On men like me their war,
Elected saints to thole their rage
Is what they're seekin' for.

But tho' a man wha's drink's his tea
Their malice maun despise,
It's no for naething, div ye see,
That I'm sae sweir to rise!




THE LOST LICHT

(A PERTHSHIRE LEGEND)


The weary, weary days gang by,
The weary nichts they fa',
I mauna rest, I canna lie
Since my ain bairn's awa'.

The soughing o' the springtide breeze
Abune her heid blaws sweet,
There's nests amang the kirkyaird trees
And gowans at her feet.

She gae'd awa' when winds were hie,
When the deein' year was cauld,
An noo the young year seems to me