Verses and Rhymes By the Way Part 23

And oh! may no remembrance Cause him a moment's pain, But yet, indeed, I loved him, And I'll never love again.

CHILDREN'S SONG.

We little children join to praise The Holy Child of endless days.

The Lord of glory undefiled Was once like us a little child.

Chorus.-- "Sweetly, sweetly, sweetly singing, Let us praise him, praise him, praise him, bringing Happy voices, voices, voices ringing Like the songs of the angels round the throne."

He hears the ravens when they call, He sees the little sparrows fall, He heard the little children sing Hosanna to the Saviour King.

Sweetly, &c.

O Jesus, we sing to praise thee, Who said let children come to me; We gather round the mercy seat, O let our songs to thee be sweet.

Sweetly, &c.

Jesus, our Master, Lord and King, Spread over us thy sheltering wing, Keep us unspotted, let us be Thy children singing praise to thee.

Sweetly, &c.

ANSWER TO BURNS' ADDRESS TO THE DE'IL.

O thou wild rantin' wicked wit; Are thy works, thy fame livin' yet?

Will thae daft people never quit An ne'er ha'e done Disturbin' me in my black pit Wi' Burn's fun.

Though mony years ha'e fled away Sin' thou wert buried in the clay, Thy rhymes, unto this vera day, Are mair than laws; Thy name's set up on ilka bra'

Wi' great applause.

And yet, thou wonder-workin' chiel, I'd let ye' charm Scotch bodies weel, But that "Address unto the De'il"

Made i' your sport, Has raised a maist revengefu' squeel In my black court.

Still by the names you gi'e I'm greeted, By every Lallan tongue repeated, I canna turn but what I meet it, In toun or village; My bluid, though hot enough, is heated Till't boils wi' rage.

My deeds that ha'e been handed down, Sin' I aspired to Heaven's crown, By thee, Rab, lad, dressed up in rhyme, To do me skaith, Are circling still the empire roun'

After thy death.

Ye say I roam in search o' prey, An' rest na' neither nicht nor day; A' that ye heard ye'r grannie say Ye hae confest, An' mair than hinted at my stay In Robin's breast.

My secret agents everywhere, A' Scotland roun', but maist in Ayr, O guid abuse their ain' an' mair Ye try to gie them; Nae credit tae ye that ye were Acquainted wi' them.

O' ghaists an' kelpies deeds, you ken, Hauntin' the foord and lonely glen, Lurin' the tipsy sons of men In bogs to die; 0' auld wives girnin' but an'ben Ower bewitched Rye.

An' screeden down, wi' wicked han', 0' my deep laid successfu' plan; Vexed at the idlest o' man, Your faither Adam; That got him sent to till the lan', Him and his madam.

You are like money I ha'e saw, For though ye kenned I caused the fa', An' as ye say, "maist ruined a',"

In that same hour, You did na strive to get ava Out o' my power

At Kirk you'd neither pray nor praise, But on the la.s.sies ye wad gaze, Notice neat feet, blue eyes, fine claes, Or Jenny's bonnet, An makin rhyme on what ye ha'e, Seen creeping on it.

Hech Rab ye were na blate ava, Ae time ye're mockin Kirk an' a', An' then tae me ye gie' your jaw, Or my abode, An' tell how weel I laid my claw On patient Job.

Aye! an' although ye richt weel knew That I wi' masons had to do Ye could na' rest, oh, no, not you!

Till numbered wi' them; Gi'en your "heart's warm fond adieu,"

When gaun to lea them.

An' aft ye did your sire provoke, By jest and jeer at better folk, A' solemn thought wad end in smoke, Sae wad his teachin', And fun wad fly in jibe an' joke At lang faced preachin'.

The mair they frowned, you joked the mair, 0' grave ye had a scanty share, The verra text ya wadna spare, Be't e'er sae holy, An' rhymin' ower the pithy prayer O' pious Willie

Aye' Rab, ye, rail it at me and mine, Yet hungert after things divine, I kenn'd how sairly ye wad pine, For deeds ill done; Ower talents lost, ower wasted time, For sake o' fun

An' then remorse wi' pickled rod, Wad gie' ye mony a lash an' prod, But aye ye went the rantin' road, An p.r.o.ne tae err, You sair misca'd douce men o' G.o.d An Holy Fair.

I winna say it is untrue What's certified o' me by you, If ilka ane their duty'd do As quick an' weel, As I, my certie! they'd get through, Spite o' the De'il.

There's ae guid turn ye did for me, An' I acknowledge't full an' free, In praisin' up the barley bree "In tuneful line;"

Nae bard but you its praise could gie In words sae fine

An' listen tae me 'Rab, my man, I dinna ken a better plan, To ser' my turn wi'silly man An wark them ill, Than charming them to pleasure drawn Frae the whisky gill,

This is what gars me maist complain, Maist as weel kenned as mine's your name, Auld Scotia claims ye as her ain, Her dearest one; An' that daft gilpey, Madam Fame, Owns thee her son.

I thocht that jests wad flee fu' fain, Forgetfulness come in again, That I wad claim ye as my ain, Tae baud an bin' ye But noo through a' o' my domain I canna fin' ye.

Noo fare ye weel, whaure'er ye be, Ane thing I ken ye're no wi' me, I ha'e searched high an' low to see, By spells an' turns; Sae I maun even let ye be, O Robert Burns.

G. Hill, 1840.

SEPARATION.

ELIZABETH TO WALTER

He has come and he has gone, Meeting, parting, both are o'er; And I feel the same dull pain, Aching heart and throbbing brain Coming o'er me once again That I often felt before.

For he is my father's son, And, in childhood's loving time He and I so lone, so young, No twin blossoms ever sprung, No twin cherries ever clung, Closer than his heart and mine.

He is changed, ah me! ah me!

Have we then a different aim?