O'er bogs and burns she held her way,
And up through country strode ;
Till, in louping a ditch, her apron string
Gave way wi' the terrible load,
And the witch sat doon on the stane to rest
Frae her lang and toilsome road.
And there she set up her monument,
Wi' muckle toil and pain,
Which to this day, witch-like and gray,
Stands in that field alane ;
And mony a traveller stops to view
The famous Witch's Stane.
Through the gates of the temple the worshippers pass'd,
A varied and motley crowd;
And their gifts they into the treasury cast
With a liberal sound and loud.
There came the Pharisee, neatly array'd
In broider'd garments fair,
And his offering of gold in the treasury laid
With ostentatious air.
There enter'd the Rabbin, deep read in lore,
Of the old Mosaic code,
And shekels of silver in gift he bore.
As the sacred courts he trod.
There came the sharp Usurer, loving to swear
By the gold of the holy shrine;
But small was the gift that he tender'd there,
For he lov'd the gold most fine.
There slunk in the Publican, ready to do
The basest work for gain;
But his gift he gave to the temple too,
And pass'd with the worshipping train.
From the groves of Engedi the husbandman came,
Where the vine and the mulberry grew,
To the beautiful courts of Jehovah's name,
With tithes and offerings due.
There came a poor widow and threw in a mite,
The smallest that could be told,
Which fell with a tinkle, thin and light,
'Mong heaps of silver and gold.
But the eye of the Master was closely observing
The heart of each worshipper there,
And motives, which many were darkly reserving, To Him were naked and bare.
And thus to His followers He graciously spake 'Though the offering seem but small
Which this poor widow's been able to make,
She gives more than they all."
OUR GRANNIES.
O rokelays grey our grannies wore,
An' cambric mutches like the snaw;
Home-made, an' guid, in ample store,
Their dress was simple, neat, an' braw.
But now our dames an' damosels
In silks an' satins meet our een;
An' every maid an' matron swells
In bouncin' skirts o' crinoline.
Our reverend grannies in the law
An' gospel too were learned an' sound ;
They kent the points o' doctrine a',
An' flock'd to preachers far an' round.
Their graceless daughters eager fly
To dancin' revelries and balls,
Despisin' auld Theology,
They crowd to shows an' concert halls.
Our thrifty grannies turned the wheel,
An' hose, an' sheets, an' blankets made;
The auld guidman was happit weel
In his grey hamespun shepherd plaid.
Our women now in Berlin woo
Mak pretty flowers upon a screen,
Wi' beads, an' braids, an' tassels too
They mak' sic wark as ne'er was seen.
Our sturdy grannies tighter drew
Their cloaks when fiercer blew the blast,
As to the kirk an' market too,
On patten'd feet they cleanly pass'd.
Their dainty daughters in the sun
Walk forth in rainbow hues array'd;
All vulgar things they needs must shun,
An' grannies pattens past are laid.
Our grannies baked, our grannies brew'd,
An' kept a clean an' canty house;
An' grannies shaped, an' grannies shew'd,
An' held their folk a' warm an' crouse.
Your modern lady, grand an' fine,
At useful labour scacrely keeks;
And thinks it quite beneath her line,
For her to mend the guidman's breeks.
Our heartsome grannies, when in tune,
Sang "Barbara Allen's " plaintive lay,
The Kyng sits in Dumferlin toon,"
"Lord Gregory," or "Robin Gray."
Sic airs wont suit our lasses noo,
An' Yankee rants are a' the go,
As "Land of Dixie,'
""Dooden doo,”
'Ring, ring the banjo," "Jump Jim Crow."
O rokelays red our grannies wore,
An' aft the lichtsome dames were seen
Beneath the fragrant hawthorn hoar,
A-jinkin' wi' their joes at e'en.
Their daughters too mak love, an' woo,
An' countless witchin' wiles unfold,
An' wrap their forms in rokelays too,
Just as their grannies did of old.
THE AULD WATER BARREL.
The lang drouth had dried up the clear bubbling springs,
And birsled the earth a' as dry as a farle,
Sair shortened the fother, and 'mang other things,
Had gizen'd our auld wife's rain-water barrel,
The puir body yammer'd baith early and late-
Nae water had she for to wash her apparel;
And e'en though the rain should come doon like a spate
It would rin in an' oot through her auld water barrel.
The neebours cam' round wi' their ready advice-
"Tak it ower to the cooper, an' he'll gie't a harl
A gird roond the liggen would mak it sae nice,
It would just be as guid as a new water barrel."
So rashly they drew it from under the spoot,
Where lang it had keppit the rain's weary dribble.
And as rather rudely they rowed it aboot,
Doon, rattlin' to staves, gaed the frail water barrel.
Auld Janet look'd on wi' a sorrowfu' air,
And mildly she spak to the gruff cooper carle"Ah, neebour! I doubt it will never repair, And that is the end o' my guid water barrel !
Oh, dear me in this I a lesson may read,
How very soon I may be done wi' this warl';
How soon i' the grave I may lay doon my head
And gang a' to staves like that auld water barrel.
But I hae a hope-and a dear hope to me-
And I wadna exchange't for the lands o' an earl-
That in the Great Flittin' I bundled will be,
Nor left to be brunt like an auld water barrel."
MPPEARS to have been born in Airdrie or, its
neighbourhood, about the beginning of the present century. He was, for a short time, teacher at Green's School, parish of Shotts, and ultimately went to America, and became pretty well known as a geologist. He died a number of years ago, a notice of his death appearing in the newspapers at the time. A small volume of his poems and songs, dedicated to the Countess of Wemyss and March, was published at Edinburgh in 1827. His poetry, though melancholy in tone, possesses considerable force and richness of expression.
THE VOICE OF LOVE.
The voice that we love has a sweetness of tone,
The heart's melting music, more exquisite far
Than the quivering harp that the breeze plays upon
In its wanderings wild, or the lively guitar.
And we gaze on those lips whence the soft music flows
With a rapture that language has never expressed,
But the heart it appeals to with ecstacy glows,
And its echo of feeling is, "Oh how I'm blest!"
And Hope with her sunny enchantment is near,
To fill the fond soul with her dreams of delight,
And visions of things-they may never be here,-
Are dancing before us like spirits of light.
And Fancy adorns some lone cottage of peace
With sweet-scented flowers that are richest in hue,
Where Love's weary wanderings for ever may cease,
And the soul taste of joys that this world never knew.
But who with a rude hand would ever entwine
Those garlands that Love's fairy fingers have wreathed
Round beauty, that smiles, as if spirits divine
On Fancy's creations their blessing had breathed!
Let the sleeper repose-when his slumber is deep,
Or when Heaven descends on his eyelids of rest;
If the dreamer awake it is only to-weep
O'er those visions of bliss that now thrill through his breast.
THE MISERIES OF THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER.
Condemned to toil amid the rude,
To reap the worst ingratitude;
His name the jest of every brute
Whose humour he disdains to suit ;
To hear each little wretch proclaim
The wrath of some indignant dame;
To see the school grow thin, and know
It springs from Slander's coward blow;
To see those he has served the best
Turn all his services to jest;
And as he walks along, to hear
Some spiteful, ragged urchin sneer,
Who once was subject to his rule,
But now is at another school;
To battle with the obstinate;
On dull stupidity to wait;
To force, to curb, to draw, to please,
To feel nor hope, nor joy, nor ease;
Instead of oratory's sweet tone,
To hear a hummed incessant drone ;.
To breathe infection from the crowd
Until the pulse beats quick and loud;
The eyes grow sunk and red,-to feel ́
The heart grow sick, the brain to reel;
And that he may not starve, with pain
To draw his grudged and scanty gain;
Such is the village teacher's fate.-
Blush, Scotland, Blush! who makes thee great,
Powerful, enlightened, virtuous, free,
But the poor village teacher?
Whose faded cheek, and downcast eye,
Whose drooping form and frequent sigh,
Whose lonely home, and threadbare coat,
Proclaim too well his hapless lot;
The child of learning, wise, and good,
But poor by thy ingratitude;
To him thou owest thy wealth and fame,
Scotland, to thy eternal shame.
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