Part 4
You old and grey and feeble, who have spent your days in toil, To gain an honest living from the mine or from the soil, You must be better tended here, on that we all agree, Till you glimpse a fairer Eden, and your spirits are set free.
CHORUS.
WHERE IS THE HINDENBURG LINE?
_Sung to the same tune as the famous old song, "Where is mein leedle dog gone."_
REFRAIN
Where, oh where is the Hindenburg Line That is drawn on the land and the sea? 'Tis a puzzle to find, this Hindenburg Line, Oh where! Oh where can it be?
Where, Oh where is the Hindenburg Line Where Hindenburg's going to stand And fight with his might against all that is right, All for love of his own Vaterland? Where, etc.
Billy and Sandy, and Davy and Pat, Along with their comrades of France, Are trying to find this wonderful line, And make the old Hindenburg dance. Where, etc.
If Hindenburg waits on the Hindenburg Line, His dangers increase without doubt, For the Yankees will find him and surely compel The boasting old cuss to get out. Where, etc.
FORWARD.
Forward! the brave of the mountain and valley; Forward! the brave of the country and town; Forward! the bravest and best of the city; Forward to glory and deathless renown!
Know that we're fighting for honour and freedom. Know that we strike in humanity's cause; Blood of the innocent bids us remember To stand for the right and humanity's laws.
Count not the cost in the brave who have fallen; For them the dark night with its trial is o'er; For we must fight on till the clarion call Of the Right shall be heard from shore unto shore.
Free the white slaves from the power of the tyrant! Drive down oppression in every land! Know that by honest and dauntless endeavour We nations can bind in a glorious band.
WANLOCK.
_By M'ARTHUR._
_Song._
Some foolishly wander across the wide billows, Allured by the gold-bearing streams of the West, They dream California can yield them a pillow, Whereon they in safety and comfort may rest.
CHORUS.
But Wanlock, dear Wanlock, I'll not leave thy waters; My home is beside thee, The home I lo'e best.
When spring's gentle sun o'er the Lowthers is rising, When summer wi' verdure their still sides has dressed, I'll wander these glens, foreign landscapes despising, For these are the scenes still most dear to my breast.
CHORUS.
'Tis true that we dwell where the stormy winds gather, And thunder-clouds burst on the wild mountain's crest, But, Oh! to reside near the home of my fathers Is dearer to me than the gold of the West.
CHORUS.
In autumn we'll roam through the sweet blooming heather That clothes the Auld Dod in a bright crimson vest; And in winter, wi' wife and bairns gathered together, Around our warm ingle we'll sing and be blest.
CHORUS.
Then Wanlock, dear Wanlock, I'll not leave thy waters; For even in death down beside Thee I'll rest.
MA AULD CRONIE TAM.
_AN APPRECIATION OF GRIERSON GRACIE,_
_By J. M. HARKNESS._
_Song._
I'll sing o' a cronie wha dearly I lo'e; His virtues are mony, his vices are few. Treat him fair an' ye'll find him as quiet as a lamb; It's a pleesure tae meet wi' ma Auld Cronie Tam.
REFRAIN
Ma Auld Cronie Tam, Ma Auld Cronie Tam, It inspires me tae meet Wi' ma Auld Cronie Tam.
When he plays his auld fiddle it mak's ma hert thrill; Ma faith! he can han'le the bow wi' some skill. Ye may travel owre Scotland an' farer may gang Ere ye meet wi' the match o' in a Auld Cronie Tam.
REFRAIN
Tam is humble an' honest an' canna thole pride, He never believed in a great show ootside; An' people wha jist mak' religion a sham Will ne'er be admired by ma Auld Cronie Tam.
REFRAIN.
He aye tries his best, an' nae man can dae mair; But in spite o' it a' he is still 'mang the puir. Weel he kens that oor great social system is wrang, An' wad fain see it mended, ma Auld Cronie Tam.
REFRAIN.
I hae roamed on the moors an' the bonnie steep hills, I hae listened tae sang-birds an' sweet rimpling rills; Oh! sae happy I've been in the simmer days lang, Wi' auld Nature's delichts an' ma Auld Cronie Tam.
REFRAIN.
I sing wi' great pleasure the sangs frae his pen, A credit is he tae oor dear auld grey glen. Noo, freens, come an' join in the lilt o' ma sang As I sing in the praise o' ma Auld Cronie Tam.
REFRAIN.
H. L. I.
_To the Lads who fought so heroically at the Battle of Loos on 25th September, 1915._
_Song._ _Tune, "Hot Ashfelt."_
When they left the mother country to fight the barb'rous Hun We knew they never would turn back till victory was won; The fathers, mothers, sisters, wives were loath to say good-bye To the gallant soldier-laddies in the H.L.I.
CHORUS.
You may talk about your Gordons and your Irish Fusiliers, Your Black Watch and your Royal Scots and famous Grenadiers; But for lads who meet the foemen with courage bounding high, There's none can beat the laddies in the H.L.I.
And when they'd crossed the briny and were marching through Boulogne, And striding on light-hearted, "Tipperary" for their song, The Ma'moiselles in ecstasy admiringly did cry, "Oh! see the bonnie laddies of the H.L.I."
CHORUS.
When at their post of danger 'midst the roar of shot and shell, With poison gas discharging fumes as from the pit of hell, On their courage and their steadiness commanders could rely, For devoid of funk were laddies in the H.L.I.
CHORUS.
And when the order to advance came sounding low and clear Our gallant Highland laddies answered gaily with a cheer, Then at the foemen boldly rushed, their motto "do or die," And dauntless were the laddies in the H.L.I.
CHORUS.
All honour to that glorious band who fell to rise no more! They died for Right and Justice, and they've reached a fairer shore, Where the brave shall meet together without a tear or sigh, There we'll find those gallant laddies of the H.L.I.
CHORUS.
BRAVE LADS O' SANQUHAR.
_Song._ _Tune, "Yellow-haired Laddie."_
The brave Lads o' Sanquhar Tae the war hae a' gane, Tae fecht for oor freedom, Oor country an' hame. When duty did ca' them They answered the ca', An' the Brave Lads o' Sanquhar Will conquer or fa'.
The Brave Lads o' Sanquhar Remember fu' weel Cameron an' Renwick, an' Crichton o' Peel-- Names Time wi' its changes Will never efface An' the Brave Lads o' Sanquhar Will never disgrace.
They are fearless an' strong As the best in the lan', Aye steady an' sure At the word o' comman'; Tae honour an' kindred They never were fause: An' shooder tae shooder a' In a guid cause.
Fu' mony o' the leal An' the true hae "gane west" Tae reap their reward an' Their nobly won rest. Their mem'ry wi' laurels, Bricht laurels, we'll croon, Tho' sair be oor herts in The Auld Burgh Toon.
MENNOCK BURN.
_Tune: "Kirkconnell Lea."_
When mist nae langer hides the lift, An' rain cluds flee afore the sun, Wi' staff in han' I slowly gang Tae muse on thee, sweet Mennock Burn.
REFRAIN.
Sweet Mennock Burn that springs sae clear Frae oot the Lowther Hills sae hie, The happy days I'll ever min' That I in youth hae spent by thee.
Dear Mennock Burn, what memories cling Aroun' thy bonnie wuds an' braes; Near thee the Muirlan' Bard was born, That sang sae sweetly in thy praise.
REFRAIN.
Those happy days are langsyne gane, An' I am wearin' on in life, My pleesures a' lie in the past, There's naething noo but care an' strife.
REFRAIN.
When Nature fails an' I maun bend, An' fade like ony witherin' tree, Beside ye gin I hae my wish, I fain wad streik me doon an' dee.
REFRAIN.
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
SCUNNER'T.
_TAE THE WORKERS._
_At the result of the South Lanark Elections, 1913 and 1918._
Some look on this life wi' a smile, While ithers look on't wi' a froon, Some are up in this warl', While some in this warl' are doon. We're tauld that contentment is gain, A virtue we ocht tae acquire, But the worker is nae worth the name Wha wadna tae better aspire.
Some thoosans in mansions are rich, Hae mair than they ever can need, While millions are leevin' in slums, An' lackin' their daily breid. It's a terrible state o' affairs; Will ye no mak' an effort tae mend it? Will ye stan' wi' the pooer in yer han' An' no strike a blow that wad end it?
Dinna tell me ye hae'na the pooer, An' likewise ye hae'na the pence; It's as easy tae prove ye've the pooer, As it is that ye hae'na the sense. A change is required in oor laws, An wha dae ye ettle tae mak' it? Not the privileged class, wha hae ruled ye sae lang, Though that is the class ye've aye backit.
Yer leaders are guid as they're true, Still ye cater tae prejudice hoary, Tho' yer conscience maun cry ye are wrang, Ye vote for a Whig or a Tory. It's aneuch tae mak' angels weep, An' reformers turn in the grave When the workers gang beckin' an' booin', An' playin' the fool an' the knave.
Noo yer guid auld Pioneer's[1] gane; Ne'er will his memory sink; If ye've ony respect for his name Try an' be able tae think. Guid-bye the noo, I houp ye will men', But railly it's no tae be wunner't That freens wha hae yer interests at hert Canna' but sometimes be scunner't.
[1] Keir Hardie.
TO AN ABSENT FRIEND.
Dear cronie, we are met the nicht Tae drink yer health for auld langsyne; Wi' social crack and canty sang We fain wad a' oor sorrows tyne.
Gin ye had been amang us noo Oor melodies wad soun' mair sweet, Yer kin'ly voice wad add the note Tae mak' the harmony complete.
Burns tells us "Man was made tae murn," Wi' that we dinna aye agree, For here are we five chaps the nicht As blithe an' merry as can be.
Some find this warl' drear an' dark Frae cradle onward tae the tomb; A touch o' kindness noo an' then Breaks through the seeming cheerless gloom.
Sae as we travel doon the vale Let's help each ither a' we can, An' never slicht tho' puir he be "The social, freenly honest man."
Here's health again! Lang may ye leeve! Hale be yer min', hale be yer hert! An' may prosperity be yours, An' aye the honest manly pairt.
THE MINER.
In the depths of the mine the miner toils, Far from the light of the day; To earn a crust for those he loves He works while work he may; For the years roll on and vitality wanes, Ere the need of his labour be gone, So he wills to work while his strength holds out, For he thinks not of self alone.
The thought of danger or death in the mine Never daunts his mind or his heart, And strong is the swing of his brawny arms As he nobly plays his part. He holds at his task with a firm resolve, For he's one of a sterling breed, To provide the nation with what she requires In the darkest hour of her need.
When invasion threatens Britannia's shores He is ready to do or to die, And Britannia knows that in times of stress She can on the miner rely To uphold the honour of Right and Truth, To defend his country and hearth; Thank God for men with a heart like his, They are surely the salt of the earth.
Our country is rich by the sweat of his brow, And it's needless saying we can't Provide for the miner and see that his days Are free from the shadow of want; And when old age comes with palsied hand He may rest from his labour until The angels bear him away to the land Where he'll work to his Father's will.
LOVE.
Love! O sacred sentiment, To bless mankind thou'rt surely meant, Hope and joy and comfort giving; Love alone makes life worth living.
Brave men fight and brave men die For kindred, home, and country; They count no sacrifice too great To make for thee and liberty.
In times of peace, in times of war, Thy influence outspreading far Doth teach to play the Christian part, To soothe and heal the wounded heart.
Thro' life with all its ups and downs, When fortune smiles or when it frowns, Thou dost thy kindly vigil keep To laugh or comfort those that weep.
No tongue can ever tell thy worth; Thou art the grandest power on earth, The greatest blessing ever given; For thee our thanks ascend to heaven.
CURLIN'.
When cronies meet aroon the tee, The roarin' game's the game for me, Owre ither games it bears the gree; Then leeze me on the Curlin'.
It brings the red bluid tae the broo, Ye canna weel be doon o' moo, When bluid yer veins gangs coorsin' thro', When at the game o' Curlin'.
Gin ye wad please yer worthy skip, Stan' firm in natch an' dinna slip, Direct yer stane straucht frae the hip, When ye are at the Curlin'.
An' if he wants't a wee bit looder, Jist draw yer stane richt tae the shooder, Or he will say ye hae'na pooder, For the manly game o' Curlin'.
Gin ye expect tae win the cup, On besoms ye maun haud the grup, An' aye be there tae soop it up, When ye are at the Curlin'.
An' when ye're at the soopin' game Min' an' soop afore the stane, Or ye've nae yin but yersel' tae blame If shots ye lose at Curlin'.
Here, Lords an' Dukes wi' Rab an' Tam Meet as equals, man tae man; A heazer tae the social plan Is the guid auld game o' Curlin'.
A WORD O' ADVICE.
Lloyd-George an' Haldane hae had a cast-oot, I dinna weel ken what it's a' been aboot; I houp it is feenished; we canna afford At this creetical time tae hae ony discord.
Oor country's at war and the need is fu' great Tae staun a' thegither for Freedom an' State; The slacker's resources, likewise profiteer's, At this time o' the day we maun jist commandeer.
Employers o' labour an' dealers in grain, Ne'er let country's need be yer ain selfish gain; Siller's no everything, that ye maun ken; Let honour come first in yer dealins wi' men.
Workers wha win by the sweat o' your broo A leevin' wi' pick, hammer, shovel, or ploo, Strike na the noo--'tis the enemy's gain-- Try some ither wey tae come intae yer ain.
Let's remember the brave lads we hae at the front; For you and for me they are bearin' the brunt; An' dae a' we can tae keep up their herts, At least let them see we are playin' oor pairts.
If men o' a' parties my advice will but tak' We'll sune hae the foe on the braid o' his back; A bonnie new era we'll then usher in, And wi' militarism for ever be dune.
JOCK.
In oor lanely wee clachan there leeved a young chiel Wha had never been far frae his faither's ain biel; His manners wad lead ye tae think he was saft, An' e'en tae believe there were wairps in the waft.
'Mang his mates he was aye made the butt for the jest, An' they tried mony methods his courage tae test; But Jock's even temper they never could rile, He answered a' gibes wi' a braid sunny smile.
When war was declared an' the King called for men Frae the city, the county, the mountain, an' glen, O' the flo'er o' the clachan he got a guid stock, Strange! naebody ever yince thocht aboot Jock.
Then Jock disappeared frae the clachan yae day, Tae the nearest recruit shop he'd hastened away; An' the neist time we saw him we gat quite a shock, For a braw sodger-laddie they'd made oot o' Jock.
An' noo he's awa' tae the famed Dardanelles, An' we're prood o' the lad, for he's yin o' oorsel's, If he's spared tae come thro' nae surprise it will be If for valour he's wearin' the bonnie V.C.
THE EXILE.
One Sunday morning late in May I on the Calder banks did stray; Field and forest were in bloom, An' Nature all in perfect tune; A glorious sunshine, hum of bees, An' happy song-birds 'mang the trees; While from its bed the water's gleam Enhanced the beauty of the scene.
From scenes like this my thoughts still roam To childhood's days, to love an' home. I long, with longing almost pain, To see those dear old scenes again. I mind the time when as a child I roved the hills so free an' wild, Sacred to martyrs' memory Who gave their lives for liberty.
There Reid, the Muirland Bard, was born, Wha sang sae blithe an' cheerie O, O' hills an' glens, an' muirs an' fens, An' aiblins o' his dearie, O! Though I have wandered far from thee, An' tossed on life's deep stormy sea, My fondest memories ever turn To dear old friends by Wanlock burn.
THE OLD CHURCHYARD.
The sun has sunk behind the hills, And upward throws his golden light, While shadows creep adown the glen To gather in the coming night.
On vantage ground, in pensive mood, I stand upon the heathery brae, And see the workers quit their toil, "And weary, homeward, wend their way."
Mine eyes behold the old Churchyard, Wherein now mouldering lies the dust Of men and women whom I knew, So kindly-natured, good, and just.
They lived their lives 'mid tranquil scenes, Like bloom on flowers they passed away; Their ashes lie 'neath the greening sod; Their spirits--where are they?
I know not, therefore cannot tell; No man can see beyond the tomb; I live in hope that by-and-bye All kindred spirits may commune.
A LETTER IN RHYME.
_To JOHN PATERSON, Blantyre,_
_From ROBERT WANLOCK REID, Montreal._
Auld freen o' mine across the sea, What ails ye that ye never write? Ye canna hae forgotten me Or hoo tae speak in black an' white. Come, roose ye, man! an' gie's yer crack, I'm aye richt fain tae hear frae you, An' I'll engage tae post ye back Three sheets for yin, an' cram them fu'.
Hech! but the times hae greatly changed Since oor acquaintanceship began; Then blithely owre the hills we ranged In yon wee glen whaur Wanlock ran. Sma' thocht had we that stormy seas Wad ever rowe oor steps atween; When lichtsome as the simmer breeze We gaed an' cam' at morn an' e'en.
Noo at yer ain fireside ye sit, A douce guidman, 'mang wife an' weans, Rockin' the cradle wi' yer fit Or listenin' as the lassock learns; While I upon a foreign soil, Across the wild Atlantic faem, In lanely exile, cheerless, toil An' dream o' hame, an' dream o' hame.
In ilka letter that comes owre I'm tauld o' something changin' there; Some ferlie mak's me start an' glower, Some waefu' stories vex me sair. The lassies that we looed hae wed, The lads we kent are buirdly men; Some auld guidwives an' carles are deid, We'll ne'er their faces see again.
But, John, the hills are yonder yet, The grand auld hills we looed sae weel, That you an' I wi' lichtsome fit, Fu' mony an' mony a time did spiel; An' thro' the glen as blithely still The bonnie burn gangs wimplin' doon, Whaur aft we tried oor fisher skill, Or listened tae its eerie croon.
Ilk stream or hicht can raise in me Dreams o' the past that ye hae shared-- Sweet dreams o' youth an' thochtless glee Ere we for walth or wisdom cared. There's Enterkin, Powtrail, an' Daur, An' Carron's Linns, an' Katie's Well, An' Mennock Water, Clyde, an' Snar, An' mony anither burn an' hill.
An' ilka time I hear them named Away across the surgin' sea, Like some wild bird but halflins tamed. Sick o' the toon, my fancies flee; An' in the gloamin' fa' yince mair, Yince mair I hear the linty sing, An' hearken' thro' the startled air The muircock flee on whirrin' wing.
Noo, will ye lay yer loof in mine An' mak' a tryst this day wi' me, Tae meet, as aft we did langsyne, This time twa years, gin I be free? Tae see yince mair the heichs an' howes, Dear scenes o' many a youthfu' ploy, Whaur young love pledged its early vows, An' life was nocht but smiles an' joy.
We'll see oor lassies a' grown douce, Oor auld folks wearin' thirt an' grey, Ilk dear kenspeckle face, an' hoose, Ilk singin' burn, an' sunny brae. We'll rin the hills, like herds gane wud, We're young yet an' as yaul as then; An' gin we're in the fishin' tid, We'll try the rod an' line again.
While lazy loons lie still an' snore, An' dream, the gowden dawn away, We'll loup the burn at Greenshields' door, An' bauldly briest the Wungate Brae. Far owre the Lowthers mony a mile, An' deep within his lanesome glen, Auld Daur comes doon in kingly style; We'll try nae waters but his ain.
An' when we pairt, as pairt we maun, Aiblins for ever--wha can tell?-- We'll tak' ilk ither by the han' An' kindly bid a lang farewell. An' in the herts o' baith, I ken, The memory o' that day will be A link that binds tae Wanlock Glen Twa lovin' cronies, till they dee.
THE ANSWER.
_Pro JOHN PATERSON, Blantyre._
_By the AUTHOR._
Dear Rab, your letter I received; Weel pleased was I tae hae frae you A promise that for yin o' mine, Ye'd sen' me three an' pang them fu'. Sae I will keep ye tae yer word, For I'm nae adept wi' the pen; Tho' had it been a business deal I'd haud my ain wi' business men.
Hech, aye! but things are greatly changed, Since doon the burns we ran thegither, An' fished frae mornin' dawn till e'en Or wandered 'mang the bloomin' heather. Ye're noo awa' across the sea, Wi' honours added tae yer name, While I, contented wi' my lot, Wi' wife an' weans bide nearer hame.
O' winsome lassies that we kent, The maist o' them are mairit noo; Some are weel aff, an' some are puir, An' fin' it hard tae struggle thro'; Some lads like you hae wandered forth In foreign climes tae win their breid; Some wives an' carles that we knew Are noo at rest amang the deid.
The grand auld hills are jist the same, Nae different in shape or form, Impervious tae the wear o' time, Unshaken by the beatin' storm. The muir-cock still fu' crousely craws, The linty sings upon the hill, The whaup's wild cry frae aff the moor Still moves me wi' a nameless thrill.
Auld freen', I'll gledly mak' a tryst, For I'm aye fain tae meet wi' thee, As aft I've dune in days gane by Afore ye gaed sae far frae me. An' though I'm weirin' on in life An' no as yaul as I was then, We'll meet an' spen' the lee-lang day An' taste oor boyhood's joys again.