4em">JEEMSIE MILLER

There's some that mak' themsels a name
Wi' preachin', business, or a game,
There's some wi' drink hae gotten fame
  And some wi' siller:
I kent a man got glory cheap,
For nane frae him their een could keep,
Losh! he was shapit like a neep,
  Was Jeemsie Miller!

When he gaed drivin' doon the street
Wi' cairt an' sheltie, a' complete,
The plankie whaur he had his seat
  Was bent near double;
And gin yon wood had na been strang
It hadna held oor Jeemsie lang,
He had been landit wi' a bang,
  And there'd been trouble.

Ye could but mind, to see his face,
The reid mune glowerin' on the place,
Nae man had e'er sic muckle space
  To haud his bonnet:
An owre yon bonnet on his brow,
Set cockit up owre Jeemsie's pow,
There waggit, reid as lichtit tow,
  The toorie on it.

And Jeemsie's poke was brawly lined,
There wasna mony couldna' find
His cantie hoosie i' the wynd,
  "The Salutation":
For there ye'd get, wi' sang and clink,
What some ca'd comfort, wi' a wink,
And some that didna care for drink
  Wad ca' damnation!

But dinna think, altho' he made
Sae grand a profit o' his trade,
An' muckle i' the bank had laid,
  He wadna spare o't,
For, happit whaur it wasna seen,
He'd aye a dram in his machine,
An' never did he meet a freen'
  But got a share o't.

Ae day he let the sheltie fa'
(Whisht, sirs! he wasna' fou—na, na!
A wee thing pleasant—that was a',
  An' drivin' canny)
Fegs! he cam' hurlin' owre the front
An' struck the road wi' sic a dunt,
Ye'd thocht the causey got the brunt
  And no the mannie!

Aweel, it was his hin'most drive,
Aifter yon clour he couldna thrive,
For twa pairts deid, an' ane alive,
  His billies foond him:
And, bedded then, puir Jeemsie lay,
And a' the nicht and a' the day
Relations cam' to greet an' pray
  An' gaither roond him.

Said Jeemsie, "Cousins, gie's a pen,
Awa' an' bring the writer ben,
What I hae spent wi' sinfu' men
  I weel regret it;
In daith I'm sweir to be disgrac't,
I've plenty left forby my waste,
An them that I've negleckit maist
  It's them'll get it."

It was a sicht to see them rin
To save him frae the sense o' sin,
Fu' sune they got the writer in
  His mind to settle;
And O their loss! sae sair they felt it
To a' the toon wi' tears they tell't it,
Their dule for Jeemsie wad hae meltit
  A he'rt o' metal!

Puir Jeemsie dee'd. In a' their braws
The faim'ly cam' as black as craws,
Men, wifes, an' weans wi' their mamas
  That scarce could toddle!
They grat—an' they had cause to greet;
The wull was read that garred them meet—
The U. P. Kirk, just up the street,
  Got ilka bodle!

THE GEAN-TREES

I mind, when I dream at nicht,
Whaur the bonnie Sidlaws stand
Wi' their feet on the dark'nin' land
An their heids i' the licht;
An the thochts o' youth roll back
Like wreaths frae the hillside track
In the Vale o' Strathmore;
And the autumn leaves are turnin'
And the flame o' the gean-trees burnin'
Roond the white hoose door.

Aye me, when spring cam' green
And May-month decked the shaws
There was scarce a blink o' the wa's
For the flower o' the gean;
But when the hills were blue
Ye could see them glintin' through
An the sun i' the lift;
An the flower o' the gean-trees fa'in'
Was like pairls frae the branches snawin'
In a lang white drift.

Thae trees are fair and gay
When May-month's in her prime,
But I'm thrawn wi' the blasts o' time
An my heid's white as they;
But an auld man aye thinks lang
O' the hauchs he played amang
In his braw youth-tide;
An there's ane that aye keeps yearnin'
For a hoose whaur the leaves are turnin'
An the flame o' the gean-tree burnin'
By the Sidlaws' side.

THE TOD

There's a tod aye blinkin' when the nicht comes doon,
Blinkin' wi' his lang een an' keekin' roond an' roon',
Creepin' by the fairmyaird when gloamin' is to fa',
And syne there'll be a chicken or a deuk awa'—
Aye, when the guidwife rises, there's a deuk awa'!

There's a lass sits greetin' ben the hoose at hame,
For when the guidwife's cankered she gie's her aye the blame,
An' sair the lassie's sabbin' an' fast the tears fa',
For the guidwife's tint her bonnie hen an' it's awa'—
Aye, she's no sae easy dealt wi' when her gear's awa'!

There's a lad aye roamin' when the day gets late,
A lang-leggit deevil wi' his hand upon the gate,
And aye the guidwife cries to him to gar the toddie fa',
For she canna thole to let her deuks an' hens awa'—
Aye, the muckle bubbly-jock himsel' is ca'd awa'!

The laddie saw the tod gang by an' killed him wi' a stane
And the bonnie lass that grat sae sair she sabs nae mair her lane,
But the guidwife's no contentit yet, her like ye never saw!
Cries she—"This time it is the lass, an' she's awa'!
Aye, yon laddie's waur nor ony tod, for Bell's awa'!"

THE BLIND SHEPHERD

The land is white, an' far awa'
  Abune ae bush an' tree
Nae fit is movin' i' the snaw
  On the hills I canna see;
For the sun may shine an' the darkness fa',
  But aye it's nicht to me.

I hear the whaup on windy days
  Cry up amang the peat
Whaur, on the road that speels the braes,
  I've heard my ain sheep's feet,
An' the bonnie lambs wi' their canny ways
  An' the silly yowes that bleat.

But noo wi' them I mauna' be,
  An' by the fire I bide,
To sit and listen patiently
  For a fit on the great hillside,
A fit that'll come to the door for me
  Doon through the pasture wide,

Maybe I'll hear the baa'in' flocks
  Ae nicht when time seems lang,
An' ken there's a step on the scattered rocks
  The fleggit sheep amang,
An' a voice that cries an' a hand that knocks
  To bid me rise an' gang.

Then to the hills I'll lift my een
  Nae matter tho' they're blind,
For Ane will treid the stanes between
  And I will walk behind,
Till up, far up i' the midnicht keen
  The licht o' Heaven I'll find.

An' maybe, when I'm up the hill
  An' stand abune the steep,
I'll turn aince mair to look my fill
  On my ain auld flock o' sheep,
An' I'll leave them lyin' sae white an' still
  On the quiet braes asleep.

THE DOO'UCOT UP THE BRAES

Beside the doo'cot up the braes
  The fields slope doon frae me,
An fine's the glint on blawin' days
  O' the bonnie plains o' sea.

Below's my mither's hoosie sma',
  The smiddy by the byre
Whaur aye my feyther dings awa'
  And my brither blaws the fire.