R. L. S.
He hears nae mair the Sabbath bells
Borne on the breeze amang Lowden's dells,
Nor waukens when the bugle tells
The dawn o' day.
Fate was the flute the Ganger played,
Cheerin' him on wi' its hopes ahead;
Now "O'er the hills" the master's laid
"An' far away."
Tho' frail the bark, O he was brave,
Nor heedit the stormy winds that drave;
But lanely now the sailor's grave
Across the faem.
The deer unhunted roam at will,
The whaup cries sair on the dreary hill,
The chase is o'er, the horn is still:
The hunter's hame.
BURNS' CENTENARY
"I'll be more respected a hundred years after I am dead than I am at present."—R. B., 1796.
"My fame is sure; when I am dead
A century," the Poet said,
"They'll heap the honours on my head
They grudge me noo";
To-day the hundred years hae sped
That prove it true.
Whiles as the feathered ages flee,
Time sets the sand-glass on his knee,
An' ilka name baith great an' wee
Shak's thro' his sieve;
Syne sadly wags his pow to see
The few that live.
An' still the quickest o' the lot
Is his wha made the lowly cot
A shrine, whaur ilka rev'rent Scot
Bareheadit turns.
Our mither's psalms may be forgot,
But never Burns.
This nicht, auld Scotland, dry your tears,
An' let nae sough o' grief come near's;
We'll speak o' Rab's gin he could hear's;
Life's but a fivver,
And he's been healed this hundred years
To live for ever.
FAME
I saw a truant schoolboy chalk his name
Upon the Temple door; then with a shout
Run off; that night a weary beggar came,
Leant there his ragged back and rubbed it out.
Dry-lipped she stands an' casts her glance afar,
Ae hand across her brows to shield her een,
Her horn flung careless on the tapmost scaur,
Where names deep chiselled in the rocks are seen.
An' far below, on ilka ridge an' knowe,
A warslin' thrang o' mortals still she spies,
Wha strive an' fecht an' spurn the grassy howe—
Thro' whins an' heather ettlin' aye to rise.
Ane whiles she sees, wha, perched upon a stane,
Proclaims that he at least the goal has won,
But shortly finds he 's shiverin' there his lane
Wi' scores aboon, between him an' the sun.
Another, sair forfochen wi' the braes,
Enjoys the view while he has strength to see;
"Weel 's better aye than waur," content, he says,
"Thus far is far an' far aneuch for me."
Some wise, or lazy, never quit the glen,
But stretched at easedom watch the hill aboon,
Glad whiles to see ane gettin' up they ken,
But aft'ner pleased to see him rumblin' doon.
Ane, better shod or stronger than the lave,
Gets near aneuch to grip her skirts at last;
She lifts her horn an' o'er a new-made grave
Awakes the echoes wi' a fun'ral blast.
THE AE REWARD
Gae wauken up the Muses nine;
Tho' we've nae plaited bays
Aroon' their curly pows to twine,
We winna stent them praise.
Gin music tak' her chanter doon,
Her sister start a sang,
The other saeven join the tune
An' lift it lood an' lang.
First set the tune to suit the time
When we were loons at school,
The sang can be a careless rhyme
Nae measured aff by rule.
We stole our pleasures then, prepared
Wi' hands held out to pay;
Were aulder sins as easy squared,
Oor slates were clean the day.
Syne twa three bars in safter key
For days o' youthfu' love,
When lasses a' to you an' me
Were angels fae above.
Lang-leggit Time, but he was fleet
When we'd a lass the piece,
When bondage aye o'er a' was sweet,
An' freedom nae release.
Noo stamp an' blaw a skirl o' war—
The times that noo we hae,
An' gin the need be near or far
We're ready for the day.
The tykes are roon' the lion's lair,
We've seen the like before,
An' seldom hae they wanted mair
When ance they heard him roar.
Syne choke the drones—ae reed's enew
To play the days to come,
When auld Age stachers into view
An' adds up a' the sum.
We've loved an' focht an' sell't an' bocht
Until we're short o' breath;
The auld kirkyard the ae reward,
An' that we get fae Death.
"MY LORD"