When I was in the dock she show'd her nerve: I saw beneath her shawl my old tea-can Trembling . . . she brought it To screw me for my work: she loath'd my plan, And therefore doubly kind I thought it.

XIV

I've never lost the taste of that same tea: That liquor on my logic floats like oil, When I state facts, and fellows disagree.

For human creatures all are in a coil; All may want pardon.

I see a day when every pot will boil Harmonious in one great Tea-garden!

XV

We wait the setting of the Dandy's day, Before that time!--He's furbishing his dress, - He WILL be ready for it!--and I say, That yon old dandy rat amid the cress, - Thanks to hard labour! - If cleanliness is next to G.o.dliness, The old fat fellow's heaven's neighbour!

XVI

You teach me a fine lesson, my old boy!

I've looked on my superiors far too long, And small has been my profit as my joy.

You've done the right while I've denounced the wrong.

Prosper me later!

Like you I will despise the sn.i.g.g.e.ring throng, And please myself and my Creator.

XVII

I'll bring the linendraper and his wife Some day to see you; taking off my hat.

Should they ask why, I'll answer: in my life I never found so true a democrat.

Base occupation Can't rob you of your own esteem, old rat!

I'll preach you to the British nation.

SONG

Should thy love die; O bury it not under ice-blue eyes!

And lips that deny, With a scornful surprise, The life it once lived in thy breast when it wore no disguise.

Should thy love die; O bury it where the sweet wild-flowers blow!

And breezes go by, With no whisper of woe; And strange feet cannot guess of the anguish that slumbers below.

Should thy love die; O wander once more to the haunt of the bee!

Where the foliaged sky Is most sacred to see, And thy being first felt its wild birth like a wind-wakened tree.

Should thy love die; O dissemble it! smile! let the rose hide the thorn!

While the lark sings on high, And no thing looks forlorn, Bury it, bury it, bury it where it was born.

TO ALEX. SMITH, THE 'GLASGOW POET,' ON HIS SONNET TO 'FAME'

Not vainly doth the earnest voice of man Call for the thing that is his pure desire!

Fame is the birthright of the living lyre!

To n.o.ble impulse Nature puts no ban.

Nor vainly to the Sphinx thy voice was raised!

Tho' all thy great emotions like a sea, Against her stony immortality, Shatter themselves unheeded and amazed.

Time moves behind her in a blind eclipse: Yet if in her cold eyes the end of all Be visible, as on her large closed lips Hangs dumb the awful riddle of the earth; - She sees, and she might speak, since that wild call, The mighty warning of a Poet's birth.

GRANDFATHER BRIDGEMAN

I

'Heigh, boys!' cried Grandfather Bridgeman, 'it's time before dinner to-day.'

He lifted the crumpled letter, and thumped a surprising 'Hurrah!'

Up jumped all the echoing young ones, but John, with the starch in his throat, Said, 'Father, before we make noises, let's see the contents of the note.'

The old man glared at him harshly, and twinkling made answer: 'Too bad!

John Bridgeman, I'm always the whisky, and you are the water, my lad!'

II

But soon it was known thro' the house, and the house ran over for joy, That news, good news, great marvels, had come from the soldier boy; Young Tom, the luckless scapegrace, offshoot of Methodist John; His grandfather's evening tale, whom the old man hailed as his son.

And the old man's shout of pride was a shout of his victory, too; For he called his affection a method: the neighbours' opinions he knew.

III

Meantime, from the morning table removing the stout breakfast cheer, The drink of the three generations, the milk, the tea, and the beer (Alone in its generous reading of pints stood the Grandfather's jug), The women for sight of the missive came pressing to coax and to hug.

He scattered them quick, with a buss and a smack; thereupon he began Diversions with John's little Sarah: on Sunday, the naughty old man!

IV

Then messengers sped to the maltster, the auctioneer, miller, and all The seven sons of the farmer who housed in the range of his call.

Likewise the married daughters, three plentiful ladies, prime cooks, Who bowed to him while they condemned, in meek hope to stand high in his books.

'John's wife is a fool at a pudding,' they said, and the light carts up hill Went merrily, flouting the Sabbath: for puddings well made mend a will.

V

The day was a van-bird of summer: the robin still piped, but the blue, As a warm and dreamy palace with voices of larks ringing thro', Looked down as if wistfully eyeing the blossoms that fell from its lap: A day to sweeten the juices: a day to quicken the sap.

All round the shadowy orchard sloped meadows in gold, and the dear Shy violets breathed their hearts out: the maiden breath of the year!

VI

Full time there was before dinner to bring fifteen of his blood, To sit at the old man's table: they found that the dinner was good.

But who was she by the lilacs and pouring laburnums concealed, When under the blossoming apple the chair of the Grandfather wheeled?

She heard one little child crying, 'Dear brave Cousin Tom!' as it leapt; Then murmured she: 'Let me spare them!' and pa.s.sed round the walnuts, and wept.

VII