see,
When I'm auld an' done wi' the fash o' their English ways
  I'll come hame to dee;
For the lad dreams aye o' the prize that the man'll get,
  But he lives an' lairns,
An' it's far, far 'ayont him still—but it's farther yet
  To the Howe o' the Mearns.

Laddie, my lad, when the hair is white on yer pow
  An' the work's put past,
When yer hand's owre auld an' heavy to haud the plough
  I'll win hame at last,
An we'll bide our time on the knowes whaur the broom stands braw
  An' we played as bairns,
Till the last lang gloamin' shall creep on us baith an' fa'
  On the Howe o' the Mearns.

THE LANG ROAD

Below the braes o' heather, and far alang the glen,
The road rins southward, southward, that grips the souls o' men,
That draws their fitsteps aye awa' frae hearth and frae fauld,
That pairts ilk freen' frae ither, and the young frae the auld.
And whiles I stand at mornin' and whiles I stand at nicht,
To see it through the gaisty gloom, gang slippin oot o sicht;
There's mony a lad will ne'er come back amang his ain to lie,
An' its lang, lang waitin' till the time gangs by.

An far ayont the bit o' sky that lies abune the hills,
There is the black toon standin' mid the roarin' o' the mills.
Whaur the reek frae mony engines hangs 'atween it and the sun
An the lives are weary, weary, that are just begun.
Doon yon lang road that winds awa' my ain three sons they went,
They turned their faces southward frae the glens they aye had kent,
And twa will never see the hills wi' livin' een again,
An' it's lang, lang waitin' while I sit my lane.

For ane lies whaur the grass is hiech abune the gallant deid,
An ane whaur England's michty ships sail proud abune his heid,
They couldna' sleep mair saft at hame, the twa that sairved their king,
Were they laid aside their ain kirk yett, i' the flower o' the ling.
But whaur the road is twistin' through yon streets o' care an' sin,
My third braw son toils nicht and day for the gowd he fain would win,
Whaur ilka man grapes i' the dark to get his neebour's share,
An' it's lang, lang strivin' i' the mirk that's there.

The een o' love can pierce the mools that hide a sodger's grave,
An' love that doesna' heed the sod will naither hear the wave,
But it canna' see 'ayont the cloud that hauds my youngest doon
Wi' its mist o' greed an' sorrow i' the smokin' toon.
An whiles, when through the open door there fades the deein' licht,
I think I hear my ain twa men come up the road at nicht,
But him that bides the nearest seems the furthest aye frae me—
And it's lang, lang listenin' till I hear the three!

THE BEADLE O' DRUMLEE

Them that's as highly placed as me
(Wha am the beadle o' Drumlee)
Should na be prood, nor yet owre free.

Me an' the meenister, ye ken,
Are no the same as a' thae men
We hae for neebours i' the glen.

The Lord gie'd him some lairnin' sma'
An me guid sense abune them a',
An them nae wuts to ken wha's wha.

Ye'd think, to hear the lees they tell,
The Sawbath day could mind itsel'
Withoot a hand to rug the bell,

Ye'd think the Reverend Paitrick Broun
Could ca' the Bible up an' doon
An' loup his lane in till his goon.

Whiles, gin he didna get frae me
The wicelike wird I weel can gie,
Whaur wad the puir bit callant be?

The elders, Ross an' Weellum Aird,
An' fowk like Alexander Caird,
That think they're cocks o' ilka yaird,

Fegs aye! they'd na be sweir to rule
A lad sae newly frae the schule
Gin my auld bonnet crooned a fule!

But oh! Jehovah's unco' kind!
Whaur wad this doited pairish find
A man wi' sic a powerfu' mind?

Sae, let the pairish sleep at nicht
Blind wi' the elders' shinin' licht,
Nor ken wha's hand keeps a' things richt.

It's what they canna understan'
That brains hae ruled since time began,
An' that the beadle is the man!

THE WATER-HEN

As I gae'd doon by the twa mill dams i' the mornin'
The water-hen cam' oot like a passin' wraith
And her voice cam' through the reeds wi' a sound of warnin',
    "Faith—keep faith!"
"Aye, bird, tho' ye see but ane ye may cry on baith!"

As I gae'd doon the field when the dew was lyin',
My ain love stood whaur the road an' the mill-lade met,
An it seemed to me that the rowin' wheel was cryin',
    "Forgi'e—forget,
An turn, man, turn, for ye ken that ye lo'e her yet!"

As I gae'd doon the road 'twas a weary meetin',
For the ill words said yest're'en they were aye the same,
And my het he'rt drouned the wheel wi' its heavy beatin'.
    "Lass, think shame,
It's no for me to speak, for it's you to blame!"

As I gae'd doon by the toon when the day was springin'
The Baltic brigs lay thick by the soundin' quay
And the riggin' hummed wi' the sang that the wind was singin',
    "Free—gang free,
For there's mony a load on shore may be skailed at sea!"

* * * * * *

When I cam' hame wi' the thrang o' the years 'ahint me
There was naucht to see for the weeds and the lade in spate,
But the water-hen by the dams she seemed aye to mind me,
    Cryin' "Hope—wait!"
"Aye, bird, but my een grow dim, an' it's late—late!"

THE HEID HORSEMAN

O Alec, up at Soutar's fairm,
  You, that's sae licht o' he'rt,
I ken ye passin' by the tune
  Ye whustle i' the cairt;

I hear the rowin' o' the wheels,
  The clink o' haims an' chain,
And set abune yer stampin' team
  I see ye sit yer lane.

Ilk morn, agin' the kindlin' sky
  Yer liftit heid is black,
Ilk nicht I watch ye hameward ride
  Wi' the sunset at yer back.

For wark's yer meat and wark's yer play,
  Heid horseman tho' ye be,
Ye've ne'er a glance for wife nor maid,
  Ye tak nae tent o' me.

An' man, ye'll no suspec' the truth,
  Tho' weel I ken it's true,
There's mony ane that trails in silk
  Wha fain wad gang wi' you.

But I am just a serving lass,
  Wha toils to get her breid,
An' O! ye're sweir to see the gowd
  I braid about my heid.

My cheek is like the brier rose,
  That scents the simmer wind,
An fine I'd keep the wee bit hoose,
  'Gin I'd a man to mind!

It's sair to see, when ilka lad
  Is dreamin' o' his joe,
The bonnie mear that leads yer team
  Is a' ye're thinkin' o'.

Like fire upon her satin coat
  Ye gar the harness shine,
But, lad, there is a safter licht
  In thae twa een o' mine!

Aye—wark yer best—but youth is short,
  An' shorter ilka year—
There's ane wad gar ye sune forget
  Yon limmer o' a mear!