Part 8

A kin'ly hert beat in his breast, His love was great for man an' beast; Aye ready Fortune's smile tae share, The freen an' champion o' the puir.

On Nature's charms he looked wi' joy, An' earnest seekers did employ Wha gethered frae the mine an' glen Mony a flooer an' mineral gem.

He had his fau'ts, we hae nae doot; What mortal ever leeved withoot? They were sae sma' we couldna' scan Them through the virtues o' the man.

An' noo his earthly coorse is run; Nae mair he'll see the settin' sun, An' watch frae aff the mountain's hicht Day's glory deein' intae nicht.

The loss is oors; we murn fu' sair: Maybe his like we'll see nae mair; Till death's dark shadow dims the e'e Oor Doctor will remembered be.

FUNERAL OF PRIVATE ALEX. HOWLAND,

2nd K.O.S.B.,

Who died of wounds in St. Luke's Hospital, Halifax, and was buried in Wanlockhead Churchyard on August 30, 1918.

The curfew's mournful tone was heard Resounding through the glen, And from the pathway on the hill The heavy tramp of men, Whose mien contrasted strangely with The glow of Autumn's sun, Bearing the form of a soldier lad To his rest so nobly won.

'Twas sad to see the cortege pass His dear old father's home, From which, at the call of duty stern, He sailed across the foam. 'Twas sad to see his mother's grief And hear his sisters weep, E'er the silver line began to shine Through shadows dark and deep.

They laid him down in the Old Churchyard, 'Neath the swaying, bending trees, Where green grass grows and wild flowers bloom 'Mid the heather-scented breeze, Far, far removed from the din of war, No more to feel its thrills; To rest in peace in the kindly shade Of the everlasting hills.

LINES ON A FRIEND,

Who, before he died, expressed the desire to be laid in Wanlock.

Oh! lay me doon in Wanlock; Untroubled I will sleep Whaur heather grows and the burnie rowes Awa' tae join the deep.

The friends lie there I kent langsyne, The kindest an' the best; Until the Resurrection Morn Amang them let me rest.

Dear lo'ed yins that I leave 'ahin, Oh, dinna, dinna murn; According to great Nature's plan Tae dust we maun return.

Oh! Wanlock, dear auld Wanlock, Beside ye I maun be, For God has planted in ma hert A daithless love for thee.

WULLIE TAMSON, LATE O' SNAR.

Near whaur Duneaton smoothly flows A namely poet leeved langsyne, A kin'ly, genial, honest soul Wha wove his fancies intae rhyme. A humble shepherd lad was he, An' ne'er aspired tae high estate: His name was never on the roll Amang the world's rich an' great.

In simmer heat an' winter's snaw He tent his flocks upon the hill, Whaur he could inspiration draw Frae tum'lin' burn an' sparklin' rill, Frae heather bloom an' wavin' fern, Frae lintie's sang an' bonnie flooer, Frae winter storms an' driftin' snaw, Frae thunder-cloud an' sleety shooer.

In simple words he sweetly voiced The joys an' sorrows o' the poor; 'Mang shepherd lads the country roon He bore the gree in social oor. A man o' independent mind, He feared nae maister, man, or lord; Aye strecht was he at mairt or fair Or seated at the social board.

Auld Scotland, why will we forget Tae render honour whaur it's due? Why will we fawn on gowd an' lan' Wi' naething higher in oor view? Let's fill a bumper tae the brim An' toast his mem'ry near an' far, An' ne'er forget tae honour men Like Wullie Tamson, late o' Snar.

KITCHENER.

The Nation mourns for K. of K.; Who from this life has passed away; His body lies beneath the wave, The soldier's found a sailor's grave.

The hero he of many a fight, Was stern, unbending, for the right; In purpose strong, he feared no foe; Ah, Fate! then why this cruel blow?

The Nation mourns; where can she find A man so true, so just, so kind, With brain and hand to guide the helm, And guard the honour of the realm?

Would he had lived to see the fall Of Europe's tyrants one and all, From war's fell grip the world's release, And nations crowned with lasting peace!

Sleep on, great heart! If we endure Like thee, our victory is sure; Thy shade will lead us, Nation's friend, Thy spirit conquer in the end.