id="id00101">For Lachlan lo'es the smiddy's reek,
  An' Geordie's but a fule
Wha' drives the plough his breid to seek,
  And Rob's to teach the schule;

He'll haver roond the schulehoose wa's,
  And ring the schulehoose bell,
He'll skelp the scholars wi' the tawse
  (I'd like that fine mysel'!)

They're easy pleased, my brithers three—
  I hate the smiddy's lowe,
A weary dominie I'd be,
  An' I canna thole the plough.

But by the doo'cot up the braes
  There's nane frae me can steal
The blue sea an' the ocean haze
  An' the ships I like sae weel.

The brigs ride oot past Ferryden
  Ahint the girnin' tugs,
And the lasses wave to the Baltic men
  Wi' the gowd rings i' their lugs.

My mither's sweir to let me gang.
  My feyther gi'es me blame,
But youth is sair and life is lang
  When yer he'rt's sae far frae hame.

But i' the doo'cot up the braes,
  When a'tumn nichts are mirk,
I've hid my pennies an' my claes
  An' the Buik I read at kirk,

An' come ae nicht when a' fowks sleep,
  I'll lift them whaur they lie,
An' to the harbour-side I'll creep
  I' the dim licht o' the sky;

An' when the eastern blink grows wide,
  An' dark still smoors the west,
A Baltic brig will tak' the tide
  Wi' a lad that canna rest!

LOGIE KIRK

O Logie Kirk amang the braes,
  I'm thinkin' o' the merry days
Afore I trod thae weary ways
  That led me far frae Logie!

Fine do I mind when I was young
  Abune thy graves the mavis sung
An' ilka birdie had a tongue
  To ca' me back to Logie.

O Logie Kirk, tho' aye the same
  The burn sings ae remembered name,
There's ne'er a voice to cry "Come hame
  To bonnie Bess at Logie!"

Far, far awa' the years decline
  That took the lassie wha was mine
An' laid her sleepin' lang, lang syne
  Amang the braes at Logie.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE DITCH

Aweel, I'm couped. But wha' could tell
  The road wad rin sae sair?
I couldna gang yon pace mysel',
  An' I winna try nae mair!

There's them wad coonsel me to stan',
  But this is what I say:
When Natur's forces fecht wi' man,
  Dod, he maun just give way!

If man's nae framed to lift his fit
  Agin' a nat'ral law,
I winna' lift my heid, for it
  Wad dae nae guid ava'.

Puir worms are we; the poo'pit rings
  Ilk Sawbath wi' the same,
Gin airth's the place for sic-like things,
  I'm no sae far frae hame!

Yon's guid plain raes'nin'; an' forby,
  This pairish has nae sense,
There's mony traiv'lin wad deny
  Natur and Providence;

For loud an' bauld the leears wage
  On men like me their war,
Elected saints to thole their rage
  Is what they're seekin' for.

But tho' a man wha's drink's his tea
  Their malice maun despise,
It's no for naething, div ye see,
  That I'm sae sweir to rise!

THE LOST LICHT

(A PERTHSHIRE LEGEND)

The weary, weary days gang by,
  The weary nichts they fa',
I mauna rest, I canna lie
  Since my ain bairn's awa'.

The soughing o' the springtide breeze
  Abune her heid blaws sweet,
There's nests amang the kirkyaird trees
  And gowans at her feet.

She gae'd awa' when winds were hie,
  When the deein' year was cauld,
An noo the young year seems to me
  A waur ane nor the auld.

And, bedded, 'twixt the nicht an' day,
  Yest're'en, I couldna bide
For thinkin', thinkin' as I lay
  O' the wean that lies outside.

O, mickle licht to me was gie'n
  To reach my bairn's abode,
But heaven micht blast a mither's een
  And her feet wad find the road.

The kirkyaird loan alang the brae
  Was choked wi' brier and whin,
A' i' the dark the stanes were grey
  As wraiths when I gae'd in.

The wind cried frae the western airt
  Like warlock tongues at strife,
But the hand o' fear hauds aff the he'rt
  That's lost its care for life.

I sat me lang upon the green,
  A stanethraw frae the kirk,
And syne a licht shone dim between
  The shaws o' yew and birk.

'Twas na the wildfire's flame that played
  Alang the kirkyaird land,
It was a band o' bairns that gae'd
  Wi' lichts in till their hand.

O white they cam', yon babie thrang,
  A' silent o'er the sod;
Ye couldna hear their feet amang
  The graves, sae saft they trod.

And aye the can'les flickered pale
  Below the darkened sky,
But the licht was like a broken trail
  When the third wee bairn gae'd by.

For whaur the can'le-flame should be
  Was naither blink nor shine—
The bairnie turned its face to me
  An' I kent that it was mine.

An' O! my broken he'rt was sair,
  I cried, "My ain! my doo'!
For a' thae weans the licht burns fair,
  But it winna' burn for you!"

She smiled to me, my little Jean,
  Said she, "The dule and pain,
O mither! frae your waefu' een
  They strike on me again:

"For ither babes the flame leaps bricht
  And fair and braw appears,
But I canna keep my bonnie licht,
  For it's droukit wi' your tears!"

There blew across my outstreeked hand
  The white mist o' her sark,
But I couldna reach yon babie band
  For it faded i' the dark.

My ain, my dear, your licht shall burn
  Although my een grow blind,
Although they twa to saut should turn
  Wi' the tears that lie behind.

O Jeanie, on my bended knee
  I'll pray I may forget,
My grief is a' that's left to me,
  But there's something dearer yet!

THE LAD I' THE MUNE

I

O gin I lived i' the gowden mune
  Like the mannie that smiles at me,
I'd sit a' nicht in my hoose abune
An the wee-bit stars they wad ken me sune,
For I'd sup my brose wi' a gowden spune
  And they wad come out to see!

II

For weel I ken that the mune's his ain
  And he is the maister there;
A' nicht he's lauchin', for, fegs, there's nane
To draw the blind on his windy-pane
And tak' an' bed him, to lie his lane
  And pleasure himsel' nae mair.

III

Says I to Grannie, "Keek up the glen
  Abune by the rodden tree,
There's a braw lad 'yont i' the mune, ye ken."
Says she, "Awa' wi' ye, bairn, gang ben,
For noo it's little I fash wi' men
  An' it's less that they fash wi'