Part 21

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.