CONTENTS

IN SCOTS

  JOCK, TO THE FIRST ARMY
  THE TWA WEELUMS
  THE FIELD BY THE LIRK O’ THE HILL
  MONTROSE
  THE ROAD TO MARYKIRK
  KIRSTY’S OPINION
  THE BRIG
  THE KIRK BESIDE THE SANDS
  GLORY
  THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
  A CHANGE O’ DEILS
  REJECTED
  THE LAST O’ THE TINKLER

IN ENGLISH

  FRINGFORD BROOK
  PRISON
  PRESAGE
  THE BIRD IN THE VALLEY
  BACK TO THE LAND
  THE SCARLET LILIES
  FROSTBOUND
  ARMED
  “THE HAPPY WARRIOR”
  UNITY

IN SCOTS

JOCK, TO THE FIRST ARMY

O Rab an’ Dave an’ rantin’ Jim,
  The geans were turnin’ reid
When Scotland saw yer line grow dim,
  Wi’ the pipers at its heid;
Noo, i’ yon warld we dinna ken,
  Like strangers ye maun gang—­
"We’ve sic a wale[1] o’ Angus men
  That we canna weary lang."

An’ little Wat—­my brither Wat—­
  Man, are ye aye the same? 
Or is yon sma’ white hoose forgot
  Doon by the strath at hame? 
An’ div’ ye mind foo aft we trod
  The Isla’s banks before?—­
—­“My place is wi’ the Hosts o’ God,
  But I mind me o’ Strathmore.”

It’s daith comes skirling through the sky,
  Below there’s naucht but pain,
We canna see whaur deid men lie
  For the drivin’ o’ the rain;
Ye a’ hae passed frae fear an’ doot. 
  Ye’re far frae airthly ill—­
—­“We’re near, we’re here, my wee recruit,
  An’ we fecht for Scotland still.”

[1] Choice.

THE TWA WEELUMS

I’m Sairgeant Weelum Henderson frae Pairth,
        That’s wha I am! 
There’s jist ae bluidy regiment on airth
        That’s worth a damn;
An’ gin the bonniest fechter o’ the lot
        Ye seek to see,
Him that’s the best—­whaur ilka man’s a Scot—­
        Speir you at me!

Gin there’s a hash o’ Gairmans pitten oot
        By aichts an’ tens,
That Wully Henderson’s been thereaboot
        A’body kens. 
Fegs-aye!  Yon Weelum that’s in Gairmanie,
        He hadna reckoned
Wi’ Sairgeant Weelum Henderson, an’ wi’
        The Forty-Second!

Yon day we lichtit on the shores o’ France,
        The lassies standin’
Trod ilk on ither’s taes to get the chance
        To see us landin’;
The besoms!  O they smiled to me—­an’ yet
        They couldna’ help it,
(Mysel’, I just was thinkin’ foo we’d get
        The Gairmans skelpit.)

I’m wearied wi’ them, for it’s aye the same
        Whaure’er we gang,
Oor Captain thinks we’ve got his een to blame,
        But, man! he’s wrang;
I winna say he’s no as smairt a lad
        As ye micht see
Atween twa Sawbaths—­aye, he’s no sae bad,
        But he’s no me!