Be careful, little Willie, pet, the world has many wiles,
And many a hollow heart lies hid beneath the blandest smiles;
Be sure each step you take is firm, nor trust too much to man,
For help will only come to those who do the best they can:
The seeds you sow in youth will grow, and bring forth in due
The blessed fruits of peace and joy, or sorrow, shame, and crime;
And, oh! the anguish that I'd feel to see my Willie's name
Disgraced disowned, would break my heart, and fill my soul with shame.
Yet, Willie, why, why thus repine, 'tis yet the moon of life,
And brightly beams your morning sun-no harbinger of strife;
Effulgent be your march to noon, and cheerful be its ray,
And I will watch your glory spread for the sake of her away;
A fading flower, I'll gaze up to your splendour, love, and light,
My heart exulting in your strength, your manliness, and might,
And moon, and noon, and eventide, shall find me at my prayers,
Beseeching God to save you from youth's many siren snares.
Ah! yes, my wee, wee manikin, the "Benjie" of the flock,
I'll tend with a Jacob's care, my little crowing cock;
My arms shall shelter your fair head, my hand will dry your eyes;
And I will teach your dawning mind the language of the skies. O! could I share your every woe, your every sorrow bear,
Remove each thorn from life's rough road, and drink your cup of
Assuage time's sea for your frail barque, and calm its murmurs loud,
In memory dear, of one who sleeps-the angel in the cloud.
There is a little spot of earth
A little bed of slumber blest!
The winter's blast-the summer's breath,
Unheeded pass, so sound's the rest
In "Roddie's" grave.
High o'er the narrow portals grow
The grass-the flowers kind Nature shed;
The daisies-like a quilt of snow
Are spread - for angels make the bed-
My "Roddie's " Bed!
The eye of day delights to come
And linger at his holy grave!
I watch the shadows on the tomb---
The flickering beams seem loath to leave
"Wee Roddie's " Grave.
Two golden Summer suns have shone-
Two merry Autumns full of joy-
Two weeping winters pass'd and gone
Two merry Spring-times have passed by-
O'er "Roddie's " Grave-
Have passed, since he has sought that shore-
Life's certain-changeless-cloudless day,
Where peace and bliss are evermore-
The mansion bright whose only way
Is through the Grave.
No mocking marble o'er him weeps-
Deep, deep, indeed, his memory lives,
Within my heart his vigil keeps
A long, dark night :-my whole soul grieves
O'er "Roddie's " Grave.
I have a little plot of earth
'Tis six feet long by three feet wide,
Nor miles of land have half the worth
Of that dear bed where rests my pride-
My "Roddie's" Grave.
Breathe, balmy winds, the trees among-
Spring-spring ye flowers he loved so well-
Sing, little birds, your sweetest song-
For wind, and flower, and bird all tell
Of "Roddie's" Grave.
"Woman with the sable garment-
Woman with the moistened eye!
Why that sob, and weeping, wailing,
Why that heart-felt pensive sigh?
"O my boy, so fair and rosy,
Is now dead," was the reply.
"He's not dead -dear mourning matron!
I had children same as thou-
Three on earth, and three in heaven.
Why should care-clouds shade my brow?
Gone before me to blest mansions,
Where methinks I see them now!"
Thus I heard two Rachel-mothers
Speaking of their loved ones gone;
Of their places ever vacant,
Places sacred-aye their own!
Now these mothers' eyes behold them,
Angels round their Father's throne.
"Gone before us "-words of beauty;
O! what scenes before me rise!
Pastures green, and streamlets gliding
Silver bright as sunny skies;
Mellow fruits and foliage leafy,
Glimpses bright as angel eyes.
"Three in heaven!" O, happy mother!
Safely housed from hurt and harm.
"Three in heaven!" no clear eye dimming,
Drooping head, nor wasting form.
"Three in heaven!"-nor tempest driven,
Securely sheltered from all storm.
"Three in heaven!" bliss coming nearer !
The dimly seen becoming bright!
"Still small voices" sounding clearer,
Sunlight gilding clouds of night;
Melting music-sweetest singing
Faith and hope now lost in sight!
Wisely walk, thou angel-mother
"Three in heaven" thy footsteps guide!
Three loved forms are ever bending,
Tending closely by thy side!
Keep thyself all free from earth-taint
Four shall soon in heaven abide !
SONNET-EVENING.
The Day is done, and Night is in her weeds,
Like inatron mourning for her lord's demise ;
And shining stars are beaming down like eyes
Of holy angels smiling from the skies,
And watching with a guardian care the deeds
Of mortals here below. The day is o'er-
The city hushed as distant thunder's roar-
Or as the waves of ocean in half rest-
Or like an infant on his mother's breast
Ere slumber seals his eyes! The hour for thought Has come, and man now reads the heavens fraught
With poesy! "Tis Night that gives the soul
Free scope to ruminate-to scan the scroll
The heavens contain-the wonders God has wrought.
DUNCAN M'NICOL,
CABMAN, and author of "Bute, and other
Poems" (Glasgow: Aird & Coghill, 1879), was born near the village of Luss, Lochlomond, in 1851. His first experience of the world was when he was sent into Inchlonaig (Sir James Colquhoun's deer island) to teach the gamekeeper's children to read-the schoolmaster having recommended him as a boy qualified to teach others. He remained there for eighteen months, during which time he imparted to his scholars all the knowledge he was possessed of. This was when he was fourteen, and from that time till six years ago, his occupation consisted of gardening or any similar work that presented itself. Duncan is presently in the employment of a cab proprietor in Rothesay, where he is much respected.
Although he always felt that he could do a little to versifying, he, very wisely, did not write or offer anything for publication till five years ago. Since then he has been a frequent contributor to the local press. His descriptive poem on "Bute" is graphic, and shows much historical knowledge, and an intelligent appreciation of scenery. The prevading characteristic of his poems is a quaint mixture of pathos and humour, totally free, however, from everything approaching to grossness or vulgarity.
'Twas in an auld biggin', wi' broom-theckit riggin',
That first on creation I clappit an e'e;
Where frae their fountains on bonny blue mountains
The burnies ran lauchin', Lochlomond, to thee.
Chorus.-They may sing o' green mountains an' clear sparklin' fountains,
Or boast o' fair waters ayont the blue sea;
But they never, no, never, the union can sever,
That lies, peerless lake, 'twixt this bosom an' thee.
Oh! wasn't I happy when, a wee steerin' chappie,
I ran by thy shores a' the lang summer day,
When for bunches o' gowans, or hips, haws, and rowans,
I skipp'd o'er each meadow or whin-cover'd brae.
Chorus. They may sing, etc.
Thae days lang hae vanish'd, but time hasna banish'd
The memory o' happy hours spent by thy side;
An' oft, when soft slumbers my spirit encumbers,
To thee, sweet Lochlomond, in fancy I glide.
Chorus. They may sing, etc.
Fair, fair are thy islands, thou gem o' the Highlands,
Where wave the tall fir and the bonny yew tree,
An' the mild soughin' currents and wild foamy torrents
That rush to thy bosom mak' music to me.
Chorus.--They may sing, etc.
'Mid the loud din an' rattle o' life's feckless battle
My ance bosom-freens may frae memory dee;
But where'er I may wander I'll aye grow the fonder,
An' lovin'ly ponder, Lochlomond, on thee.
Chorus.-They may sing, etc.
As fiercely blows the wintry gale
O'er wood and lea, o'er hill and vale,
And whirls with melancholy wail
Around the eaves.
Fast flies the driving sleet and rain,
The branches creak in plaintive strain,
While on the highway and the plain
Lie fallen leaves.
No more does kindly nature bloom,
She scatters not her sweet perfume,
No more she o'er the lowly tomb
A garland weaves.
The hills are bleak, the forests bare,
Frost's icy breath has chilled the air,
And on the meadows once so fair
Lie fallen leaves.
The honeysuckle's scented flower
No longer decorates the bower,
But pall-like to the ruined tower
The ivy cleaves,
Where nature's gems of varied hue,
Each morn caressed by heaven's dew,
In wild but sweet profusion grew,
Lie fallen leaves.
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