Chapter II: Part 2

I'll sing ye a sang aboot the days o' langsyne
When the thochts o' the past are the first on my min';
Then many happy days I spent when I was young
In the Auld Thackit Hoose on the braes o' the burn.

My faither an' my mither, sae canty an' sae croose,
Were happy wi' their bairns in their ain auld hoose;
Noo they're sleepin' in the mools an' sair dae I murn,
In the Auld Thackit Hoose on the braes o' the burn.

My brithers an' my sisters hae a' taen their flicht,
An' they're far frae the bield whaur they first saw the licht;
But I'm shair that in longin' their thochts aften turn
Tae the Auld Thackit Hoose on the braes o' the burn.

Noo I'm gettin' auld an' doited an' I'm wearin' awa'
Tae the land whaur there's nae pain nor sorrow ava',
An' lanesome I'm waitin' till the Maister says, Come,
Frae the Auld Thackit Hoose on the braes o' the burn.

THE AULD GREY GLEN.

_WANLOCK._

Sixty years hae gane an' mair, an' yet I mind fu' weel,
When I was but a laddie jist ready for the schule,
The bonnie strappin' lassies an' the brawny stalwart men
Reared amang the heather in the Auld Grey Glen.

Each hame was warm in winter an' cool 'neath simmer sun,
Built against the hillside wi' routh o' lime an' whun;
Nae drawin'-room or parlour but jist a but an' ben,
Weel theekit ower wi' heather in the Auld Grey Glen.

Tae meet wi' yin anither we cheerily wad gang,
An' be happy a' thegither wi' a guid auld sang;
Tho' puir we helped ilk ither an' wad borrow an' wad len',
'Twas a rale communal system in the Auld Grey Glen.

The lads when gaun a-coortin' in guid hamespun were dressed,
Wi' braw Balmoral bonnets, a heidgear o' the best;
Nae hats wi' gaudy feathers had Mary, Mag, or Jen--
They were cuddled 'neath a plaidie in the Auld Grey Glen.

Tho' customs, fashions a' hae changed the spirit's still the same,
An' we're ready aye tae play oor pairts for country an' for hame,
Oor dearest, bravest laddies we wullingly did sen'
Tae fecht for love and honour an' the Auld Grey Glen.

LEVEL NO. 6.

_Song._ _Tune, "Bound to be a Row."_

Come a' ye jolly miners an' listen tae ma sang,
An' then in pity drap a tear as doon the vale ye gang,
For a puir unlucky chappie wha's been in mony a fix,
An' is noo a powny driver doon in Level No. 6.

CHORUS.

In Level No. 6--in Level No. 6.
Yer sorrows are nae far tae seek,
In Level No. 6.

There are twa pownies in the mine, a braw an' bonnie pair,
An' physically fit are they tae dae their wark an' mair;
But Dandy wi' his funeral step, an' Bobbie wi his tricks,
Mak' the driver's life a burden doon in Level No. 6.

CHORUS.

An' then the ruif is far owre low, wi' the hinger hingin' doon,
Yer needin' stickin' plaister aye, for the dressin' o' yer croon;
Sometimes ye think ye've got it, frae a hunerwecht o' bricks--
Job's patience wadna' stan' the test in Level No. 6.

CHORUS.

Whiles when ye think ye're daein' weel, an' a sang begin tae croon,
It's then ye hear the gaffer's plaint--"Is this a' ye hae dune?"
If ye dinna get the ha'pence, ye're shair tae get the kicks
Frae the gaffers or the pownies doon in Level No. 6.

CHORUS.

The miners doon in No. 6 are awfu' han's tae sweer;
Gang and hear them for yersel' gin ye think that I'm a leear;
There's the Billys and the Sandys, the Taffys and the Micks,
Cosmopolitan is jist the word for Level No. 6.

CHORUS.

Wi' a' this fash an' worry, I'm seek an' tired o' life,
An' I'd gledly gang an' droon masel' gin that would end the strife;
But a worse micht then befa' me, for I'm nae freen o' Auld Nick's,
Sae I think I'd better work awa' in Level No. 6.

CHORUS.

EMERGENCY PUMP, LEVEL No. 4.

In 1908 we set ye up,
A mechanism fine;
We a' admired ye as ye lashed
The water frae the mine.

Noo that anither's taen yer place
Ye're reckoned second-rate,
An' dark an' silent there ye stan'
Until there comes a spate.

But when we ask ye for a lift
Ye start aff wi' a roar,
Sae keen are ye tae dae yer bit
At Level No. 4.

When oiled an' greased an' packit weel,
An' steady hauds the steam,
Ye gang as smooth as ony clock
Or ony poet's dream.

Tae pumps, an' horse, an' human kind,
The kindlier we are
The mair o' guid we get frae them,
The less tae fret an' jar.

Sae let us aye keep this in mind
When ilka spell is o'er,
An' kindly tend ye while ye rest
At Level No. 4.

THE TURNING O' THE WHEEL.

_New Song with an Old Title._ _Old Country Style._

As I was a-walking upon a simmer day
I spied a bonnie lassie a-winnowin' the hay;
Says I, "My bonnie lassie, true love for you I feel.
Will ye wed and share what fortune brings wi' the
turnin' o' the wheel?"

Says she, "My bonnie laddie, I'm far ower young for thee;
My faither an' my mither they baith wad angry be
Were I sae young tae wed wi' you an' leave their hamely biel
Tae share what fortune brings you wi' the turnin' o' the wheel."

Says I, "My bonnie lassie, O! dinna say me nay;
Tho' young you be, that is a faut that's mendin' every day;
If ye'll consent tae mairry me ye'll find me kind an' leal,
An' we'll share what fortune brings us wi' the turnin'
o' the wheel."

Says she, "My bonnie laddie, yer offer tempts me sair;
Gin ye can win the auld folks I'll hesitate nae mair,
An' I'll lay by my winin's, likewise my rock an' reel,
An' share what fortune brings ye wi' the turnin' o' the wheel."

Noo we've been mairried mony a year, an' happy we hae been,
We watch oor children's children a-sportin' on the green;
Let ilka lad an' lassie wha lo'e each ither weel
Get wed an' share what fortune brings wi' the turnin'
o' the wheel.

TO ARMS!

_Song._ _Recruiting Call._

Arise! Arise! Britannia's sons!
And forward go with flag unfurled,
And help to crush this murderous Power
That seeks to dominate the world.

Arise and answer to the call,
And strike for freedom and the name
Of manhood 'gainst a foe that's lost
Alike to honour and to shame!

Then dauntless let your courage be
Upon the land, upon the sea;
Blood of the innocent cries to you
For vengeance on the fiendish crew.

Fear not to fight, fear not to die
In the dear cause of Liberty;
Then righteousness shall be your guard,
The God of justice will reward.

THE HAPPY LOVER.

_Song._ _In light vein._

'Twas in the guid auld simmer time,
When birdies sang sae cheery O,
Yae nicht I busket in my best,
An' gaed tae meet my dearie O.

CHORUS.

Singin' fal the dal, fal the didle al;
Singin' fal the doo a di dee O.

I met her comin' ower the muir,
I was richt gled tae see her O;
I kissed her twenty times an' mair
Afore that I wad free her O.

CHORUS.

Her dainty heid weel filled wi' sense
Aneath her cockernonie O;
Her hair the jet, her e'e the slae,
Her rosy cheeks sae bonnie O.

CHORUS.

Her lips sae sweet, her chin sae neat
Her teeth sae white an' pearly O,
Her form the fairest o' the fair,
Her voice jist like the merlie O.

CHORUS.

We'll yokit be at Martimas,
Tae pu' thro' life thegither O;
That happy nicht we'll ever mind
Amang the bloomin' heather O.

CHORUS.

NEVER SEEN MORE.

_Song._ _1st Verse, Old Song._

Some die when they're young and some live to old age;
Man is a play-actor, this world is a stage;
Each one plays his part, and when it is o'er
The Curtain drops down and he's never seen more.

He toils from the rise till the set of the sun,
And the shadows come down ere his labour is done;
Still he holds on his way till his harvest is o'er,
Then the Curtain drops down and he's never seen more.

O, man breathes to live, and he lives but to die;
His life's a short dream, with eternity nigh;
His joys and his sorrows are very soon o'er,
For the Curtain drops down and he's never seen more.

As we go thro' this world let us fight the good fight,
Let us help one another and do what is right.
If we all do our best there's naught to deplore
When the Curtain drops down and we're never seen more.

WANLOCK'S BUIRDLY ROBIN.

_To ROBERT WANLOCK REID, born in Wanlockhead, 1850._

_Song. Tune, "Neil Gow."_

Up in the sooth whaur chill win's blaw,
An' aft betide rain, rowk an' snaw,
'Twas there the advent did befa'
O' Wanlock's Buirdly Robin.

CHORUS

He was a rantin' clever chiel,
Could gie a screed richt aff the reel,
An' sing a cantie sang as weel,
Wanlock's Buirdly Robin.

The fairy folk, a merry ban',
Aroon his cradle bed did stan'
While the Fairy Princess waved her wan'
Owre Wanlock's Buirdly Robin.

CHORUS.

Years syne, in youth's bricht sunny days,
He ran aboot the bonnie braes,
Mang Nature's wilds he tuned his lays,
Wanlock's Buirdly Robin.

CHORUS.

Like Burns, an' Hogg, an' Tannahill,
He plied the Muse wi' muckle skill,
An' aften did oor hert-strings thrill,
Wanlock's Buirdly Robin.

CHORUS.

He's noo awa', far owre the main,
An's added lustre tae his name;
Oh! wull he no come back again,
Wanlock's Buirdly Robin?

CHORUS.

THE LASS O' DURISDEER.

_Song._ _Tune, "My love is like a red, red rose."_

REFRAIN.

Oh! bonnie burn, Oh! bonnie burn,
Wi' water crystal clear,
Sing sweetly by the hame whaur bides
The Lass o' Durisdeer.

Though but a lass o' low estate,
I care'na wha may hear
Me sing her praise wi' a' ma hert,
The Lass o' Durisdeer.

REFRAIN.

In Carron's wild majestic glen
Flowers bloom the hert tae cheer,
But the fairest flower amang them a'
The Lass o' Durisdeer.

REFRAIN.

Wi' voice sweet as the lintie's sang;
Melodious on the ear,
Wi' een sae blue an' hert sae true,
The Lass o' Durisdeer.

REFRAIN.

Though I hae gane sae far awa'
Tae fecht for country dear,
My fondest hopes are centred on
The Lass o' Durisdeer.

REFRAIN.

A fairy guard frae Enterkin
Is wi' me, hae nae fear!
For I'll come safely hame and wed
The Lass o' Durisdeer.

REFRAIN.

BONNIE JEAN.

_Song._

A kennan yont the Lowther Hills,
In a miner's cot sae trig an' clean,
A lass was born in sixty-twa,
The gossips ca'ed her Bonnie Jean.
She was her mither's pride an' joy,
An angel in her faither's een;
O! ne'er was lass in a' the glen
That could compare wi' Bonnie Jean.

REFRAIN.

Then here's tae the lass there's nane can surpass,
An' may a' that's guid befa' her.

Aye foremaist in the merry ploy
'Mang lads an' lassies on the green;
Tae sing an' dance an' play the game,
Nane blither there than Bonnie Jean.
I've heard the lintie sing his sang,
An' mony fairy dawns I've seen,
But naething could the fancy stir
Or touch ma hert like Bonnie Jean.

REFRAIN.

Yae nicht aneath the mune's pure licht
That bathed the moor in silvery sheen
I spiered her gin her hert was mine;
"It's yours for aye," quo' Bonnie Jean.
The years rolled owre oor heids since then
Hae mony joys an' sorrows gi'en,
But still I share them, yin an' a',
Wi' my leal-hearted Bonnie Jean.

REFRAIN.

BETTY O' THE STRANKLY.[1]

_Song._

I've been in London and Paree,[2]
I've seen the beauties owre the sea,
But nane o' them could please ma e'e
Like Betty o' the Strankly.

REFRAIN.

O' a' the lassies I hae seen,
This I'll say fu' frankly,
There ne'er was yin amang them a'
Like Betty o' the Strankly.

O' Nature's charms she has full share,
Besides her virtues are so rare
That she wi' angels micht compare,
Blithe Betty o' the Strankly.

REFRAIN.

Oh! gin I were a worthy swain
I'd strive an' work an' siller hain
Tae win her hert and mak' a hame
For Betty o' the Strankly.

REFRAIN.

Tae comfort her owre life's short span,
O, may she wed a leal guidman;
For kindly hert an' open han'
Has Betty o' the Strankly.

REFRAIN.

[1] Strancleugh.

[2] Paris.

LASS O' GLENDOWERAN.

Glendoweran sits upon a hill,
Sae bonnie, all alone;
Ye'll find it gin ye tak' a walk
Sooth-wast frae Crawfordjohn.
An' when ye get upon the hill
Amang the sheep an' kye,
Jist ca' upon the farmer's folk,
Ye maunna pass them by.

Ye'll see a bonnie lassie there,
I daurna tell her name;
For look an' airt she'd envied be
By mony a titled dame.
Her music fills the hoose wi' soun'
Sae pleasin' tae the ear,
It touches baith the hert an' min',
An' waukens mem'ries dear.

The lad that wins this lassie's hert
Will happy be, I'm shair;
Wi' love an' soul-inspiring airt,
What could he wish for mair?
Then may their lives like pleasant dreams
Sae smoothly pass away,
Till frae the hill they hae tae gang
When life has closed its day.

SAE WULL WE YET.

_New Version._

Come, cheer up, my comrades, an' never say die,
There's nae cloud in the lift the wun canna blaw by;
'Neath the sway of a despot we never did sit,
We've aye held tae Freedom, an' sae wull we yet.

A Tiger came forth an' Europe was his prey,
For mony a year his cubs have drunk success to "the Day;"
But the day will come roun', an' the biter will be bit,
For we've aye laid the tyrant low, an' sae wull we yet.

Here's a health tae oor lads on the land an' the sea,
An' may a' guid attend them whaure'er they may be!
In the days that are gane they hae nobly dune their bit,
In purpose they are still as strong, an' sae wull they yet.

Why should we sorrow for the brave that are no more?
They fought for right an' justice, an' they've reached a fairer shore,
Where we'll see them yince again when we prove oorsels as fit,
We've trusted aye in Providence, an' sae wull we yet.

Wi' oor leal-herted Allies, then, hand in hand we'll go
Till we've silenced all his mighty guns an' vanquished the foe;
Then peace frae oor country may ne'er hae tae flit,
We've aye believed that this would come, an' sae wull we yet.

THE BONNIE AULD DORIC O' SCOTLAND.

_Tune, "Kail Brose o' Auld Scotland."_

I've been tauld by a freen--tho' I'm laith sae tae think--
That the Auld Scottish Doric is noo on the brink
O' passin' awa' an' becomin' extinct,
The Bonnie Auld Doric o' Scotland,
The Auld Scottish Doric sae fine.

When I first saw the licht in a wee but an' ben
An' startit life's battle tae fecht amang men,
Fu' soothin' tae me was the soun' o' it then,
The Bonnie Auld Doric o' Scotland,
The Auld Scottish Doric sae fine.

The days o' my boyhood sair trouble did bring
(Time always carries it under his wing),
Tae ease me o' pain my mither wad sing
In the Bonnie Auld Doric o' Scotland,
The Auld Scottish Doric sae fine.

Weel rowed in a plaidie, an' beilt frae the wun',
I coortit a lassie sae winsome an' young,
I whispered my love in the auld mither tongue--
The Bonnie Auld Doric o' Scotland,
The Auld Scottish Doric sae fine.

Where'er I may roam on the land or the sea
Oor Doric will aye be the sweetest tae me;
It cheers the lane hert and it lichts the sad e'e,
The Bonnie Auld Doric o' Scotland,
The Auld Scottish Doric sae fine.

It's nonsense tae say that the Doric maun gang,
For Rabbie has made it immortal in sang.
Sae noo, my auld freen, jist admit ye are wrang
'Boot the Bonnie Auld Doric o' Scotland,
The Auld Scottish Doric sae fine.

CHEER UP!

Wee bairnies in the city slum, the time is drawing near
When in your lives of want and gloom the daylight will appear;
There's men and women working hard; before their work is done
They'll take you from your darksome home and place you in the sun.

CHORUS.

Then, cheer up! cheer up! Don't let your spirits go down!
Always trust in Providence and never wear a frown.
Cheer up! cheer up! Keep smiling if you can,
It's an antidote for trouble in the life of man.

Now, all young men and maidens, in the heyday of your charm,
Be sure and mate with those you love, 'twill save you future harm.
But if a man or maiden gay should bring your love to naught,
There's as good fish in the sea to-day as ever have been caught.

CHORUS.

You married men and women, who have realised love's dream,
And now with quiver filling, "pulling hard against the stream"
You strive and work, yet wonder how your offspring may be fed;
Look up! the dawn is breaking; there are better times ahead.

CHORUS.

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.

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.