Part 2
The procession maun halt at the bridegroom's new hoose While the bride gangs in tae admire; Then a ferl o' breed is thrown owre her heid, An' wi' the poker she steers up the fire. The procession moves on, an' the auld wifies cry, "Eh, sirs, but she's bonnie an' braw!" The fiddler's tune at this juncture is drooned By the company's hearty "Hurrah."
CHORUS.
A' the wey tae the Ha', whaur the supper is spread, They mairch tho' a mile an' mair; Auld Bacchus afore them aye beckons them on, For he's routh o' a' guid things there. When the supper is owre the minister speaks On the joys an' the sorrows o' life, Advises the bride tae be guid tae her man An' bridegroom tae be guid tae his wife.
CHORUS.
Then "Weel may we be, ill may we ne'er see," Is sung by the guests in accord; At the end o' the roon, wi' a thunderin' soun', They frichten the rats frae the board; They disperse for a wee tae meet later on Tae hae a nicht's pleesure an' fun, For there's naething like daffin' an' dancing ye ken, Tae drive dowie care tae the wun'.
CHORUS.
The fiddler tunes up an' rosins his bow, An' sooples his airm for the jinkin'; At the very first note that soons thro' the ha' The lads wi' the lassies come linkin'; The bride an' bridegroom lead aff the first dance, Weel pleased wi' ilk ither, I'm thinkin', While the auld yins that arena sae fleet o' the fit Gang canny awa' tae the drinkin'.
CHORUS.
The fun an' the daffin gang on withoot check Till the nicht's turned intae the mornin'; They've even been kent for tae haud at the dance Till the sun the hill-taps was adornin'. But if dreich is the dance, the drinkin' is waur; Never heard is the craw o' the cock; For as lang as there's drink an' the jollity guid It's nae easy maiter tae stop.
CHORUS.
"But the drink gangs dune afore the drooth," An' the herts o' the tipplers a' sadden, An' ilka yin noo maun fin' his wey hame, For that is the end o' the waddin'. Noo dinna ye think that they're gien tae the drink, An' tae honour they're no weel behaudin'; They're leal an' they're true, their marrows are few, Tho' they tak' a wee drap at a waddin'.
CHORUS.
THE THREE FISHERS.
At dawn of day we sped away On the path that skirts the mine hill-side, Whaur Elvan Burn, wi' mony a turn, Gangs singing tae the River Clyde.
"When lazy loons did lie an' snore An' dream the gowden dawn away We lap the burn at Greenshields' door, An' breisted bauld the Wungate brae."[1]
Then owre the fence an' through the pass, That's cleft atween the Lowther hills, Whaur mountain air, sae pure an' rare, Blaws free frae Pedan's crystal rills.
Doon Pedan's vale straucht for Powtrail We gaed, an' in oor min's nae doot There was but what wi' flee or worm We'd land some bonnie speckled troot.
The sun shone bricht, oor herts were licht, We knew that we were better far Away frae city's din an' strife, Whaur Powtrail mingles wi' the Daur.
Three fishers keen as e'er were seen, Tae throw a line on loch or stream, Noo plied their rods wi' muckle skill, An' sune their creels began tae fill.
We fished the Annershy an' Squaw Frae noon weel on tae evenin' fa', Likewise Glenocher an' Glengeath, An' then we tramped across the heath,
Tae whaur the Toll Bar stood alane, Like oasis in a desert plain, Whaur weary fishers meet thegither, Tae rest or join the sang an' blether.
Like nectar was the landlord's cheer, Glenlivet, stout, an' reaming beer; But ere the drink could tak' oor brain We wisely took the road for hame.
Eicht lang Scots miles, an' uphill road, Besides o' fish a heavy load, We stauchert on wi' mony a grane, Vowing we'd ne'er gang back again.
But e'er a week its coorse had run, We thocht on naething but the fun We had on Clyde's clear sparklin' river, An' aff' we gaed as keen as ever.
[1] From Reid.
MA WAG-AT-THE-WA'.
Owre a hunner year auld, ye are still hale an' strang; Ye've seldom been kenned the time tae gie wrang; Tho' puirtith may come, an' misfortune befa', I never will pairt wi' ma Wag-at-the-Wa'.
Ye belanged tae ma granny when she was a bride; She coft ye an' fixed ye up on the wa' side; New-fashioned timers I've heard her misca' There ne'er was a clock like her Wag-at-the-Wa'.
When I cam' tae this warl' o' trouble an' sin, Whaur we work oor life oot tae keep oor life in, When I opened ma een, the first thing I saw Was the braw soncy face o' my Wag-at-the-Wa'.
It is easy tae see ye are no jerry made; Ye've been fashioned by workmen weel up tae their trade; The modern timepiece has nae chance ava' When compared wi' ma auld-farrant Wag-at-the-Wa'.
Many changes ye've seen since ye startit tae tick, Yer han's tae gang roun' an' yer wheels tae gang click; Ye sit on yer perch serene thro' them a' Steady markin' the time, ma Wag-at-the Wa'.
The mail coach has gane, an' the train's taen its place; We've Zepplins an' airyplanes fleein' in space; Wi' wire an' wi' wireless, an' X-rays an' a', Mony wonders ye've seen, ma Wag-at-the Wa'.
Electreecity harnessed likewise ye hae seen, Propellin' the ship an' the bauld submarine, Defyin' the elements, rain, wun', an' snaw; It's the age o' invention, ma Wag-at-the-Wa'.
In city an' country it's drivin' the trams, It will sune, I've nae doot, be applied tae the prams, The lorries and 'busses an' motor cars braw; What's next on the programme, ma Wag-at-the-Wa'?
Ye hae seen us in peace time, ye see us in war; The roar of the cannon is heard frae afar; The guid sword o' Freedom we strongly maun draw As oor sires did langsyne, ma Wag-at-the-Wa'.
The wecht o' oor blows the Kaiser maun feel Till he's seik at the hert an' ready tae kneel Tae oor brave sturdy Allies an' Britannia; Then peace will be lastin', ma Wag-at-the-Wa'.
Dear Wag-at-the-Wa', I hear by ye'r chime, It's time I was stoppin' this rummelin' rhyme; I'll blaw oot the can'le, on Morpheus I'll ca', An' I'll bid ye "guid-nicht," ma Wag-at-the-Wa'.
"CURMUDGEON."
_The word "curmudgeon" denotes to the Author's mind everything that is bad in human nature._
O' a' the ills we hae tae bear, The greatest is Curmudgeon, An' gin I had ma wull o' him I'd trounce him wi' a bludgeon.
He thinks that man was made tae mourn, Tae trouble he wad bind him; Tae ilk fireside he trouble brings An' leaves the same behind him.
He is the "daith's-heid at the feast;" He's always in employment; His greatest pleesure is tae keep Mankind frae a' enjoyment.
When we are on a holiday We want the sun tae smile again, An' gie's a joyfu' cloudless day; It's then Curmudgeon prays for rain.
To him, there's great men in this warl', There's equals and inferiors; He scorns the honest working-man, And fawns on his superiors.
He licks the rich man's dirty buits, An' never min's the flavour; By every means he tries tae gain The lordling's smile an' favour.
A bonnie lass gaes dancin' by, Wha's licht o' hert an' cheerie; He tells the next man that he meets She's anybody's dearie.
An' if he meets a sober lass Wha has nae smile tae greet him, He says "still waters aft rin deep, An' the deevil lies beneath them."
The lads are a' gaun tae the deuce Wi' impudence an' pride, man! Their lauch an' sang an' merry ploy Curmudgeon canna bide, man.
He is an elder in the kirk, Believes in fire an' blood, man; An' for oor sins wad burn us up Or droon us in a flood, man.
Curmudgeon is a thrifty carle, The siller he can hain, man; Tae catch the bawbees on the hop Curmudgeon's ever fain, man.
It maiters na' hoo it may come, Tae him it's always gain, man; Owre ilk yin's fauts he greets an' granes, An' never min's his ain, man.
Tae damp the fire o' age an' youth He's like a sowkit blanket; We hae na mony o' his kin', "Sae let the Lord be thankit."
Burns e'en had peety for the Deil, Deep doon in his vile dungeon; But Clootie is a gentleman Compared wi' auld Curmudgeon.
THE BONNIE BANKS O' CREE.
Down by the river Cree I stray This lovely day in June; The birds are sweetly singing. The wild rose is in bloom, The sparkling waters flowing From the high-land rocks set free In kingly style and glory by The bonnie banks o' Cree.
O, if I were an artist true I'd paint this scene so fair-- Fields and flowers and shaggy woods, And streams and mountains bare. And if I were a minstrel bard I'd sing in praise of thee, The wild birds to outrival on The bonnie banks o' Cree.
Sweet river, I must leave you, And I leave you with regret: This glorious day upon thy banks I never will forget. I may again, if Heaven wills, Enjoy thy charms and see The love-inspiring beauty of The bonnie banks o' Cree.
CHANCELLOR'S SEAT, LEADHILLS.
_Amidst the Lowther Hills, on a slope rising from the Shortcleugh Burn, the friends of the late Henry Chancellor of Newton and Shieldhill have erected in his memory and to mark the spot where, he was found dead on the 1st of April, 1915, a stone seat, which is a centre of interest to visitors in this district. On paying my first visit on a fine Autumn day to Chancellor's Seat, as it is called, I was deeply impressed by the circumstances of his death and the wild beauty, solemnity and solitude of the scene of his passing, In front, the main Lowther Slope rising steeply to its lofty summit, its still smooth sides dressed in soft springy grey green turf; from the right, the Shortcleugh Burn springing from the rocks of the Five Cairns, winding its way down the Glen; to the left, the purple heather clad hills stretching as far as the eye could see, and in close proximity the Reservoir, its surface water moved by the wind, and sparkling in the rays of the sun--the whole made a scene that could not fail to soothe the jaded spirit, weary with the vexations and troubles of life. Such, with its Spring instead of its Autumn dressing, was the scene of the passing of Henry Chancellor._
Amidst the everlasting hills He loved so well, He met his end; what pain he bore No tongue could tell; No earthly friend was standing by, No loved one over him to sigh, No tender human heart was nigh With grief to swell.
And, yet, his greatest Friend was there, In yon' lone glen, Who holds Creation in His care And lives of men; To comfort and uphold him, till The Angels winged adown the hill To bear his spirit from all ill And mortal ken.
IN MEMORIAM.
THE LAST OF THE OLD BAN'.
_Lines suggested by the death of John Dixon._
Gone is the last o' a guid auld Ban' That played in the glen langsyne; "Buirdly an' bauld like the hills o' their hame," Stalwart in body an' min'; For anything clever an' manly At gala or market or fair They could haud the croon o' the causey, Frichtit for naebody there.
Gracies, M'Millans, an' Tyler, Nicol an' Dixon, M'Kane, Hastie an' Harkness an' Shankland, Their like we may ne'er see again. Weel could they han'le their trumpets, Their notes a' sae sweetly in tune; Nae Ban' could tae them haud a can'le Tho' ye'd socht for a hunner mile roon.
An' yet they said naething aboot it, Sae modest an' manly were they: They never were guid at the braggin', Tho' difficult pairts they could play. They played at the sports an' the picnic, They played at the concert an' dance. Weel pleased if by honest endeavour They could oor bit pleasures enhance.
Happy were they a' thegither When met for a crack or a dram; Their mirth never mair unseemly Than the lilt o' a guid auld sang. Noo, alas! they're gane frae amang us, Nae mair will their music inspire; Maybe the Maister has ta'en them Tae play in the heavenly choir.
TO MR AND MRS JAMES SLIMMON,
_WANLOCKHEAD._
_On the death of their son, Private Robert Slimmon, Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry, while serving his country in Egypt._
Dear friends, the news has come to hand, I scarce can think it true; With heart that's sore I pen my thoughts And send them on to you. We cannot read the hand of Fate Or what's in store foretell; We know not why his life was claimed, A life that promised well.
Fair as the noon of summer day, Or like a flower in spring, Or like the glint of morning sun That makes the wild birds sing; Such was his life. We had a glimpse That filled our hearts with joy; Alas! the rose but hid the thorn As gold hides the alloy.
When loose becomes the silver cord, And broken by death's strain, The body crumbles, but the soul Returns to God again-- To where the wondrous might of love Is voiced in deathless song. Have faith: its power will fit our boy To join the angel throng.
And so, methinks, we should not mourn Or question dispensation; To know he did his duty well Must be our consolation. And while the months and years roll on His memory let us cherish, And ne'er forget our bright young friend Till mind and mem'ry perish.
DR WILSON, WANLOCKHEAD.
"_OOR DOCTOR._"
Come a' wha leeve in Wanlockheid An' murn wi' me, oor Doctor's deid: Nae mair he'll cheer us on oor way, Nae mair he'll spiel the Gow'scaures brae
Tae his loved hame amang the flooers. Whaur he did spen' his leisure oors-- Oors that were few an' far between, For sair he toiled frae morn till e'en
Tae free his patients frae their pain An' mak' the broken hale again; Wi' muckle skill he tent us a' Wi' equal care, baith great an' sma'.
A kin'ly hert beat in his breast, His love was great for man an' beast; Aye ready Fortune's smile tae share, The freen an' champion o' the puir.
On Nature's charms he looked wi' joy, An' earnest seekers did employ Wha gethered frae the mine an' glen Mony a flooer an' mineral gem.
He had his fau'ts, we hae nae doot; What mortal ever leeved withoot? They were sae sma' we couldna' scan Them through the virtues o' the man.
An' noo his earthly coorse is run; Nae mair he'll see the settin' sun, An' watch frae aff the mountain's hicht Day's glory deein' intae nicht.
The loss is oors; we murn fu' sair: Maybe his like we'll see nae mair; Till death's dark shadow dims the e'e Oor Doctor will remembered be.
FUNERAL OF PRIVATE ALEX. HOWLAND,
_2nd K.O.S.B.,_
_Who died of wounds in St. Luke's Hospital, Halifax, and was buried in Wanlockhead Churchyard on August 30, 1918._
The curfew's mournful tone was heard Resounding through the glen, And from the pathway on the hill The heavy tramp of men, Whose mien contrasted strangely with The glow of Autumn's sun, Bearing the form of a soldier lad To his rest so nobly won.
'Twas sad to see the cortege pass His dear old father's home, From which, at the call of duty stern, He sailed across the foam. 'Twas sad to see his mother's grief And hear his sisters weep, E'er the silver line began to shine Through shadows dark and deep.
They laid him down in the Old Churchyard, 'Neath the swaying, bending trees, Where green grass grows and wild flowers bloom 'Mid the heather-scented breeze, Far, far removed from the din of war, No more to feel its thrills; To rest in peace in the kindly shade Of the everlasting hills.
LINES ON A FRIEND,
_Who, before he died, expressed the desire to be laid in Wanlock._
Oh! lay me doon in Wanlock; Untroubled I will sleep Whaur heather grows and the burnie rowes Awa' tae join the deep.
The friends lie there I kent langsyne, The kindest an' the best; Until the Resurrection Morn Amang them let me rest.
Dear lo'ed yins that I leave 'ahin, Oh, dinna, dinna murn; According to great Nature's plan Tae dust we maun return.
Oh! Wanlock, dear auld Wanlock, Beside ye I maun be, For God has planted in ma hert A daithless love for thee.
WULLIE TAMSON, LATE O' SNAR.
Near whaur Duneaton smoothly flows A namely poet leeved langsyne, A kin'ly, genial, honest soul Wha wove his fancies intae rhyme. A humble shepherd lad was he, An' ne'er aspired tae high estate: His name was never on the roll Amang the world's rich an' great.
In simmer heat an' winter's snaw He tent his flocks upon the hill, Whaur he could inspiration draw Frae tum'lin' burn an' sparklin' rill, Frae heather bloom an' wavin' fern, Frae lintie's sang an' bonnie flooer, Frae winter storms an' driftin' snaw, Frae thunder-cloud an' sleety shooer.
In simple words he sweetly voiced The joys an' sorrows o' the poor; 'Mang shepherd lads the country roon He bore the gree in social oor. A man o' independent mind, He feared nae maister, man, or lord; Aye strecht was he at mairt or fair Or seated at the social board.
Auld Scotland, why will we forget Tae render honour whaur it's due? Why will we fawn on gowd an' lan' Wi' naething higher in oor view? Let's fill a bumper tae the brim An' toast his mem'ry near an' far, An' ne'er forget tae honour men Like Wullie Tamson, late o' Snar.
KITCHENER.
The Nation mourns for K. of K.; Who from this life has passed away; His body lies beneath the wave, The soldier's found a sailor's grave.
The hero he of many a fight, Was stern, unbending, for the right; In purpose strong, he feared no foe; Ah, Fate! then why this cruel blow?
The Nation mourns; where can she find A man so true, so just, so kind, With brain and hand to guide the helm, And guard the honour of the realm?
Would he had lived to see the fall Of Europe's tyrants one and all, From war's fell grip the world's release, And nations crowned with lasting peace!
Sleep on, great heart! If we endure Like thee, our victory is sure; Thy shade will lead us, Nation's friend, Thy spirit conquer in the end.
IN LOVING MEMORY OF DAVID CUMMING.
_Beloved husband of Margaret Gracie, who died at 126 Glasgow Road, Burnbank, on Monday, 7th October, 1918, aged 51 years._
The Angel of Death came silent and swift, And wafted your spirit away; And all that was mortal, with reverent touch, We sadly consigned to the clay. We thought of you then as the husband and friend, The brother who did not wax old, Whose rugged exterior never could hide The big, kindly heart of pure gold.
We thought of the last time we met on the hill And angled the swift-running stream; How we gloried and revelled in Nature's delights, And the golden hours passed like a dream. As we stood at the close of a perfect day Inhaling the mountain's pure breath, We reck'd not how soon between us would roll The dark, sullen river of death.
The summer will come with its long sunny days, The daisies will spangle the lea; The brooks and the rivers will sing to the sun As they flow on their way to the sea; The whaup and the lapwing will sound their wild note, The thyme and the heather will bloom; And all these allurements will call you again, But no answer can come from the tomb.
You have crossed o'er the bourne to the mystery land; No more will we meet on this plane; The joys of the bright sunny days we have spent We cannot live over again; Yet meekly, submissively, humbly we bend To the will of our Father in Heaven. To Him, with His infinite love for mankind, Let honour and glory be given.
IN LOVING MEMORY OF BABY ANNA JANE M'KENZIE.
She came like a ray of the morning sun, Like the gleam of a meteor at night, To gladden our hearts and fill them with joy, And her advent was hailed with delight.
As the fleecy cloud so pure and white, Or the snow by the tempest driven, Was her tiny form, in its perfect mould, In her eyes was the light of Heaven.
Too good and pure for this world of strife, Where virtue is often a name; She was borne away by the Angel of Love To the realms from whence she came.
No parents' love could keep this child, Nor grandmother's tender care: No setting had earth for such a flower So angelic, so lovely, so fair.
WANLOCK LADS.
There are hearts bowed down in the manse in our town, As there are in the miners' cot, For the brave sons who fell 'mid the shot and the shell, Whose names shall ne'er be forgot In the Old Grey Glen; they proved to be men, When their lives so freely they gave; On the scroll of fame we'll inscribe each name, While they lie in the soldier's grave.
They hear not the battle, with cannons' loud rattle, No sound can awake them to fight once again; They have gone from this life with its bloodshed and strife, Their numbers are found on the list of the slain. Yet why should we weep, they have well earned their sleep, Altho' to the glen they will never return; They stood in the fight for God and the right, Then why, oh why, should we mourn?
Then all bereaved ones should be proud of their sons (And pride ought to smother each sigh and each tear), As Britain to-day is proud of her stay, When danger and death is near; Oh! Great Power Divine, pray hasten the time When all men shall know Thee and each knee shall bend; Then Peace like a dove shall descend from above, This terrible carnage to end.
THE AULD VOLUNTEERS.
_D COMPANY, K.O.S.B._
Time brings its changes in country an' toon, We're conscious o' this when we tak' a look roun'; Guid men hae gane; gin ye len' me yer ears, I'll bring ye in min' o' the Auld Volunteers.
There were men frae Kirkconnel, sae buirdly an' fine, Though the maist o' them wrocht in the depths o' the mine, A fine set o' fellows, devoid o' a' fears, They made a guid third o' the Auld Volunteers.
Doon Mennock's fair glen, frae Wanlock's high hills, Far famed for their beauty an' clear sparkling rills, Cam' giants in stature; noo mark ye wha hears, They were real men an' true tae the Auld Volunteers.
Descendants o' famous on history's scroll, The brave men o' Sanquhar completed the roll; Wi' pride in their herts they looked back through the years, "These then were those" in the Auld Volunteers.
Captains Stewart and Wilson, M'Connel an' a', When they mairched oot the lads o' the heather sae braw, Thocht D.C., K.O.S.B. then had few compeers, Gey prood were the three o' the Auld Volunteers.
THE YOUNG VOLUNTEERS.