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

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.

The Young Volunteers frae the vale o' the Nith,
May their herts never fail, nor their airms lose their pith.
As we hear o' their daurin', oor hert it aye cheers,
An' we pray for the lads in the Young Volunteers.

The day will sune dawn, in the East an' the West,
Whaur oor brave lads are gieing the foemen nae rest.
The fecht will be owre when the morning appears,
Wi' victory's croon for the Young Volunteers.

Some are awa' tae the Land o' the Leal,
Forgotten are bullets an' deidly cauld steel,
Whaur there's angels, bricht angels, tae wipe awa' tears,
An' the watchword is love, wi' oor ain Volunteers.

THE PONY DRIVER'S LAMENT FOR PUIR GEORDIE,

Who, going lame, had to be shot before he could be drawn from the mine.

Puir Geordie! ye are deid an' gane,
An' free frae every ache an' pain;
Frae tip o' tail tae glossy mane
Ye were a beauty,
An' when ye were upon this plane
Ye did yer duty.

Tae draw an' kep, tae turn an' back,
An' lift a hutch when aff the track,
Ye werena feart yer limbs tae wrack
But strained wi' micht:
A horse like ye for daein' wark
Ne'er saw the licht.

Shame! that a beast like ye sae fine
Should e'er been pitten doon a mine,
Awa' frae a' the gled sunshine.
Ah! cruel fate,
They thocht tae bring ye up again,
Alas! owre late.

When ye gaed lame an' couldna' draw,
They killed ye wi' a rifle ba';
I couldna' stan' tae see ye fa',
Sae turned tae rear
Tae hide my grief an' wipe awa'
The startin' tear.

An' noo when in the grave ye lie
I think on ye wi' mony a sigh;
Owre milk that's spilt nae use tae cry,
Say tak' yer rest,
But this I ken, as low ye lie,
Auld freens are best.

THE BRIDE'S LAMENT.

Song. Tune, "Bonnie Light Horseman."

REFRAIN.

I had a true lover, he gaed to the war;
'Twas a lasting farewell; here I'll ne'er see him more.

We were happy together on yon mountain side,
Where we met and we parted; he made me his bride.

REFRAIN.

At Loos in the battle my lover fought well;
Though wounded and bleeding, still fighting he fell.

No more he will wander his own Highland glen,
For my lover lies buried on fair Flanders' plain.

REFRAIN

When this wild war is over I will go to his grave,
The salt tear to shed for my gallant and brave.

Oh! bitter is my sorrow, and sadly I weep,
And fain would I join in my lover's last sleep.

REFRAIN.

When God in His mercy shall call me above
We shall meet and rejoice in His infinite love.

AT DAVY'S GRAVE.

The life of one we called our own
Has ended here.
Here lies his frame; his soul has flown
To grander sphere,
Where pain and suffering come no more,
Where silver waves lap the golden shore,
Where the music of the angelic choir
Falls on the ear.

His simple life showed noble parts
From day to day:
By love and trust, o'er all our hearts
He gained the sway.
Our love and care tenfold repaid
By him, now "dear departed shade,"
Resigned to suffering, while he made
His heavenward way.

The circling lapwing's eerie cry
O'er the wind-swept mound,
And Afton sweetly singing by
Doth requiem sound.
We'll leave him here with Nature's wild,
Fit resting-place for Nature's child,
Whose life was pure and undefiled,
In hallowed ground.