"Oh Johnnie! my brither!" quo' Archibold
Wi' a hert-upheavin mane,
"I wad pit my soul i' yer wastit corp
To see ye alive again!"
"Haud ye there!" quod a voice frae oot the helm,
"A man suld heed quhat he says!"
An' the closin joints grippit an' tore the gerse
As up the armour rase:—
"Soul ye hae nane to ca' yer ain
An' its time to hand yer jaw!
The sleep it was thine, an' the soul it is mine:
Deil Archie, come awa!"
"Auld Hornie," quo' Archie, "twa words to that:
My burnin hert burns on;
An' the sleep, weel I wat, was nae reek frae thy pat,
For aye I was dreamin o' John!
"But I carena a plack for a soul sae black—
Wae's me 'at my mither bore me!
Put fire i' my breist an' fire at my back,
But ae minute set Johnnie afore me!"
The gantlets grippit the helm sae stoot
An' liftit frae chin an' broo:
An' Johnnie himsel keekit smilin oot:—
"O Archie, I hae ye noo!
"O' yer wee bit brod I was little the waur,
I crap awa my lane;
An' never a deevil cam ye nar,
'Cep ye coont yer Johnnie ane!"
Quhare quhylum his brither Johnnie lay,
Fell Archie upon his knees;
The words he said I dinna say,
But I'm sure they warna lees.
THE LAST WOOIN.
"O lat me in, my bonny lass!
It's a lang road ower the hill,
And the flauchterin snaw begud to fa'
On the brig ayont the mill!"