Part 9

IN LOVING MEMORY OF DAVID CUMMING.

Beloved husband of Margaret Gracie, who died at 126 Glasgow Road, Burnbank, on Monday, 7th October, 1918, aged 51 years.

The Angel of Death came silent and swift, And wafted your spirit away; And all that was mortal, with reverent touch, We sadly consigned to the clay. We thought of you then as the husband and friend, The brother who did not wax old, Whose rugged exterior never could hide The big, kindly heart of pure gold.

We thought of the last time we met on the hill And angled the swift-running stream; How we gloried and revelled in Nature's delights, And the golden hours passed like a dream. As we stood at the close of a perfect day Inhaling the mountain's pure breath, We reck'd not how soon between us would roll The dark, sullen river of death.

The summer will come with its long sunny days, The daisies will spangle the lea; The brooks and the rivers will sing to the sun As they flow on their way to the sea; The whaup and the lapwing will sound their wild note, The thyme and the heather will bloom; And all these allurements will call you again, But no answer can come from the tomb.

You have crossed o'er the bourne to the mystery land; No more will we meet on this plane; The joys of the bright sunny days we have spent We cannot live over again; Yet meekly, submissively, humbly we bend To the will of our Father in Heaven. To Him, with His infinite love for mankind, Let honour and glory be given.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF BABY ANNA JANE M'KENZIE.

She came like a ray of the morning sun, Like the gleam of a meteor at night, To gladden our hearts and fill them with joy, And her advent was hailed with delight.

As the fleecy cloud so pure and white, Or the snow by the tempest driven, Was her tiny form, in its perfect mould, In her eyes was the light of Heaven.

Too good and pure for this world of strife, Where virtue is often a name; She was borne away by the Angel of Love To the realms from whence she came.

No parents' love could keep this child, Nor grandmother's tender care: No setting had earth for such a flower So angelic, so lovely, so fair.

WANLOCK LADS.

There are hearts bowed down in the manse in our town, As there are in the miners' cot, For the brave sons who fell 'mid the shot and the shell, Whose names shall ne'er be forgot In the Old Grey Glen; they proved to be men, When their lives so freely they gave; On the scroll of fame we'll inscribe each name, While they lie in the soldier's grave.

They hear not the battle, with cannons' loud rattle, No sound can awake them to fight once again; They have gone from this life with its bloodshed and strife, Their numbers are found on the list of the slain. Yet why should we weep, they have well earned their sleep, Altho' to the glen they will never return; They stood in the fight for God and the right, Then why, oh why, should we mourn?

Then all bereaved ones should be proud of their sons (And pride ought to smother each sigh and each tear), As Britain to-day is proud of her stay, When danger and death is near; Oh! Great Power Divine, pray hasten the time When all men shall know Thee and each knee shall bend; Then Peace like a dove shall descend from above, This terrible carnage to end.

THE AULD VOLUNTEERS.

D COMPANY, K.O.S.B.

Time brings its changes in country an' toon, We're conscious o' this when we tak' a look roun'; Guid men hae gane; gin ye len' me yer ears, I'll bring ye in min' o' the Auld Volunteers.

There were men frae Kirkconnel, sae buirdly an' fine, Though the maist o' them wrocht in the depths o' the mine, A fine set o' fellows, devoid o' a' fears, They made a guid third o' the Auld Volunteers.

Doon Mennock's fair glen, frae Wanlock's high hills, Far famed for their beauty an' clear sparkling rills, Cam' giants in stature; noo mark ye wha hears, They were real men an' true tae the Auld Volunteers.

Descendants o' famous on history's scroll, The brave men o' Sanquhar completed the roll; Wi' pride in their herts they looked back through the years, "These then were those" in the Auld Volunteers.

Captains Stewart and Wilson, M'Connel an' a', When they mairched oot the lads o' the heather sae braw, Thocht D.C., K.O.S.B. then had few compeers, Gey prood were the three o' the Auld Volunteers.

THE YOUNG VOLUNTEERS.

The Young Volunteers frae the vale o' the Nith, May their herts never fail, nor their airms lose their pith. As we hear o' their daurin', oor hert it aye cheers, An' we pray for the lads in the Young Volunteers.

The day will sune dawn, in the East an' the West, Whaur oor brave lads are gieing the foemen nae rest. The fecht will be owre when the morning appears, Wi' victory's croon for the Young Volunteers.

Some are awa' tae the Land o' the Leal, Forgotten are bullets an' deidly cauld steel, Whaur there's angels, bricht angels, tae wipe awa' tears, An' the watchword is love, wi' oor ain Volunteers.

THE PONY DRIVER'S LAMENT FOR PUIR GEORDIE,

Who, going lame, had to be shot before he could be drawn from the mine.