Part 25

You have earned a grateful nation's Thanks for giants' work well done; You have helped to crush the despot In the vict'ry that's been won-- Victory that cost your kindred Heavy toll in blood and tears. Forget you? No, we will not, Though we live a thousand years.

Mourn not for your comrades fallen On the field or in the deep: Realise 'tis sinful calling Them from glory or from sleep. Tyranny no more can grieve them, Broken every galling chain; They have gone to serve the Master On a brighter, higher plane.

A DAY DREAM.

Prone by the side of a moorland road, Soothed by the green of the velvet sod; I dream of the time when war shall cease, And a weary world will be at peace;

Of a time when the mind of man will recoil From the lust of gain and from needless toil; When honour and love will ne'er be sold For worldly power or the gain of gold;

When man shall arise and cast aside Corrupting wealth, with its pomp and pride, And a system that's long been tried in vain, That breeds the worst in the hearts of men:

When the shadow of want shall be chased away That darkens the home of the poor to-day, And the fruits of the earth, at the harvest fall, Will be gathered and used for the good of all;

When the babe shall be tended and ope' like the flower That so sweetly blooms in my lady's bower; And the maimed and the old with the silvery hair Shall be treated in love with the tenderest care;

When the spirit of brotherhood shall command From the Arctic Zone to the Coral Strand; And the flag of freedom will wave on high On every land beneath the sky.

DEDICATED TO WANLOCK SOLDIERS.

Away from the head of the Wanlock Glen, Where nurtured you were to the status of men, You marched when the heather was shedding its bloom, With the war song of freedom, your spirits in tune.

The surge of true manhood carried you on To the thick of the fight in the fire-swept zone, Through the fume of the gas shell's deadly breath, Through blood and mire, on to glory or death.

To you, still part of Britannia's shield, Back with victory crowned from the dark stricken field, Along with the broken, the maimed, and the dead, We owe an account that can never be paid.

Shades of the dead! Now with war drums still We hear in the wind of the moor and the hill Your voices, that tell in triumphant song, All is well with you there, in your Father's home.

THE LOWTHER WIND'S WAIL:

A memorial of Death by Exhaustion on the Lowther Hills.

By the

AUTHOR of "GOD'S TREASURE HOUSE IN SCOTLAND."

Janet Miller left her service at Kirkhope on Wednesday the 3rd January, 1877, instead of Friday the 12th, as previously arranged, on a visit home, to be present at the marriage of her sister. The day was so stormy, and the roads so full of snow wreaths, that the carter, with whom she should have gone, could proceed no further than Leadhills that night.

It is considered to be ten miles between Kirkhope and Leadhills--a dreary, steep, and rough mountain, without any very distinct path, and that which is traversed was obliterated by the snow. Still, she had passed the Lowther heights (upwards of 2300 feet) in safety, descended and crossed the Shortcleuch water, and the fence, ascending the rough side of the only ridge which separates this valley from the village, and without deviating from the track, exhaustion and death overtook her within twenty minutes' or half an hour s walk of home.

A shepherd's Wife, returning from a funeral on the following Tuesday afternoon, discovered her body. Little thought she that the very day fixed for her home-coming would be her funeral day. Obtaining leave sooner than expected, unfortunately, instead of coming by the road with company as advised, she resolved to take the hill. Though urged to go early, she delayed; though warned of the coming storm and night by more than one friendly voice, still onwards and upwards she pressed. She knew the hills and the paths: she was young and strong, and how much would her happiness be enhanced by gaining home that night; and then, the morrow and the month, how full of joy! So bravely on she struggled, battling with the blinding drift, till her strength was gone--quite gone. Then gently she laid her down to sleep. It was her last on earth; and the cold snow-drift gathered quickly over and formed her winding-sheet, hiding her body from human eye for well-nigh a week. Her bonnet and parcels were found in the bottom of a fallen-in shaft, up to the edge of which she had climbed. With shawl drawn over her head, cloak tucked in about her, and her cheek laid upon her hand, there she sought a rest which proved to be her last on earth.

Leadhills village bell had ceas'd, Mourners from the graveyard pass'd To the lonely shepherd's cot. Jeanie then--her dismal lot-- Walking lonely up the glen, Thinking of those in heav'n--When! A form lay sleeping!--A form lay sleeping! A form lay sleeping! Yea--in death! Hand 'neath head upon the heath. When carried--and buried--lamented-- Lowther winds wail'd--story presented:--

"Daurna tarry--I maun hame, Though I clim' the hills my lane. Mirk the day, an' heich the win', Oot ow'r the muir I'll brawly rin, Speel the Lowthers like a grew, Wade the burn--hame safely through."

"Na! my lassie, dinna gae, Far ow'r short this winter's day. Hear ye no' the sough o' storm Howlin' roun' Glenucher's horn? Bide ye, lass, in Kirkhope biel, Fair the morn, the hills ye'll spiel."

"Daurna tarry--I maun hame, Aft the hills I've clim'd alane. Sister's marriage--ken ye no'?-- Comes e'er lang, sae I maun go. Fareweel, Kirkhope's freenly ha', Fleetch nae mair--I maun gae wa'."

"Weel, my lass, on hame sae set, Cart an' road, an' hame ye'll get, Sun's ow'r laigh to tak' the hill; Wi' sna' the heuchs an' hags 'ill fill. Ne'er to get the len'th o' hame-- Death wad cry ilk day, me blame."

"Daurna tarry--I maun hame, Langer stey! 'twad be a shame! Roun' the road, or ow'r the hill, Hame this nicht I've set my will. Noo I'm aff, the month t' spen'. Crawford Muir, gude-bye till then."

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