaed tae their nest. Sad, sad and dowie, my heart nigh a-breaking, I wander through bracken an' bush a' my lane ; Ilk spot that I traverse some memory awaking O' days noo, alas ! far distant and gane. Yonder the hill whaur I strayed in the gloaming, The gem of my heart pressed close to my breast ; In yon flowery dell, when tired wi' our roaming, ' Mang the green leafy bowers we sweetly wad rest ; Weel dae I mind when I parted in anguish Frae scenes fondly cherished, to cross the wide main ; How sadly in sorrow an' tears did I languish To gaze on the hills of dear Scotland again. Ilk strath, hill, an' valley is famous in story Wi' deeds o' oor faithers wha oft there hae trod ; Fought bravely like heroes, ' mid mountain an' corrie, For the cause they held dearly, their Saviour an' God. Aft hae I roamed, in lands ower the ocean, Through groves o' sweet myrtle, an' rich fertile plain, But my thoughts aft wad turn wi' heart-fond devotion To thy hills o' sweet heather, dear Scotland again. Thoughts of Long Ago As I sat ae nicht in the gloaming By the fireside's ruddy glow, There was borne on the wind's low moaning, Some thoughts of long ago. I thought I saw in the fire-light Each well-remembered place In the dear auld hame of childhood, And each well- nigh forgotten face. I seemed to hear the voices, In the wind's low gentle sigh, Of dear ones now in glory, In that land beyond the sky. Then a mist came o'er my vision, And a tear bedimmed my e'e, As I thought of the absent loved ones, Who in this world nae mair I'll see. Ance mair I roam in the gloaming Ilk well- remembered dell : Where aft I mused and pondered The lea-lang day mysel'. But the end o' life draws nearer, I've reached the gloaming grey, And the summons soon will call me To realms of endless day. A Lassie's Lament Was ever a lassie tormented like me, Losh my heart's near a- breaking in twa ; My mither's forever a-flyting at me Since the laddie I lo'e went awa'. Her tongue it gangs wagging frae morn till nicht, There's naething can please her ava' ; Whatever I dae its sure nae tae be richt Since the laddie I lo'e went awa. My life is a burden tae me, I declare, For my sisters they me aye misca' , Tho' little they ken my heart is fu' sair Since the laddie I lo'e went awa'. They want me tae marry auld Tammas, the miller, Wi' his acres o' lan' an' his kye, An' yammer a' day o' his gear an' his siller, An' his well-plenished farm forbye. My mither, she says I'm an ill tae please jad ; My faither says naething ava' : But I ken he wad raither I'd marry the lad That I lo'e, tho' he's noo far awa' . But ye ken that my faither maun craw unco croose An' say naething again her ava' ; But e'en tho' my mither be head o' the hoose I'll be true tae the lad that's awa'. Sae the miller can gang tae my ain sister Jane An' offer tae mak' her fu' braw ; Contented I'll bide in a but an' a ben Wi' my true hearted lad that's awa'. Song-Bonnie Lassie, O ! Will ye no' come back again, bonnie lassie, O? For our hearts are fu' o' pain, bonnie lassie, O ! And we miss your presence here Aye our lonely hearts to cheer Wi' yer winning smile sae dear, bonnie lassie, O! Will we never see thee mair, bonnie lassie, O? Wi' yer face sae sweet an ' fair, bonnie lassie, O! As ye trip across the lea, Aye sae blythe an' fu' o' glee, And your heart frae trouble free, bonnie lassie, O! Will the days nae mair come roon', bonnie lassie, O ! When ye'll come to Gala toon , bonnie lassie, O ! For to roam in Elwand's Glen Or the bonnie Fairy Dean, There the lea-lang day to spen' , bonnie lassie, O ? Or to climb the heather hills, bonnie lassie, O ! And rove by murmuring rills, bonnie lassie, O! Awa' frae cities ' din, Wi' their scenes o' strife an' sin, Whaur fresh vigour we will wir , bonnie lassie, O! That will nerve us for the strife, bonnie lassie, O ! O' this weary, weary life, bonnie lassie, O! On the heart there's mony a pang, Baith the rich an' puir amang, But there's sunshine whaur ye gang, bonnie lassie, O !· May He wha rules abune, bonnie lassie, O! When yer time on earth is dune, bonnie lassie, O ! Take ye hame tae heaven fair Whaur there's neither grief nor care, To shine ' mang angels there, bonnie lassie, O! Snowdrops Ye are welcome here, For ye tell spring's near, An' sune will the woodlands be ringin' wi' glee ; In ilka green bower Will blossom the flower, An' simmer will come wi' its treasures to me. Sae spotless and fair, Wi' beauty sae rare, Ye tell us o' joys when hope seems in vain ; ' Neath the wintry snows Lies the heart o' the rose, An' simmer will bring it to blossom again. The auld folks tell Ye were tears that fell Frae the e'en o' the angels ae nicht as they flew, Which, fa'in' in shoo'ers, Were frozen tae floo'ers, An' Snowdrops-the name that we ken ye by noo. Ye tell o' the love O' our Father above, When hearts are weary an' spirits dooncast ; Like the frost an' the snaw, It will soon fade awa’ , An' His love will shine bricht through the darkness at last. Sae yer welcome ance mair To this warl' o' care : Yer presence will cheer us on life's weary road ; An' softly we'll sleep As ye watch o'er us keep, Till we waken again in our Father's abode. Simmer Langin's. I am langin' sair for simmer Wi' its wealth o' fairy flowers, When the fields are clad in beauty, An' the woodbine in the bowers ; When the woodland groves are ringin' Wi' the wee bird's blythesome sang, An' the music o' the burnie As it saftly rows alang. For to linger in the gloamin' As the shadows creep aroun' Ilk hill an' glen an' meadow, An' the stars keek frae abune, ' Mang the floo'rets bloomin' bonnie, That in summer scent the gale Wi' a fragrance richly laden, Blawin' saftly through the dale. There's a bonnie spot I ken : Whaur the burnie rins sae clear, An' the laverock's witchin' sang Fa's like music on the ear ; An' the blythesome hour o' gloamin' Throws a glamour ower the scene, As I roam aneath the spell O' twa bonnie witchin' een. Dae Ye Ken Yon Glen? Dae ye ken yon bonnie glen Whaur the birdies sweetly sing, An' on ilka wee bit flower The pearly dew- draps hing, An' the burnie wimplin' doon Through the witchin' fairy dean, Whaur the lads an' lassies tryst At the blythesome summer's e'en ? Dae ye ken yon bonnie glen Whaur the fragrant zephyrs blaw, 'Mid the witcherie that dwells 'Mang the floo'rets bloomin' braw ? There is nocht can cheer my heart, Or drive dull care awa', Save to roam yon bonnie glen At the blythesome gloamin's fa'. Dae ye ken yon bonnie glen Whaur, in childhood's sunny days, Oor hearts were free frae sorrow, As we ran aboot its braes ? Wi' what lichtsome hearts we'd rin Whaur the bonnie floo'rets grew ; Syne we'd wander weary hame, A' oor hands wi' treasures fu' . Yon bonnie glen is dear For the memories that cling Roon' ilka wee bit floo'er, An' little birds that sing. Tho' the years gang slippin' by, An' oor heads grow like the snaw, Sae fondly aye we min' On the days noo gane awa'. Tam Ha's Adventure. Langsyne, when Gala yet was sma', An' lassies didna dress sae braw, Nae soun' was heard o' war or strife, An' wark an' siller they were rife ; In simmer rose the sweet perfume Frae scented floo'er an' yellow broom, An' Gala's banks wi' verdure clad, Whaur roved ilk bonnie lass an' lad, When wark was o'er at gloamin' e'en, An' whisper a' their vows unseen. But noo, alas ! thae days are gane, Auld times hae faded fast, I ween : Instead o' rich an' sweet perfume Frae scented floo'er an' yellow broom, In simmer time, when a' is fair, The stench frae Gala fills the air. Amang the drouthy wabster cheils That lived langsyne in Galashiels, The drouthiest ane amang them a'- A wabster chiel, named Tammie Ha' : A harum-scarum kin' o' deil That liked the drappie unco weel ; For Tam, alas ! was ne'er sae happy But aye when sittin' at the drappie. Tam had got planted unco richt Aroon' an ingle, burnin' bricht ; The winter day was near a close, Ower Bruce's Hill the mune uprose An' threw its cheerin' beams aroon' The haughs an' howes o' Gala toon ; An' sangs gaed roon ' wi' lots o' daffin', Wi' stories queer that set them laughin'. An' aye sae lood abune them a' Was heard the laugh o' Tammie Ha' . Aboot the question , Kirk an' State, ' Tam was ha'ein' a debate, An' Tam had argued lang an' sair, When-what is wrang that gaurs him stare ? "Ye muckle, senseless, silly tappie, While ye sit drinkin' at yer drappie, An' I am left aye to tackle sair At hame wi' weans ; ye dinna care Tho' wife may starve for want o' meat, An' bairns rin barefit thro' the street. " The voice was Jean's, withoot a doot : Tam's face fair turned as white's a cloot, An' hingin' - headed there he stood, The laughin'-stock o' a' the crood. " I wunner that ye ne'er think shame To leave yer wife an' bairns at hame ; But oot o' this ye noo maun gang, For, faith, I've tholed ye unca lang. " Tam's courage thro' his fingers fled ; He clapped his bannet on his head, An' turned an' slowly left the room, Into the dreary winter's gloom : Jean followin' on, wi' shauchlin' feet An' flytin' tongue, richt doon the street. But Tam at length geid ower the drappie, An' wife an' weans were a' sae happy ; An' hoo this welcome change befell, I'll e'en endeavour noo tae tell. It happened aince, ' twas Lammas Fair, An' juist as usual Tam was there Alang wi' some mair wabster chiels Frae Selkirk an' frae Galashiels. The drink gaed roun' wi' lots o' glee, Till Tam at length could hardly see, An' , trachlin' sair beneath his load, He tried at length to tak' the road. But hoo it was, Tam ne'er could tell : He waukened up an ' faund himsel' At some dykeside, wi' nae yin near, An' Tweed's saft murmur in his ear. Wi' heid sair rackin' wi' the pain, He trachled tae his feet again. When comin' near the abbey lone He heard a maist unearthly groan, An', turnin' roun' , to his surprise He saw a pair o' flamin' eyes, An uncouth head o' shaggy hair, That made puir Tam in terror stare ; The cloven hoof he saw fu' weel Tam thocht at last he'd seen the deil . He tried to speak, but shook wi' fear ; He got an unco fricht, I swear ; An' fairly sobered noo, he ran As hard as ony mortal can Through Melrose lone, past Darnick too'er Just as it struck the midnicht ' oor ; Across the brig that spans the Tweed, Tam still held on wi' light'ing speed ; At Elwand's Glen an' Fairy Dean He never halted aince, I ween, Until at length, beside Langlee, He backward cast an anxious e'e : When, panting sair for want o' breath, Tam landed firm on mither earth. He lang maintained he faund the smell O' brimstane frae the deil himsel' ; An' as he lay he shook wi' fear, Expectin' aye the deil to hear, In solemn tones, his doom pronounce, Gin he the drink wad ne'er renounce. Sae there he lay till mornin' clear, The mill bells soundin' in his ear ; An' syne the road he took for hame, Resolved that never mair his dame Wad e'er ha'e cause to want her meat, Or weans gang barefit thro' the street, An' leave the drink an' a' its ploys For purer an' far brichter joys. Wait a Wee, an' Ne'er be Weary Wait a wee, an' ne'er be weary, Let your spirits ne'er sink doon ; Though the strife be lang an' dreary, Victory will your efforts croon. Look aroon' ye, see the burdens That your neebours ha'e to bear ; Dinna think that o' life's trials Ye hae mair than what's your share. Wait a wee, an' ne'er be weary, E'en though poortith's win' may blaw ; Frien'less, gearless though ye wander, Lippen yin abune them a' . Tho' the hopes o' youth are blasted, Manhood's schemes gang aye aglee, Dinna sit doon broken-hearted Up an' fecht them manfully. Wait a wee, an' ne'er be weary, Life, at best, is but a span ; Ilka day aye brings us nearer To our Father's heavenly lan'. What's the use o' sittin' sighin' , Darkly tho' the cluds may be ? Bricht the sun will sune be shinin', Carkin' cares awa' will flee. Wait a wee, an' ne'er be weary, Tho' the foe be e'er sae strang ; Gin ye only wait wi' patience Richt will triumph o'er the wrang. Dinna think that life's a pleasure, For it's like the ragin' sea : Sometimes ebbin' , noo it's flowin', Syne sae calm an' peacefully. Cheer Up Cheer up, cheer up, my bonnie lass, There's bricht days yet in store ; Though grief may at yer heartstrings tirl, It will sune gang by yer door. Sae dinna sit sae dowie like, And greet the hale day lang ; Yer bonnie bairn noo is safe The angels fair amang. Though dark and lowering be the clud That's hanging ower ye noo, Fu' sune a bonnie siller blink May pierce the darkness through. Sae cheer ye up an ' dinna greet, Yer bairnie is awa' Tae yon bricht lan' ayont the sky, Whaur angels sing fu' braw. Nae doot, my lass, it's unco hard The grief a mother feels When frae her breast the hand o' death Her darling loved ane steals. But oh ! yer grief is nocht ava' To what yer Saviour felt That nicht when in Gethsemane In earnest prayer he knelt. Sae dry yer een, my bonnie lass, Ye dinna need tae weep, For weel ye ken yer bonnie bairn Has only gaen asleep. An' unco sune the joy ye'll ken When ance yer wark is dune, To meet yer bonnie bairn again In yon bricht lan' abune. Oor Ain Dear Land Oot ower yon hills the heather grows, An' bonnie floo'rets deck the lea ; While thro' the glen an' leafy dell The wee birds sing sae witchingly ; An' frae the burnie wimplin' clear Rich streams o' music sweetly flow ; An' ower the wuds at summer's e'en The sun its gowden shadows throw. A witchin' spell hangs ower the glen Whaur lads an' lassies tryst at e'en, An' lingers roun' ilk crag an' scaur, Ilk streamlet, loch, an' meadow green. There's music in ilk breeze that blaws, In murmurin' rill , an' roarin' river ; An' fondly aye my heart's strings twine Aroun' my native hame for ever. There's grandeur in her mist-clad hills , An' beauty in her bosky dell, When gloamin' cluds begin tae fa', An fragrant perfumes scent the gale. But fairer flooers may brichter grow In ither lands across the sea ; Oor ain dear Scottish heather bell Is dearer far than a' tae me. An' aye aroun' the dear auld lan' The Scottish heart will closely twine, An' linger roun' ilk weel-ken't spot, An' scenes o' hame an' auld lang syne. For though in lan's noo far awa' , The liltin' o' some auld tune's strain Brings aye the saut tear tae the e'e, An' langs for Scotia's hills again. Childhood Memories Where, murmurin' fu' o' glee, The Don runs to the sea, There's a bonnie witchin' glen where in childhood's sunny 'oors Our hearts were free o' care : Nae grief or sorrow there, We roamed the lea- lang day amang the bonnie, bonnie flooers. Sae blythesome aye and gay We spieled yon flowery brae, Or scrambled thro' the bushes where the modest primrose grew, An' the woodland echoes rang Wi' childish glee an' sang As we pu'd the wee forget- me-not an' bonnie speedwell blue. The Don rowe's aye alang, Singing saftly aye amang The haughs an' pleasant meadows as it journeys to the sea : Through ilka weel-kent scene Whaur I've roved at dewy e'en, An' mused amang the floo'rets fair that bloom sae bonnilie. Fond memory aftimes brings Sweet thochts upon its wings O' yon bonnie witchin' glen an' the hame o' childhood's In fancy aft I see Freen's aince sae dear to me, years. As I view the lang forgotten thro' a mist o' blinding tears. The Bonnie Siller Mune O, bonnie glints the siller mune Ower muirlan' , hill, an' lea, An' sweetly shines its blythesome licht Across the dark blue sea ! Its cheering beams aye safely guide The sailor on the main, But sweeter far it shines, I ween, In Elwand's bonnie glen. An' bonnie glints its siller beams Oot ower fair Gala's brae, An' down through Blyndlee's bonnie birks The witchin' shadows play. An' ' neath its bonnie siller beams Fond hearts now seek the dell, To roam the groves an' birken bowers, 'Neath love's sweet mystic spell. When Nature's hushed in sweet repose, The wee birds gane to rest, An' kindly Sol has sunk awa' Doon in the gowden west ; When nicht's dark shadow's fa' Ower hill an' peaceful dell, The bonnie siller mune shines oot, An' nicht's dark cluds dispell. Oor Stair Fit. It's weel I mind o' ither days when, younkers fu' o' glee, We pu'd the little heather bell, the gowans frae the lea, An' syne, wi' muckle mirth an' din, hoo canty we wad sit An' string the gowans in a raw, at oor stair fit. When winter cam' wi' surly blast that roun' aboot did blaw, An' hill an' dale, an' ilka thing, were happet ower wi' snaw ; When oot o' doors we daurna stir, nae e'en the sma’est bit, Sae cheerie aye we'd sit an' play, at oor stair fit. It's weel I mind hoo unco feared I was to gang my lane, When it was dark, for fear auld Tam, the beggar, e'er was seen ; For aye I thocht into his poke wee laddies he wad pit, Sae ne'er wad venture far awa' frae oor stair fit. It's weel I mind when in my heart the lowe o' love began : When roun' the doors, at simmer e'en, ilk lad an' lass wad stan' ; Hoo blythely gae'd the ' oors awa' wi' daffin' an' wi' wit, An' saftly whispered lover's vows at oor stair fit. But noo I've wandered far awa' , in mony lan's ha'e been, Ha'e sat amang the rich an' great, an' ferlies strange ha'e een, But ne'er a ane gie'd siccan joy, as when we used tae sit, An' string the gowans in a raw, at oor stair fit. An' noo I've reached life's gloamin' grey, an' unco sune maun gang Tae whaur my freen's are a' at hame, the angels fair amang ; Yet aince again I'd like tae see, afore my spirit flit, That hallowed spot o' memories dear, oor auld stair fit. To Dino, Galashiels Come, Dino ! tune yer harp again, An' drive awa' dull care an' pain ; Yer welcome notes aye mak' me fain An' unco bricht, An' gars me sing wi' micht an' main Frae morn tae nicht. I lang ha'e ettled for tae sen' A rhyming screed tae thee, my frien' , Sae doon I sit wi' pen at e'en Tae write a sang ; But, hech my muse no' worth a preen, There's something wrang. Nae high-flown poet sings yer praise, But jist in simple artless lays, Nae fashed wi' Greek or Latin phrase ; But frae the heart I try tae sing o' Nature's ways For tunefu' art. This life o' ours is fu' o' care, An' mony a deep an' hidden snare ; O' troubles great ye've had yer share As weel as me ; Yet still ye shine sae bricht an' rare An' fu' o' glee. But what's the use o' us repinin' , Tae ilka clud there is a linin' As sure's the sun in heaven's shinin' Wi' glorious licht, Tho' aiblins noo it may be hidin' Frae oot oor sicht. Ye've fairly got the gift divine : In fame's fair niche ye sure will shine, As sure as three times three mak' nine- An' that's nae lee ; An' may the pleasure sune be mine That day tae see. Fair simmer sune will deck the lea Wi' flowers sae sweet an' fair tae see : The primrose an' the daisy wee— Twa modest flowers, While blooms the woodbine bonnily In sheltered bowers. Then we will roam through woodland bowers, 'Mang lovely glens, bedecked wi' flowers, Whaur ower the linn the burnie pours Wi' lichtnin' speed, While o' the swiftly passin' hours We tak' nae heed. But I maun close this rhymin' letter : Yet still I am yer humble debtor For wae's me noo ! my muse is fettered There's something wrang ; I'll aiblins send ye something better Ere it be lang. The Bonnie Lass o' Fyvie Doon whaur Yathan glides alang, Thro' leafy bower and flooers amang, I'd wander aye the hale day lang Wi' the bonnie lass o' Fyvie. When gloamin' cluds begin tae fa', An' kindly Sol has sunk awa' , I'll meet the dearest lass o' a'- The bonnie lass o' Fyvie. Doon in the fragrant scented dell, Amang the flooers, whaur beauty dwell, I roam aneath love's mystic spell, Amang the wuds o' Fyvie, Whaur warbling birds, on ilka tree, Gaur a' the wudlands ring wi' glee, An' hail the ' oor that brings tae me The bonnie lass o' Fyvie. Far brichter than the stars abune, Her laughin', witchin', bonnie een ; There's nae a lass can match, I ween, The bonnie lass o' Fyvie. The Lass o' Wheatlands Mill Had I the gift o' sang I'd sing In blythesome, sweet, an' joyous strain, The praise o'yin I dearly lo'e, Whase heart I ken is a' my ain. Her bonnie een, aye glancin' bricht, Gaurs my puir heart aye fondly thrill ; Baith nicht an' day my thochts are wi' The bonnie lass o' Wheatlands Mill. She's a bonnie lass, a bonnie, bonnie lass, The bonnie lass o' Wheatlands Mill. In simmer time, when a' is fair, An' birds sing sweet on ilka tree, Hoo blythe we seek, at gloamin' time, The bonnie wuds o' Torwoodlee : An' there, amid its cooling shade, We wander ' neath love's sway until The stars keek oot, an' I maun leave The bonnie lass o' Wheatlands Mill. She's a bonnie lass, a bonnie, bonnie lass, The bonnie lass o' Wheatlands Mill. Nae wealth has she or warld's gear, Nor precious gems to deck her hair ; But truth an' love an' modesty Are better far than gems sae rare. She's fairer than the flowers that grow By meadow, stream, or heather hill Fair Nature a' her charms combine In the bonnie lass o' Wheatlands Mill. She's a bonnie lass, a bonnie, bonnie lass, The bonnie lass o' Wheatlands Mill. Rhyming Epistle to Emily Sutherland, Galashiels Tae thee, my honoured an' respected friend , This rhyming letter noo I send ; Weel pleased I was tae see thee bend Tae sic as me ; May freen'ship ne'er between us end Until we dee. 'Mang Nature's gems, sae rich an' fair, Thou art the rarest o' the rare ; May Heaven keep thee aye frae care An' trouble free, An' sen' o' health a muckle share Tae you an' me. I'm unco pleased tae hear yer lyre Has lost nane o' its wonted fire ; Yer last epistle tae the sire O' bardies a' Fair filled me wi' a warm desire The muse tae ca'. Fu' sweetly Robbie sang the praise O' bonnie Doon, its banks an' braes ; As for his sweet, heart-melting lays, They gar me greet ; Losh ! how he sang o' Nature's rays— The lassies sweet. But I maun sing in feebler strain, For though my muse wad sometimes fain Soar high intae the vast domain An' realm o' sang, Content I aye maun yet remain Tae lisp alang. Aince we have run life's weary race, An' ithers here ha'e ta'en oor place, O, may I see thy kindly face In heaven abune : Such is the wish o' yours, J. S., Frae Aberdeen. The Land o' Liberty. Aince mair I tune my harp again To sing wi' muckle glee, A rousin', rantin', blythesome sang, My native land to thee. I lo'e thy hills an' murmurin' rills, Thy mountains stern an' grand, Ilk strath an' vale an' windin' stream O' my ain native land. Then let us sing wi' micht an' main A sang, wi' muckle glee, To Scotia, land o' mount an' heath, The land o' liberty. Lang has she stood sae firm an' fast, The land so dear to me ; The flag o' freedom proudly waves, My native land, ower thee, She fears nae foe in danger's hour : Her sons aye bravely fought To guard the rights in days of old The blood of Wallace bought. Land o' the thistle, bauld an' strong, To touch thee nane can daur : Her sons aye foremost in the van In peace or yet in war. Lang may she shine in valour yet, The land o' liberty ; An' while in health an' life I'll sing, My native land, o' thee. Then let us sing wi' micht an' main A sang, wi' muckle glee, To Scotia, land o' mount an' heath, The land o' liberty. Bonnie Tweedside Dear tae my heart is the hame o' my childhood, Beside the fair rivers - the Don and the Dee, Where aft I hae roved in the cool simmer evening, An' gazed wi' delight on the bonnie blue sea ; Spell-bound I hae stood by the lakes o' Killarney, An' wandered an' mused by the banks o' the Clyde, But, oh there is naething can gi'e me sic pleasure As tae roam wi' my love by the bonnie Tweedside ! When tired wi' the wark the weary day lang, I wander awa' by the burnie sae clear Tae list tae the mavis a-lilting its sang 'Mang the green leafy bowers o' Elwand sae dear ; 'Tis aften I sigh for the days that are gane, When laddies we bathed in the Tweed's siller stream, Or pu'd the wee floo'rets in yon Fairy Dean, While high ower abune us the sunshine did gleam. Fu' weel dae I min' o' the days o' langsyne, When laddies we herded the sheep an' the kye By yon burnie's side in the days aye sae fine, An' ne'er had a thocht that sorrow was nigh. Weel dae I min' o' yon fast-fleeting hours, When first ower my heart sweet love held its sway ; Sae joyous we'd wander through Elwand's fair bowers, An' dream o' the future the hale simmer day. Aft hae I roamed alang its green borders, An' pu'd the wee daisy an' primrose sae fair, While the sun ower the hill o' fair Meigle was shining, An' the mavis sang sweet in the clear evening air. Dear tae my heart is yon river o' beauty ; Fu' sweetly it flows through ilk hill an' fair mead ; In transport I gaze while its spell is thrown ower me— The fairest o' rivers, the far-flowing Tweed. Farewell ! My Native Land (Inscribed to a Friend. ) Farewell ! my ain dear native land Enshrined wi' grandeur rare ; By Gala's stream an' silver Tweed I'll roam again nae mair : For far frae hame an' kindred dear I noo maun wander wide, An' leave the scenes I lo'e sae well By Tweed an' Gala side. The blackbird still may lilt wi' glee In Elwand's glen sae fair, Where aft I roamed at simmer's e'en I'll roam again nae mair. An', O, the thocht brings sic a pain, That gaurs the saut tear fa', For I maun leave my native hame Tae wander far awa' . In simmer's sun an' winter's snaw, 'Neath spring's bricht smiling rays, An' autumn wi' its gowden sheaves, I've roamed ower Gala's braes ; An' ' mid the sweet an' shady groves An' birks o' Torwoodlee, I've pu'd the yellow primrose bricht That blooms sae bonnilie. I've watched the gowden sunset fa' Ower Meigle's low-crowned heicht, An' lingered till the stars cam' oot Wi' radiance shining bricht ; I've wandered by the abbey lone, 'Neath some sweet mystic spell, But tae the haunts an' scenes o' yore I noo maun bid farewell. The Wee Bird's Sang. A bonnie, bonnie bird tae oor window cam' , Ae day in the morning early, An' it sang sae sweet That it gaur'd me greet, For my heart was sad fu' sairly. For it sang o' the glen an' the grassy dells An' the burnie that rins sae clearly, The bonnie wee flowers In the birken bowers, An' the woodlands I lo'e sae dearly. An' sae dowie I sat an' listened awhile Tae th' rich notes loudly pealing, As ower me again, Wi' the blythesome strain, Some auld-time scenes came stealing. It sang o' langsyne an' the heart sae dear, Noo awa' frae this warl' fairly They've taen their flicht Tae realms o' licht, An' dwell in the mansions pearly. It sang o' the haunts an' scenes o' yore, Whaur love cam' ower me stealing, An' the sweet refrain Brocht back again An' waukened the auld-time feeling. Syne it flew awa' tae its leafy hame In the birks o' bonnie Blynlee, An' its witchin' sang Cam' echoing alang Thro' the morning air tae me. He'd Bred a Better It happened aince upon a time, Lang e'er I had begoud tae rhyme, There used tae live in Gala toun A chiel whae's name was Tammy Broon. Tam he was a wabster chiel, Ken't roun' the country side sae weel For breedin' doos an' siclike trok As brahma hens an' bantam cocks ; Their guid points an' their bad could tell Wi' tongue as soople as a bell ; An a' their colours, black or broon ; Their pedigree he'd trace richt doon Frae Noah's Ark, an' what is mair, Could tell ye what was a' bred there. Gi'e Tam a wig an' muckle goon, Ye'd tak' him for a lawyer loon ; There's mony, I'm sure, mair stupit Thick heads waggin' in a pu'pit. Frae mornin' licht tae late at e'en His tongue, I'm sure, was never dune ; But sad, alas ! tae tell, forsooth, Tam was a stranger tae the truth. Unheeding o' the flicht o' time, He aft wad soar tae heicht sublime ; An' siclike stories Tam wad gi'e Aboot some braw bird's pedigree ; O' prizes that he'd won galore, An' siller cups mair than a score ; Tae hear him speak o' homers fleein' Was sure tae hear some awfu' leein ', Hoo at the Palace Tam aince saw Five hunner homers in a raw, An' frae them a' he tuik the ticket The best birds in the wurld licket ; But, faith, my muse could never tell Aboot the birds he's bred himsel', But I've nae doot, in ilka toon, There is some chiel like Tammy Broon. Tam was a contramashious chiel, Altho' ye ablins had dune weel, Bred something guid, it didna' matter, Tam aye wad say he'd bred a better. But Tam aince fairly met his match, An', faith, a Tartar he did catch : 'Twas Gala Show, ye'll mind o't fine, Tam he was first for Jacobins ; Ye'd thocht the place was far ower sma', It ne'er could haud oor Tam ava. He strutted roun' amang the folk As prood as ony bantam cock ; Ilk yin that e'er cam' near the pen Tam he was there tae let them ken The bird was his, an' aye he'd tell It was a bird he'd bred himsel' ; It had nae fau'ts- - a perfect gem, A bird that yet wad bring him fame. There was some fancier chiels frae Leith, An' Jock McQueen oot frae Dalkeith Had planned it a' across a dram That day tae ha'e some fun wi' Tam, So he at length was trysted doon Tae Walker's, whaur went glasses roun', An' in the middle o' the thrang Up to the show Jock slipped alang, An' in a twinklin' , e'er ye'd ken, Tam's bird was in anither pen. Sune Tam cam' danderin' roun' again, An' halted richt afore the pen : "Noo, Tam," says Jock, " I'd like tae ha'e, Afore ye gang awa' the day, Yer ain opinion, fair an' square, O' what ye think o' that bird there. " Tam humm'd an' hey'd, an' looked awhile, Syne turnin' roun' said wi' a smile— "Sae, Jock, my man, ye'd like tae ken What's my opinion o' that hen : Weel, I can easily gi'e ye that I'll tell ye it's no' worth its saut ; Whaur is its hood, its chain, an' mane ? It micht as weel juist no' ha'e nane ; Noo, Jock, I'm sure ye never saw Sic flichts upon a bird ava. As for its legs, they're spindle shanket A' that I say is guid be thanket The bird's no mine ; I'll let ye see What like a Jacobin should be." Wi' that Tam turned tae the pen, Tae whaur he thocht he'd see his ain But, faith, he got surprised I ween He well micht stan' an' rub his een ; As fair dumfoundered Tam noo stood, A smile gaed roun' amang the crood. He swore his bird was stown awa'- He haed nae doot o' that ava Till Jock says : "Tam, I didna' ken, Ye couldna' tell what is yer ain ; That bird ye ha'e misca'ed sae sair Is juist yer ain, an' naething mair. Ye'll ma'be no gi'e fouk their due For breedin' birds as guid as you ; Ne'er rin them doon an' think yer ain Is better than the rest o' men.' But ne'er a word said Tam ava, But quietly took his bird awa' ; An' frae that day nae mair again Was Tam e'er heard tae praise his ain ; Though fouk micht brag, it didna matter, Tam ne'er wad say he'd bred a better. My Ain Bonnie Jean The violets bloom in ilka dell, The hawthorn on the lea, While roses scent the evening air Wi' fragrance sweet tae me. Fair Nature's clad in Beauty's garb, Ilk tree and flower, I ween ; The blythesome birds sing o' their love, An' sae dae I o' Jean. I lo'e the ' oor at morning bricht When glints the sun sae braw ; But, O, the ' oor I lo❜e the best Is at the gloamin' fa' , When saftly through the hazel wood, By hedge and meadow green, I blythely gang wi' lichtsome heart To meet my bonnie Jean Across the burn, oot ower the stile, Doon by the auld yew tree, Whaur stan's my winsome lassie Jean Wi' gladsome smile for me. The truth's imprinted in her face, An' love glints in her een ; I clasp her in ae fond embrace, My ain dear, bonnie Jean. For a' the pleasure riches gi'e I carena' ocht ava ; Gi'e me an ' oor alang wi' Jean Juist at the gloamin' fa' . Doon in yon dell whaur violets bloom We'll roam an' ne'er be seen ; The lee-lang day I'd gladly stray Alang wi' bonnie Jean. My Bonnie Scottish Lassie If there's an' ' oor abune the rest That's sweeter far than ony, It's when the sun sinks in the west, The moon shines oot sae bonnie : For then I gang by Torwoodlee, Down in yon dell sae grassie, To meet wi' ane that's dear to me My ain dear Scottish lassie. Her slae black een aye glancing bricht Wi' love that's fondly beaming, I'd roam wi' her the lea-lang nicht, Ne'er ance o' sorrow dreaming. O, what care I for warld's gear Or haughty dames sae saucy, As lang's I ha'e the love sae dear O' my ain Scottish lassie. Whate'er betide, this heart o' mine Shall beat wi' love's emotion ; Hand clasped in hand, heart pressed to thine, I'll vow love's pure devotion. Ye stars abune in heaven shine doon, Watch o'er my lovely Cassie, An' keep her aye frae danger's froon My ain dear Scottish lassie. The Gala Seven-a-Side. (Inscribed to the Gala Fifteen , 1888) Come list unto me while the praises I sing Till a' the loud echoes mair loudly shall ring Ower hill an' ower dale o' Scotland sae wide O' the brave deeds o' Gala's famed seven-a- side. , Then give them three cheers, with a hip, hip, hurrah : Frae north an' frae south they have beaten them a' : Frae Auld Reekie, an' Melrose, an' Hawick, sae keen They're the pride o' the Borders this season, I ween. They lickit the Greens, and sune made them feel That they'd met wi' a foe that was worthy their steel ; Though deep they may mutter, an' loudly may blaw, They're no' fit for the callants o' Gala sae braw. For swiftness o' foot, an' for passin' sae keen, They soon made a mess o' the lads o' the Green ; Though wi' Melrose an' Wilton they had some hot wark, They aye got away an' they sune made their mark. Since it is best to give honour where honour is due, The braw lads o' Gala are champions it's true ; Through the length o' the land their deeds oft ha'e rung, And in years yet to come their praise will be sung. Then let us unite in a hearty guid cheer, An' wish them success in their matches ilk year ; An' may they endeavour tae dae what they can Tae keep up the good name o' the famed Border lan'. A Glint o' Simmer. I lang for a glint o' the simmer again, Wi' the bonnie wee floo'rs a' in bloom ; An' steal frae the toon wi' its moil an' mirk To roam amang the heather an' broom. Or pu' the wee floo'rs in bonnie green bow'rs, Wi' the burnie gaun shimmerin' by ; The blythesome bit lark a-lilting wi' glee Its sang in the lift sae high. In fancy again, on the weel-ken'd brae, I am sporting wi' innocent glee : Fond memory lingers aroon' the bield That in childhood sheltered me. I lo'e the hame o' my childhood years, Laich doon in the dreamy howe, Where the shadows steal frae the gowden sun, The rose an' the woodbine grow. I see the haugh an' the auld mill lade, Wi' the Don gaun sweepin' by ; Across the fields on the gentle win' Comes the lowing o' wearied kye. In fancy I stand at the door an' watch Aye the gowden sunset fa' , Syne turn my een, a' bleared an' dim, To the bonnie green hills awa'. But I'll hie me awa' to the green hillside When the simmer again comes roon' ; Let them revel wha like in the moil an' mirk An' strife o' the dusty toon. My Native Streams, Farewell ! Nae mair again I'll roam at e'en Alang the banks o' Dee, For I am far awa' frae hame An' scenes sae dear tae me ; Nae mair, I'll hear, at break o' day, The blackbird chant its sang ; Nae mair again at gloamin' grey I'll roam the groves amang. Nae mair I'll hear the mavis sing Its sang sae sweet an' clear, Where Don rows murmurin' saftly doon Through Perseley's den sae dear. Fu' oft I've roved o'er Perseley's braes Mused aye in waukin' dreams : But noo I am far, far awa’ Frae my ain native streams. The auld grey brig nae mair I'll see, Grown ower wi' ivy vine : The bonnie braes where aft I played In days o' auld langsyne ; The auld grey brig, Balgownie's brig, Aft held my heart in spell ; But I maun bid it noo, alas ! A lang an' last farewell. Farewell ! ye glens I lo'e sae weel, Aroond the Don an' Dee : Yet though I wander far frae hame, My heart is still wi' thee ; An' though ' mang scenes an' rivers rare, Nae charms ha'e they for me— My thoughts aye turn wi' fond desire, My native streams, to thee. Bonnie Scotland, Dear to Me. Dear auld Scotland, aince again Will I sing in cheerfu' strain, For I lo'e thy glens an' hills, Murmuring streams an' sparkling rills, Towering crags an' snow-clad mountains, Meadows green an' crystal fountains, Shady groves an' woodlands rare : Nane wi' thee can e'er compare. Bonnie Scotland, dear to me : Hame o' truth an' liberty, There is nane can match wi' thee Bonnie Scotland bears the gree. Dear auld Scotland, rich wi' grandeur, Ower thy hills I fondly wander, Musing aye on heroes brave Wha for Scotland fa'nd their grave. Wallace, leal an' trusty heart, Nobly played a hero's part, Alang wi' Bruce, o' deathless fame, Raised auld Scotland's honoured name. Bonnie Scotland, dear to me : Hame o' truth an' liberty, There is nane can match wi' thee Bonnie Scotland bears the gree. Dear auld Scotland, rich an' rare, Hame o' maidens peerless fair : Search the warld whane'er ye may, Nane ye'll find can match wi' they. Hame o' lads, wi' bonnets blue, Noble-hearted, leal an' true : Soothern loons nae langer daur Try auld Scotland's fame to mar. Bonnie Scotland, dear to me : Hame o' truth an' liberty, There is nane can match wi' thee-- Bonnie Scotland bears the gree. Land whaur nature does unfold Gems more precious far than gold ; Beauty dwells in ilka flower, Wimplin' burn an' woodland bower. Hame o' tartan, kilt, an' feather, Thistle bauld and waving heather ; Lang may Scotland ever be Hame o' truth an' liberty. Bonnie Scotland, dear to me : Hame o' truth an' liberty, There is nane can match wi' thee Bonnie Scotland bears the gree. My Bonnie Dearie, O. 'Tis sweet when aince yer wark is dune To wander forth at dewy e'en, An' haud awa' , a' by yer lane, To meet yer bonnie dearie, O. Then meet me whaur yon burnie rins, Yon burnie rins sae clearly, O; Then meet me whaur yon burnie rins, My ain bonnie dearie, O. There's magic in her witchin' smile That aye my thochts frae care beguile ; I'd wander mony a weary mile To meet my bonnie dearie, O. Then meet me whaur yon burnie rins, Yon burnie rins sae clearly, O ; Then meet me whaur yon burnie rins, My ain bonnie dearie, O. Down by the birks o' Torwoodlee Mang leafy bowers, sae fair to see, It's then the lovely lips I'll pree, O' my ain bonnie dearie, O. Then meet me whaur yon burnie rins, Yon burnie rins sae clearly, O; Then meet me whaur yon burnie rins, My ain bonnie dearie, O. When birdies in the early spring Mak' a' the woodland echoes ring, I weary for the hour that brings Me to my bonnie dearie, O. Then meet me whaur yon burnie rins, Yon burnie rins sae clearly, O ; Then meet me whaur yon burnie rins, My ain bonnie dearie, O. Though fierce the wind may loudly blaw, An' deep may be the driven snaw, I'll haud awa' by birk an' shaw To meet my bonnie dearie, O. Then meet me whaur yon burnie rins, Yon burnie rins sae clearly, O ; Then meet me whaur yon burnie rins, My ain bonnie dearie, O. The Green Hillsides I wandered awa' tae the green hillside Whaur the blooming heather grows, An' whaur saftly, beneath a leafy shade, The bonnie, clear burnie rows ; An' the fern-fronds proudly lift their crests As the wind gangs rustling by, An' kisses the cheeks o' the daisies wee Around our feet that lie. It's sweet to sit on the green hillside, Awa' frae the city's din, Where nocht is heard but the bird's sweet sang, Or the sough o' the gentle win'. I lo'e to sit where the heather blooms An' watch the sunset fa', An' the glory o' clouds in the gowden west, Ower the hills sae far awa'. Syne saftly I steal frae the green hillside Aince mair to the dusty toon, As the birds flee hame ower the whisperin' trees An' the nicht comes saftly doon. My thochts turn aye frae the strife an' din, To the green hillsides wi' glee, An' fancy will come wi' fragrant floo'ers On her gentle wings to me. Waiting for Me. Adown by the burnie that wimples alang, Where the blythe birds o' simmer sing sweetly their sang, There stands a fair lassie wi' bricht glancing e'e, An' weel dae I ken she is waiting for me. Waiting for me, and watching for me, Yon blythesome young lassie is waiting for me; I carena for naething this world can gi'e As the fond loving glance o' her bonnie blue e'e. O, sweet is the ' oor at the gloamin's saft fa', When the sun glints sae bricht ower the hills far awa' : It's then that I gang by yon burnie sae clear Tae meet wi' the lassie that lo'es me sae dear. O' the praises o' nature the poets may sing Till the hills an' the valleys their echoes shall ring, Nae gem is sae sweet or sae fair to my e'e As yon blythesome lassie that's waiting for me. O, what can compare wi' the joy that we feel As through sweet-scented woodlands we saftly wad steal ; While love, wi' its glamour, held sway ower our heart, We vow tae be true till death dae us part. They maun be puir silly cuifs, wi' hearts like a stane, That wad gang through this warld themselves a' alane, An' ne'er lo'e a lassie wi' bricht glancing e'e, Like yon sweet winsome lassie that's waiting for me. The Lass o' Netherdale. While others may sing o' the bricht ruby wine, An' o' ladies o' high degree, I'll sing o' a lass wi' charms sae divine, Wha is a' the warld tae me: Her face sae bewitchin', her lips are sae sweet, Her een haud my heart in a spell, Sae jimp is her waist, sae trig an' sae neat Is the lassie o' sweet Netherdale. She may not ha'e riches, nor yet high degree, Nor boast o' a lang- soundin' name :" But love glances bricht in her bonnie blue e'e, An' sets my puir heart in a flame ; Sae guileless an' pure is my sweet winsome lass, I lo'e ne'er a ane but hersel' ; Whate'er may betide, I shall never be fause Tae the lassie o' sweet Netherdale. Auld Scotland can boast o' rare gems o' creation , Baith faultless in form an' fair : 'Mang a' the rare gems o' ither fair nations There's nane wi' oor ain can compare ; But the sweetest an' dearest an' fairest I ken, Is the lassie whase name I can tell : The envy o' women, the pride o' the men, Is the lassie o' sweet Netherdale. The Gala Fifteen (1887-88. ) A Reply to Lads o' the Green. Tae blaw their ain horn there is nae ane, I ween, Can dae it sae weel as the lads o' the Green, But their pride, I am thinking, will sune get a fa’, When they are beat by the lads o' Gala sae braw. Then hurrah ! for the lads o' Gala sae braw : They're no easy licket this season ava ; For tacklin', an' passin', an' kickin', I ween, They're the pick o' guid players-the Gala Fifteen. The Greens may be guid at blawin' their horn, Or the haudin' o' ither teams aye up tae scorn ; But gi'e me the lads that can handle the ba' Like the hard-workin' players o' Gala sae braw. A fig for the Greens, wi' their wind an' their talk, The braw lads o' Gala can sune make them walk ; Believe what I tell ye-nae word o' a lee— They'd best tak' the hint an' gang a' ower the sea. There's Ward an' M'Caig, an' M'Lauchlan forby, There's Brunton an' Symington guid for a try ; For tacklin', an ' passin', an' kickin' , I ween, They can aye haud their ain wi' the lads o' the Green. I'm sure that the Greens needna craw juist sae croose, Tae cease their loud bawling they should noo ca' a truce ; But, losh me ! I think, they'll no craw juist sae keen, When ance they are beat by the Gala Fifteen. An Auld Man's Musings Fu' weary I wandered ae nicht by my lane, An' mused on the freen's that's departed an' gane Awa' frae this warld o' sin an' o' care ; Their voices we hear not, their forms see nae mair. There's auld Willie Wastle, the sly pawky chiel, That kept us aye laughin' when boys at the schule ; But noo he's awa' , an' we'll see him nae mair Till we meet a' again in heaven sae fair. There's blythe Jamie Dods, the pride o' the schule The maister aye said he wad gang tae the deil ; But the maister was wrang, for Jamie, we ken, Rose high in the army as a leader o' men. If his life had been tauld it wad read like a story : He fought for his Queen, his country, an' glory, An' his brave deeds o' daring ha'e left him a name 'Mang the heroes o' Scotland in the temple o' fame. Weel dae I mind o' douce Jamie Neil : Puir fellow, he aye was the dunce o' the schule ; But Jamie did fairly astonish us a' , When he mairrit yon lady sae bonnie an' braw. An' then there are ithers ower mony tae tell, But noo they're awa', an' I'm left here mysel' Tae trauchle alang, content aye tae bide Till the Saviour receive me hame tae his side. Epistles to a Potter Chiel Dear sir, - I was rale glad to see Anither screed frae yon A. P.; My faith, but he craws crouse Aboot his cat ; but let me say Ne'er for a minute wad I ha'e Sic things aboot my hoose. I winner hoo that folk wi' sense Could ever gang tae sic expense, An' a' aboot a cat : A thing that's o' nae earthly use Save maybe juist to catch a mouse A mouse-trap can dae that ! Gin it had been a Brahma hen, Scotch fancy, or a braw Belgian, I ne'er wad naething said ; Or doos an' dougs o' different kin’— But at a cat I draw the line : They're fit for some auld maid, I winner, noo, what folk can see Aboot a cat tae please the e'e, They're sic ill-greein' brats. I'm very glad I'm far awa' Frae sic a place as Baudron's Raw, A. P., an' a' his cats. Sae noo, my freen', tak' my advice, Gi'e up yer cats-get something nice : Some doos, an' hens as weel An' gin ye come tae Gala toon Ye'll maybe then see Tammy Broon, That awfu' knowin' chiel. I hope ye winna think me rude— I'm speakin' only for your good, Ye'll find that oot in time ; Sae noo, my freen', I'll bid adieu, An' hope neist week tae see frae you Anither screed o' rhyme. Yer han', my freen' , I'm glad tae see That on this subject ye agree Wi' my ain sel' ; An' wi' the Potter in the van, A' the ways an' means tae plan, It canna' fail. There are some fanciers that I ken, That say, unless we ha'e the men That ha'e the £ s. d. , The Scottish Show will ne'er succeed, Unless we get sic men tae lead ; - kal Wi' that I'll ne'er agree. Tho' Potter, lad, its weel I ken We canna' dae withoot sic men, But that's no a'. We need some men wi' tact an' sense, E'en though they hav'na plack nor pence, An' tho' they're fanciers sma' . Men that ha'e the Show at heart, An' willing aye tae dae their part, An' naething gars them stick. We'll need the men wi' £ s. d. , Tae come an' gi'e's a guarantee, Tae keep us gaun on tick. Noo, Potter, lad, I'm gled you're weel, An' hope ye'll come tae Galashiel', For I can tell There's naething wad mair pleasure gi'e Tae " Regnis, " I'm sure than to see The Potter lad himsel' . As for mysel', my thanks are due For gettin' a' yon praise frae you, It's made me unco vain ; For when I read yer sang yestreen, It fairly made me cock my een An' grip my pen Tae woo the fickle muse again, Tae try tae lilt in blythesome strain A wee bit sang. But, faith, I'll ha'e tae bid adieu, In hopes that we will hear frae you, Ere it be lang. Sairly Strucken. Hech, me ! I've met my fate, I ween: The glamour o' twa bonnie een, Ae witchin' glance frae saucy queen Has strucken me fu' sairly ; My memory noo frae me has gane, I wander dowie, a' my lane, Maist feck the day I grunt an' grane, O' meat I eat but sparely. I canna sleep a wink at nicht For thinkin' o' thae een sae bricht ; They've left me in an unco plicht : Wi' love I'm deein' fairly. In fact, I'm no the same ava' : My body's fairly dwined awa' To skin an' bane, my heart's in twa, I pine baith late an ' early. The ither nicht, nae farer gane, I met her in the Fairy Dean : Ae glance frae her twa bonnie een Sent my heart tapsalteerie ; Ower me they've thrown an unco spell, They'll drive me yet tae droon mysel' ; Nae pluck ha'e I to gang an' tell I lo'e her maist sincerely. O' toothache pains alang the jaw I've had a share that's no sae sma' , But losh ! this fairly cowes them a' : I'm strucken unco sairly ; But, faith, I'll try my fate this nicht, An' gang nae mair in sic a plicht ; Come weal or woe, whate'er it micht, I'll woo her late an' early. Something Mair for a Potter I'm very glad, my Potter freen', That after a' that's said an' dune, Ye ha'ena ta'en the huff ; Altho' I tried a' that I could Tae say a word juist for yer guid, Ye ha'ena got enough. It's human nature, weel I ken, For ilka yin tae think his ain Is better than the rest ; That's hoo I'm tryin' hard, ye see, Tae get the Potter tae agree Oor fancy is the best. Ye shairly dinna heed sic tales Aboot Dick Whittington an' his bells : Nae word o' truth ava' ; There's naething wad mair pleasure gi'e Tae my ainsel' than juist tae see Ye magistrate o' Baudron's Raw. But, Potter, lad , I'd like tae ken Gin cats e'er saved the lives o' men, Sic like as dogs ha'e dune When wintry winds sae cauldrife blaw, Wi' bitin' frost an' driven snaw, Nae shelter tae be seen. Ye wis sayin' that ye had nae grun' Juist big enough tae mak' a run For hens tae rin an' feed ; Could ye no sell yer famous cat Ye'll shairly get enough for that Tae buy whate'er ye need. Aboot Gala Show an' fakit doos, Juist let me say, that's Hawick news As soor as buttermilk ; Ye'd think that they could ne'er deceive, An' faith, they'd mak' ye fain believe A soo's lug's made o' silk. But I can easily tell ye that Ye'll need tae tak' it wi' some saut What Hawick folk may tell ; Nae doot ye'll ken as weel as me Some folk that's black wad like tae see Their neebours like theirsel'. The Scottish Palace Show Fanciers big an' fanciers sma' Rally noo, we need ye a' Tae lend yer help tae set awa' The Scottish Palace Show. Come frae north, frae east, an' wast, An' the south shall ne'er be last Tae mak' it siccar, mak' it fast, The Scottish Palace Show. Shall it ever, e'er be said That Scottish fanciers were afraid In proud England's wake tae tread, An' ha'e a Palace Show. Noo's the day an' noo' the ' oor That Scottish fanciers show their poo'er, An' success they will ensure Tae oor Palace Show. Ne'er gi'e heed though some may sneer ; Forward, Laidler, never fear, For I see it's comin' near, The Scottish Palace Show. A Rhyming Letter Awake ! my muse, in cheerful strain, For idle noo ye lang ha'e lain, Sae I maun try yet aince again Yer mettle, As lang' I ha'e in hand my pen, An' in guid fettle. My muse, she is a fickle jaud, That will neither bin' nor haud, For aft she's like tae drive me mad : Aye deavin' me ; Then a' at aince she's dour an' sad, An' winna gee. There's twa three things I'd like tae mention, That are nae o' my ain invention, Sae kindly gi'e's yer best attention, I'll sing my sang, For I'm sure I've nae intention Tae keep ye lang. Losh me ! there's been an awfu' wark Aboot the drink in Galapark ; Nae doot the bailies made their mark Wha granted it : It's whispered noo, but keep that dark, They'll sune repent it. Noo, a' ye Gala lads sae braw, Lament wi' me that Bailie Shaw Has left the Council, bench an' a'- His loss we feel ; Alang wi' him that's noo awa' , He's true as steel. Nae doot there's mony mair than me Wad like the swimming baths tae see, Whaur a' could gang an' swimmingly Aye bathe themsel's I wonder when sic things will be In Galashiels . For instance , noo , the corn mill I'd ha'e removed ower Gala Hill , An' then the open space I'd fill Wi' flowers sae fair , Or build what's aiblins better still , The museum there . I'd Like tae Ken . I'd like tae ken what can be wrang Wi' the Potter chiel ? I winner noo gin ye can tell If he be keepin ' weel ? For losh me , noo he's unco quiet : That's no his usual style ; We ne'er ha'e heard a screed o ' rhyme Frae him noo for a while . Gin he'd been famed for breedin ' doos , I'd ken he had nae time , For sitting watchin' eggs come oot , To turn his thochts to rhyme. But seeing that he wadna keep Sic trashy stock like that , I'd like tae ken gin he has lost His awfu' famous cat ? If that's the case , then I am sure He'll get what I can gi'e, Though cats I dinna like, I send My heartfelt sympathy I only hope that I am wrang In judgin' him ava, An' trust that we will hear e'er lang Some rhyme frae Baudron's Raw. I hope it's naething that I've said That's made him drap his pen : Sae, Potter, kittle up yer muse An' try yer han' again. For, losh ! there's mony mair than me, There's nae a doot o' that, Wad like tae hear the latest news Aboot the Potter's cat. Another thing I'd like tae ken, Man, Gordon, can ye tell If dogs ha'e souls, that when they dee, Tae gang tae heaven or h―ll ? That freen' o' dogs, G. Stables, says— Ye'd think that he sud ken That if they dinna ha'e a soul Then ne'er a soul ha'e men.
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