Part 5

Though in this life we aye maun pairt, Still hauds the paction we hae made. A freenship such as we enjoy We are agreed can never fade; An' when we close oor een in daith, An' intae dust oor frames decay, 'Tis of the spirit an' goes on Tae glory in an endless day.

A NOTE O' THANKS.

Dear freen, I houp this wee bit note Will reach its destination. In it ye'll find a word o' thanks For your appreciation Of lines upon the dear auld freen. Whose death has caused oor sorrow. But tho' the cluds hang dark to-day, The sun will shine to-morrow On chastened hearts that can rejoice Tae see the sufferer free, Tho' noo we canna' see the licht For grief has blin't the e'e.

I hae nae skill in poetry, An' little ken o' grammar: In makin' o' ma ain bit rhymes I aften mak' a stammer. Sae ye may ken I'm unco pleased Tae hear ma piece was splendid, An' tho' I ken it had a faut I hadna' wit tae mend it. Sae let the creetics creeticise: When tired, they will forbear. If tae yer hert it did appeal, For them I dinna care.

LEADHILLS.

Birthplace of Symington and Ramsay! Whose names in thee are household words, Who honour gained in peaceful times. With steam and pencil, not with swords.

Leadhills! what mem'ries cling around thee Of boyhood's day and riper years, Of social hours I spent with friends, Whose loss I mourned with bitter tears.

Young friends have gone to dangers distant, And e'en to death, if so He wills; Their hearts are thine--engraven on them The image of their home, Leadhills.

A few remain whose hoary locks Proclaim their course is nearly run, Facing with kindred dust they'll lie, The Lowthers and the rising sun.

We pass; we go we know not where; The future's hidden from our gaze: We live by faith; we do believe This life is but a passing phase.

Leading to something ever greater, Purer, higher, brighter far. Steadfastly let's do our duty, Honour for our guiding star.

EUCHAN'S BANKS.

Euchan's banks an' wooded braes, Worthy theme o' minstrel's lays! On thee I spent my youthfu' days, Sae free frae care; I'm wae tae think that I may roam Thy glen nae mair.

My country needs me; I maun gang Tae fecht a wily foe an' strang; But victory will be my sang Whate'er betide. A Prussian rule, upon my soul, I couldna' bide.

Nithsdale's sons, as true as steel, Fighting for their country's weal, Hae made the haughty Hun tae reel; An' shall I then A coward prove, an' hide mysel' Within thy glen?

Nay! Gie tae me the sword an' gun! I'll prove a worthy mither's son, An' fight till death or victory's won, That ye may be In honour held frae tyrant's yoke For ever free.

ON HIGHER PLANE.

Where Queen-of-the-meadow scents the air, And wild thyme adds aroma rare, With bluebells nodding to the pair-- A charming lot, Along with other flowers as fair, Forget-me-not.

I love to wander all alone, Free from thoughts of goods or gear, Far from the haunts of worldly men, In sweeter, purer, atmosphere;

Where bonnie blooms the heather bell On mountain side and moorland fell, And dancing fairies weave their spell In mystic ring; Where lovers meet their tale to tell, And wild birds sing.

I love to wander all alone, At morn or noon or evening fall, With cheerful voice and grateful heart To praise the Giver of it all.

SONG BIRDS.

The blackbird pipes frae the hawthorn tree His flute-like notes of melody, That tell me the lang dreary winter is past, An' the bonnie simmer days hae come at last.

The mavis singin' 'neath the plantin' shade His blithe bauld sang tae a winsome maid, Wha coyly yields tae a sang weel sung, Min's me o' the time when the hert was young.

The wee cock-wren sae geuty an' neat Sings me a sang sae sweet, sae sweet; Mem'ry wud haud its pure refrain, For a towmond may gang ere I hear it again.

The skylark sings tae the angels abune, An' tae mortals the notes o' his sang come doon; I hear him weel, 'tho' I mayna see His form as he soars in the lift sae hie.

The lintie in the broom, an' the merlie in the thorn, Join this happy quartette wi' their love-sweet song, Wi' mony ither sangsters I micht name That mak' amang oor moorlan' their mountain hame.

The Great Creator in His love divine Makes the earth tae blossom an' the sun tae shine, The birdies tae sing, sae charmin' an' rare; O, they gledden the hert when I'm weary wi' care.

THE PHOTO.

Dear friend, your photo I received; It's really very good; So please accept my thanks in rhyme-- You've caught me in the mood.

Though the photographic art is great, And wonderful withal, No shade can be as good to me As the original.

Thanks; I will safely keep and Your beautiful reflection, And every time I look at it 'Twill bring to recollection

A pleasant summer holiday 'Mid rural scenes so fair; In ease of mind, with friends so kind, My memory lingers there.

"SOMETHING WRANG."

_Lines on seeing a delicate boy, on a cold day, thinly clad, wearing boots minus the soles._

Puir wee shilpit, feckless bairn, Ma hert is sair tae see ye; An' tho' I haena' muckle pooer I'll dae ma best tae help ye.

I hae a pound that I had saved Against a rainy day; 'Twad burn ma pooch while ye're in want, I'll spend it come what may.

An' when it's dune some ither freen' May tak' thy hapless form, An' biel ye frae the frosty wun' An' frae the winter storm.

Ye'r sad dark een look intae mine An gie ma hert a pang, They humbly tell, tho' tongue be still, There's shairly something wrang.

Then tae a system that's accurs't May every ill betide That winna fin' the bairns in meat An' raiment fit provide.

THE FLU'.

_On falling a victim to influenza while on holiday._

Mercy me! is this the way That I maun spen' ma holiday? Groanin' wi' pains in legs an' back, Ma reason fairly on the rack?

The sun beats warm upon the plain, An' yet I'm shiverin' tae the bane; Stounin' pains gang thro' ma heid, Makin' me wish that I was deid.

Ma nose is rinnin' like a stream; Blear't an' a'most blin' ma e'en; Within ma throat the microbes rife Are cuttin' chords wi' roostit knife.

There's no a joint in a' ma frame But what has got an achin' pain; The sicht o' meat fair mak's me grue; A thoosan' curses on the flu'!

WEE JIM.

Wha is't that toddles oot an' in? Wee Jim. An' wha when cross kicks up a din? Wee Jim. Wha, when he's pleased, wi' lauchin' e'e, Comes rinnin' frae his mither's knee An' distributes his kisses free? Wee Jim.

Wha is't that has a curly pow? Wee Jim. Wha sets his granny's hearth alowe? Wee Jim. Wha, when in mischief or in fun Mak's face an' han's as black's the lum', Is threatened wi' a skelpit bum? Wee Jim.

Wha fills his tummy fu' o' sweets? Wee Jim. An' then in pain sits doon an' greets? Wee Jim. Wha, when he's sufferin' wi' the bile, Through a' his pain tries hard tae wile Awa' the dose o' castor ile? Wee Jim.

Wha rins aboot wi' naughty boys? Wee Jim. Wha listens words o' graceless choice? Wee Jim. Wha, like a parrit when he hears, Repeats their slang, an' a' their sweirs, An' dins them in his mither's ears? Wee Jim.

Wha is't we lo'e sae awfu' dear? Wee Jim. An' wadna' tyne for gowd or gear! Wee Jim. What though he romps, an' sometimes cries, Pure innocence beams in his eyes: He's jist an angel frae the skies! Wee Jim.

THE NURSES.

_Suggested by a Photograph of Nurse Cavell._

A winsome woman, trig and neat, Love, kindness, beaming in her eyes; In toil through day and watch by night, She makes of self a sacrifice.

Her coming, like the golden beam Of sunlight in a darkened room, Brings comfort to the sufferer's heart, Her brightness banishing the gloom.

Her youth and pride of womanhood, With all their joys are put away; Her Christ-like life she dedicates And gives for frail humanity.

We find her in our dear homeland, In ward and mansion, cot and hall; We find her on the stricken field, Where sorely wounded heroes fall:

Ready to play her angel part, And tyrants' evil power defy, For honour, justice, love and truth, Prepared at any time to die.

Then let us all revere the nurse, For virtues great and manifold; Her worth to us could not be weighed In shining bars of purest gold.

THE TRUE MAN.

He breathes and lives and moves along The line of his allotted span, Equipped with reason for a guide, By far the highest part of man. He cannot say from whence he came: His Maker did no message send; He cannot tell where he may be At his inevitable end.

His life is more than can be seen; Upon the beauteous flower-decked ground, A deeper meaning hidden lies, Which mortal man has never found. In God's good time he will succeed The signs of Nature to define, With clearer vision then behold And realise the plan Divine.

The beauteous earth gives forth her fruit When harvest suns preside above; The bloom of flowers, and singing birds Proclaim to man a God of Love. He feels the wondrous power of love, Which, caught and held by reason's sway, Will raise him to perfection's height And bring about the perfect day.

Meanwhile 'mid sickness, pain and death, With gleams of pleasure here and there, He works: sometimes his load seems light, And sometimes more than he can bear. Yet through it all his faith holds firm, He walks according to his light, To God and mankind ever true In brightest day and darkest night.

AN EVENING PRAYER.

Father, we give Thee thanks once more, As daily we have done before, For countless blessings from Thy store Of love and grace; Look on us, Father, we implore With smiling face.

The evil we have done this day Forgive, oh Lord, we humbly pray; Thou knowest 'neath the tempter's sway We're prone to fall; Then guide and guard us all the way, Great Lord of all.

This night, as 'neath Thy wings we creep, We pray Thee loving vigil keep; May we reward of labour reap, Safe from all storm, Resting secure in blessed sleep Till breaks the morn:

Then to arise alert and bright, Refreshed by slumber of the night, Strengthened to renew the fight And try again To think, and say, and do the right. Amen; Amen.

RABBIE.

_The gist (in rhyme) of the Author's first speech at a Burns' Supper._

What can I say aboot Rabbie That hasna already been said? What tribute pay tae his memory That hasna already been paid? Great men an' clever hae a' had their say On the Laddie wha followed the ploo'; The subject's owre big for a head sic as mine; Them wha can dae it justice are few.

I've nae skill in the clinkin' o' classical words That some freens o' ma ain think sae gran'; Sae dinna expect me tae gie ye a screed In a language I don't understan'. Oor auld mither tongue, I mainteen, is the best, O' a' herts it can open the portal; An' Rabbie wi' lyric an' hert-meltin' sang Has made the auld Doric immortal.

He sang o' the birdies, the trees, an' the flooers; He championed the cause o' the feeble; He sang o' the joys an' the sorrows o' men, He stood against a' that was evil. He sang in the major some rollickin' gangs, Which filled ilka hert fu' o' glee; His sangs in the minor sae dowie an' sad Brocht the tears drappin' doon frae the e'e.

In oor grand "Scots Wha Hae" the patriot is seen; 'Tis the slogan o' Scotland to-day; An' whaur is the Scotsman, on hearin' its ca', Wad ever be last in the fray? "The Land o' the Leal" is equally gran' In conception of true human love, An' belief in the Land whaur there's naething but joy 'Neath the smile o' the Faither above.

"Flow gently, Sweet Afton," "To Mary in Heaven," "The Lea Rig," "My Nannie's Awa'"-- Such gems o' love-sang oor best minds declare Made Rabbie the king o' them a'. When his hand swept the strings o' auld Scotia's lyre The notes were sae bonnie an' sweet, Like the heavenly bliss o' the fond lover's kiss When in their ain Eden they meet.

Let the story, the toast, the speech, an' the sang, An' the glass tak' their coorse roun' the table; Though it mayna be muckle that ilk yin can dae, At least let him dae what he's able. Tae help in the cause we a' hae at hert Let's toast it afore we disperse-- That brithers we'll be on the land an' the sea, Embracing the hale universe.

WELCOME HOME.

_TO DEMOBILISED SOLDIERS._

Welcome home! brave sons of Scotland, From the far-flung battle line; Welcome home to peaceful labour In the workshop, field, and mine! Welcome to our social functions, Free from war with all its ills! Welcome to our love and friendship, And your native glens and hills.

You have nobly done your duty; Firm and steadfast you have been In the most terrific conflict That the world has ever seen; Daring death within the trenches, Daring death from out the blue, In the mighty charge and carnage, Strong in motive, brave, and true.

You have earned a grateful nation's Thanks for giants' work well done; You have helped to crush the despot In the vict'ry that's been won-- Victory that cost your kindred Heavy toll in blood and tears. Forget you? No, we will not, Though we live a thousand years.

Mourn not for your comrades fallen On the field or in the deep: Realise 'tis sinful calling Them from glory or from sleep. Tyranny no more can grieve them, Broken every galling chain; They have gone to serve the Master On a brighter, higher plane.

A DAY DREAM.

Prone by the side of a moorland road, Soothed by the green of the velvet sod; I dream of the time when war shall cease, And a weary world will be at peace;

Of a time when the mind of man will recoil From the lust of gain and from needless toil; When honour and love will ne'er be sold For worldly power or the gain of gold;

When man shall arise and cast aside Corrupting wealth, with its pomp and pride, And a system that's long been tried in vain, That breeds the worst in the hearts of men:

When the shadow of want shall be chased away That darkens the home of the poor to-day, And the fruits of the earth, at the harvest fall, Will be gathered and used for the good of all;

When the babe shall be tended and ope' like the flower That so sweetly blooms in my lady's bower; And the maimed and the old with the silvery hair Shall be treated in love with the tenderest care;

When the spirit of brotherhood shall command From the Arctic Zone to the Coral Strand; And the flag of freedom will wave on high On every land beneath the sky.

DEDICATED TO WANLOCK SOLDIERS.

Away from the head of the Wanlock Glen, Where nurtured you were to the status of men, You marched when the heather was shedding its bloom, With the war song of freedom, your spirits in tune.

The surge of true manhood carried you on To the thick of the fight in the fire-swept zone, Through the fume of the gas shell's deadly breath, Through blood and mire, on to glory or death.

To you, still part of Britannia's shield, Back with victory crowned from the dark stricken field, Along with the broken, the maimed, and the dead, We owe an account that can never be paid.

Shades of the dead! Now with war drums still We hear in the wind of the moor and the hill Your voices, that tell in triumphant song, All is well with you there, in your Father's home.

THE LOWTHER WIND'S WAIL:

A memorial of Death by Exhaustion on the Lowther Hills.

_By the_

_AUTHOR of "GOD'S TREASURE HOUSE IN SCOTLAND."_

_Janet Miller left her service at Kirkhope on Wednesday the 3rd January, 1877, instead of Friday the 12th, as previously arranged, on a visit home, to be present at the marriage of her sister. The day was so stormy, and the roads so full of snow wreaths, that the carter, with whom she should have gone, could proceed no further than Leadhills that night._

_It is considered to be ten miles between Kirkhope and Leadhills--a dreary, steep, and rough mountain, without any very distinct path, and that which is traversed was obliterated by the snow. Still, she had passed the Lowther heights (upwards of 2300 feet) in safety, descended and crossed the Shortcleuch water, and the fence, ascending the rough side of the only ridge which separates this valley from the village, and without deviating from the track, exhaustion and death overtook her within twenty minutes' or half an hour s walk of home._

_A shepherd's Wife, returning from a funeral on the following Tuesday afternoon, discovered her body. Little thought she that the very day fixed for her home-coming would be her funeral day. Obtaining leave sooner than expected, unfortunately, instead of coming by the road with company as advised, she resolved to take the hill. Though urged to go early, she delayed; though warned of the coming storm and night by more than one friendly voice, still onwards and upwards she pressed. She knew the hills and the paths: she was young and strong, and how much would her happiness be enhanced by gaining home that night; and then, the morrow and the month, how full of joy! So bravely on she struggled, battling with the blinding drift, till her strength was gone--quite gone. Then gently she laid her down to sleep. It was her last on earth; and the cold snow-drift gathered quickly over and formed her winding-sheet, hiding her body from human eye for well-nigh a week. Her bonnet and parcels were found in the bottom of a fallen-in shaft, up to the edge of which she had climbed. With shawl drawn over her head, cloak tucked in about her, and her cheek laid upon her hand, there she sought a rest which proved to be her last on earth._

Leadhills village bell had ceas'd, Mourners from the graveyard pass'd To the lonely shepherd's cot. Jeanie then--her dismal lot-- Walking lonely up the glen, Thinking of those in heav'n--When! A form lay sleeping!--A form lay sleeping! A form lay sleeping! Yea--_in death!_ Hand 'neath head upon the heath. When carried--and buried--lamented-- Lowther winds wail'd--story presented:--

"Daurna tarry--I maun hame, Though I clim' the hills my lane. Mirk the day, an' heich the win', Oot ow'r the muir I'll brawly rin, Speel the Lowthers like a grew, Wade the burn--hame safely through."

"Na! my lassie, dinna gae, Far ow'r short this winter's day. Hear ye no' the sough o' storm Howlin' roun' Glenucher's horn? Bide ye, lass, in Kirkhope biel, Fair the morn, the hills ye'll spiel."

"Daurna tarry--I maun hame, Aft the hills I've clim'd alane. Sister's marriage--ken ye no'?-- Comes e'er lang, sae I maun go. Fareweel, Kirkhope's freenly ha', Fleetch nae mair--I maun gae wa'."

"Weel, my lass, on hame sae set, Cart an' road, an' hame ye'll get, Sun's ow'r laigh to tak' the hill; Wi' sna' the heuchs an' hags 'ill fill. Ne'er to get the len'th o' hame-- Death wad cry ilk day, me blame."

"Daurna tarry--I maun hame, Langer stey! 'twad be a shame! Roun' the road, or ow'r the hill, Hame this nicht I've set my will. Noo I'm aff, the month t' spen'. Crawford Muir, gude-bye till then."

* * * * * *

"Over muir and vale she sped, As if Elfin feet her tread. Pass'd the river, cross'd the road, Where a shepherd's cottage stood. He concern'd, thrice urged her stay, Mountain scale another day.

"See the storm, it's gatherin' fast, Strong men couldna stan' that blast. Shelter tak', an' I'll convoy Oot ow'er hills wi' muckle joy, The morn's morn as sune's it's licht. Stey wi's noo. It's a'maist nicht.

"Fifteen fouk, an' mair they say, Lost the life, e'er break o' day, Amang thae hills. Sae may ye Fa doon, warsle till ye dee. Tak' ye advice; stey here the nicht; Mornin' sun may shine fu' bricht."

"Daurna tarry--I maun hame. Dinna bid me!--I'm gaun hame. Young an' yaul, I'm no' sae fleyd, Warsle through baith win' an' tide; Stan' the snifter ow'r the hill-- Lovin' herts wi' joy to thrill."

"Blew fierce snow-drift. Almost gone, On she struggled, bravely on; Paus'd to take a breath of air; Step by step cross'd over where Lowthers wore their winter's sheet; Down-hill, blinded with the sleet.

"Daurna tarry--I maun hame," 'Twas on heart her upmost theme. "Burn! ye roar fu' lood an' baul'; An' oh! yer water's dreedfu' caul'. Ventur' maun I, an' get through, Should ye swell frae bank to broo.

"Wae's me! Waded aft this burn, Ne'er till noo felt sic a turn! Think I'll faint--I'm unco wauff! Water! then, gi'es ae bit quaff. Raether better!--Noo--I'll try: Fence an' hill 'll sune be by.

"Daurna tarry--I'm gaun hame! Thocht gi'es stren'th, though I feel lame. Wae's me!--What's come ow'r me noo? Up maun dim' this scraggy broo-- Hech!--That blast is unco keen; Bannet canna noo be seen.

"Daurna tarry!--Yes--I maun! Lay me doon for this weak dwaum. Shawl my heid 'ill shelter gi'e; Claes keep warm!--Come-to a wee! Daurna tarry!--Wish 'twere sae-- Faether!--Mither!--Sister!--Wae!

"Whaur am I?--On caul' hillside! Maun I here--"Hoo lang--abide? Faether, in the heav'ns hie, Think, for Jesus' sake, on me. Deein' though I'm, a' my lane-- Daurna tarry--I'll get hame!

"Daurna tarry--I _maun_ hame! Aeh! Hoo _my_ hert lang'd for hame. Hame on earth's nae mair for me; 'Mang the sna' I'm gaun to dee. Freen's, 'O leave them no' alane!' Daurna tarry--'Bring them hame.'

"Noo sleep I maun! an' this caul' sna' Cleer win'in'-sheet roon' me will bla'."

* * * * * *

Almost a week her body lay, The grave its home--home-coming day.