William M'Hutchison.

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Then I had fallen with my comrades brave,
Who fought and bled, and sleep in ocean cave.

" They bound my wounds : I lived ; by life accurs'd,


I, who alone sought death, they car'd for, nurs'd ;
With many death-like scars from foeman's brand,
Maim'd, poor, and friendless, sought my native land.
My native land, what memories wake in thee !
Thy name oft nerv'd my arm by land and sea ;
Return M to thee, an old lame beggar now
Such were the laurels that bedeck'd my brow.

" Despised and mock'd, as charity I sought
' Old Tar,' reap the reward for which you fought ;
Though bold you fought, and bled among the brave,
Go to the poorhouse fill a pauper's grave 1

" 'Twas there I died nor sigh nor tear was shed,
Nor friend stood near the warrior pauper's bed.
Nightly my restless soul roams round this spot,
Where sleeps my name unhonoured and forgot.''
The voice was hush'd the old man's tale was told
We touch'd the earth, which still seem'd wet and cold ;
One tear we shed, one parting sigh we gave,
And left the hero's and the pauper's grave.



Now let us pause beside that verdant spot,
No pauper's grave unhonour'd and forgot.
'Tis said, oft in the dewy twilight there
The ev'ning breezes waft a mother's prayer,
And oft when night profound o'er Nature steals,
Beside that silent grave that mother kneels.
One othe*r look we take before we pass
A tablet there informs us who he was.

The ashes of a first-born son lie there,
Entomb'd beneath that grassy heap ;

He told us ere death closed his eye,
'Twas there he wished to sleep.


We think we see him now : his curling hair,
His snow-white brow, and manly breast,

His rosy cheek, and light blue eye
But no : that form's at rest.

In op'ning manhood suddenly laid low,
Possess'd of health and youth's fair bloom ;

Next moment struck the fatal bolt
That laid him in the tomb.

Oh ! what a flood of grief o'erwhelm'd our soul,
That hour we learn'd his fate to mourn ;

And here our tears commingling oft
Bedew his grassy urn.

Sleep on, beloved one, and may thy soul,
Now wash'd, with ransom'd ones be blest ;

A few short years your parents shall
Be partners of your rest.

This blessed hope forbids the tears to flow
For those, who gone before, we love ;

All those who have that heav'nly gift
Shall find a home above !



.Addressed to Mr WILLIAM MAIN, Gushet-House, Airdrie, the
possessor of the relics referred to in the poem.

SIR, Proud may you be of that trophy of old

That banner of blood with the motto in gold :

"For Christ's crown and cov'nant " now aged and


'Mid the fight by the hands of the faithful 'twas borne,
And it wav'd o'er our fathers, leal-hearted and bold,
That old banner of blood, with the motto in gold.

In those days of peril, of torture, of blood,
When caves and the moors were the home of the good
When Clavers the fires of destruction had hurl'd
Over Scotland. Our fathers that banner unfurl'd,
Whose red blood-spots the value to ages have told
Of that banner of blood, with the motto in gold.


And proud may you be of the sword and the spear
The arms of the mighty must ever be dear ;
But dearer those weapons our fathers have used
When the bloodhounds our kirk and our country abused :
They were bathed in the blood of the foemen of old,
'Round that banner of blood, with the motto in gold.

And well may the sons of such fathers be proud
To tell of their deeds, their contendings to blood ;
They came with their lives, with their fortunes and all,
Beneath that banner of blood to conquer or fall.
Our lov'd Scotland yet boasts of brave sons as of old,
Who would fight 'neath that banner and motto in gold.



COME, ask that aged sire, whose hairs are silv'ring white,

Of youthful scenes and joys and childhood's years ;
Oh ! how those hallow'd hours make aged eyes look

Time-honour'd lips oft mention them in tears.
The hearth, the home of youth, where boyhood's days
were spent,

Where all was love, untainted with a sigh ;
When to our ev'ry wish a mother's ear was lent

But these like things of time but bloom'd to die.

Still mem'ry treasures up with miser hand and care,
Within her inmost core those golden hours

Wherever spent ; it matters little whence or where
'Midst city life, 'midst Nature's rural bowers.


Answer, proud sceptic ! Tell where do those mem'ries

Thus unimpair'd within the human mind ;
Reflection here finds proof by those impressions deep

That the mind's immortal God -like unconfined.

We view back, through the vista of departed years.

At will can conjure up each schoolmate's look ;
The master's dreadful frown and voice ; the scholar's

When caught in fault, neglecting task and book ;
The sunny afternoons, unkerchief d and unshod,

With baited pin we fished the minnow pool ;
Or nesting, wildly ran through Gallowhill's dark wood,

Unmindful of to-morrow's task or school ;

Or roving on the tangled steeps of Verter Braes,

Through bracken, brier, and broom, and heather-bell,

Pulling the bramble -berries, hazel-nuts, and slaes,
Beyond the hawthorn tree above the well.

The well, the hawthorn tree, have long since pass'd away,
Yet still they live within that old man's breast,


Remember'd better far than things of yesterday
At eventide they sooth'd his soul to rest.

Yes ; he is gone : he died beside his youthful home

Speak out, and say will all those memories die ;
Methinks the disembodied spirit oft will roam

Around such scenes, unseen by mortal eye.
Answer, proud sceptic ! then, where do those memories

Thus unimpair'd within the human mind ;
Reflection here finds proof by those impressions deep,

That th' soul's immortal God-like unconfined.



Written in 1858.

HEARKEN, ye Airdrie bodies a',

Wha kent our toon whan it was sma' ;

It's no noo as it was ava

Since ye'll hae min',
"We kent maist ev'ry face we saw,

Their kith an* kin.

Then ilka neighbour was a brither
That loed an' trusted, felt for ither,
Wha didna need tae staun an' swither,

But freely spak ;
But noo they'd cheat their very mither

The mongrel pack.


Our ev'ry way an' wark's corrup'it,
Honour an' sense hae flown, by whuppit,
An' ev'ry ill that's out's been gruppit

The guid tae tine,
The very root o' truth is grubbed

Sin' days ye '11 min'.

Whan fairs cam roun', the Airdrie chiels

Each took his lassie tae the reels,

Threw aff their coats, an' made their heels

Crack in the air ;
Ilk house resoundin' wi' their squeels

On Airdrie fair.

Neist, punds o' sweeties, siller's warein',
Ilk lassock's droon'd wi } show'rs o' fairin' ;
But mornin' peeps, they're hameward pairin',

Then blinks o' bliss.
The aul' wife's haun' they put a share in,

Her flyte tae miss.

Neist day in happy groups they're crackin',
They're a' a day o' pleasure takin' ;


Bands o' lads an' lasses walkin'

Jinket is care.
That was the way they spent the backin'

0' Airdrie fair.

But noo our toon's in sic a state
Guid help the wight that wan'ers late,
Smash frae skull-cracker is his fate,

Or a knock doon.
Tae settle scores this is the gate

Ta'en in our toon.

An' whan they hae a ball or spree,
Nae kin'ly feelin's in their ee,
They wind it up wi' a melee

Ilk ane gets licket
The doup o' social frien'ly glee

They've fairly kicket.

But warst o' a', on Sabbath noo,
Scores slunge about dirty an' fou' ;
The game's begun, the gents in blue
Snitcher a squad,


An* glaur an' shuagh they drag them through,
Roarin', tae quod.

We've lots o' schules the best o' teaching

An' ministers far-famed for preachin',

What sairs their faithfu' feight an' fleachin'

They've lost comman' ;
A flood o' moral ill is streachin'

O'er a' the Ian'.

The court day's come, the bell is rung
See ! what a batch o' aul' an' young ;
Crimes are made out that ance would hung

Them on a wuddie ;
Quite common noo tae steals ane's spung

An* lea' them bluidy.

Rest ye a wee, the court's near through,
We'll hear the speech o' Justice Loo ;
Hear hoo he blatters at the crew

About repentance,
While guinea fines are boundin' noo

His ev'ry sentence.


Hoo different was our faithers' time,
They feltna then the curse o' crime ;
On Sabbath morn the heartfelt hymn

Tae plaintive air
Was heard, their souls arose sublime

In fervent prayer.

Thae holy scenes hae quickly past,
An' ills on ills hae thicken'd fast ;
But juist as calm succeeds the blast,
So may this gloom

0' vice an' crime get a dooncast,

An' virtue bloom.



Written in 1862.

ATJL' Airdrie noo may hing her held,
Her day o' sorrow's come indeed,
A time was whan she took the lead

For meat and wark ;
But noo her siller's scarce, an' bread,

An' prospects dark.

Her seams o' coal an' aim are failin'
Her sons tae ither lan's are sailin'
Her shops are shut, the beagles nailin'

Puir bodies a' ;
Some think that noo she's past a' healin',

An' doom'd tae fa'.


We've rulers plenty clever men
Yell speak o' naething but they ken ;
At feed or spree they'll keep their ben

There's F. and Johnnie,
Wha'll sit an* sip yes, till amen,

We trow wi 3 ony.

There's J. an' D. an' double U.

Three gash aul' chiels, leal-hearted, true

They'll lay about till a' be blue

At council dinners ;
But for the toon they'll naething do,

Close-fisted sinners.

What may the upshot be ere lang,

If things at this rate farer gang ;

We would advise some, right or wrang,

Tae tak' a hint,
Or monie a jybin', jeerin' sang

They'll see in print.

There's some here yet hae siller 'bout them
Wha sae it's scarce, but fac' we doubt them,


Micht tak' their guineas an' lay out them,

An' something try ;
If no, we wish Aul' Clouts may clout them

For't, hip an' thigh.

For here juist noo are hunners starving
A very different fate deservin' :
It disna tak s a 'cute observin'

Tae fin' this out.
Oh ! that some power would put some nerve in

Things here about.

A short time since there was a din
That Airdrie lassocks flax would spin,
The young chiels, strippit tae the skin,

Would learn tae puddle ;
But it ended whar it did begin,

In smoke an' fuddle.

If ony sin's waur than anither,
There's yin waur than them a' thegither
The sin that shuts the heart 'gainst brither
Whan in distress ;


The way folk here use yin anither,
Is gey like this,

Ye wha hae wealth, an' hoard it by,
An' shut your ear tae misery's sigh,
May sigh yoursel' yet loudly cry,

An' nane will hear,
An' fin' an ear shut by-an'-bye,

As yours was here.

So for your interest there an 1 here,
Befrien' the puir, uphaud an* cheer
The sufferin* anes, an' dry the tear

0' the neglected,
Ye '11 live an honour 'd man and dear,

An 7 dee respected.

An' when ye're laid in death's lone yaird,
The sacred spot a' will regard,
Wi' sorrow's tears bedew the swaird

Around your tomb ;
Your name shall live while mem'ry's spar'd,

An' verdant bloom.



With a population of 16,000 souls, over whose temporal and
spiritual interests only four persons take watch.

" Oh, what a parish ! Oh, what a parish !

Oh, what a parish was Little Dunkel' !
Whar they hang'd the minister, drown'd the precentor,

Tore doon the steeple, an' fuddled the bell! "

WHA kens na that kirk the Auld Monkland Kirk

Tho' its wa's noo are bare, grim, an' hoary ;
The tongue o' its bell, if it likit, could tell

'Bout monie a debauch an' queer story.
For whan Sacraments cam, buns an* yill, an' the dram

Were ca'd in, an' devoured by the thousan' ;
There the auT an' the young gat firm on the bung

There the saunt an' the sinner sat bousin'.


On Saturday nicht, e'en wi' candle licht,

For the morn the aul' tent they're erectin' ;
In the midst o' the steer, the hubbub an 5 beer,

The aul' minister, John's, seen directin'.
Wha's ever been here they'll ken we're nae lee'r,

Tho' some facts out o' monie we venture :
In Mrs. D p's, whar they guzzled their saps,

They've been kent tae encore the precentor,
An' curse an' comment on Hugh in the tent

Hear him noo ! Hugh's noo daein 1 fairish ;
He is noo giein't vent, and cryin' repent

Hip, hurrah ! for the Auld Monkland Parish.
Thae days noo are gane the priest noo his lane,

Wi' the help o' three ithers, can manage
A' Sabbath affairs, the kirk, its repairs

That's a proof o' the power o' this gran' age.
Should a sinner get cur'd, or a member get floor'd,

Thae four meet tae discuss't wi' decorum ;
The parish should ken there are four siccan men,

The war? eouldna produce sic a quorum.
They form the Session ilk fault an' transgression


They absolve or retain noo, dinna glowr ;
They condemn or acquit, juist on the bit

They're really an' truly a marvellous four.
I hae nae intention farer tae mention

Their labours o' love, their goodness, their power ;
Sae here tae conclude, I think ilk ane should

Admire an' respeck sic a wonderfu' four.



Sent in 1837 to JI.MES THOMSON, a comrade, who had been
ill some time, and was not expected to recover.

DEAR FRIEN', I'm vex'd that you're sae ill ;
Had I the power as I've the will,
I'd mak ye hale, an' stap a quill

Intae your paV,
Tae write a verse tae your frien', Will,

Or maybe twa.

Ye ken it is my heart's desire
Tae see ye ance mair by the fire,
Screedin' at your namely lyre

Wi' a' your micht ;
Divertm' me, yoursel', an' sire,

Through winter's nicht.


But pleasant days o' simmer's comin' ;
Wi 5 you I'd like tae spend a gloamin',
Tae view the weel-kent fiel's by Common,

An' hear the sang
0' e'ening birds, an' wild bees hummin'

The wuds amang.

Tae wan'er by yon murmurin' rill
That keeps the howe ayont Whitehill,
Then through the wuds by Gallowhill,

Syne east by Jack's,
Whar fock on Sabbath tak their yill,

Their clash an' cracks.

Tae tell hoo Sabbaths there were spent

I'd really maist my pen prevent ;
Hoo kintra clashes underwent

A scrutiny sair.
For Tarn's yill gied tae each a vent,

An' sometimes mair.

I've seen't shame fa't ! at mid-day skale,
The lads amang the lasses wale,


Like bairns on Halloween, the kail
For a straught shank.

But rather than rehearse the tale,
I'll leave a blank.

The left lot 'mang the gravestanes gauntin',
'Twas eas'ly seen what was a-wantin' :
An hour or maybe twa's gallantin'

Wi' some puir fallow ;
I've seen me fear't for a' their sauntin'

0' what micht fallow.

I like the Doctor, tho 1 he's auld,

He rattles through't wi' style sae bauld ;

An' tho' the day be ne'er sae cauld,

I'm here ilk Sunday ;
Altho' it's true I've sometimes crawl'd

Hamewards on Monday.

The reason's clear, we meet sae monie,
Crackin' tales an' jokes sae funny;


An' then Tarn's yill's like ony honey

Or stolen water,
We sit an' crack tae please some cronie,

An' hear the clatter.

The dram, at first in moderation,
Freer gets in circulation ;
Some ane starts a botheration

'Bout warks an' faith,
Or rails against the separation,

Till out o' breath.

Amidst their pious-drunk reflection,
The crownin' topic o' inspection,
The knotty subject o' election,

An' God's decrees :
That's ane that's sure aye o 1 dissection

At a' their sprees.

The truth tae tell, 'tween you an' me,
Sic clashin', drinkin', shouldna be ;
I hate their vile hypocrisy ;

I wish you better
I wish you health an' honesty.

Here ends my letter.



Written 1865.

YE councillors, round our civic chair,
Wha's pledg'd tae get it fill'd ance mair
By our aiiT frien' o' hoary hair

dae tak tent,
For a' their plotting skill, an' care,

Ye micht repent.

Their plans are laid tae keep out Matt,
But we would like tae ken for what ;
He has as lang in council sat

As whiglin' frien'
Can wear as guid a coat an' hat

Can spout as clean.


We canna think that ye were sinnin',

Tho' ilk ane pledg'd, would break his binnin',

That certain bodies hae been spinnin'

But rather fair,
Tae gie tae Matt a glorious innin'

Tae civic chair.

He weel deserves't for what he's dune :
He serv'd the burgh late an' shune.
Yes ; act like men get Matthew in

He's Airdrie born,
An' in the toon has frien's ye'll fin'

Can tout his horn.

We hate that low, vile, selfish plan,
!That heaps a' honour on yae man,
An' dooms as guid for aye tae stan'

Aside the chair.
No ; him wha toils wi* heart an' han'

Should honours share.

An' noo, dear frien', an' much respeckit,
Be not the present time negleckit,


It's rather mair, noo, than suspeckit
The hope's no vain

That shune we'll see your person deckit
Wi' the gowden chain.




Written 1858.

SAIR may ye greet, dram sellers a',
Your fate is sealed teetot'lers craw ;
Your glitt'rin' gill-stoups fling awa

Tear doon your signs,
Your muckle painted punch'ons saw

Noo into boynes.

Smash your crystal : selFt for candy.
An' bottles markit gin an' brandy,


It's dreadfu' what bodies maun dae

Whan times alter.
They've got Intemperance, the randy,

In a halter.

In her vile mou' they've put the bit
They winna let her move a fit,
Out o' existence her they'll put,

As shure's the warl' ;
While Bacchus, greetin', tae does sit

Fix'd on his barrel.

Wee wheetrin', daidlin', drucken Tarn
Noo cocks his nose, tae, at a dram,
Wha for his life has aften swam

Through flood an' spate
0' drink. He's preacher noo becam'

Within this late.

An' Dan the snab, an' George the wright,
That met tae guzzle ev'ry nicht,
Wi' beigle Rab, wha had the sleight

0' tillin't up.
They a' hae ta'en a fareweel sicht

0' friendship's cup.


Ell-wan Will, an's frien' the hatter-
Sleeky pair ! for months did batter
Slack their drouth noo wi' caul water

Even the Bowf
Keeps the pledge, an's leukin' fatter

Praise be tae Gough !

That's no them a s : there hunners mae,
Hae join'd the League, an' Forbes tae ;
They're meetin' noo in gran' array

On demonstration.
The age is come at length, they say,

0' reformation.

Immortal Rab sang Scotlan's yill,
Her reamin' swats, an' Heelan 5 gill ;
Had Rabby Burns been livin' still,

He'd broke his bottle
In praise o } drink ne'er used his quill,

But been teetotal.

I dinna ken hoo far it's richt
Tae tie the bodies up sae ticht ;


Tae tak a dram I think quite richt

Should ought come owre us,

Or meetin' kindred cronie bricht,
But no get glorious.

Should Scotlan' lose her Athole brose,
As she has lost her kilts an' hose,
Some craven foe micht blaw her nose

We ken they swarm.
Gie Sawnie juist his us'al dose,

He'll tak nae harm.

But noo I'm dune : I'll write nae mair
Your ain way be't for me, I'm sure.
But oh ! for Scotlan' hae a care,

An' jealous be ;
I wouldna like her lose yae hair

0' her aul' glee.



THE witchin' hour o' nicht was past,
Loud blew the win' an' caul' the blast,
While peltin' show'rs cam out the west,

Wi' snaw an' sleet ;
A fiendish wight's seen rinnin' fast

Amang the weet.

He ran, nane kent hoo lang, hoo far,
His wirey legs ne'er made a jar,
But on an on' through dub an' glaur

Wi' steamer's micht ;
His een shone bricht as e'enin' star

On frosty nicht.


Some say it is Aul' Maister Nick
Frae Pandemonium cut his stick,
An' that he's rinnin' for some trick

Noo after dark.
As shune's day sounds her hindmost tick,

He starts tae wark.

His feet whan rinnin' loud dae soun',
Their mark amang the glaur is roun' ;
A firey tail ahint hings doon,

Soopin' the grun'.
Tae meet sic wretch in midnight gloom,

The best would stun.

Sic horrid stories are afloat :

Hoo scores wi' him sic frichts hae got,

An' naething sairs his monstrous throat

But human beef;
But whether this be true or not,

It's their belief.

Last week, a drouthy core sat drinkin',
The dram was guid, the gill-stoups clinkin'.


'Bout hame, 'bout wives, nor deils they're thinkin',

A' fears they droon ;
The landlord 'mang the squad sat winkin',

An' ca'in't roun'.

The clock, twa hours since, Forbes chappit,
An' weary mortals a' were happit ;
But Jamie on the table rappit,

Cryin' " Chaps, sit still ";
While landlord, lauchin', slyly stappit

The stoup tae fill.

But everything maun hae an en',
An' sae maun sprees o' drucken men :
Let's hame as lang's the road we ken

H'ye heard the talk?
It's said ilk nicht Aul' Nickie Ben

Here tak's a walk.

Guid nicht was ta'en, tho' sweer't tae part,
For ilk ane gaed a diff'rent airt,
An* each fan' something 'bout his heart
Aboon the drink ;


The crack that Nick was on the alert
Made them tae think.

But Jamie lauch'd, an' ca'd them green :
For cowes he didna care a preen,
For after nicht whar he had been

He couldna tell,
An' yet, for't a', had never seen

Waur than himsel'.

They a' agreed tae that remark ;

But roads were dang'rous, nichts sae dark :

Through fluided burn, owre style, through park-
Miles frae a house ;

But Jamie, whustlin' like a lark,
Set aff quite crouse.

But Jamie's whustle shune was mute,
For there stood something without doot
Straucht on his road deil, man, or brute

He couldna see ;
He thocht he saw a tail a snout I

Then turnM tae flee.


He ran : but close on Jamie's heel

Ran what ? Ah ! what? Was't beast or deil?

He didna ken he tried tae squeel ;

At length he fell !
Doon tae the wretch cam wi' a reel

An' horrid yell !

Puir Jamie, doonmast T the glaur,

Upon his back like cat did spar ;

'Twas dark as pitch baith moon an' star,

That dreadfu' nicht,
Thocht shame tae leuk on sic a war,

Sae hade their licht.

They fought till baith were tired an* bluidy ;
Neist day was fan' puir Jamie's body,
No deid, but weel embalm'd wi r toddy

An' stronger drink ;
Beside it lyin* auP Johnnie's cuddie,

His deil, some think !

This fricht tae Jamie's been a blessin' :
Nae mair at nicht the glass he's kissing


But keeps his hame, his bairns caressing
Yance't gey an' duddie ;

An' at the kirk he's ne'er a-missin',
Thanks tae the cuddie.



I ca'd on Antiquarian Jock,
An', by my word, he has a stock,
It would surprise the maist o' folk.

Noo juist you mark :
He has a breed aff Noah's cock

Was i' the ark ;

A piece o' Aaron's stick that flower'd ;
A stem cut aff auP Jonah's gourd ;
Row'd up in clout, he has a

0' Balaam's cuddy ;
The club wi' whilk Cain Abel clour'd,

Still black an 5 bluidy.


He's also yin o' Samson's een ;

A shae belang'd tae Sheba's queen ;

A sheaf o* corn, still fresh an 1 green,

Frae Egypt's Ian' ;
A bunch o 1 wands a' speckled clean

By Jacob's han' ;

An' witch o' Endor, he's yae paton ;
A guid big lump o' Jehu's phaeton ;
Frae pork o' swine possess'd by Satan,

A cup o' gravie ;
The sword that gied Golliah the clattin' ;

An 7 sling o' Davie ;

Yae muckle flea that Pharaoh yockit
It's won'erfu' hoo Jock e'er got it ;
The pipe that Ahas'erus smockit

Whan on the squeel ;
Wi' spears an' swords his house is stockit

0' glitterin' steel.

An' skeletons o' man an' woman ;
An' fossil bees that ance flew bummin'


Through Eden's garden i } the gloamin' ;

An' Adam's sark,
Ere in his haun was put the summon

Tae start his wark.

An 1 birds an' beasts that ran an' flew
Juist whan this whurlin' warl' was new ;
A horn that grew out head o' sow,

But noo a spoon ;
An' four white mice, if it be true,

Bred in the moon ;

The sword o' Wallace ; beard o' Knox ;
Queen Ann aul' guns wantin' the locks ;
An' aul' John Calvin's baby frocks ;

An' Luther's daidley
But Jock's house a' description mocks,

It's sic a medley.

There's muckle mair that I could tell,
But ye maun come an 5 see't yoursel' :
He kens the cause how angels fell
Frae first estate ;


An' whan shall be Time's dying knell
The day an 3 date.

Tho ; siccan sichts the muse inspired,
I fin' the nicht I'm gettin' tired ;
Some ither time, if I'm weel hired,

I'll no be lame
Tae tell you, as I've been desired,

The fallow's name.


Tune" The Hills of Glenorchy."

I MIN' o' Sawnie whan at schule a wee laddie,

Wi's towsie black heid, barefitit an' duddie ;

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