Part 22

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.