Songs and rhymes of a lead miner

 I make no claim to the honour of being a Poet; that I
have no claim will be evident to cultured minds to whom these songs
and rhymes will no doubt appear poor in conception, crude in
expression, grammatically wrong in parts, and altogether commonplace.
But as I am writing to people on my own level of intelligence--that
is, the intelligence of a self-taught man--cultured people do not
come into the picture.  Some of my friends are quite pleased with my
verses, but I will not require a larger size in headwear over the
opinion of others.  I am pleased, however, to note that they all
agree about the general tone and sentiment being of a high order.
With that I am content.  If there is anything in my pieces that will
raise a smile, a laugh, or a tear--anything that will make the human
more humane, any thought or sentiment that will tend to raise the
moral or mental standard of my readers--they have not been written in
vain.

One third of the pieces in this book have already been published, and
my thanks are due to local and other Editors for space given me, and
specially to the Editor of the "Dumfries and Galloway Courier and
Herald," for an artistic touch here and there in some of them.  I
give the tunes when well known to which a number of my songs may be
sung.  As for the others, the music being new, it will depend on
circumstances whether they ever see the light of publicity.  The song
"Wanlock," by M'Arthur, schoolmaster in Wanlockhead (1850), and "The
Lowther Winds Wail," by the Rev. J. Moir Porteous, minister of the
Free Church, Wanlockhead (1877), I insert so that they will continue
to be familiar to the people of the district in which their authors
lived and worked.

I am indebted to Robert Wanlock Reid for permission to publish his
"Letter in Rhyme," and to J. M. Harkness for his appreciation
expressed in "Auld Cronie Tam;" also to Miss Annie J. Mitchell for
kindly typing the bulk of my pieces; and to all those who have given
me any encouragement in the making of this book.

AUTHOR.




  DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.


  THE RIDGE OF GLENGONAR.

  _WINTER SCENE._

  The pale lovely moon o'er the Lowthers was rising
    As lonely I strayed at the fall of the night
  Away to the far-stretching Ridge of Glengonar,
    The high hills to view in their mantle of white.

  Old Boreas had swept them for days in his anger,
    As though he would crush them beneath his proud sway;
  But grandly they stood, with their brows high uplifted,
    Firm based in majestic, eternal array.

  Then thoughts did arise as I gazed on the scene
    That lay bathed in the silvery light of the moon
  Of Flanders' torn fields that were once fair and fertile,
    Made barren and shrouded in sorrow and gloom;

  Of men who went forth in the pride of their manhood,
    Aroused, by the call that appeals to the brave,
  Inspired by the noblest and purest of motives,
    Who fell on the field or were sunk 'neath the wave.

  I stood all alone on the Ridge of Glengonar,
    Alone 'neath the stars that shone bright in the blue;
  And prayed to the Ruler of men and of nations
    To strengthen the arms of our gallant and true;

  To silence for ever the roar of the cannon
    And sink in oblivion this era of pain,
  That in peace we might live in the land of our fathers
    'Neath harmony, love, and prosperity's reign.



  A FIS'HIN' SPLORE.

  Wullie, Sandy, Rab, an' Tam
  Yae nicht when sittin' owre a dram
  Agreed when neist the day wad daw
  Tae tak' their rods an' trudge awa'
  An' try their skill wi' flee an' worm
  On bonnie Carron's wimplin' burn.

  The mornin' broke sae fresh an' fair,
  New life was in the caller air;
  Owre Grey Mere's Tail the sun did peep,
  Tae wake oor fishers frae their sleep.
  Ilk yin gat up wi' bizzin' croon;
  Short time had passed since they lay doon.

  They dressed fu' quick, nae time tae loss,
  An' sune were skelpin' through the moss;
  Owre dyke an' fence, through sheuch an' glen,
  Up, up, they spieled tae Enterkin:
  An' when at last they did get there
  A view they had ayont compare.

  They had nae time the scene tae view,
  Sae hurried owre the mountain's broo,
  An' doon the brae they ran pell-mell
  Tae hae a drink at Katie's Well,
  "Whaur Black M'Michael's bearded lip
  Yince fain did dip."

  Then doon they ran wi' muckle speed,
  Tae Nature's charms they paid nae heed,
  An' didna slack their pace a jot
  Until they reached the Lucky Pot[1];
  Sae awfu' keen an' anxious they
  Tae see if luck was theirs that day.

  Then walin' steps wi' canny care
  They gaed alang the hill-side bare,
  Whaur Kelt,[2], the hound, fell aff his steed
  When Harkness[3] shot him through the heid;
  The roarin' pool whaur he fell in
  Has since been known as Kelty's Linn.

  There fore-nent them Stey-Guile stood,
  Defyin' time an' storms an' flood;
  They gazed upon its steepest side,
  Doon whaur 'twas said bold Graham[4] did ride,
  His pony shod wi' deevils' cloots;
  'Twas maybe true.