Weep, yet rejoice! for her unselfish deeds,
Mightier than words, have bidden doubt away,
And led him into light of better day,
And Love, which is the soul of all the Creeds.
DORTS, THE MASON.
Jeanie, what was yon the minister was saying;
I kept the grip o' it while he was praying,
Saying it o'er and o'er a score o' times,
Though it got mixed wi' tags o' idle rhymes,
Until a shower o' texts came plash like rain,
And fairly washed it clean oot o' my brain.
Folk telling him that he is grand at praying,
He prays till ane forgets what he's been saying;
Prays you stupid wi' a thing that's like a sermon,
Dripping-wat wi' texts as wi' the dews of Hermon.
Oh, they spoil a minister wi' silly praises
O' a' his paintit words and dainty phrases !
"Twas something aboot faith and work. Let's see-
Ye're gleg at reading, lass, and weel may be;
Ye had rare schooling, I had almost none,
But gnaw a book as dogs will gnaw a bone:
Look it up now, and let me see't in print-
How that book smells yet o' your mother's mint!
She was a woman! Oh, that ye may be
To some one what your mother was to me!
And yet I never told her, hardly said
Ae kindly word to her; and now she's dead!
Wae's me! Could I but see her for a minute,
And show my heart to her, and a' that's in it!
There, that's it, lass; and are ye sure its Paul?
"We're saved by faith, and no by work at all."
Read it again; it clean dumfounders me!
Hand me my specs; unless my own eyes see
The very words, I will be bold to doubt it,
And even then I'll ha'e my thoughts about it.
Ay! there it is as plain as print can make it,
God's very word, and nought on earth can shake it.
Yet doubt in me grew fast as down frae thistle;
I learnt the trick o't ere I learnt to whistle.
Surely my mind must ha'e some kind o' thraw,
For I could ne'er believe the half I saw.
But for my work, I'll stand to it that none
Could do a better job in hewing stone,
Or building either, from a dry-stane dyke
Up to a kirk and steeple, or the like;
And is it nothing that I wrought wi' burr,
But couldna swear aye by the minister.
I never hammered stone, until I saw
Into its heart, and kent its inmost law;
For stones, too, ha'e their way, and they maun be
Humoured, like women, each in its degree.
But all my work I did wi' heart and might,
Till even the whinstones knew they must go right.
There's the new brig, 'twil stand as sure's the Bank;
The waterwarks-'twas I that dammed the tank
Among the hills-it never leaked a gill.
Did not Sir Hew himsel' uphaud my skill
And work, and vow that he was proud to call
The man his friend had planned, and made it all?
My work was true as plummet, line, and rule
Could make it, though I had but little school,
And never could believe the half I saw ;
1 never plastered up an ugly flaw.
God's work is good, I said, and so is mine,
Right human work, and therefore like divine.
But look just at the kirk that Bailie Clyne
Robbed them to build, and then compare't wi' mine.
A bonnie elder he! to sit and look,
In the front loft, upon his gilt-clasped book!
How could I gang to kirk and him sae crouse,
Smirking at me in yon ramshackle hoose?
I'm dying. Yes; but would you have me speak
What is not true, because my breath comes weak?
Oh, he believes of course whate'er he's bid,
Then taps his finger on his snuff-box lid;
But for his work, they'll find it out some day,
And sorry I'm that I shall be away.
Just bide a wee; some wastland wind, I'm thinking,
Will gar yon steeple reel, as't had been drinking.
Will they say then that faith which does not work
Will save a man, although he cheat the kirk ?-
My end is near! forgiveness now is best!
Why should the end no' be like all the rest?
He's to be provost, set him up! I hear
He's ta'en the crown o' the causeway many a year,
And drives his coach, and now he's all the vogue-
A ruling elder, yet the loon's a rogue.
I tell you, even in heaven if he should find me,
I'd take my hat and bang the door behind me.
Draw up the blind; it's growing unco dim.
Read me a psalm-we'll say no more o' him—
A good strong psalm aboot the evil-doers
Whom for a while the righteous one endures.
Surely yon's not the sun that looks so dark,
Nor that the singing o' the evening lark.
What was I saying? Is this death at length,
The strong one gripping at my failing strength?
Well my job's done-I'll lay my tools aside;
And there's your mother, all my joy and pride,
She's made the hearth neat, and the fire looks bright;
It's growing dark; but she'll ha'e a'thing right.
As born at Hawick in 1854. His parents were "honest aye, though puir folk," who struggled hard to give their children a good education. Robert began early to string together "bits o' jingles," he ever having a great love for poetry. He learned the trade of a powerloom tuner at one of the large factories for which the town is famed, and there, amid the whirr of machinery and the bustle of factory life, he still continues to court his much-loved Muse. Robert Hunter was made Bard of St John's Lodge of Freemasons (No. 111), in 1879, and P.G. Bard of Border District in 1880.
He has contributed chiefly to the local newspapers, and several of his spirited songs in praise of the "craft" have appeared in the Masonic Magazine. He had the honour of being second in the Dumfries Statue (Burns) Competition, when Mr Stewart Ross gained the medal. We have much pleasure in giving a place to the following:
"OOR DEAR AULD MITHER TONGUE."
I lo'e thee yet, I lo'e thee weel
Thou dear auld mither tongue-
There's music in thy hamely soon'
When spoken or when sung.
Though strangers ca' thee auld an' plain,
An' fain wad rin thee doon;
Thou'lt stan' as lang as Scotland stan's
In spite o' foreign loon.
Hoo monie weary Scottish hearts
By thee hae been made glad,
When wandering far frae hame an' freends,
An' unca lane an' sad.
They've chanced to hear thy kindly tones
By some at random flung,
An' hands hae met, an' hearts been cheered,
By thee, thou dear auld tongue.
Gae wa' wi' a' yer mimpet words
That's brocht frae foreign lan's,
They need sae monie becks an' boos
Afore folk understan's ;
They want the honest hearty ring
That's felt by auld an' young,
When listening to thy cheery lilt,
Thou dear auld mither tongue.
Then ne'er think shame where'er ye be,
In cottage or in ha';
But speak the dear auld mither tongue
Afore baith grite an' sma'.
Her soul-inspiring stirring strains
Auld Scotia's harps hae strung,
An' still her bards shall sing wi' pride
O' dear auld mither tongue.
OOR ROBIN.
Among the nobles o' the yirth,
Oor Robin stan's, an' a' that;
Though humble was his place o' birth,
An' hard his han's, an' a' that,
His soul was noble, great, an' free,
Ower high born Lords, he buir the gree;
An' aye he scorned the coward lee,
An' told the truth an' a' that.
He sang o' Scotia's heights an' howes,
Her glens, her shaws, an' a' that;
Her brattlin' burns, an' broomie knowes,
Her Freedom, Laws, an' a' that-
He sang her lads, an' lasses braw,
In lowly cot, an' lordly ha',
An' humbly prayed that ane an' a'
Micht live in peace, an' a' that.
He sang her Thistle, waving free,
On hill, an' dale, an' a' that;
Her Daisy blooming honnily,
By wood an' vale, an' a' that;
An' wha, like him, could sweetly tell
The beauties o' the bonnie Bell,
That tinkles in ilk flowery dell,
Whaur mawkins sport, an' a' that.
Her Haggis, an' her Cakes he sang,
Her Barley bree, an' a' that;
Her joys he sang, till rafters rang,
Wi' mirth, an' glee, an' a' that;
Her famous weel-lo'ed Halloween,
When Fairies sport in moonlit dean
An' play their pranks; by him has been
Immortalised, an' a' that.
He sang her pleughman at his pleugh
Sae blythe, an' gay, an' a' that;
Her Cottar, toiling in a sheugh,
The lea-lang day, an' a' that;
An' showed that happiness can dwell
Without the aid o' magic spell,
Beneath a hame-spun, weel-worn shell
O' hoddan grey; an' a' that.
His words hae cheered the Scot at hame,
The Scot abroad, an' a' that;
Wi' tears o' joy they've bless'd his name,
An' thankit God, an' a' that,
For rearing on their native soil,
This noble, gifted son o' toil,
To help them through life's care, an' moil,
Wi' poem, sang, an' a' that.
An' shall not we our homage pay,
An' Heaven thank, for a' that;
Foul fa' the loon, that wad say nay,
Whate'er his rank, an' a' that.
We'll rear a monument o' art,
To him wha can sic joys impart,
Wha sits enthroned in Scotland's heart,
Her Bard supreme, an' a' that.
THE FREEMASON'S SECRET.
In an auld burgh toon that I daurna weel name,
That boasts o' its hicht in the annals o' fame,
There lived at the time o' this short rhyming tale,
A canty auld couple baith hearty and hale.
Fu' lang had they travelled thegether through life,
Wi' a routh o' its joys and but little o' strife;
For the worthy guidman, sae the neebours wad say,
In settlin' disputes had a pauky auld way.
And when oucht wad arise to annoy and harass,
He wad quietly say, "There noo, Jenny, my lass,
Since for weel or for wae we are tied to ae tether,
Let's look ower ithers fauts and pu' cheerfu' thegether,"
And sae, wi' a kindly bit word and a smile,
The auld wifie's anger he aft wad beguile,
But the best o' us a' are but mortals, I wot,
And the auld proverb's true, "There's a crook in ilk lot.'
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