VERSES ON THE CALDER IN ITS COURSE BY ST. ENOCH'S, ROSEHALL, &C.
LONE CALDER! sweet Calder! beloved of my youth! When Nature I worshipped with fervour and truth, Sweet memories float like a beautiful dream
O'er thy musical woodlands and murmuring stream.
'Tis sixty long years since; and now as I range
Thy flower-spangled margin-alas, for the change!
My youthful companions-ah! where have ye fled?
Sweet, sad voices whisper, They sleep with the dead.
Bright golden-haired Bella, dear delicate Ann,
And warm-hearted Jessie, how swiftly ye ran
Down the dell of the hyacinth your cousin to meet,
And guide through the Calder her small shrinking feet!
Then o'er thy green holms we went bounding along, And woke up the echoes with laughter and song; With freedom and sunshine, with birds and with flowers, And young hearts all joyous-how swift sped the hours!
Dear Jessie, thou only of all the blithe train
Art left; shall I ever behold thee again?
Thy pale gentle mother went early to rest,
And her dear ones soon followed to sleep on her breast.
Sweet sylvan! St. Enoch's fond mem'ry recalls
Sweet voices, fair faces, that dwelt in thy halls-
'Tis long since they left, and the stranger possessed
The home of their fathers-the dearest, the best.
From thy desolate chambers, Oh lonely Rosehall!
The dwellers have vanished-"the steed from the stall;"
The hearts that have loved thee and owned thee are dust,
And thy chill halls are tarnished with milldew and rust.
Though garlands of poesy entwine not thy brow,
Nor bard in soft numbers thy charms will avow;
Yet, Calder, a muse that is nameless will bring
song that is nameless thy beauties to sing.
A HUNNER funnels bleezin', reekin',
Coal an' ironstane charrin', smeekin';
Navvies, miners, keepers, fillers,
Puddlers, rollers, iron millers;
Reestit, reekit, raggit laddies,
Firemen, enginemen, an' paddies;
Boatmen, banksmen, rough an' rattlin',
'Bout the wecht wi' colliers battlin',
Sweatin', swearin', fechtin', drinkin';
Change-house bells an' gill-stoups clinkin';
Police-ready men and willin'—
Aye at han' whan stoups are fillin';
Clerks an' counter-loupers plenty,
Wi' trim moustache and whiskers dainty-
Chaps that winna staun at trifles!
Min' ye, they can han'le rifles!
'Bout the wives in oor location
An' the lassies' botheration-
Some are decent, some are dandies,
An'a gey wheen drucken randies;
Aye to neebors houses sailin',
Greetin' bairns ahint them trailing',
Gaun for nouther bread nor butter,
Juist to drink an' rin the cutter!
O the dreadfu' curse o' drinkin'!
Men are ill, but, to my thinkin',
Leukin' through the drucken fock,
There's a Jenny for ilk Jock.
Oh the dool an' desolation,
An' the havock in the nation
Wrocht by dirty, drucken wives!
Oh hoo mony bairnies lives
Lost ilk year through their neglec' !
Like a millstane roun' the neck
O' the strugglin', toilin' masses
Hing drucken wives an' wanton lassies.
To see sae mony unwed mithers
Is sure a shame that taps a' ithers.
An' noo I'm fairly set a-gaun;
On baith the whisky-shop and pawn
I'll speak my min'-and what for no?
Frae whence cums misery, want, an' wo,
The ruin, crime, disgrace, an' shame
That quenches a' the lichts o' hame?
Ye needna speer, the feck ot's drawn
Oot o' the change-hoose an' the pawn.
Sin an' Death, as poets tell,
On ilk side the doors o' hell
Wait to ha'rl mortals in-
Death gets a' that's catcht by sin:
There are doors where Death an' Sin
Draw their tens o' thoosan's in;
Thick an' thrang we see them gaun,
First the dram-shop, then the pawn;
Owre a' kin's o' ruination,
Drink's the King in oor location!
WRITTEN FOR THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY BANQUET OF A NEWLY-FORMED BURNS' CLUB IN MANCHESTER. 25TH JANUARY, 1869.
HIGH bard of Scotia, brightest son of song,
Who boldly swept his master hand along
The golden strings of Caledonia's lyre,
And pour'd in magic strains and words of fire
The witching song of love; its hopes and fears
Of love in death, embalmed with burning tears,
Of blooming Nature in her flow'ry prime;
Of pathos deep, and sentiment sublime,
Of humour quaint, and wit's keen lightning glance;
The midnight's orgies of the witches dance;
The song of Saturday's sweet evening rest,
Dear to the cottar, eve of Sabbath blest
No sweeter music poets hand hath wrung
From Scotia's lyre-no son of genius sung
In loftier strains-no patriot's battle cry
Like his can nerve the arm when foes are nigh.
But time forbids that we should longer dwell
On themes that thrill the heart, the bosom swell.
The name, the tuneful fame of Robert Burns,
Still to the "aul' clay biggin" memory turns,
Where Scotia's genius, robed in tartan screen,
In vision'd beauty, by the bard was seen,
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