By Martin's Den, through beech an' birk, A breith comes soughin', sweet an' strang, Alang the road to Marykirk.

Frae mony a field ye'll hear the cry O' teuchits,[3] skirlin' on the wing, Noo East, noo West, amang the kye, An smell o' whins the wind 'll bring; Aye, lad, it blaws a thocht to mock The licht o' day on ilka thing-- For you, that went yon road last spring, Are lying deid in Flanders, Jock.

[3] Lapwings.

KIRSTY'S OPINION

Fine div I ken what ails yon puddock, Janet, That aince would hae her neb set up sae hie; There's them that disna' seem to understan' it, I'se warrant ye it's plain eneuch to me!

Maybe ye'll mind her man--a fine wee cratur, Owre blate to speak (puir thing, he didna' daur); What gar'd him fecht was jist his douce-like natur'; Gairmans is bad, but Janet's tongue was waur.

But noo he's hame again, ye wadna ken her, He isna' feared to contradic' her flat; He smokes a' day, comes late to get his denner, (I mind the time she'd sort him weel for that!)

What's gar'd her turn an' tak' a road divairgint?

Ye think she's wae[4] because he wants a limb?

Ach! haud yer tongue, ye fule--_the man's a sairgint,_ An' there's nae argy-bargyin' wi' _him_!

[4] Sad.

THE BRIG

I whiles gang to the brig-side That's past the briar tree, Alang the road when the licht is wide Owre Angus an' the sea.

In by the d.y.k.e yon briar grows Wi' leaf an' thorn, it's lane Whaur the s.p.u.n.k o' flame o' the briar rose Burns saft agin the stane.

An' whiles a step treids on by me, I mauna hear its fa'; And atween the brig an' the briar tree Ther gangs na' ane, but twa.

Oot owre yon sea, through dule an' strife, Ye tak' yer road nae mair, For ye've crossed the brig to the fields o' life, An' ye walk for iver there.

I traivel on to the brig-side, Whaur ilka road maun cease, My weary war may be lang to bide, An' you hae won to peace.

There's ne'er a nicht but turns to day, Nor a load that's niver cast; An' there's nae wind cries on the winter brae, But it spends itsel' at last.

O you that niver failed me yet, Gin aince my step ye hear, Come to yon brig atween us set, An' bide till I win near!

O weel, aye, weel, ye'll ken my treid, Ye'll seek nae word nor sign, An' I'll no can fail at the Brig o' Dreid, For yer hand will be in mine.

THE KIRK BESIDE THE SANDS

It was faur-ye-weel, my dear, that the gulls were cryin'

At the kirk beside the sands, Whaur the saumon-nets lay oot on the bents for dryin', Wi' the tar upon their strands;

A roofless kirk i' the bield o' the cliff-fit bidin', And the deid laid near the wa'; A wheen auld coupit stanes i' the sea-gra.s.s hidin', Wi' the sea-sound ower them a'.

But it's mair nor daith that's here on the hauchs o' Flanders, And the deid lie closer in; It's no the gull, but the hoodit craw that wanders When the lang, lang nichts begin.

It's ill to dee, but there's waur things yet nor deein'; And the warst o' a's disgrace; For there's nae grave deep eneuch 'mang the graves in bein'

To cover a coward's face.

Syne, a' is weel, though my banes lie here for iver, An' hame is no for me, Till the reid tide brak's like the spate in a roarin' river O'er the micht o' Gairmanie.

Sae gang you back, my dear, whaur the gulls are cryin', Gie thanks by kirk an' grave, That yer man keeps faith wi' the land whaur his he'rt is lyin', An' the Lord will keep the lave.

GLORY

I canna' see ye, lad, I canna' see ye, For a' yon glory that's aboot yer heid, Yon licht that haps ye, an' the hosts that's wi' ye, Aye, but ye live, an' it's mysel' that's deid!

They gae'd frae mill and mart; frae wind-blawn places, And grey toon-closes; i' the empty street Nae mair the bairns ken their steps, their faces, Nor stand to listen to the trampin' feet.

Beside the brae, and soughin' through the rashes, Yer voice comes back to me at ilka turn, Amang the whins, an' whaur the water washes The arn-tree[5] wi' its feet amangst the burn.

Whiles ye come back to me when day is fleein', And a' the road oot-by is dim wi' nicht, But weary een like mine is no for seein', An', gin they saw, they wad be blind wi' licht.

Daith canna' kill. The mools o' France lie o'er ye, An' yet ye live, O sodger o' the Lord!

For Him that focht wi' daith an' dule afore ye, He gie'd the life--'twas Him that gie'd the sword.

But gin ye see my face or gin ye hear me, I daurna' ask, I maunna' seek to ken, Though I should dee, wi' sic a glory near me, By nicht or day, come ben, my bairn, come ben!

[5] Alder.

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

Abune the hill ae muckle star is burnin', Sae saft an' still, my dear, sae far awa, There's ne'er a wind, noo day to nicht is turnin', To lift the brainches o' the whisperin' shaw; Aye, Jess, there's nane to see, There's just the sheep an' me, And ane's fair wast.i.t when there micht be twa!

Alang the knowes there's no a beast that's movin', They sheep o' mine lie sleepin' i' the dew; There's jist ae thing that's wearyin' an' rovin', An' that's mysel', that wearies, wantin' you.

What ails ye, that ye bide In-by--an' me ootside To curse an' daunder a' the gloamin' through?

To haud my tongue an' aye hae patience wi' ye Is waur nor what a la.s.s like you can guess; For a' yer pranks I canna but forgi'e ye, I'fegs! there's naucht can gar me lo'e ye less; Heaven's i' yer een, an' whiles There's heaven i' yer smiles, But oh! ye tak' a deal o' courtin', Jess!