Part 1

[Frontispiece: THE AUTHOR.]

SONGS AND RHYMES

OF A

LEAD MINER.

By

THOMAS GRIERSON GRACIE, Wanlockhead.

DUMFRIES: COURIER AND HERALD PRESS, HIGH STREET. 1921.

_INDEX._

_PERSONAL NOTE AND PREFACE_

_DESCRIPTIVE PIECES--_ Ridge of Glengonar A Fishin' Splore Troloss The Otter Hunt The Bearers Mennock Burn Heights of Glendyne A Waddin' in the Glen Three Fishers Ma Wag-at-The-Wa' Curmudgeon Bonnie Banks o' Cree Chancellor's seat, Leadhills

_MEMORIAM PIECES--_ Last of the Old Band To Mr and Mrs James Slimmon Doctor Wilson Funeral of Private Alex. Howland Lines on a Friend Wullie Tamson Kitchener David Cumming Baby M'Kenzie Wanlock Lads Auld Volunteers Young Volunteers Pony Driver's Lament Bride's Lament Davy's Grave

_SONGS--_ The Auld Sangs My Auld Violin Auld Thackit Hoose Auld Grey Glen Level No. 6 Emergency Pump, Level No. 4 Turnin' o' the Wheel To Arms Happy Lover Never Seen More Wanlock's Buirdly Robin Lass o' Durisdeer Bonnie Jean Betty o' The Strankly Lass o' Glendoweran Sae Wull We Yet Doric o' Scotland Cheer Up Where is the Hindenburg Line? Forward Wanlock Auld Cronie Tam H.L.I. Brave Lads o' Sanquhar Mennock Burn

_MISCELLANEOUS PIECES--_ Scunner't Absent Friend The Miner Love Curlin' A Word o' Advice Jock The Exile The Old Churchyard Letter in Rhyme The Answer Note o' Thanks Leadhills Euchan's Banks On Higher Plane Song Birds The Photo "Something Wrang" The Flu' Wee Jim The Nurses The True Man An Evening Prayer Rabbie Welcome Home Day Dream To Wanlock Soldiers

Lowther Wind's Wail

PERSONAL NOTE AND PREFACE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

AUTHOR.

DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.

THE RIDGE OF GLENGONAR.

_WINTER SCENE._

The pale lovely moon o'er the Lowthers was rising As lonely I strayed at the fall of the night Away to the far-stretching Ridge of Glengonar, The high hills to view in their mantle of white.

Old Boreas had swept them for days in his anger, As though he would crush them beneath his proud sway; But grandly they stood, with their brows high uplifted, Firm based in majestic, eternal array.

Then thoughts did arise as I gazed on the scene That lay bathed in the silvery light of the moon Of Flanders' torn fields that were once fair and fertile, Made barren and shrouded in sorrow and gloom;

Of men who went forth in the pride of their manhood, Aroused, by the call that appeals to the brave, Inspired by the noblest and purest of motives, Who fell on the field or were sunk 'neath the wave.

I stood all alone on the Ridge of Glengonar, Alone 'neath the stars that shone bright in the blue; And prayed to the Ruler of men and of nations To strengthen the arms of our gallant and true;

To silence for ever the roar of the cannon And sink in oblivion this era of pain, That in peace we might live in the land of our fathers 'Neath harmony, love, and prosperity's reign.

A FIS'HIN' SPLORE.

Wullie, Sandy, Rab, an' Tam Yae nicht when sittin' owre a dram Agreed when neist the day wad daw Tae tak' their rods an' trudge awa' An' try their skill wi' flee an' worm On bonnie Carron's wimplin' burn.

The mornin' broke sae fresh an' fair, New life was in the caller air; Owre Grey Mere's Tail the sun did peep, Tae wake oor fishers frae their sleep. Ilk yin gat up wi' bizzin' croon; Short time had passed since they lay doon.

They dressed fu' quick, nae time tae loss, An' sune were skelpin' through the moss; Owre dyke an' fence, through sheuch an' glen, Up, up, they spieled tae Enterkin: An' when at last they did get there A view they had ayont compare.

They had nae time the scene tae view, Sae hurried owre the mountain's broo, An' doon the brae they ran pell-mell Tae hae a drink at Katie's Well, "Whaur Black M'Michael's bearded lip Yince fain did dip."

Then doon they ran wi' muckle speed, Tae Nature's charms they paid nae heed, An' didna slack their pace a jot Until they reached the Lucky Pot[1]; Sae awfu' keen an' anxious they Tae see if luck was theirs that day.

Then walin' steps wi' canny care They gaed alang the hill-side bare, Whaur Kelt,[2], the hound, fell aff his steed When Harkness[3] shot him through the heid; The roarin' pool whaur he fell in Has since been known as Kelty's Linn.

There fore-nent them Stey-Guile stood, Defyin' time an' storms an' flood; They gazed upon its steepest side, Doon whaur 'twas said bold Graham[4] did ride, His pony shod wi' deevils' cloots; 'Twas maybe true. "They had some doots."

Owre Dalveen Hill an' doon the brae Richt cheerily they held their way; An' when they High Dalveen had passed They reached the Carron Burn at last; Then fast their taikle they gat oot, Their minds fair set on killin' troot.

Then Wullie, keen his skill tae test, Got started weel afore the rest; He banged oot yin, syne made it twa; When oot cam' three, lie croose did craw. "Come here, ma callans, gin ye wish, I'll show ye hoo tae catch the fish."

"But pleesures are like poppies spread, Ye seize the floo'er, its bloom is shed;" He thocht he was a fisher rare, But, strange tae say, he gat nae mair; An' then he cried "I'll bet a quid It's been the tail en' o' the tid."

But Rab an' Tam, mair skilfu' they, On pools an' streams their flees did play; They played wi' sic a cunnin' wrist The finny tribe couldnae resist, But lap an' danced at bob an' trail; Some e'en were hookit by the tail.

Doon by Stonebutt an' by the Brig, They landed fishes wee an' big; An' when they reached the Carron Mill, O' fishin' they had got their fill: An' here a signboard took their e'e, A maist uncommon sign tae see:

"Ginger-beer an' lemonade, Here as guid as can be made, An' if ye want some more repast, Dinner, supper, or breakfast;" These lines, my friens, depend upon it, Composed were by Grier the Poet.

The landlord there, a sober chiel, Wad hae nae traffic wi' the deil: O' aqua vitae he had nane; Sair did oor weary fishers grane; An' ere they rested on their hurdies, Hied owre the hill tae Tam o' Murdy's.

Tam o' Murdy's, Durisdeer, Was famed for Mountain Dew an' beer, An' ony ither kin' o' drink, But jist for them wha had the clink: For Tammy, tho' a kin'ly man, Could aye look efter num'er wan.

An' there they sat an' smoked an' sang, An' gill stoups toomed o' liquor strang, Which quickly put them a' at ease, In tellin' stories, maistly lees, O' salmon they had landed oot, An' hoo they lost their biggest troot.

Their pooches toom, nae mair tae spen', Their nonsense sune cam' tae an en', An' forced were they tae tak' the gait, Tho' they were in a muddled state. The moon on them was shinin' clear, When leavin' guid auld Durisdeer.

They wandered on, whiles up, whiles doon, An' heard fu' mony an eerie soon; The fitpath wasna' braid aneuch, They tumelt in the burn an' sheuch; They staggered in amang the dreels, O' turnip, kail, an' tattie fiel's.

An' tho' they had nae wish tae tarry, Their legs refused the drink tae carry: An'' doon on Carron's hichts they sank, An' for a time their min's were blank; Hoo they gat hame, what them befel, Deil yin o' them could ever tell.

MORAL.

When man is on enjoyment bent, O' aftermath he should tak' tent, An' no abuse John Barleycorn, Or life o' pleesure will be shorn.

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

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

[3] One of the hunted Covenanters.

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

TROLOSS.

_Song or Recitation._ _Tune: "Tinker's Waddin'."_

In August, when the heather blooms, An' grouse are fairly on the wing, The scented breeze frae hill an' moor, Tae hunters health an' pleesure bring.

Then hunters meet at Auld Troloss, As they hae dune for mony a year: Tam Johnston ready taks the names O' beaters there frae far an' near.

The Laird aye greets them wi' a smile, An' shakes auld servants by the han'; Nae purse-prood autocrat is he, But jist a kindly gentleman.

Aye weel esteemed are men like him, An' loyal service they comman'; It isna siller, pomp, or power, But honest worth that maks the man.

The guns gae first; each finds his butt; Then beaters bauldly briest the brae; Lang miles atween them an' their hames-- Their herts are licht, sae what care they?

They drive the Hoose, they drive the drain, An' next in order comes the mine; Success does a' their efforts croon, When Tammas Johnston marks the line.

An' thus the merry hunt goes on, Drive after drive they run them in; An' when they get back tae the Hoose, They ken their heavy darg is dune.

They there get coffee in their turn, Some hae milk an' some hae tea, Wi' routh o' breed weel spread wi' jam, An' a bicker o' the barley bree.

A few choice spirits meet at nicht Tae spen' a happy social 'oor, When ilka yin is blyth an' bricht, An' meenits pass like fleein' stour.

The gentry a' maun share the fun, Nae cless distinction dae they show; Tae Gracie's fiddle weel in tune They trip the "licht fantastic toe."

Carmichael is a canty chiel, Tae sing a sang he is'na sweir-- The "Tinkers' Waddin'," "Spellin' o't," An' "Bonnie Lass o' Durisdeer."

Then Laidlaw sings aboot the hills, Up whaur the Wanlock waters rowe, An' "True till death," "The Eastern Star," An' "Jessie on the Quarry Knowe."

Miss Vickers an' Miss Jonson, tae, The auld-time sangs sae sweetly sing, Accompanied by the auld banjo, The fiddle an' the mandolin.

The auld wife in the ingle neuk Raises her voice in cheerfu' key, An' nicely sings "Woods o' Duirmore," An' "The Bonnie Lad that comes tae me."

Coachman Fraser, stalwart wight, Does neist a humorous piece recite, Hoo Tibbie lood an' lang did growl When her puir bit lassie brak the bowl.

Then Lauder, tho' he canna sing. Does fairly dance the Heelan' Fling, An' Hornpipes, tae; wi' heavy wear, His feet like hammers strike the flair.

Gracie gies them o' his best Till voice an' airms are needin' rest; Hoo he does sing, hoo he does play, It wadna dae for me tae say.

The 'oor is gane; some maun gang hame; They canna' stay the han' o' time. They pairt tae meet some ither nicht, For the happy days o' Auld Langsyne.

_Chorus after every 2nd verse._

Durum dook an' doo an' dae, Durum dook an' derry O. Durum dook an' doo an' dae, Hurrah for the hunt sae merry O.

THE OTTER HUNT.

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

Tae the hunt! Tae the hunt! Come haste ye away! An otter's been seen on the Lowthers this day, An' brave lads are wanted the beast tae destroy, So it's Donal an' Archie an' Jock for the ploy.

They breisted the Lowthers like houn's frae the leash, In their herts an' their minds there were nae thochts o' peace; It was war, an' they cunnin'ly followed the trail That led them away for the hichts o' Powtrail.

"Tally Ho! Tally Ho!" was the hunters' wild cry, And speedily after the otter they hie; Thro' heather an' breckins, thro' threshes an' bent Regairdless o' danger oor brave trio went.

The chase it was stern and the chase it was lang Wi' the race tae the swift and the fecht tae the strang; They pressed him sae hard an' sae swiftly they ran He was forced for tae hole in the heid o' Pedan.

He holed in the broo o' a pool in the burn, Where water frae forking comes doon wi' a run: They had run him to earth, o' that they'd nae doot, The puzzle was noo hoo tae get the bruit oot.

Syne yin o' them stood at the heid o' the pool, Anither yin takin' his stance at the fit, While the third tried his best tae breck the broo doon, Makin' use o' the tae an' the heel o' his buit.

At last he cam' oot, makin' fast up a drain (For conveying the little springs intae the main), But Archie was ready, an' took a sure aim, An' knocked him doon deid wi' a big cobble stane.

Then here's tae the lads wha then did display Sic courage an' speed at the huntin' that day; An' lang may the tale roon the fireside be tauld Hoo the otter was killed by oor three hunters bauld.

THE BEARERS.

To the mournful sound of the curfew's note, On to the churchyard they go; Bearing the form of a dear lost friend "With measured step and slow."

A moment they pause the cords to adjust, Then lower him into the ground, While paying their last respects to the dead The mourners stand around.

Reverently they cover him up (Of mortal this is the end); Then sadly leave him in the dust "Where the tall trees sway and bend."

In the winds that weep o'er the lowly graves Where the ashes of forebears lie, And the requiem sounds from the crystal stream That is swiftly flowing by.

MENNOCK BURN.

When mist nae langer hides the brae, An' rain cluds flee afore the sun, Wi' rod in han' I slowly gang Awa' tae fish in Mennock Burn.

Dear Mennock Burn! What memories cling Roon ilka bend that's in thy course; For happy 'oors I spent in youth I thank thee for them wert the source.

I've fished ye when the days were short, I've fished ye when the days were lang (An' whiles wee Davy was my mate, An' whiles it was his brither Tam).

Frae Mossburn doon by Whitchincleuch, An' by the path that maks Glenym Tae whaur yer waters when in spate Gang roarin' owre the Horseman Linn;

An' then a wee bit farer on (I min' we got a hearty lauch When silly Rab fell in the burn) Whaur waters flow frae dark Glenclauch.

Those happy days are langsyne gane An' I am weirin' on in life; My pleasure's a' in lookin' back: There's naething noo but care and strife.

When Nature fails an' I maun bend An' fade jist like a witherin' tree, Beside ye, gin I hae my wish, I fain will lay me doon an' dee.

THE HEIGHTS OF GLENDYNE.

On a fair summer morn when the sun did adorn The top of Glengaber, Glencrieve, and Glenglass, I wandered away to the hill and the brae, At the footstool of Nature a few hours to pass. As I climbed the steep hill by the pure little rill That trills its sweet song 'mid the heather and thyme My memory swept back on its well-beaten track To the days of my boyhood and friends of langsyne.

From the head of Glendyne I kept a straight line As far as the rock where the fox makes his den, Where the hill of the bloody bell stands like a sentinel Guarding the pass to the bonnie Monk's Glen. Nowhere I have been is such wild beauty seen As that from the spot where I then took my stand; It must stir the cold heart, inspiration impart, These marvellous works of the Almighty hand.

Where is the pen 'mongst the learned of men That could to the mind's eye its beauties array? Where is the hand the brush could command Its splendours so solemn and wild to pourtray? Freedom from strife and the cares of this life I find in this solitude has its abode; The soul it is free as the soul ought to be To commune with Nature and worship its God.

A WADDIN' IN THE GLEN.

_50 YEARS AGO._

_Song._ _Tune: "A Hundred Pipers."_

Stranger--What's a' the steer in the village the nicht, An' what has gaen wrang wi' the folk? Villager--There's naething gane wrang, an' a' thing is richt; It's Meg gettin' mairit tae Jock. Ye see, when a waddin' taks place in the glen It is a momentous occasion, For a guid week afore't the hale o' the crack Is wha's bid tae the jollification.

CHORUS.

Then haste ye awa' tae the waddin' the nicht! Dinna miss it whate'er may befa'! Ye'll never forget it as lang as ye leeve, The lassies are buskit sae braw.

When ye're bid ye maun hasten awa' tae the bride If ye can wi' a denty bit praisent, For the lassie we a' dae oor best ye maun ken Tae mak' her doon-sittin' fu' daicent. An' the women folk a' maun see the bride's braws, Ken what siller she got tae a fraction; An' the mair that she gets the mair they are pleased, It gies them the mair satisfaction.

CHORUS.

The bride's freens meet in her faither's ain hoose, An' sit, if tae sit there is room, An' wait till they hear the fiddler's lilt That speedily brings the bridegroom. The minister then the marriage begins-- As a rule he is tauld tae be brief-- An' quickly he ties them a knot wi' his tongue They never can loose wi' their teeth.

CHORUS.

An' then it's the grand procession that's formed; The best-man leads aff wi' the bride, While the bridegroom comes on at the tail o' the line Haudin' close tae the minister's side. The fiddler leads at a lively pace, An' clear frae his strings does he draw The bonnie sweet notes o' that auld-farrant tune, "Oh, it's woo'ed an' mairit an' a'."

CHORUS.