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 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.

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.

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;

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.