Thou may weel turn awa, Lord, an' say it's a shame 'At noo I suld ca' On thy licht-giein name Wha my lang life-time Wud no see a stime! An' the fac' there's no fleein— But hae pity—I'm deein!

I'm thine ain efter a'— The waur shame I'm nae better! Dinna sen' me awa, Dinna curse a puir cratur! I never jist cheatit— I own I defeatit, Gart his poverty tell On him 'at maun sell!

Oh that my probation Had lain i' some region Whaur was less consideration For gear mixt wi' religion! It's the mixin the twa 'At jist ruins a'! That kirk's the deil's place Whaur gear glorifees grace!

I hae learnt nought but ae thing 'At life's but a span! I hae warslet for naething! I hae noucht i' my han'! At the fut o' the stairs I'm sayin my prayers:— Lord, lat the auld loon Confess an' lie doon.

I hae been an ill man— Micht hae made a guid dog! I could rin though no stan— Micht hae won throu a bog! But 't was ower easy gaein, An' I set me to playin! Dinna sen' me awa Whaur's no licht ava!

Forgie me an' hap me! I hae been a sharp thorn. But, oh, dinna drap me! I'll be coothie the morn! To my brither John Oh, lat me atone— An' to mair I cud name Gien I'd time to tak blame!

I hae wullt a' my gear To my cousin Lippit: She needs 't no a hair, An' wud haud it grippit! But I'm thinkin 't 'll be better To gie 't a bit scatter Whaur it winna canker But mak a bit anchor!

Noo I s'try to sit loose To the warld an' its thrang! Lord, come intil my hoose, For Sathan sall gang! Awa here I sen' him— Oh, haud the hoose agane him, Or thou kens what he'll daur— He'll be back wi' seven waur!

Lord, I knock at thy yett! I hear the dog yowlin! Lang latna me wait— My conscience is growlin! Whaur but to thee Wha was broken for me, But to thee, Lord, sae gran', Can flee an auld man!



GRANNY CANTY.

"What maks ye sae canty, granny dear? Has some kin' body been for ye to speir? Ye luik as smilin an' fain an' willin As gien ye had fun a bonny shillin!"

"Ye think I luik canty, my bonny man, Sittin watchin the last o' the sun sae gran'? Weel, an' I'm thinkin ye're no that wrang, For 'deed i' my hert there's a wordless sang!

"Ken ye the meanin o' canty, my dow? It's bein i' the humour o' singin, I trow! An' though nae sang ever crosses my lips I'm aye like to sing whan anither sun dips.

"For the time, wee laddie, the time grows lang Sin' I saw the man wha's sicht was my sang— Yer gran'father, that's—an' the sun's last glim Says aye to me, 'Lass, ye're a mile nearer him!

"For he's hame afore me, an' lang's the road! He fain at my side wud hae timed his plod, But, eh, he was sent for, an' hurried awa! Noo, I'm thinkin he's harkin to hear my fit-fa'."

"But, grannie, yer face is sae lirkit an' thin, Wi' a doun-luikin nose an' an up-luikin chin, An' a mou clumpit up oot o' sicht atween, Like the witherin half o' an auld weary mune!"

"Hoot, laddie, ye needna glower yersel blin'! The body 'at loos, sees far throu the skin; An', believe me or no, the hoor's comin amain Whan ugly auld fowk 'ill be bonny again.

"For there is ane—an' it's no my dear man, Though I loo him as nane but a wife's hert can— The joy o' beholdin wha's gran' lovely face Til mak me like him in a' 'at's ca'd grace.

"But what I am like I carena a strae Sae lang as I'm his, an' what he wud hae! Be ye a guid man, John, an' ae day ye'll ken What maks granny canty yont four score an' ten."



TIME.

A lang-backit, spilgie, fuistit auld carl Gangs a' nicht rakin athort the warl Wi' a pock on his back, luikin hungry an' lean, His crook-fingert han' aye followin his e'en: He gathers up a'thing that canna but fa'— Intil his bag wi' 't, an' on, an' awa! Soot an' snaw! soot an' snaw!— Intil his bag wi' 't, an' on, an' awa!

But whan he comes to the wa' o' the warl, Spangs up it, like lang-leggit spidder, the carl; Up gangs his pock wi' him, humpit ahin, For naething fa's oot 'at ance he pat in; Syne he warstles doon ootside the flamin wa', His bag 'maist the deith o' him, pangt like a ba'; Soot an' snaw! soot an' snaw! His bag 'maist throttlin him, pangt like a ba'!

Doon he draps weary upon a laigh rock, Flingin aside him his muckle-mou'd pock: An' there he sits, his heid in his han', Like a broken-hertit, despairin man; Him air his pock no bonny, na, na! Him an' his pock an ugsome twa! Soot an' snaw! soot an' snaw! Him an' his pock an ugsome twa!

But sune 's the first ray o' the sunshine bare Lichts on the carl, what see ye there? An angel set on eternity's brink, Wi' e'en to gar the sun himsel blink; By his side a glintin, glimmerin urn, Furth frae wha's mou rins a liltin burn:— Soot an' snaw! soot an' snaw! The dirt o' the warl rins in glory awa!



WHAT THE AULD FOWK ARE THINKIN.

The bairns i' their beds, worn oot wi' nae wark, Are sleepin, nor ever an eelid winkin; The auld fowk lie still wi' their een starin stark, An' the mirk pang-fou o' the things they are thinkin.

Whan oot o' ilk corner the bairnies they keek, Lauchin an' daffin, airms loosin an' linkin, The auld fowk they watch frae the warm ingle-cheek, But the bairns little think what the auld fowk are thinkin.

Whan the auld fowk sit quaiet at the reet o' a stook, I' the sunlicht their washt een blinterin an' blinkin, Fowk scythin, or bin'in, or shearin wi' heuk Carena a strae what the auld fowk are thinkin.

At the kirk, whan the minister's dreich an' dry, His fardens as gien they war gowd guineas chinkin, An' the young fowk are noddin, or fidgetin sly, Naebody kens what the auld fowk are thinkin.

Whan the young fowk are greitin aboot the bed Whaur like water throu san' the auld life is sinkin, An' some wud say the last word was said, The auld fowk smile, an' ken what they're thinkin.



GREITNA, FATHER.

Greitna, father, that I'm gauin, For fu' well ye ken the gaet; I' the winter, corn ye're sawin, I' the hairst again ye hae't.

I'm gauin hame to see my mither; She'll be weel acquant or this! Sair we'll muse at ane anither 'Tween the auld word an' new kiss!

Love I'm doobtin may be scanty Roun ye efter I'm awa: Yon kirkyard has happin plenty Close aside me, green an' braw!

An' abune there's room for mony; 'Twasna made for ane or twa, But was aye for a' an' ony Countin love the best ava.

There nane less ye'll be my father; Auld names we'll nor tyne nor spare! A' my sonship I maun gather For the Son is king up there.

Greitna, father, that I'm gauin, For ye ken fu' well the gaet! Here, in winter, cast yer sawin, There, in hairst, again ye hae't!



I KEN SOMETHING.

What gars ye sing sae, birdie, As gien ye war lord o' the lift? On breid ye're an unco sma' lairdie, But in hicht ye've a kingly gift!

A' ye hae to coont yersel rich in 'S a wee mawn o' glory-motes! The whilk to the throne ye're aye hitchin Wi a lang tow o' sapphire notes!

Ay, yer sang's the sang o' an angel For a sinfu' thrapple no meet, Like the pipes til a heavenly braingel Whaur they dance their herts intil their feet!

But though ye canna behaud, birdie, Ye needna gar a'thing wheesht! I'm noucht but a hirplin herdie, But I hae a sang i' my breist!

Len' me yer throat to sing throu, Len' me yer wings to gang hie, And I'll sing ye a sang a laverock to cow, And for bliss to gar him dee!



MIRLS.

The stars are steady abune; I' the water they flichter and flee; But, steady aye, luikin doon They ken theirsels i' the sea.

A' licht, and clear, and free, God, thou shinest abune; Yet luik, and see thysel in me, Aye on me luikin doon.

* * * * *

Throu the heather an' how gaed the creepin thing, But abune was the waff o' an angel's wing.

* * * * *

Hither an' thither, here an' awa, Into the dub ye maunna fa'; Oot o' the dub wad ye come wi' speed, Ye maun lift yer han's abune yer heid.

* * * * *

Whaur's nor sun nor mune, Laigh things come abune.

* * * * *

My thouchts are like worms in a starless gloamin My hert's like a sponge that's fillit wi' gall; My soul's like a bodiless ghaist sent a roamin I' the haar an' the mirk till the trumpet call.

Lord, turn ilk worm til a butterflee, Wring oot my hert, an' fill 't frae thy ain; My soul syne in patience its weird will dree, An' luik for the mornin throu the rain.

THE END.