poetry published in lanarkshire - scotland’s war

Poetry published in Lanarkshire Poetry digitally photographed and transcribed by Andrew Salmond, Arts Development Officer (Music), South Lanarkshire Leisure and Culture Ltd, The Town House, 102 Cadzow Street, Hamilton ML3 6HH 2 January 1915

A GUID NEW YEAR

A guid new year, my frien’s, to ye, A guid new year where ye may be,

In cot or mansion, land or sea, A hearty guid year.

And may wars cease and bring us a’ peace, Contentment, health and cheer,

And nations agree, wi’ joy reigning free In this coming glad new year.

A guid new year to our lads in France,

You’ve done very well, though you ne’er got a chance; But we’re sending mair, wi’ broad sword and lance,

In this coming glad new year. So stick to your trench, wi’ your ain John French,

Till the help that’s coming does appear; We’re sending mair guns and mair British sons

For a hearty guid new year.

A guid new year, ye Belgians so true, Your widows and orphans and brave men too;

May the incoming year have a lot for you, With a happy prosperous new year.

May your tears dry soon and Heaven grant a boon, And joys chase away your fears;

May your cities aince mair rise in the air In the coming peaceful years.

A guid new year to you lads in blue, A guid new year, John Jellicoe too;

We know our safety lies in you In the coming future year.

Our thoughts are of you, as you ride on the wave, Watchful, tactful, and dumb;

If our praise is overdue, hats off, John, to you, In the after years to come.

J. McWHINNIE, Hamilton.

2 January 1915

In response to a request from William McCormick, Bananco, Mexico. “Oh! Send me a sprig o’ the heather frae hame.”

I come frae auld Scotland, I’ve crossed over the faem,

I’m a sprig o’ the heather ye lo’ed when at hame; I was reared on the braes that we a’ lo’e wi’ pride

Whar Tinto looks down on the clear winding Clyde.

I ha’e crossed ower the seas, left mony sweet flow’rs, Tae cheer up ye’re he’rt in the lang, dreary ho’ors; I ha’e brocht ye guid wishes, frae freens that I kent And here are the greetin’s that some o’ them sent.

The bluebells they jingled, then chimed a sweet strain,

Tell Willie we’ll smile when we see him again; We’ll welcome him back, we’ll busk oursel’s fine, And sing the auld sangs, the sangs o’ lang syne.

A hardy auld chiel sent his kind love tae you, A rough, towzie Scot, wi’ a he’rt leal and true

His purple tapp’d bonnet, he shook it fu’ gaudie, Haun’s aff! – dinna tramp on the thistle, ma laddie.

I ha’e brocht ye twa freens, sae claim them as yours,

Twa bonnie, wee modest, sweet crimson tipp’d flow’rs; They ha’e come frae their hameland, maybe ne’er tae return Tae their birthplace, the borestone, on famed Bannockburn.

Then cherish the daisies, sae modest and meek. Whar they grew was aft trod by the warrior’s feet;

Whar Bruce, wi’ his sword, laid Edward’s pwer low, And drove from oor land a despot and foe.

Aye lo’e the hame, aye lo’e the auld hoose

Let yer patriot boast aye be Wallace and Bruce; Till fortune shall smile, till the ship it returns,

May yer thochts be o’ Scotland, yer sangs be o’ Burns.

WILLIE WASTLE, Coatbridge.

2 January 1915

WHISTLING WINDS

O whistling winds! O whistling winds! What message deep have ye for me?

Bear ye the sighs of souls in pain Who long for peace and liberty?

O whistling winds! O whistling winds!

Why touch ye all the chords which speak Of tender longings in the soul, But givest not the balm I seek?


Do angels up in heav’n e’er peep At this mysterious world of ours, And over erring mortals weep?

O whistling winds! O whistling winds! Why chant ye such a mournful strain Crave ye from me a message sweet To cheer the hearts of those in pain?


Ye ever in the mem’ry raise Some thought that makes me think of friends

I knew in blissful, bygone days.

Then hush ye winds, ye whistling winds, Let me no more your music hear; It fills my heart with vain desires,

And dims the eye with many a tear.

O whistling winds! O whistling winds! As friends of mine in anguish sigh

Be kind, ye whistling winds, be kind, Hush your sad strain and pass them by.

9 January 1915

SONG – “The Allied Troops o’ Europe” Tune – “Whistle o’er the lave o’t.”

The Kaiser wi’ his German ban’,

We dinna care for a’ his clan We’ll let him ken, tho’ ten to wan, We’re Allied Troops o’ Europe.

For Belgium in disastrous plight, Brave France will have her arm of might,

And Britain’s sons will nobly fight, The Allied Troops o’ Europe.

What he wad show wuntae the warl,

And he wad dae, despotic cad When he his hanser did unfurl

‘Gainst Allied Troops o’ Europe. All Europe kens this awful brag,

That by this time’s begun tae fag, They mean, and will pull down his flag,

The Allied Troops o’ Europe.

Colonial troops frae everywhere Are eager and will dae their share, Tae mak’ the German ban’ beware

They’re Allied Troops o’ Europe. Those swarthy sons frae India,

Wi’ Canada, Australia, New Zealand and far Africa, Are Allied Troops o’ Europe.

On field, in trench, on height, in fork,

At bugle call wi’ brave effort, To do or die they are the sort, The Allied Troops o’ Europe.

They’ll chase the Kaiser tae Berlin, Altho’ Paris he hoped tae win,

They’ll mak’ him fa’ or else give in, The Allied Troops o’ Europe.

The Russians great are fighting game,

And they are nobly making fame, To mak’ the Kaiser mind his hame, Like the Allied Troops o’ Europe. They’ll get him in the corner tight, And then will find his awful plight,

May all the world say “Serve him right, Brave Allied Troops o’ Europe.

And when this war its fate has spun, And laid aside baith sword and gun,

To each and all we’ll say “Well done!” Our Allied Troops o’ Europe.

Tho’ mony a hame will sadly mourn Brave lads o’ battle frae them torn, Who fought till death, and did adorn

The Allied Troops o’ Europe.

WALTER CHRISTIE, Armadale.

9 January 1915

To our Bothwell Territorials.

We watched them proudly march away, Our Bothwell Territorials’ band,

With smiling faces bright and gay, All under Captain Boyd’s command.

And as they gaily marched along To strains or martial music rare,

They looked so happy, brave, and strong, Each ready soon to do and dare.

For home defence the call had come To guard or shores from crafty foe,

Each had his bayonet, axe, and gun Equipped to strike the tyrant low.

With hearts aflame to do the right For King and native land so dear, With merry jest and laughter light

They chased away each gloomy fear.

And as we wished them all God speed That autumn morn, ‘mid sleet and rain,

We prayed that God their steps might lead In safety back to us again.

They went to constant march and drill

As soldiers staunch and true to be, With cheerful heart and stedfast will, Britannia’s sons, the brave and free.

And now the call has come once more,

A swift response at once was made; Their home defence days now are o’er,

Their country needs their further aid.

Defence of Empire is the word, To France or Egypt’s distant strand;

No murmur of dissent is heard As each stands ready at command.

We bade them now a fond farewell,

May God protect them is our cry, The issues God alone can tell May He to them be ever nigh.

And keep them by His grave divine, Amid those scenes of blood and war,

Till peace again on Britain shine, Like grand and glorious morning star.

When despot’s might will not enthral,

And bind us in its iron chain; When love will reign and rule o’er all,

And none will stoop to deeds of shame.

When tranquil times our land adorn, We’ll welcome back those lads we knew, Who went from us that autumn morn –

Our Bothwell Territorials true.

MRS JEANIE MILLIGAN, Bothwell.

16 January 1915

Letter from Winnipeg

Dear Friend -

I scratch my pow frae time to time To see if I can tell in rhyme

How much I am your debtor. For a’ the news frae my auld hame,

How blithe I greet ilk weel kent name That’s mentioned in your letter.

The days have noo rolled into years

Since I wi’ mony hopes and fears Left Scotland’s shores behind me. And though nae little in her debt,

My native land if I forget, May saut tears fall and blind me.

“Land of my sires,” that magic phrase,

The patriotic feelings raise Within the meanest bosom.

And search the globe where will you find Friendship sae true, and cronies kind,

Or lassies half sae lo’esome?

Then why leave hame? ye weel may speer, When Scotland’s hills ye held sae dear –

It looks a wee unstable. On Scotland’s isle my back to turn,

And then sit doon to grieve and mourn, Like Jew by streams of Babel.

Unlike the Jew nae captive I,

Sae wherefore should I sab or sigh When hame my thoughts do waver?

Wha naething ventures naething gains, And here on Manitoba’s plains

Dame Fortune shews her favour.

From days of yore its been the case That folks should roam frae place to place –

Some had a weary dander. While some like Moses and his host,

For slips they made, doomed to their cost, In wilderness to wander.

Noo restless folks in fortune’s quest, Wha hie them to the Golden West, Reach there without much strainin’. And casting cares and fears behind,

In this fair land will surely find A veritable Canaan.

For here we have the wealth of soil, Gi’es recompence to them wha toil,

We’ve here nae upper classes. At hame it set my blood a-boil

To hear them speak of “sons of toil” And horny-handed masses.

Oot here we work on Nature’s plan,

The wealthy carle is but a man Gets nae servile attendance.

Oot here the honest man can dare Return the great, the haughty stare,

Wi’ sturdy independence.

Some say a liking for the maut Is dear auld Scotland’s faut –

A faut that’s aft laid till her. A greater one in my regard,

Is how she venerates the laird, Or sumphs that ha’e the siller.

To jouk and let the jaw gae by

Is conduct nane can justify, It has a nasty savour.

The free outspoken truth to speak, Resist the wrong, support the weak,

Is mankind’s true behaviour.

Oor Rabbie prophesied wi’ glee That a’ mankind should brithers be,

That era’s lagging dourly. But British Isles are well-night rent Wi’ waves of healthy discontent,

The time is comin’ surely.

I noo must close these random notes, For, like the jades demanding votes,

I fear I’m gettin’ stale, man. And lest I overtax my brain,

And dream I once more am again In Scotland suppin’ kale, man.

JAMES THOM, Winnipeg.

23 January 1915

In Memory of John Kirk - died at Lesmahagow, 27th December 1912.

The earth again has coursed around, And dying is another year;

The darkening clouds obscure the sky, And all things dismal do appear. Yet blacker far the clouds that do

Surround my heart, this dreary day Reminds me that a year ago

My dearest friend all lifeless lay.

In musing oft I scarce can think On earth no more my friend I’ll greet,

So hard it is to realise That here below we’ll never meet. But dreams dispel, and to assuage The grief that surges in my heart, I seek God’s balm, the only hope

For stricken souls by sorrow’s dart.

A goodly man, so nobly he The path of duty bravely trod,

That strength and inspiration gave To travellers on life’s weary road.

Why should we weep when friends like this, Whose virtues up before us rise,

Are called from hence their God to meet, And from His hands receive the prize!

So humbly walked he with his God,

So kindly helped his fellow man, ‘Twas not in vain he lived, but he Fulfilled the great Creator’s plan.

May God, who is the widow’s stay, The orphan’s father, friend and guide, Watch o’er beloved ones left behind, And keep them ever near His side.

JAMES KIRK, Coatbridge.

23 January 1915

To the Loving Memory of Alexander Brown, who died at Glasgow Royal Infirmary, the result of a boiler explosion, Allanton Foundry, Morningside, 10 July 1912.

Life’s mysteries are hidden By our Father’s loving hand,

Our Father’s loving kindnesses Are still round us like a band.

But in this life of trials, That do surely rend the heart,

We do often pause and wonder If God’s love doth form a part.

Strength from our Heav’nly Father,

In our trial we would crave, Teach us, our Heavenly Father, That in trouble Thou dost save.

And death is but the portal From earth to heaven above;

And that while we mourn in sadness, We are still kept by Thy love.

‘Tis sad to think on Alick,

But it cheers our hearts to-day, For his loved ones stood around him

When his spirit passed away. We know that God was near him,

God’s salvation was his stay; And we know he’s with our Saviour,

Though his body is but clay.

The Lord our God hath promised Still to be the widow’s Friend,

This fatherless and orphans’ cry Up to heaven shall ascend.

And there we’ll meet our love done, When this earthly life is o’er,

And no more shall death divide us On bright Canaan’s happy shore.

PETER BROWN, Glespin, Lanarkshire.

30 January 1915

Christmas Day in the Trenches

The Christmas bells were ringing in the Homeland ever dear, Their music borne upon the breeze we seemed again to hear,

So sweet they jingled, jingled in a sort of holy mirth Their message – Peace and Goodwill to every man on earth –

The Christmas bells seemed calling out, be patient, true and brave, To the soldier in the trenches, from the Homeland o’er the wave.

We lay there in the trenches – the enemy in sight,

Both friend and foe agreed, it seemed, in peace to spend the night, For it was Christmas come again – that ever blissful day,

And we thought on those at home so near – and yet so far away; The dead and dying lay around – the cry of one in pain

I heard distinct – Oh, God, to hear a comrade call in vain.

“Mother” – that ever blessed word – I heard him murmur clear, “Oh, mother, won’t you come to me, your own boy wants you here –

I only want to see your face – to smile upon me know, And feel once more your tender hand, dear mother, on my brow –“

His fervent prayer was all in vain – one parting word he said. “Dear Mother” (when I looked at him), her soldier son was dead.

The Christmas bells were ringing in the homeland o’er the main, And loved ones there were praying for our safe return again –

But may we meet with those we love – IF our life must be given, When Christmas bells are ringing in the golden realms of heaven.

WILLIE FRAME.

30 January 1915

IN MEMORY OF A VENERABLE AND DEAR FRIEND. Who Departed this Life, 2nd February, 1914.

To be forever with the Lord.

With God’s will we must not murmur, When He parts loved ones asunder;

We are His, not our own, The dear one that has gone

Has gone back to Him Who gave her, To our Maker and our Saviour.

Be not bowed down in the dust, But look above in perfect trust;

Your dear one is not dead, Deathless is the soul fled,

To dwell forever with the Lord, According to His precious word.

M, Coatbridge.

30 January 1915

NINETEEN FOURTEEN HAS GONE.

The year nineteen fourteen has gone to its rest, No more on our letters can we put its crest,

‘Tis a volume now finished, startling and strange – Where we read of unrest, disaster, death, change.

Continental battlefield, deep dyed in gore, Warfare unknown in the world’s history before,

Many sad hearts, and homes of loved ones bereft, Such the sad record nineteen fourteen has left.

But though the winds are loud, and the waves are high, With the tumult of war, and its horrors nigh,

The New Year will bring peace, let’s trust in the Lord, And the victory sure shall be our reward.

ADAM WATSON, Carluke.

6 February 1915

BURNS ANNIVERSARY, JANUARY 25th 1915.

Again thy natal day returns, Sweet Coila’s bard of matchless worth; Once more the toast to Robbie Burns

Rings thro’ the land that gave him birth. And as we gather round the board To honour one, to memory dear,

We hush our mirth because the sword Has parted friends who once met here.

From sounds of war and scenes of woe,

Here nature’s bard we pledge anew, Our deepest homage thus bestow

On him whose heart was staunch and true. And may the land he loved so well,

Auld Scotia, theme of sweetest song, The land of waving heather bell Still triumph over cruel wrong.

May her loved banner still unfurled

Wave o’er a people loyal, free, Her name emblazoned to the world

For God and glorious liberty. And while we hail thy natal day, Sweet singer of immortal fame.

May war’s dark shadows, grim and grey, Leave still untarnished Britain’s name.

Dear Robbie Burns, well might thy shade

Weep o’er her heroes, brave and true, Who in the conflict fierce, have made

Britain’s sceptre gleam anew. From scenes like these, to-day we sing

As thou so sweetly sang of old, Our nation’s grandeur still doth spring, Such virtues are not bought with gold.

And as we gather round the board,

While hands clasp hands for auld lang syne, We pray that peace and not the sword May rest on our loved land and thine.

That ere this day again returns, Our song may be of victory won,

And may the land that gave a Burns Fresh laurels reap from sire and son.


6 February 1915

TO THE SHADE OF ROBERT BURNS

Once more again we hail our Burns, Once more again the day returns

When first you saw the light, Rabbie. Yet still our hearts fan forth its flame,

And love to honour such a name That stands adorned so bright, Rabbie.

As each corresponding date comes round, You are still our own rich treasure bound,

For man we ken your worth, Rabbie. And although we come on many a page

With things unexpected frae a sage, Yet Scotland’s proud o’ your birth, Rabbie.

We’ve had mony bards since ye have gaen, Aye, men o’ fame, but you staun yer lane,

You’re second still to none, Rabbie. Although they sung with fervent zeal, They couldna’ grip our hearts as weel

As thou aye hast done, Rabbie.

I sometimes try a verse mysel’ When owre me comes the magic spell,

But I havena’ got the knack, Rabbie. For as soon as I complete a verse, My thoughts seem then to disperse,

And are long in coming back, Rabbie.

But I ken I am nae poet much, And never count mysel’ as such,

Unless in bletherin’ rhyme, Rabbie. And although I try it now and then, It keeps the rust frae aff my pen, And wiles away the time, Rabbie.

But O! Great chieftan o’ the bardie clan, Thou’st done a lot for your brother man,

And written a’ wi’ skill, Rabbie. And in misfortunes great or sma’,

You held your head abune them a’, They couldna daunt your will, Rabbie.

As I read your “Modest Crimson Flower” Or to “Highland Mary,” wi’ love so pure,

And other treasures piled, Rabbie. Or your hamely “Cotter’s Saturday Night.”

That pictures home, sweet home, so bright. I feel again a child, Rabbie.

Or “A’ the Airts the Wind can Blaw,”

“Ye Banks and Braes” and “My Nannie’s Awa’,” Or “The Lass o’ Ballochmyle,” Rabbie.

Or turn again to “Willie’s Prayer,” “To the Louse” or “Mouse,” in her hair or lair,

It fairly makes me smile, Rabbie.

And “The Weary Sodger’s Hame Return,” Or “Davie, Lad, Gang Doon the Burn,”

And “Man was made to Mourn,” Rabbie. Or by “Sweet Afton’s” murmuring stream,

That only you could picture, dream, And scenes like these adorn, Rabbie.

At times when turning owre a leaf,

I often sit and pause wi’ grief, On advice to your fellow men, Rabbie.

For ye warn them weel o’ the world’s snares, And get caught yourself’, aye, unawares,

While wisdom’s flowing from your pen, Rabbie.

But ere I close my limpin’ screed, I’d like ye’d just take note or heed, Although you’re far awa’, Rabbie. Until auld Scotland’s race is run, You aye will be her foremost son, E’en should a greater ca’, Rabbie.


13 February 1915

CHILDREN OF THE EMPIRE.

Children of the Empire, Hark! to the sound of battle,

Where large arms roar, And small arms rattle.

Buckle on your armour, Lend a helping hand

To drive the cruel invader From our motherland.

It’s a fight for truth and freedom,

The right against the wrong, Your king and country calls you

To join the gallant throng. Your sisters and your mothers

Appeal for your defence, Your brothers brave await you

Upon the plains of France.

Haste then to the conflict. Let it never once be said –

To help the weak and loved ones You refused to draw the blade.

And Scottish song the world o’er, Will to future children sing,

Your glorious deeds of valour For country and for king.

WILLIAM RUSSELL, Edinburgh.

13 February 1915

FOES OF THE WORLD.

THE WAR LORD AND HIS NATION. Then view himself proclaimed in a gazette,

Chief monster that has plagues the nations yet; The globe and sceptre in such hands misplaced,

Those ensigns of dominion how disgraced. - Cowper

During the feats each Briton now displays,

Feats which shall live, and speak to future days; To Britain’s call, her sons, heroic, bow,

And for their king, home, weaker powers, they vow To strike a blow, for an enduring peace,

To make the Huns their militarism cease, That learning’s art may culture true produce, To bind the evil war hounds running loose; And show the world, its one and only foe With a lost for power, Germany laid low –

Cursed by the very God, whose holy name Its ruler raises on his lips of shame;

Cursed with its culture, for inhuman acts Which spare-not babies in its mad attacks.


13 February 1915

WHAT DO WE OWE?

Oh! what do we owe to you, sailor lads, Lads in navy blue,

Who scour the deep, while we calmly sleep Laying our trust in you.

Risking your life where the hell-born mine Floats hidden on rolling wave. Ready to hew in the liquid blue

A yawning and nameless grave? It isn’t our cheers, for they can’t reach your ears,

For in Neptune’s cold bosom you lie, But sailor in blue, there will drop aye for you

A tear from a nation’s eye.

Oh! what do we owe to you, soldier true, Soldier in khaki clad,

Rushing to fight with the strong arm of might, The lust of a Kaiser run mad;

Leaving behind all you held dear on earth, Nothing to gain but death,

In a wild raging hell, where the cruel bursting shell Holds sway with a blasting breath?

Oh! why should you give, that others may live, Your life in the shattered ranks?

Brave soldier true, we can give but to you A nation’s most heartfelt thanks.

Oh! what do we owe to you, Red Cross nurse,

Lady in white and red, Gliding your way, like a heaven sent ray,

To each dying hero’s bed; Bringing peace to his fevered brow With a touch of your gentle hand,

Bringing to view, when his eyes gaze on you, A sight of the promised land?

Lady of rest, by the wounded thrice blest, You appear to them as from above,

Angel concrete, may we lay at your feet A nation’s undying love.

WM. PARK, Blantyre.

20 February 1915

DID YOU SAY PITY? (A local minister last Sabbath expressed the wish that some of our poets would write

a “Song of Pity” in reply to the German “Song of Hate.” – “Hamilton Advertiser,” January 30th, 1915.)

Did you say pity for the miscreants Who hath plunged a world in woe?

Who hath desolated home and hearth And struck the coward blow.

Where our husbands and brothers and sons lie dead, Let us make this solemn vow –

Justice they’ll get – but mercy – none Shall temper our justice now.

Shall sack’d Louvain and ruin’d Rheims

For vengeance cry in vain, And many a pillaged village that

Had once adorned the plain? See! frail old men with dotard step

White hair and furrowed cheek, From you vile horde of savage Huns

In vain protection seek.

Shot down like dogs! Oh! think of it, Were this your father’s fate?

Would you reply with words of love To the German “Song of Hate”?

Where peaceful peasants till’d the soil

Is now a bloody plain, Rapine and lust and murder stalk

O’er this once fair domain. Here misery feeds her wretched flame,

And famine smites the land, Dishonoured maids and stricken wives –

A melancholy band.

The tyrant, too, upon our shores An envious eye doth turn,

And fain would land his armies here To pillage, steal, and burn.

And if at times in softer mood A tear should dim our eye,

Remember mourning Scarboro’ Where murder’d babies lie.

An infant’s blood! Oh! think of it, Were this your baby’s fate?

Would you reply with words of love To the German “Song of Hate”?

E. H. CUTBERTSON, Meikle Earnock.

20 February 1915

THE BRITON’S PRAYER FOR THE TIMES.

O God, we seek to thank Thee, We seek to give Thee praise,

For helping our defenders Through all these anxious days.

We’re but a little island,

Our numbers are not great, But God, He shall deliver us

From the enemy and his hate.

Let us ask the Lord to help us, Seek Him morning, noon, and night;

He will surely help our armies, Yea, He will defend the right.

God bless the British Army,

Make them strong in battle’s hour, May the Lord of Hosts be with them,

May they conquer in His power.

From shot and shell protect them, Keep them safe and free from harm;

And, in the hour of danger, Save by Thy mighty arm.

Shield our Naval men and sailors

From the enemies’ designs, Keep them safe from their torpedoes, Keep them safe from all their mines.

O Lord, do Thou protect our shores

From further scare or raid: May the enemy be driven back

By Thine all-powerful aid.

Lord, pity Thou our enemies, And may they be restrained From cruelty to prisoners, And all by them retained.

Help the doctors and the nurses.

Fighting death, relieving pain; Bless the treatment of their patients,

May they soon be healed again.

Lord, comfort all in sorrow, Help the wounded to get healed;

Be near the lonely soldier Dying on the battlefield.

Bless Christ’s cause throughout the Service,

Give Thy workers heavenly power, May all on whom Death lays his hand

Be ready for the dying hour.

Hear the cry of all Thy people Throughout our beloved land; We pray Thee, send us victory By the power of Thy right hand.

With Thee as our Defender

We will not be afraid, For they that put their trust in Thee

Will never be dismayed.

May it please Thee, help our Allies, O hasten Thou the day

When lasting peace shall be declared – O hear us, Lord, we pray.

J. B., Pollokshields.

27 February 1915

A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE MR JAMES COATS.

The busy life is ended, all earthly labour’s past, He sleeps, and now his fragile craft is anchored safe and fast; The voyage o’er, and he has reached the haven of the blest

Where souls so weary with earth’s cares find their eternal rest. His life so fraught with good intent, and talents used well here,

Now shattered all the fondest hopes, a promising career; We mourn his loss, earth ill can spare of aught that tends to leaven,

Perchance his Heavenly Master hath need of him in heaven. Unfailing Friend, Who lovest to send that sweet relief

To souls in sorrow drooping, sharing the parents’ grief, With love divine cheer their sad hearts, be Thon their strength and stay,

And with Thy gentle hand, Oh! wipe the sisters’ tears away. Oh! blessed consolation, that brightens up the gloom,

A home of peace and gladness nestles far beyond the tomb, Where we shall meet our loved ones, and dwell in joy complete, For these – and not on earth is found – of happiness the seat.

JEAN NAISMITH, Glasgow.

27 February 1915

MY AULD SCHULE SLATE.

I’m gaun tae write a line aboot Yon I ha’e in my han’,

Ye’re noo my auld schule slate nae doot – I’ll let folks understan’.

Wi’ me since I was at the schule, Ye’ve been early an’ late;

Pairt wi’ ye I never will, My auld schule slate.

The same auld string is in yer frame

That held ye on my back; Ye’re auld, but for ye a’ the same

I would na’ siller tak’. The saut tear sune would dim my e’e,

If noo I thocht that fate Would ever tak’ awa’ frae me

My auld schule slate.

When e’er I look at ye I ween, I think o’ days gone by,

O’ happy days that I ha’e seen When at the schule was I.

Yet lang ye may be tae the fore When I am oot o’ date,

When a’ my earthly ills are o’er – My auld schule slate.

Where e’er I’ve been wi’ me ye’ve gane,

I’ve ta’en ye faur an’ near; I’m shair that action should explain

Tae me ye’ve aye been dear. I ken tae me ye’ll aye be dear,

Yer value ever great; I’ll stick tae ye as lang’s I’m here,

My auld schule slate.

When I am deid an’ laid tae rest, I hope nane will illuse

My dear auld freen, ane o’ the best, That nane will ye abuse.

Tae lo’e ye as I’ve lo’ed I fear, When I’ve gane thro’ daith’s gate,

Ye’ll never get anither here, My auld schule slate.

JOHN McGINNES, Hamilton.

27 February 1915

YE SONS OF MARTIAL FAME.

Ye sons of martial fame and glory, Awake, awake, ye sleeping band;

What ruthless hordes rise up before ye To desolate your God-given land.

Or shall you still lie slumbering, sleeping, Unheedful of the groans and weeping,

While dead men’s swords stand itching, leaping, To be the first avenging hand.

Chorus –

Then awake, awake, the avenging sword command, And fight with might till the foe is underhand;

Oh! don’t you hear your comrades calling, As one by one they’re bravely falling, Falling for the dear old motherland.

Arise, ye sons of British warriors,

And follow where your fathers trod; Arise, and fight with all their valour,

Fearing nothing but their God. Or will you leave to fate unheeding,

Indifferent to your country’s pleading, While war-worn comrades languish, bleeding,

Crying from the blood red reeking sod.

Then, then, ye men of worth and honour, Britannia counts on every son;

Remember what your fathers fought for, Will you tell it to the cultured Hun?

Then wake, lads, break from your dreamy slumbers, Up, lads, up and swell the numbers,

Each day’s delay the more encumbers, And fiercer battles to be won.

Oh! when with gentle peace returning,

And beacon lights lit up on high, With heaving breasts, and eyes a-burning,

We watch our gallant lads go by. Sons of the Empire, what martial bearing, Britannia’s strength in her hour despairing,

It only makes her lads more daring, With faces set to do or die.


6 March 1915

A SONG OF PITY In reply to the Germans’ Song of Hate, as desired by a Local Minister, as per

“Advertiser,” 30th January, 1915. God is Love – 1st John, 1 and 8. Christ had Pity – Luke 23 and 31.

God pity those, amongst our foes,

Who murder and who steal, Their actions show, they cannot know,

Or think that Thou art leal. They cannot know that what they sow

They’ll surely reap ere long; God pity all who so low fall To think that right is wrong.

And while we live, let us forgive,

No matter what our loss, If we will wear a crown elsewhere,

Help us to bear the cross. And always pray, by night and day,

For those who crucify, As Christians we must prove to be

Able to testify.

Let’s follow Jesus when we can, And change this Song of Hate,

For God hath love for every man, He pity’s sinners’ fate.

God pity all who fighting fall, And those who wounded lie;

Be near at hand on sea and land, To save them ere they die.

Do save from woe both friend and foe, As those upon our side;

Speak to their heart, ere they depart, In death You have no pride.

God pity those, both friends and foes,

Who mourn for friends who fall; Draw very near, to them appear,

And be their All in All. And through this war, both near and far,

May weary souls find rest; May they draw nigh to Thee on high,

And thus be truly blest.

God’s love and pity in each heart Will change that Song of Hate;

God answer prayer, Thy love impart To all ere it’s too late.

D. HUTCHISON, Motherwell.

6 March 1915

SPRING

Again the Spring her pleasures brings, The little birds are singing,

The flowers anew are fair to view Among the grass up springing.

On soaring wing the lark does sing,

Ascending, still ascending; While in the bush blackbird and thrush

Their mellow notes are blending.

The birds I see on bush and tree Are building little nests,

The cushat dove, oppressed with love, High in the fir tree rests.

The little lambs beside their dams

Are sporting in the sun, The children’s glee is fair to see As through the fields they run.

Along the burn at every turn The downy palms appear,

The daisies fair bloom everywhere, Sweet spring-time of the year.

The seasons come, no sound of drum

Proclaims their time or number, But I will sing of smiling spring,

When earth awakes from slumber.

CALDWELL MILLAR, Bellshill.

13 March 1915

A SOLDIER’S PASSING

Could I but hear ae auld Scotch song As I lie wounded here

A waiting on the ambulance Tae tak’ me tae the rear.

Could I but see my mither’s face Could I hear her ain voice croon

Ae dear auld Scottish lullaby, It wad my sorrows droon.

Oh that wad ease the passin’

To the ither world aboon. The mad war-lust has left me noo

I see again the glen The cottage on the rough hillside

Our ain wee but-an-ben: My mither in her droget coat

Moves cheery oot and in My faither hastening ower the lea

To him, the wee win rins. And our ain wee bonnie burnie

Is loupin’ ower the linns Oh, it’s coupin’, loupin’ joukin Oot and in amang the whins

Could I but get ae drink Of its water fresh and clear.

Could I but get ae waff

O the caller mountain air. Could I but hear my mither’s voice Could her ain haun close my e’e Oh that wad soothe the passin’

The passin’ that I dree; For mony a bonnie kilted lad

Lies stark upon the lea.

FORTH.

13 March 1915

A WALK TO CRAWFORDJOHN.

My friend and I, the other day Like Mr Kirk, did make our way

To Crawfordjohn, that hamlet sweet, For busy men, a quiet retreat.

Across by Strancleugh we did go, And crossed Duneaton just below

The spot where old Liscleugh once stood, Close by a little belt of wood.

Our reason for the journey here

At this tempestuous time of year, Was just to glean from Nature’s book How people lived in this quiet nook.

And like our friends who came to view,

We found the people kind and true, With simple ways, but hardy life Far from the city’s busy strife.

We, too, will not forget the share Of welcome we got everywhere,

Their memory lingers in our mind, When to sad thoughts we feel inclined.

And at Glentewing Farm, the style Of greeting made us pause awhile,

And thank the Providence who guides The wandering feet on these hillsides.

Here warmth and comfort were made sure, And though cold winds blew o’er the moor,

Within the farm, beside the fire, We really had our heart’s desire.

The farmer’s wife, with happy smile,

Did listen to our tale awhile, And then she said, “You’ll need a bite

To satisfy your appetite.”

She soon a spread before us laid, To which we ample justice made, And then goodbye we had to say,

For seven miles before us lay.

The farmer his instructions gave, To keep the hill, the brae to save;

Though now in Leadhills we toil on, We often think of Crawforjohn.

DAVID STEWART, Leadhills.

13 March 1915

TALANA HILL

My nephew, wee John Surgeon, One day said, “Uncle Will,

Please will you come along with me And climb Talana Hill?

There is an iron flag staff

Erected on the spot, Where Boers and our brave British lads

Their first hard battle fought.

You’ll see a nice white marble stone The Dutchmen have as well,

In mem’ry of their comrades all Who at Talana fell.”

So just to please the boy, of course,

I to the hilltop went, Two very interesting hours

Along with him I spent.

We wandered round the roofless forts – And truly they are still,

Just as our British heroes left Them at Talana Hill,

WM. SURGEON, Hattingspruit, South Africa.

20 March 1915

A LAMENT FOR WILLIE BROWNLIE WILLIE BROWNLIE, a native of Low-waters, and much respected, was seriously

wounded at La Bassee, on 25th January, died in the hospital, Bologne, 3rd February.

Well known in Low-waters was Willie Brownlie, And as civil a man as a man could be;

He was big, strong, and healthy, just in his prime, And a soldier he’d be at this awful time.

To shirk such a duty he’d do no such thing, But resolved to fight for his country and King.

The Germans had threatened our land to invade,

For forty long years preparations they’d made; No nation to conquer did e’er so prepare,

And if they had landed God knows how we’d fare. The first they intended to conquer was France,

But Belgium deprived them of getting the chance; King Albert’s brave army the Teutons opposed,

It was no walk over as they had supposed. They were kept well in check till Britain and France

Had time to prepare on their foe to advance.

The Allies outnumbered were far by the Huns, And also outclassed by their terrible guns;

In an orderly way they therefore retired For men and material both were required.

But though they retired, it was not done in vain, For thousands on thousands of Germans were slain.

In freedom’s great cause Britain needed more men,

Lord Kitchener became responsible then; To see the great struggle successfully through He declared he would need a million or two. To the country his Lordship made an appeal,

And thousands responded with courage and zeal; From the east, and the west, the south and the north

Both married and single came manfully forth.

Now Willie Brownlie, at this critical stage, Was anxious at once in the fight to engage;

He joined the ranks of the famed Forty-Second, On troubles and trials he likely had reckoned.

Nigg Camp he left with a batch for France, For what he had wished he had now got the chance.

The date of leaving, January the tenth, Saw him in good spirits, in good health, and strength,

Little dreaming of what would soon be his lot, For fifteen days later our hero was shot.

From the trench to Boulogne they had him removed, In the hospital there it fatally proved;

He died from his wound, February the third, Amongst strangers and far from home it occurred.

He is now laid to rest in a far foreign soil, Like thousands who took part in the great turmoil;

Heroes they were, patriotic, and zealous, Our country laments the loss of such fellows. We are grieved at our hero’s untimely end,

Our sympathies to his relations extend; There is this consolation, how noble a thing

‘Tis to fight and to die for our country and King.

JAMES SHEPHERD, Cadzow.

20 March 1915

THE CALL To JOHN MITCHELL, 5th Scottish Rifles, at the Front.

Adieu! Adieu! a fond adieu!

To lovely Bothwell by the Clyde, I hear the clarion call anew

That bids me seek my comrade’s side.

So off to foreign climes I go, The Imperial call I now obey, To face the crafty, cruel foe

Who dares to take our rights away.

Those sacred rights so dearly bought By fearless hearts both strong and brave,

Who in the cause of freedom fought O’er burning sand, by rolling wave.

And by those scenes, so dear to me,

Around thee, Bothwell lovely side Those memories of the brave and free

Whose blood has stained the valley’s wide.

Those who for God and conscience there Did lay their lives so nobly down

That we the great rewards might share Of freedom, liberty, renown.

And by those ties of kinship true,

Our happy homes and friends so dear, I say again adieu, adieu,

And leave them all without a tear.

For oh! amid those scenes so fair, The call came ringing clear and plain - To arms! To arms! your place is there Besides your comrades o’er the main.

27 March 1915

A HYMN OF PITY.

Pity the Germans, poor, deluded, lost, Who spurned all reason, counting not the cost, But madly rushed to gain some fancied good, And for a myth draining their life’s best blood.

How sad to see a nation sunk so low, Where virtue is despised, crushed as a foe;

All that a nation ought to value most, Blasted for ever for an empty boast.

O, what infatuation it must be, As well attempt to bind the raging sea,

Or seek to overthrow the throne of God, As hope to gain success by such a road.

Where is their boasted wisdom, where, O where, Such wisdom is the road to black despair;

How sad to see a nation gone astray, Groping in awful darkness, lost its way, Discarding all the old landmarks of time,

Fuming and floundering in its abyss of slime. O, what a sight, is there a sight more sad,

Behold a mighty nation raving mad. Mad with its lust for power, and mad with hats,

The hand of time will surely seal its fate. Is there a heart so lost to all that’s good, Can see a nation thus in such a mood. And not feel sadness in its bosom burn,

Till pity melts the heart and makes it mourn. Surely within that nation’s wide domains

There must be many a heart where sorrow reigns, To see their nation pilloried for all time, A monument for every curse and crime.

Crimes that appeal to heaven for vengeance just, To crush this awful monster in the dust,

Who dares usurp high heaven’s authority, And dares to say who shall or shall not be. Who mocks the awful Majesty of Heaven, And asks that heavenly strength be given

To murder, ruin, blast, and devastate, To spread the doctrine of black hellish hate.

What blasphemy colossal must it be To drag Heaven into such conspiracy.

Till from the earth is banished every grace, And nothing left but one vast wilderness.

In vain does reason speak with august voice, They will not hear (appalled at such a price), But madly rush amidst the gathering gloom, And still refuse to see their coming doom.

27 March 1915

SPRING.

The blackbird whistles on the tree, His heart containing joy,

He loves the spring time, lets me see That naught does him annoy.

Would I could sing with joyful heart And join him in his song,

The moments now with which I part All weary pass along.

The blackbird sings his joyful lay

From grief, from sorrow free, From which here in the winter day

The poor thing could not be. In life’s young day, as I peer through

The past, so dim and long, With joyful heart I’m listening to

The little blackbird’s song.

Long may the little blackbird’s breast With joy, with rapture beat;

Yet as he watches by the nest May he no troubles meet.

Now long may he from grief and pain His morning carol sing,

To welcome o’er and o’er again The coming of the spring.


27 March 1915

THE GALLANT FORTY-TWA.

Forward they rush to death or to glory, Our gallant Black Watch of traditional story,

Charge to the pibroch’s strain, Death strewn the bloody plain,

Charge them, lads, once again with bayonet gory.

The blood of your forefathers calls to you now, Firm was their oath and sacred their vow;

Honour and duty stand Guarding your loyal band,

Now on your native land freedom endow.

Right into the foe they now boldly sweep, Bayonets glisten as madly they leap;

Old Scotland forever, The enemy we’ll sever

As swift as the river that runs to the deep.

The flooers o’ the forest are no wed away, Their name it still lives, they’r e with us to-day;

They are brave as of yore Are the lads we adore,

They’ll flourish once more where their forefathers lay.

Lads of the kilt, the wild and the free, Fearless and strong as the wide rolling sea,

Daring and boldly true, Heroes each through and through,

Dear, dear to our Scottish hearts they’ll ever be.

A toast to the lads frae the land o’ the heather, May victory’s hand bring us once more together,

Sons of the hill and glen, Bravest and best of men,

Soon may we see again the kilt and the feather.

MRS CHARLES FRAME, Calder Glen.

3 April 1915

In Memory Of Pte. John Campbell, KOSB, succumbed to wounds on 6th Jan., 1915.

And thou are gone, my brother, Gone in life’s young day, I look for thee in silence,

Ah! Whether, where, away. The shadows darken o’er me

As evening settles down; And in the burning embers Fond pictures hover round.

What visions rise before me,

Memories long gone by, That leave me but to sorrow,

Leave me but to sigh. No more we’ll meet or gather,

The social evening spend; No more old times together, My leal true hearted friend.

Though only a fighting unit,

Yet a soldier true and brave; Defending his King and country,

Filling a soldier’s grave. Only a humble hero,

Missed, ah! no, by whom? ‘Tis only those who miss thee Who mourn around thy tomb.

No more around the camp fire Your watch at night to keep; No more the cannon rattle

Will rouse you from your sleep. Your fights are fought and over,

And in a better dawn; May rest and gladness wait you

To where thy soul has gone.

Here in the deepening twilight, As daylight wings away,

I pay my debt and homage, Though thou are ‘neath the clay,

Here in my simple tribute The poet drops his tear;

It’s all he’s left to give you. Ah! yet it is sincere.

JOHN MACK, Hamilton.

3 April 1915

SOLDIER HEROES

Twenty-second October, 1914, That night I’ll ne’er forget,

Our soldier heroes of Utrecht In Mr Adler’s met;

True hearted, brave, good fellows,

Each in his turn would sing, We’re going to fight for God and right,

Our country and our king.

The Kaiser, most atrocious chief That e’er was known to reign,

He laughs to see poor mothers and Their little children slain.

Scotch, English, Welsh, and Irish men,

That night every one Vowed to slay the Germans for The cruel deeds they’ve done.

WM. SURGEON, Utrecht, Natal, S.A.

3 April 1915

TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES SPENCE, Who was killed in action on 17th February, 1915, near Vryburgh, South Africa (a

native of Carluke and Braehead).

Far from Braehead he now lies dead, A hero of our race,

His friends are left of him bereft, Here ne’er to see his face.

He died for right against the might, Of Prussia’s savage Huns,

And now James Spence a recompense Will get, far from their guns.

Our God of might, who loves the right,

And always hates the wrong, Has called him hence, and now James Spence

Is singing the new song. Where saints do raise their songs of praise

And sing of God’s great love, Our soldiers all, who for right fall,

Doubtless will meet above.

Fight the good fight for God and right, And fear no foe while here,

God will give strength to win at length If we but persevere.

We’ll win the day, though in the fray Sad hearts on earth will be,

If in God’s might we do the right, Those heroes we’ll yet see.

D. HUTCHISON, Motherwell.

10 April 1915

A Tragedy. Recently, a party of Scots Guards were blown up in a trench by a buried mine,

including a young Blantyre policeman, Tom Bennet. “He was ever gentle.”

No soldier cut From bayonet bright No blow from butt Is stubborn fright.

A German ruse

A land mine A lighted fuse

A dastard crime.

A deaf’ning crash A thund’rous roar A blinding flash And all was o’er.

Another roll

Of heroes true Has paid their toll

And passed from view

In sabled gloom A mother sits

It is Tom’s room And shadows flit

She sits all day

Forever weeping While far away

Her Tom is sleeping.

Calm in sleep Storms unheeding

The shadows creep The vultures feeding.

Her day is night

Aye shadows creeping She has no light

Her Tom is sleeping

A mangled son A broken heart

“Thy will be done” Both played their part.

WM. PARK, 31 Glasgow Road, Blantyre.

10 April 1915

APRIL “Gentle, Tender-Hearted April.”

Come, April month of smiles and tears,

Thy modest beauty soothes and cheers, Like blue-eyed maid with rosy face Oft laughing with a winsome grace.

Our world can never grow quite old, Nor cease a glamour sweet to hold,

While April, with a heart of love, Has life below and light above.

Come, gentle April, well thy charms

Stern winter’s despot power disarms, Proofs of thy conquest all may see

On bush and bough, o’er mead and lea.

Day after day some magic change Is felt and seen where’er we range,

Thy corn and pasture fields can show Of softest green a tender glow.

Sweet hope and joy unite their hands

Athwart the cultured fertile lands, The mind forecasts rich summer hours With varied wealth of fruit and flowers.

Who would not live and laugh when spring

Doth melody and beauty bring? And who would yield to faintest frown When April showers fall gently down?

Glad music from the winged choir

Rejoice our hearts, our thoughts inspire; Life wears a fairer, wider flow

When April hours their booms bestow.

Be gladsome all, uplift your eyes To soaring birds and sunny skies; Nature has untold treasures free To all who love to hear and see.

JOHN BLACK, Glasgow.

10 April 1915

SPRINGTIDE

I heard the sound of a flowing tide, The waves of a boundless sea,

A living stream strong, deep and wide, From the founts of eternity.

It poured o’er the mountain’s rugged brow,

Where the virgin snows lay deep; And swept through the valleys slumbering low

In their winter’s death-like sleep.

It came with the dawn of a beauteous morn, Effulgent, genial, bright,

And filled the air with a life new-born From the realms of eternal light.

Oh! then arose a gladsome song From the winged hosts that fly;

Each swelled its notes in the joyful throng And hailed the springtime nigh.

The earth renewed with quickening powers,

Drawn from that wondrous flood; With verdure clothes the fields, and flowers

Burst from the opening bud.

And man, at one with nature kind, Bears forth the precious grain,

And tills the soil with ardent mind, A harvest rich to gain.

Yet still that stream flows on amain, New strength and health it brings; Grim spectres of disease are slain

And death itself takes wings.

A thousand blessings ours to prove, A thousand more to praise,

When springtide’s hours are merged and wove In summer’s golden days.

D. F. RITCHIE, Newport, I. of W.

17 April 1915

A SONG. Dedicated to our Scots Lads at the Front.

Ye are faur awa’ frae Scotland, her bonnie glens and howes,

Fair land o’ the kilt and the feather; Where the wimpkin’ burnies rin and the waters long the linn,

And the mountains are purple wi’ heather. Ye are faur frae yer hame, on the battlefields o’ France,

Wi’ the shot and the shell flee’in’ roon ye; Relentless your arm, and unconquered your glance,

Tho’ in thousands the Germans surron’ ye.

Chorus – Ye are faur frae the cot where wee toddlin’ bairns ye stray’d,

Frae the woods where ye aft gae-d a-roamin’; And ye dinna see the braes, where ye used to gether slaes,

Nor list to the mavis in the gloamin’.

Ye are faur awa’, my ladies, and oor hames amang the hills Are cauldrife and lanesome without ye;

When the nicht has settled doon, and the fire we gether room’; ‘Tis wi’ pride that we aye speak aboot ye.

Ye are faur frae the haunts o’ the peesweep and the whaup, Where the mist doon the hillside comes creepin’;

Frae the bonnie yellow whin that rears its heid abune The grave where the martys lie sleepin’.

‘Tis for honour and justice and liberty’s cause That sae bravely you’re fechtin’ and deein’;

To crush doon the tyrant and trample his laws, And to keep the auld Union Jack fleein’.

You may never see again the wee hoosie in the lane, Nor the lassies wha’s watchin’ and waitin’;

On the wild battle plain ye may lie amang the slain, While the he’rts in the hameland are breakin’.

E. H. CUTHBERTSON, Meikle Earnock.

17 April 1915

A VISION OF BELGIUM.

Cease these sounds of mirth and cheering in your garish music-hall, Cease your ribald shouts and jeering you who patronise football;

Cease, I ask but for a moment, one short moment will suffice, For I hear a sound appalling, see a sight that dims my eyes.

‘Tis the death sob of a nation, borne upon the winds afar, The dying gasp of Belgium, murdered in this cruel war;

Pause and listen but a moment to a nation’s dying moan, Oh, God! the house of Hohenzollern surely shall be made atone.

Hark! above the noise of battle I can hear a stifled moan,

‘Tis from these holy priests of Belgium, butchered at the altar stone; Nobler men where could you find them ‘neath a European sun, Done to death and foully murdered by the cruel soulless Hun.

See, beneath yon snow-clad hedgerow an aged woman, bent and frail,

The icy winds of winter midnight cannot drown her mournful wail; Shivering, dying at the roadside, something resting on her knee,

The grey head of her murdered husband, a fearful, ghastly sight to see.

Look, I see a fair young mother fleeing from a savage Hun, Clasping to her bare cold bosom her first-born babe, her infant son;

But the race is short and futile, and the end – Oh, what a sight! One cowardly blow, the babe is lifeless, the mother’s fate we’ll veil in night.

See yon band of Belgian maidens, fair as man could look upon,

Ruined, outcast, worse than murdered, victims of the accursed Hun; Some one’s sweetheart, some one’s daughter, all by some one loved and lost,

But help us, heaven, we’ll yet avenge them, Britons never count the cost.

So no resume your life of pleasure and enjoy it while you may, But mind the fate of noble Belgium might be Britain’s fate some day;

And the shirker and the coward may yet require to join the strife, If not for Britain’s king and honour, at least to save his paltry life.

G. WINTER, East Kilbride.

24 April 1915

EMPIRE BUILDERS.

‘Tis well when our Empires builders All strive with the head and hand To advance our country’s honour,

Alike o’er sea and land.

All must be men of attainment, Of courage, and skill, and power,

Of a purpose and genius lofty, With a dauntless mental dower.

We have such as Empire builders – We have others our nation needs,

The rank and file of our Navy And Army that fights and bleeds.

On our ships, and in the trenches,

We have valiant men and true, And staunchest of Empire builders

Are the men in khaki and blue.

Good luck to each! tars and soldiers, May they win in gallant fight,

For they war in defence of Empire, From black dishonour’s blight.


24 April 1915

LEST WE FORGET. Deuteronomy 4 - 9

Lord of the nations, grant, we pray, That cruel war may soon be o’er; Make bare Thy holy arm to-day,

Like as Thou didst in days of yore. Jehovah, God, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget.

God, our Creator, Father, Friend,

Leave not Thy erring children now; O’er mourning ones in pity bend,

Soothe and compose each dying brow. Saviour in love, be with us yet,

Though we forget, though we forget.

Jesus, our Advocate on high, Plead for Thy wayworn wanderers here;

To lone and lost ones be Thou near, And in compassion lend thine ear.

Thou Friend of sinners, be with us yet In love and pity, though we forget.

God of our fathers, hear our prayer, In mercy’s name we come to Thee;

Strike Thou the eagle in his lair, From cruel despots set us free.

God of the Empires, our God yet, Make bare Thine arm, lest we forget.

God our Creator, Thou didst form

Man for Thy glory, that alone; Kings, princes and peasants lowly born,

All must appear at Thy judgement throne. God of all glory, breathe on us yet

Thy Holy Spirit, lest we forget.

Lord of eternal wisdom and might, Grant us Thy loving favour still;

Long may Britannia’s standard white Flourish beneath Thy gracious will.

God of all grace, be with us yet, Even in conquest, lest we forget.


24 April 1915

WAR.

Thou friend of none and foe of all Oh! how I pray for your downfall,

Down to the deeps from whence you came, The peaceless place, the place of pain,

Where spirits dwell ever in discord, Outcasts of heaven and heaven’s Lord!

Demon of strife, to hell return, No longer on the earth sojourn,

Leave man in peace to live his life, A life of love and not of hate. The life above we’d imitate,

Where all do dwell in harmony, Because their Maker the obey,

And we would seek to do likewise And make this earth a paradise.

M, Coatbridge.

1 May 1915

HAMILTON’S WOODS.

O! Hamilton’s woods are bonnie woods, O! Hamilton’s woods are bonnie,

I’d wander ‘mang them a’ by my lane An’ never seek for ony.

I’d wander whaur the oak tree grows, An ‘rears his stately head on high. I’d wander whaur ilk burnie rows,

Wi’ gurglin’ soun’, an’ mournfu’ sigh.

O! Hamilton’s woods are cheery woods, O! Hamilton;s woods are cheery,

I’d wander ‘mang them a’ by my lane An’ never think it dreary.

I’d wander whaur the primrose springs, Frae oot some fairy den sae green,

I’d wander whaur ilk birdie sings Wi’ notes sae licht, an’ clear, an’ keen.

THOS. IRELAND.

1 May 1915

THOUGHTS WHILE ADMIRING A WOODLAND SCENE.

Oh! lovely is the woodland scene On which I gaze this sweet spring morn,

And skylarks’ lays are ringing clear Above the fields of young green corn.

How shy the rising sun peeps o’er The distant hills, yet capped with snow, And fragrant winds, among the trees, Chant melodies both sweet and low.

Oft o’er yon hills, and through these vales

I’ve wandered at the break of day, And swept the Muse’s tuneful lyre, To charm corroding cares away;

But now, beside a rustic gate I pause to view the snow-clad hills,

And trace, thro’ openings in the wood, The course of noisy, sparkling mills.

Ev’n as mine eyes drink in the charms

Of Nature’s pictures, subtle, bright, My soul is borne to higher spheres

In Thought’s fleet car, and heav’nly light Adds lustre to the scenes of earth Oh! that each mortal could discern

The beauties in each woodland scene, And from Dame Nature something learn,

Yes, we may learn from Nature’s book

Things never yet revealed by man, And may, perchance, by one sure stroke

Prove to the world i is God’s plan To baffle souls whose minds aye dwell In realms of thought, and try to prove

That no Great Architect Divine Planned this fair world on which we move.

I cannot, will not, think by chance

Things come into this earth of ours, Because I feel, within my soul,

The light that speaks of Heav’nly powers, And shows beyond the veil of Time

A mighty God, who rules and guides The universe, and stretched out the Heav’ns,

And over ev’rything presides.

How sweet it is when Nature speaks Unto the soul with gentle voice,

Then hills and dales, and streams and lakes, Make ev’n the saddest heart rejoice. See! yonder, on the steep hill-side

The cattle grazing near the streams, And note the wonderful effect

Wrought by the rising sun’s bright beams,

Oh! charming is the woodland scene On which I gaze this sweet spring morn,

For golden tints now flood the vale, And breezes sigh among the corn, While overhead the skylarks sing, And streamlets murmur far below,

And as I list and gaze around, The sights and sounds sweet bliss bestow.

Within my heart a joy divine

Now enters, and I feel that pow’r, Which tells of One Who made all things, And makes a poet’s thought to flow’er,

And bids him tune his golden lyre, And sing his soul-inspiring lays,

That others may, in earth’s fair scenes, See beauty which God’s pow’r displays.

M.

8 May 1915

THE AVENGING HOST.

She was a peaceful merchantman, Bound for remote Accra;

‘Twas noon, and Sabbath stillness reigned On board the “Falaba.”

When crashed the dread torpedo –

Its horrors who shall tell? As men and fragile women Sent up the last farewell.

Till death in silent majesty Presided o’er the scene, For cruel are the mercies

Of the German submarine.

Well might they boast of victory, Those reptiles of the deep,

For they had stilled a hundred hearts At one remorseless sweep.

Where is the God of righteousness?

Does He not see or care? Did He not hear those dying shrieks

That rent the Sabbath air?

Hush all those fears, ye mourners, Each broken sigh and moan –

Each wail of untold anguish Has reached the eternal throne.

God heard them all, as He heard the cry

Of desolate Lovair, And her martyr’d sons and daughters,

By the hordes of “kultur” slain;

And the burning and the torturing, And the bayoneting to death, When hundreds fell together, And with their latest breath

Called heaven and earth to witness Those deeds of blood and shame That brand with deathless infamy

The boasted German name.

But there are only episodes In the march of murderous rage,

For we might tell of Visé, Of Dinant and Liège.

And Hartlepool and Scarborough,

Where mercy stood aghast, While the great assassins revelled

In one red holocaust.

Untold the scenes of slaughter, Where Rachel, weeping sore,

Is calling for her children Who shall return no more.

But Faith can hear a message

From yonder silent heaven, And read, in letters large and clear,

The answer God has given.

His answer is the still small voice Which moves the hearts of men,

When the weak are trodden under By some heartless libertine –

When women and babes are butchered,

When solemn treaties are torn, And the laws of God and nations

Defied and held in scorn.

Fear not, ye sons of liberty, That the sacred cause is lost; Do ye not hear the trampling Of the great avenging host?

From the snowy steppes of Russia,

And sunny France they come, From Britain’s island kingdom

Amid the ocean’s foam;

From Belgium, whose heroic stand Shall ring till the end of time;

From Serbia, fighting hard for life, With courage all sublime.

And India, too, and far Japan,

Their tributes gladly bring; In Canada’s Dominion I hear the welkin ring

With the march of proud contingents – See how they haste away

From shore and plain and city, All eager for “The Day.”

And Africa – that wonderland –

From Algiers to Cape Town, Is rising in her giant strength

To beat the tyrants down.

Australia and New Zealand Anon take up the strain –

The kindred nations, young and free, That rule the Southern Main.

And not in meagre thousands –

They come in millions now, While retribution’s stern resolve

Is stamped on every brow.

Sure not in human history – Heav’n knows we do not boast –

Was ever such an army seen As this avenging host?

And when were nations ever

So welded into one? They must have heard the wondrous voice

That speaks and it is done.

Shades of the murdered innocents That sleep in earth and sea.

Outraged and foully done to death By Teuton savag’ry.

Shades of the unforgotten dead,

Go, tell the “Great War Lord” That freedom’s conquering legions

Will never sheath the sword.

Until the German “War Machine” Is smashed beyond repair,

And a righteous peace is reigning In ocean, earth, and air –

Till the torturers of Europe

Are plunged in judgement’s flood, And the star of Hohenzollern Goes down in a sea of blood.

WILLIAM SHAW, Maybole.

15 May 1915

IN MEMORIAM. Pte. George Leitch, 2nd Gordon Highlanders, who was killed in action on 11th March

last at the Battle of Neuve Chapelle. Pte. Leitch when on his way to France from Aberdeen cut a button from his tunic and attached it to a piece of paper saying to his parents – “Good-bye, I’m off to France.” This was thrown out at Holytown Station as the train rushed through. Someone found the message and took it as requested to

his parents at Motherwell.

Thou’rt gone, dear one, in early youth, Thy country’s call obeyed.

Thy duty done in deed and truth, And now beneath the shade

Of some lone tree or rough made cross, In a foreign land you lie,

While your comrades march to victory As in the days gone by.

‘Twas only a soldier’s button, And a “Scrap of Paper” – true,

But it bore a last fond message, A loving son’s adieu.

This message take to mother dear, How much that did imply, To him it was a duty clear,

“I’m off to France – Good-bye.”

Rest, soldier, rest, thy warfare o’er, They who still live may tell

How many a gallant Gordon gave His life at Neuve Chapelle.

Those angry guns you’ll hear no more, As peacefully you lie,

We’ll meet you on a brighter shore, Till then – Good-bye! Good-bye!

JAKE, Blantyre.

15 May 1915

PLAY THE MAN

Our sons upon the fields of France, A brave and gallant band,

Are laying down their precious lives To save our native land

From slavery’s dark dominion, And oppression’s cruel sway,

With the plant of freedom blighted And withering in decay.

Who would not wish to have a share

In such a glorious fight, To quell the tyrant’s might power

Who tramples thus on right, To nobly guard our hearths and homes,

And stem invasion’s tide, So that the flag of liberty Triumphant shall abide?

‘Tis not for all to do their part With bayonet and with gun,

Their ward to keep in trenches And combat with the Hun.

But each of us can nobly help, Tho’ in a humble way,

To lay the proud oppressor low And end despotic sway.

We all can do our duty still

In workshop or in mine, Within the great industrial field

Our valour still may shine. Then let us to the task repair

And do whate’er we can, Our King and country hope of us

That each will play the man.


15 May 1915

THE SCOTTISH RIFLES.

They are not trifles The Scottish Rifles,

They are fighters every one. ‘Midst shot and shell,

We all know well Our boys can handle the gun.

Staunch patriots true,

It would never do To yield to German “kultur.” They’ve pledged their word

To wield their sword To kill the savage vulture.

Every day long

They all sing this song, “Britons never shall be slaves.”

Then let it ring, “God Save the King,”

“Britannia Rules the Waves.”

We are out to fight For our God and right,

We are out for freedom’s cause. We mean to shake All those who break

The civilized nations’ laws.

In God is our trust, For our cause is just,

We must defeat the savage Hun. And when at last This war is past

We’ll receive with cheers, “Well done!”

The whole world knows That Britain’s foes

Have found our lads not trifles. They’re always fit, Got “Bull Dog” grit,

The gallant Scottish Rifles.

Z. W. ARBUCKLE, Blantyre.

22 May 1915

A PRAYER He brought them out of darkness and the shadow of death. – Psalm cvii., 14.

Oh God! in pity stay by thine Almighty hand

This cruel war and bring peace to our native land Our nation owns Thy name, Oh! save us by thy power, Be thou her shield and stay in this momentous hour.

Like Israel, Lord of old, when plenty filled their store,

They turned to gods of gold and sought Thy face no more; So we in pleasure’s ways have wandered oft from Thee,

Nor sought to give Thee praise for peace and liberty.

For years of plenty, Lord, ungrateful we have been, Now warfare and the sword on every hand are seen,

Beneath it, Lord, we bow, in judgement or in love, Oh! bless and pity now, send wisdom from above.

Our hearts are sore to-day, for stricken on the plain

‘Mid battle grim and grey are thousands, thousands slain, Our fairest and our best, the gallant, true and brave,

Who faced this cruel death our liberty to save.

Ah! countless widows mourn and lonely orphans sigh For those who’ll ne’er return, hear Thou in heaven their cry;

Bid tyrant’s reign be o’er and end this cruel strife. May their wild rage no more have power to ruin life.

And when Thy powerful hand has laid such tyrants low,

Oh! may our nation stand a monument to show That only by Thy grace can Empires mighty be,

And as they seek Thy face true greatness they will see.


22 May 1915

MY BONNIE LADDIE, TAM.

I see ye noo, an infant sweet, Upon yer mither’s knee;

Wi joy my bairnie’s he’rt does beat As I his pranks noo see.

I see ye in yer goonie dance I ca’ ye my wee lamb

But noo yer on the soil o’ France My bonnie laddie, Tam.

I see ye wi’ yer wee bit spade

An’ barrow noo at play: I see the holes that ye ha’e made

Yer ‘workin’ noo ye say. Oh! memories dear come back to me

In storm an’ in calm. Wi’ you I’d gi’e the worl’ to be

My bonnie laddie, Tam.

I see ye’ noo gang to the schule Noo at the door I stan’

I see ye’ passin’ by the mill Tak’ Jeanie by the han’

I warn ye’ no tae go owre near At play, the auld mill dam.

Yer answer tae my words I hear My bonnie laddie, Tam.

I see ye wi’ yer faither gang

To work noo in the mine An’ noo as time gaes swift alang

I ken yer feelings fine. I see ye leave in sodger’s claes

While telling me ‘Be calm’ You were a guid lad a’ yer days

My bonnie laddie, Tam.

May God look owre ye, Tammy dear May heaven be yer guide

In fancy aft yer words I hear The waves do us divide

The stormiest day that e’er we see Is followed by a calm.

The war will end, peace bring to me My bonnie laddie, Tam.


Note: A Thomas McGinnes, Royal Scots Fusiliers, born in Ireland in 1880, died on 25 October 1918. He was the son of John McGinnes, a Coal Miner, and Margaret McGinnes, of Clyde Place, Motherwell. Both were born in Ireland. Thomas was employed as a Coal Miner before he enlisted at Hamilton. His brother was Joseph.

22 May 1915

YOUR COUNTRY’S CALL.

Come rally round the flag, my boys, your country calls to you, Let love and duty call you forth if you are Britons true,

The deathless fame your fathers won, a heritage so grand, That glorious name is yours, my boys, if you but faithful stand.

Away with craven thought of self, away with ills and care,

Come! be a man and buckle to, your comrades lot to share; Your manhood’s strength we need you, a shield of countless power,

Be up and doing, Britons’ sons, we need your help this hour.

You say you love your country, your home and kindred dear, What rules your heart let us not say it is a low born fear;

Your chieftain’s race unconquered still their spirits now awake, They call you to avenge their blood spilt for their children’s sake.

Come! guard your sweetheart’s honour, your mother and sister’s too,

Your country is in danger, let our love appeal to you; Your nation never shall be slaves, come! strike the deadly blow,

Your trusty arm in justice raise and lay the tyrant low.

In fitful sleep your conscience speaks, uneasy lies your head, A solem warning fills your dreams like spirits from the dead;

Your heart’s most noble thoughts still live, stern duty bids you rise, Pride of our land, our gallant sons, their name it never dies.

Then rally round the flag, my boys, before it is too late, Our nation’s glory you alone can seal our Empire’s fate;

Then raise the standard high, my boys, our call is not in vain, Our British heroes will return brave conquerors once again.

MRS C. FRAME, Calderglen.

29 May 1915

FAITH.

My faith is such a simple faith, But sure support I know

Clinging like ivy on the wall, And will not let me go.

It playeth an important part

In my life for my good, And holdeth sway o’er my frail heart,

Knoweth each varying mood.

And should this soul of mine descend Into despair’s abyss,

My faith with love would the ascend With me to banks of bliss.

What though this faith of mine now lies

In meek humility, ‘Tis ever pointing to the skies

And immortality.

With this safe guide I do not need To fear to travel on

My way, for it will surely lead Me till my days are done.

For I believe in Him above,

I know He reigneth still, I trust in His redeeming love,

And bow to His sweet will.


29 May 1915

MUSINGS BY THE BURN-SIDE.

I love to linger by the brook, When moonbeams on its waters shine,

For, in the stillness of the night, My soul communes with pow’rs divine.

And ever and anon God’s rays

Light up each crevice in the mind, And oft I wonder if these gleams

Will help my soul new realms to find –

New realms in which th’ aspiring soul May mingle with the saints forgiv’n, Before the breath of life has flown,

That all may know “God’s in His heav’n.”

What tho’ great minds oft try to probe The deep, deep mysteries of God;

My soul, in humble adoration, bows Before Him on the verdant sod.

For well I know great intellects, However long they ponder o’er

The riddle of the universe, Will ne’er unlock solution’s door –

That door on which these words are writ, In God’s own writing, clear and bright –

“Beware! ye prying souls, beware! Who ope’s this door doth quench his light.”

How oft a whisper in the soul

Doth bid us first ourselves explain, Before we soar beyond the skies

To join the ends of learning’s chain.

Ah! could mind and matter e’er combine, So as to form a living man,

Without the aid of fashioning hands, That work according to some plan?

No! God’s in His heav’n, ‘tis He that builds

In silence, and in mystic ways, The wondrous shrines in which there dwells

Immortal souls to sing His praise.

When winds among the fir trees make A low, and tender melody,

I hear God’s voice, and feel He’s near, And my heart throbs with ectasy.

How sweet it is to be in touch

With Him who form’d this earth of ours, And find that Nature ever leads

Our souls to fairer, heav’nly bow’rs.

These ferns, and cliffs, and rustling trees, And this small stream, whose waters clear

Reflect the starry firmament, Aye breathe the message, “God is here.”

Then let us live the simple life,

And ask not how all things evolve; Or why the mighty mind of man

Earth’s wondrous riddles cannot solve.

But revel in all beauteous scenes, And then our souls, on wings of joy, Will soar beyond these starry skies, And find that bliss nought can alloy.

Oh! that each prying intellect

Will to these thoughts of mine attend, And let alone those mysteries

That only God can comprehend.

GEORGE MILLAR, Waterloo.

29 May 1915

POLAND.

O Poland! lift thy tear-dimmed eye! Hark! ‘tis the trumpet call,

The long-expected hour draws night, The iron shackles fall.

Thou had’st no strength of native hills,

No rampart of the sea, Only the breadth of patriot breasts

When battling to be free.

Three Empires lock in deadly grip, What shall the dawning see?

For one has sworn to break thy chain And set thy nation free.

“Redeemed with blood,” no tourney tilt,

But countless legions slain; The snow-swept marsh, the frozen mere,

Are reddened with the stain.

O Poland! lift thy tear-dimmed eye, Hark! the trumpet calls,

Thy restoration hour is night, Thy iron shackles fall.

J. R. RUSSELL, Edinburgh.

5 June 1915

A DREAM OF NEUVE CHAPPELLE

In a dream of the night I was wafted away To the fair land of France where our soldiers lay,

Where the trenches ran red with the blood of the slain, And the wounded in hundreds were moaning in pain.

’Twas only a dream, yet to me it seemed real

With the shot and the shell falling round me like hail While the earth seemed to reel with the shock of the guns

First fired by the Allies, then answered by Huns.

In my dreams I was landed at dark Neuve Chappelle Which has truly been termed an inferno of Hell

Where our men, far outnumbered by a countless foe With true British valour still gave blow for blow.

Soon a shout rends the air, we all look around

Our captain and flag are both dashed to the ground, When a gallant young Scot of the old forty-two

Sprang forth from the ranks like a bolt from the blue.

His bayonet ran red with the blood of his foes His dark head was bare, all tattered his clothes.

He looked just like a tramp from the old Motherland Yet the honour of Britain was safe in his hands.

See, he’s down, No, he’s up, and his foe bites the dust

And another goes down at each Herculean thrust Now his good bayonet’s broke but he just clubs his gun

And smashes in the skull of a powerful Hun.

And with one flying leap gains his good captain’s side Picks up Britain’s flag, waves it high in his pride

And the spell being broken, our men with a cheer Rushed into the foe, like the hounds on a deer.

The foe seemed bewildered, they wavered, then broke

For no power on earth could withhold such a shock And history for ever and ever shall tell

Twas that gallant act won us Dark Neuve Chappelle.

Men of the Thistle, the Shamrock and Rose We can’t all be soldiers and face Britain’s foes

We can all do our part like each bright shining star At home we can make munitions of war.


5 June 1915

IN MEMORY OF PRIVATE JAMES FINNIGAN. Who was Killed at Hill 60 on 26th April, 1915.

He’s killed I can see by the news in the press,

Poor Jimie we’ll ne’er see again; He fell at Hill 60 they fought to possess,

This brave Wishawtonian is slain. I see him in thought as I once really could,

As backward I look through time gone; He fought and fell for all that is good,

He has earned a brave soldier’s “Well done.”

I look through the past, his smaile I can see, I look through the pass and can hear

His voice as I did when he worked beside me, Where the daylight doth never appear.

For King and country he breathed his last, His memory to live shall ne’er cease;

May his spirit departed through war’s cold blast With its Maker now rest in peace.

With friends left behind him I now sympathise,

His mother must feel his death sore; She knows her son in a foreign land lies,

On earth she will see him no more. She’ll see him no more on this side of the tomb,

Her son who in battle was slain; She’ll hope and pray when her own time hath come

To see him and meet him again.


5 June 1915

THE FALLEN AT GRETNA

Towards crimson fields and trenches deep They journeyed on,

Till Fate decreed that they should sleep Much nearer home.

But though their couch be far removed From scenes of strife,

Still to the land they dearly loved Each gave his life.

For in the will, not in the deed, True courage lies;

And all had owned their country’s need – Great sacrifice!

MAX PHILPOT.

5 June 1915

THE KNIGHT OF ELDERSLIE.

Adown the rolling years, Passed on from sire to son, In tones that move to tears, And stir the streams that run In youth’s full-flowing veins,

The story has been told How Scottish valour burst the chains

The tyrant thought would hold.

How ‘neath the heel of might The nation’s neck lay prone,

And every spark of fight Seemed quenched, stamped out and gone.

Till one, with soul aflame, Stood forth, erect and free,

To vindicate his country’s claim – The Knight of Elderslie.

Great was the mind that planned

To oust the long-shanked foe, Stout were the heart and hand

That dared to deal the blow That broke the potent spell

O’er Scottish hopes that hung, And nerved the arms that bore so well

The spear that foe among.

No nobler heart e’er beat Within a knightly breast; No laggard he to meet

Stern duty’s high behest. When asked what name to-day

Most moves a people free, With faces lit men turn and say –

“The Knight of Elderslie.”

T. M., Duddingston.

12 June 1915

THE LOVERS’ FAREWELL

I ken a bonnie Airdrie lass, a sweet and charming May, She’s lovelier than the dewdrop upon the rosebud gay;

Dame Nature kindly decked her as a fair bewitching fairy, So blithesome and so winsome is the noble, gentle Mary.

But Mary dear is sad to-day, for her lover’s gaen awa’

To fight for King and country, where our heroes dialy fa’, To face the foreign foe, and like a soldier bold, To do or die for liberty, our honour to uphold.

O, bitter was the parting, but Mary dear was brave,

And nobly gave her lover bold our country’s cause to save; Tho’ her heart with anguish wrings, and her mind is full of fear,

Yet proudly and defiantly she stems the hidden tears.

He clasps her to his bosom, and he gives a farewell kiss, And thinks of all the happy days of unalloyed bliss

That he had spent with Mary, ere the grim determined fight Had sounded loud the bugle note to battle for the right.

“O, Mary dear, my darling, my ain sweet lass sae braw,

Will you be true to Jamie when he is far awa’? ‘Twill nerve me for the fight if I know, my love, that you

Are faithful to your Jamie, and ever will be true.”

He looked into her loving eyes and read the answer there, “O now, my darling Mary, for you I’ll do and dare;

Some day I’ll claim you as my own, when the battle’s fought and won, When we’ve quelled the fierce invader and crushed the ruthless Hun.”

“Now, for the present, we must part, my loving Mary dear,

Be brave, my sweetest darling, and never let a fear Bedim your lovely countenance, nor a cloud obscure your sky,

Altho’ you know your lover’s gone to conquer or to die.”

So Mary’s heart is sad to-day, and dark clouds hover round, For she thinks she hears the battle’s roar and the deadly cannons’ sound;

But she prays the Heavenly Father to protect and guard and shield Her lover from the dangers of the gory battlefield.

And so the faithful Mary hopes that soon he will return,

And for that day, with strong desire her fervent heart doth burn, When she’ll receive her lover, and stand by Jamie’s side, Bedeck’d in all her splendour, a sweet and loving bride.


19 June 1915

FAIR TANNOCHSIDE

I wandered by fair Tannochside One lovely summer’s day,

The fertile valley of the Clyde In beauty round me lay.

The Campsie hills looked wondrous fair To my admiring view,

And Bothwell with its memories rare Of Covenanters true.

The woodland and the meadows sweet,

The pastures rich and green, The kine among the clover sleep,

How tranquil is the scene! Ah! Nature here has claims to please

These longing hearts of ours, The sunshine bright, the summer breeze,

The lovely wild wood flowers.

Yet some may sigh for lands afar, With skies of brighter blue,

Where fashion’s dames resplendent are, In robes of varied hue;

Give me the cot beneath the shade Of yonder spreading tree,

The pastures fair that God has made, The daisy spangled lea.

Contented here I’ll gladly sing

Till Fortune’s veering gale Doth waft to me on golden wing

A breath of coming weal. And should the fates still unkind prove,

Yet Nature’s gifts sublime Are round me here where’er I rove

And Nature’s God is mine.


19 June 1915

THE BUGLE CALL

Go, my boy, ‘tis a noble deed To offer your life in your country’s need;

Others have gone and laid down their lives, Leaving home, children, and wives.

Shoulder to shoulder with the braves, They would rather die than be German slaves;

Their great deeds are flashed world-wide, Go, my boy, and stand by their side.

Better to fight for freedom and die

Than for fear in a coward’s grave to lie; Better to stand for the Union Jack

Than when the call comes to turn your back. Go, play the man, and the roll of fame

Down through the ages will bear your name, And your country be kept from the tyrant’s heel;

‘Tis men we want, men true as steel.

Bring glory to the kilt you wear, Like the “Thin Red Line” or “Black Watch” there,

Whose deeds strike terror to the foe In the thick of the fight, where’er they go.

On the march in the “charge” remember their name, There can be no defeat when you follow the same;

Your courage with victory shall be crowned, And more and more the kilt be renowned.

If I were young I would love to go

To strike for the Right a patriot’s blow; ‘Tis the highest price you can get for your life

To face the foe and go down in the strife. And the crazy Kaiser, with hellish host,

Will find in the end he cannot boast, But crushed and prone in the dust he’ll lie,

While the sun of freedom floods the blue sky; And the story be told by ages to come

How you went, my boy, at the roll of the drum.

WM. C. McDOUGALL, Saltcoats.

19 June 1915

TO OUR SOLDIERS.

To every soldier far and near We fain would sing a song of cheer,

Amid the stress of war’s alarms, Stout be their hearts and strong their arms.

Ye gallant men, we think of now With head erect and manly brow,

Ne’er may you dread war’s wildest rage, But valiantly the foe engage.

You fearlessly for honour stand,

And take your places ‘mong the band Who will not own a tyrant’s power, Nor quail in danger’s deadly hour.

Beneath the noble flag of right

You and our Allies staunch unite, To fight against a fiendish ruth,

For homes and kindred, God and truth.

Fight to the end ye soldiers leal, Dare and endure for common weal, The world will own in comeing days

Your deeds were worthy highest praise.


26 June 1915

IN MEMORY OF L.-CORPORAL JAS. HUTTON, WHIFFLET, 2nd GORDONS. Killed in action, May 1915.

Away where thundering cannons boom

And deadly bullets fly, The brave and noble hearted youth

Did, like a soldier, die. He braved the fierce and ruthless Hun,

His native land to save, And for honour, King, and country,

His precious life he gave.

To soothe the soldier’s dying hour No mother fond was there;

No loved ones closed around the lad His last farewell to hear. The grim realities of war Allow no scenes as this,

But comrades dear, with loving hands, Did minister sweet bliss.

‘Tis sad to think that he, so young,

Should of sweet life be shorn In the bright and glorious sunrise

Of manhood’s early morn. Yet not in vain he gave his life,

Our freedom for to save, His was a glorious sacrifice –

A hero’s, true and brave.

No more he’ll hear the bugle sound, Or the battle’s deadly roar, For he listens to the music On Canaan’s golden shore.

We pray that consolation may To parents sad be given,

By Him who binds the broken heart When grief the soul has riven.


26 June 1915

JUNE.

When oot amang the woods and fields, Be’t uplands braid or shady bields, By bosky glens or wimplin’ burn,

Wha wouldna stan’ and roond him turn To view the charms, and list the tune That gladsome come wi’ bonnie June.

Words canna tell the joy I ha’e

When lookin’ fain on tree-clad brae. Whaur mingled shades o’ pine and thorn

Combine the woodlands to adorn; The matchless beauty o’ the scene Glours grandly i’ the simmer sheen.

June, ye are queen o’ ilka year,

Richt blithe we own your soothin’ cheer, While hiein’ on in rural ways

Oor hearts grow grit wi’ grateful praises. We winna, daurna yield to fret,

Some cares and sorrows we forget, And aft some lichtsome lilt we croon, In land braw days o’ lichtsome June.


26 June 1915

THE EUROPEAN WAR

I never thought I’d live to see This time of grief and pain

That long ago I heard would be On land, in air, on main.

Freedom! you’ve ne’er been more sublime More sweet to battle for

Than what you are now in the time Of the European war.

Oh! who would not for thy sweet sake

Do all that’s in his power? And where’s the heart that does not ache

Deprived of you this hour? Many sure have fought and bled

Their freedom sweet to keep; Who ‘neath the grass their blood dyed red

Now sleep their last long sleep.

The Germans would delight to see All not with them today

Like leaves in Autumn from the tree Fast mouldering in the clay.

They speak of God from whom they’ve gone They say He does them aid,

While well they know they trample on The laws that God has made.

Oh! freedom sweet those Germans go

In air, on ocean blue Just like a thief by night I know But murderous work they do;

They’ve murdered babes and mothers dear Sent them beyond recall.

There comes as sure as I am here A reckoning day for all.

The man with you who’d freely part

In this or any clime Not worthy of the name must be

O! man at any time. Freedom! you’ve ne’er been more sublime

More sweet to battle for Than what you are now in the time

Of the European War.


3 July 1915

THE RECRUIT’S DREAM

Some poems are bad frae end tae end, For facts an’ nonsense winna blend;

But this bit screed that I intend Tae pit on paper,

Is jist as true as aught that’s pended, An’ muckie chaper.

It happened on a summer’s day,

When Nature tried to mak’ things gay, By sending sunshine bright tae say,

“Let there be peace.” But armies battling far away

Refused tae cease.

Lord K. Of K., that wondrous man, Had issued word throughout the land, That each an’ a’ should lend a hand

Tae cruch the Kaiser Twa chaps resolved tae jine that band,

Wha could dae wiser?

Their residence was in Budhill, An’ each a bobby’s job did fill,

But this they meant tae leave until Peace had been signed.

So off they went wi’ richt guid-will An’ straightway jined.

The nicht before they gaed awa’, Yin o’ their heids was big as twa, Near a’ the nicht did Harry craw,

Or so ‘twould seem. But in his bed ere morn he saw

A fearfu’ dream

For months at hame he had been trained, Great skill at killing men he’d gained, An’ noo on battlefield’s red stained

He found himsel’, Whilst lead an’ iron simply rained

A perfect hell.

There by his side, his auld chum Sandy, Wha through it a’ had proved a dandy,

Together they had stuck like candy A’ the while.

They couldna been sae near or handy Except in jile.

The battle raged gey fierce an’ sair,

But no’ a spittle did they care, Though ere long they micht be nae mair

Upon this earth. They sent their bullets thro’ the air

Wi’ grim-like mirth.

But suddenly amidst the din, A cry wae heard, sae weak an’ thin, Which nearly froze the bluid within

Puir Sandy’s veins. He softly mutters, “Dash my skin

I’ll ease his pains.”

So out his trench he nimbly went, Without his officer’s consent,

An’ crawled alang, near double bent, An’ then he grabbed him.

But ere his mission was right spent A sniper nabbed him.

The captain groaned an’ shed a tear,

An’ then he shouted, “Men, come here, Now which of you would volunteer

To save these men?” A dozen stepped out without fear

Jist there an’ then.

The officer, whose name was Barrie, Soon picked out Sandy’s butty, Harry, And gave him orders straight tae carry

Out the job. Said Barrie, “Harry, dinna tarry,

An’ death you’ll rob.”

So Harry loupit out his ditch, An’ reached the men without a hitch,

Altho’ he kenned na’ which was which Amongst the grime,

Into the trench he did them pitch An’ jist in time.

A big shell burst at Harry’s rear, An’ bullets whistled past his ear, But still, there never was a tear

Seen in his eye. Some said the reason was that fear

Never made him die.

When Harry got doon ‘mongst the rest, The men cam’ roon an’ did their best

Tae clap his back through tae his chest, They were sae prood

Tae have a chum amongst them blessed Wi’ pluck sae good.

The captain soon came frae his post,

Wi’ face as white as ony ghost; He’d given Harry up for lost,

When out he set Tae brave the wicked German host

An’ honour get.

The news soon travelled roon, an’ so The hale battalion got tae know

O’ these brave deeds which went tae show Twa soldiers’ pluck.

An’ men o’ a’ ranks, high an’ low, Did wish them luck.

The captain said (with some “ahems”)

“I think you too are perfect gems, An’ Johnnie French he recommends

Wi’ greatest pleasure, That you should both get D.C.M.’s

Tae keep an’ treasure.”

The scene is changed. A palace gay, Instead of fields of battle fray,

Is seen. On this momentous day Two gallant men

Each get, as valour’s righteous pay, A DCM.

The King came up with royal grace, A smile was beaming o’er his face; He listened tae our heroes’ case

As calm’s a rock, Then gave them medals – an’ some praise,

- Then Harry woke.

He looked aroon, baith low an’ high, He blew his nose, then heaved a sigh,

He wiped a tear drop from his eye Like some big sheep,

“Oh! curse those dreams,” that was his cry, Then went tae sleep.

So, freen’s, if you’re on listing bent, An’ find at hame you’re no content,

Jist watch the way your last nicht’s spent Don’t shout an’ scream.

Some apparition may be sent Like Harry’s dream.

HARRY DALZIEL, Budhill, Shettleston.

10 July 1915

BRITONS, AWAKE!

Oh! how can you go to your sport and play? Go gird you like men, be brave,

See the flower of our country are lying to-day Out there in their nameless grave.

You go in your thousands, with hearts so light,

To watch others kick at a ball. While our country is pleading for men to fight

Why will you not answer the call?

The drinking saloon and the picture house grand Are filled from the front to the door,

While our gallant defenders, the flowers of our land, Are gone to return never more.

Or how can you sit at your bright cosy fire

At ease, while the husband and son Are lying in trenches dug deep in the mire,

The target of shot and gun?

Oh! rouse ye and answer the call like men, Nor wait till you’re forced to go;

For what will you say in the future when As laggards you face the foe?

Oh! shame on the youth of our country now,

When women of rank and fame Are tending the wounded and smoothing the brow

Of the dying on Belgium’s plain.

Those angels of peace bid all Britons awake That can shoulder a bayonet or gun;

By the love of such women, and for their dear sake, Come follow the fife and the drum.

Leave football and sport, join the colours to-day,

And fight for your country and King, Till our armies have broken the proud tyrant’s sway

And the glad bells of victory ring.


10 July 1915

IN MEMORY OF THOMAS SHEARER, Killed in action in the Dardanelles Region.

Killed in action, ran the message,

That has filled our hearts with grief; But we have sweet consolation,

Though his stay on earth was brief.

He now lies among the bravest Ever slain on Turkish soil,

Gave his life for Britain’s glory, To his King and country loyal.

Killed in action, the noblest end Ever mortal man could crave;

Dying for the cause of freedom, Laid within a soldier’s grave.

Through the coming years we’ll miss him,

But whene’er our hearts do ache, Sweet will be the consolation, That he died for Britain’s sake.

J. L. W., Blantyre.

10 July 1915

OUR CAPT’IN. James Brown, headmaster of Auchenraith School, and Captain of 6th Scottish Rifles,

received his fatal wound cheering on his Company of Blantyre lads.

Into the vale of the shadow of death Rushed our Capt’in, a-wavin’ his sword

While the cruel burstin’ shell Flew like demons from hell

Oh God! how they screamed an’ they roared.

And the ricketty-rip of that hellish machine That gun with the death-dealin’ spit

Kept a-markin’ good time As a curse from our line

Told another poor lad had been hit.

But our Capt’in led on with his six foot of grit Towerin’ high o’er his comrades in arms.

And that tall soldier form Gainst the Huns leaden storm

Stood defying their wildest alarms.

And his clear ringin’ voice could be heard o’er the din Shoutin’ “Blantyre you’re wasted right here”.

An’ a warm tinglin’ glow Seemed to grip us and flow

Where we all felt a strange hauntin’ fear.

And leadin’ us still while his bright flashin’ blade Kept a-pointin’ the way we should go

He received in his breast Fatal message of rest

And he fell with his face to the foe.

Twice wounded before, our brave Capt’in could well Have retired from that shell-ridden zone

But his colour was white An’ he deemed he’d the right

To lead on his comrades alone.

Our Capt’in has pass’d, but the memory will live Evergreen, as the grass o’er his head

How he led us lads on Till his last breath was gone

An’ he lay like a warrior - dead.

WM. PARK, Blantyre.

17 July 1915

A PRAYER FOR THE NATIONS.

Almighty God, who gave to all men life, In mercy stop Thy warring sons from strife,

Father of All, assert our Father’s power And guide Thy children through this fateful hour,

See teeming millions fighting who’ll be first And striving who can hurt their foes the worst,

Each seeking how to shed their neighbour’s blood Till all the land is drench’d with gory flood.

See towns and villages razed to the ground And death and ruin everywhere abound,

See helpless youth and age in sleep cut down By heartless monsters swooping o’er some town.

The fires of hell by men are hit on earth – By men who owe to Thee their common birth.

Why do the nations so furiously rage?

Why do such millions murd’rous warfare wage? Why do the peoples imagine this vain thing

With blood and fire to make brute force sole king? Great rulers of the earth have now combined

To crush and plunder as they feel inclined All who oppose their haughty tyrant away

Or whose possessions they would take away. They seek to forge one great world-wide empire

And weld it fast with steel and blood and fire, Regardless of the rights of weaker states Bombarded by th’ invaders at their gates

Who spread through all their land a hellish blight, Which blasts the toil of ages in a night.

In one brief year what havoc has been made Of priceless lives, of treasures, and of trade,

Millions of homes are left all desolate On hills and dales in lands far separate.

From furthest East across to furthest West The wings of death are beating without rest. The tears of wives and children stricken sore

Are flowing far and near on every shore. While pestilence and famine spread their pall O’er ruined hearth and cannon-blasted wall.

The fertile fields which once grew golden grain Now yield hell fire and mangled heaps of slain, The fruit-clad orchards, too, are swept with fire

And torn and rent and trampled in the mire.

Father of All, the nations have gone mad And slaughter millions with rejoicings glad;

They maim and torture millions more for life, And turn fairylands to deserts by their strife.

Insane ambition seeks to plant its throne In every land and rule the world alone,

Knowing no God but self and ruthless force Although it calls on Thee to bless its course,

Thou who hast given to all mankind their birth, Thou only can’st rule over all the earth. Erect Thy throne in every human heart

And let Thy light and love transform each part; O make brute force give way to mutual love,

And hate and murderous war to heavenly dove.

W.

17 July 1915

“BE KIND TO YOUR GERMAN BROTHER.” AN ADVICE AND ITS REPLY.

Be kind to your German brother, the meek-mouthed mummers cry,

Teach him by your calm forbearance how one may nobly die. And say when his fiendish bloodlust works deeds true men abhor,

“I fear, dear sir, you’re mistaken – beg pardon! this isn’t war.”

When sinks a Lusitania, or sucks a fresh Louvain Explain to him – not unkindly – he causes surprise and pain,

Have you rammed his pirate under? his crew in the rough waves tossed? Be quick with boats, brandy, and blankets! save life though your own be lost!

Give them Donnington Halls, hydropathics, golf, billiards and tennis instead

Of the foetid enclosures in Deutschland where our men are starving for bread. Be kind to your German brother when this sinful war is o’er,

Pray, don’t hurt his cultured feelings, when beaten he may feel sore.

Be kind to my German brother?” – If the Lion is not an Ass We shall pull the teeth of this Dragon, yes, and we’ll give him gas!

Tell every peace-prater and dastard, lest we trample them – Stand aside! We have suffered too long and too nobly, we remember the men who died!

We remember the fate of Belgium (to Honour she dared be true),

Men of Britain, with wives and mothers, will ye risk the same treatment too? By the rape of her wives and virgins – the graves of her ‘fenceless slain,

By a nation in ruin and ashes, by Termonde, Malines, Louvain.

By wrecking and rapine and murder, by treachery black as hell He has filled up the cup of vengeance, now, lads, he must drain it well!

He has crucified, maimed, and roasted brave men who’d fought him fair, Priest, peasant nor prattling infant did the fiend in his frenzy spare.

He has dealt down death from the cloudlands, from the depths of the cold grey sea,

Spring his bolts on our barges of commerce, the drowning he mocks with glee, He has poisoned the wells of water – poisoned with gas our men, Foul were the fumes that slew them, his soul is more foul again.

Join, every true son of Britain, and crush this accursed Hun

Nor cease in your stern endeavour till the work’s securely done, We’re sick of the namby-pamby, we’re out with the hammer of Thor,

He has taught to us war is frightful, and by heaven! we shall give him war!

DUGALD MACFADYEN, Edinburgh.

24 July 1915

IN MEMORY OF CORPORAL JAMES PATERSON, Killed in Action.

He lies in the field of battle they won,

Away o’er the rolling foam; With his face still set to the cruel Hun,

And his back to his island home.

The clouds are rent with the cannons’ roar, The wild weird cry of his men,

He fain would charge with his might and power, But he never will charge again.

Ah! never again with the smiling morn Will he spring to the beat of the drum,

Or march in the ranks of the karki form, In his manhood’s health and bloom.

Inscribed on the blazing roll of fame

Of Britain’s deathless sons, Shall we not cherish each honoured name

Who bravely manned the guns?

They laid him to rest in the soil somewhere In a little dug-out of his own,

And marked out the spot with tender care, To be remembered and known.

JOHN MACK, Hamilton.

24 July 1915

IS GOD ASLEEP?

Is God asleep? White chlorine cloud, like misty shroud,

Moves o’er the ground with ghostly creep, Dips in the trench and mounts the steep And fills the lungs with poisoned breath, Distorts the face with anguished death,

And sends the bitter cry aloud – Is God asleep?

Is God asleep?

While soldiers brave, their land to save, Pass from this life with tortured leap

To lie amidst the mangled heap Of limbless, headless sons and sires,

Whose soundless voice ascending higher Cries bitter from their bloody grave –

Is God asleep?

Is God asleep? While o’er the plain a crimson rain

Slow filters through the soil beneath, Where stood last year the golden sheaf;

And Flemish maids, pure, chaste, as nuns, Now ravished lie by soulless Huns,

Look up and moan in piteous strain – Is God asleep?

WM. PARK, Blantyre.

24 July 1915

O! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

O! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a fast flying mouser, a fast flying cloud,

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave – He passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high,

Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The child that a mother attended and loved, The mother, that infant’s affection that proved,

The husband , that mother and infant had blessed, Each – all are away to their dwelling of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye

Shone beauty and pleasure – her triumphs are by; And the memory of those that beloved her and praised,

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of a king that the sceptre had borne, The brow of the priest that the mitre had worn,

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap,

The herdsman, who climbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,

All faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven, The sinner that dared to remain forgive,

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes – like the flowers and the weed

That wither away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes – even these we behold

To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same things that our fathers have been, We see the same sights that out fathers have seen, We drink the same stream, we feel the same sun,

And we run the same course that our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think, The death we are shrinking from they too would shrink,

To the life we are clinging they too would cling, But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.

They loved – but their story we cannot unfold;

They scorned – but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved – but no wail from their slumbers may come;

They joyed – but the voice of their gladness is dumb.

For they died – aye, they died! and we’re living now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, Meet the changes they met in their pilgrimage road.

Yes, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,

Are mingled together like sunshine and rain; And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,

Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

‘Tis the wink of an eye, ‘tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud –

O! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

T. ORR, Motherwell.

31 July 1915

6th SCOTTISH RIFLES (BOTHWELL TERRITORIALS, NOW IN FRANCE)

Oh! we miss their smiling faces

And our streets are hushed and still And their old accustomed places

At our hearths we cannot fill For a silence, oh! so eerie

Hovers round us all the day And our hearts feel sad and dreary Since our loved ones went away.

Quick and sudden was the rally ‘Tis your country needs your aid

And from the streets and plain and valley Quick response at once was made Youthful forms in life’s fair morning

See now clad in khaki grey Leisuring and pleasure scorning

Cheerfully all march away.

‘Neath the scoffs and jeers of many – Shame on those who scorn their worth –

They might prove as good as any Of the great ones of the earth.

Tho’ some joined the ranks for pleasure Never dreaming war would come

They have proved indeed a treasure Needed guardians of our home.

Let us speed them, who’d be blaming

They will do the best they can With their Territorial training

To be soldiers to a man! In the midst of cannons’ rattle

‘Neath the war’s most dread alarm Keep them, oh! thou God of Battles Safe beneath Thy sheltering arm.


31 July 1915

IN MEMORY OF SERGEANT JOHN ODGER, No. 4360, 8th Highland Light Infantry, British Expeditionary Force, France, who died

fighting for his country’s cause, 11th April, 1915.

Though buried in a distant grave, Amidst the shot and shell,

For country’s cause his life he gave, He stood his trials well.

For many a year he was our chum,

How sudden was his call; We never knew a better friend,

He died beloved by all.

Sleep on, dear friend, sleep on, In the heaven of the blest;

You are not dead, but gone before, To the land of peace and rest.

All the world is full of sorrow,

Now his pains and trials are o’er, But some day we hope to meet him

On the bright and happy shore.

Inserted by SERGEANTS of the COMPANY.

31 July 1915

‘TIS SOMETHING

‘Tis something in the breasts of men That spurs them on to noble deeds;

‘Tis something makes them answer when The motherland assistance needs.

Come, send them forth proud Empire broad To fight for freedom and for God.

The sound of pipes, the martial air, The rolling song, the patriot’s call, Awake the soul to passions rare, And captivate the minds of all.

Hast ever felt thy life blood thrill When calmer thoughts swept from thy will?

The thoughts of home, the thoughts of life,

The mother’s look, the children’s cry, All, all are gone, other thoughts are rife,

Thou hearest not the plaintive sigh. For music reigneth o’er thy brain And fans the embers once again.

The embers of a dormant strain

That lay concealed within the heart, Thou never thought ‘twould wake again

And bid thee on to do thy part. Thy part, thy part, whate’er it be,

O, let it not belittle thee.

Hast ever heard the tales of woe That turn the hearts of men to stone?

Has ever felt the wish to go And avenge the peasant’s ruined home?

Come, where is the strain thy fathers knew, What! is it not a part of you?

The outraged woman’s child of sin

That bears for e’er the brand of shame, Come, trace its issue back to him

Who boasts the Hohenzollern name. Yet not, yet not to him alone,

Remember vassals round his throne.

The little babe whose form once lay Content within the mother’s arms

See, on her breast ‘tis lifeless clay, A victim of cultured German charms. Would they had killed the mother too,

And left her not alone to rue.

To rue the day, to rue the hour, When death o’ercame a peaceful land; Tu rue the Huns’ mad lust for power,

And curse for e’er the murderer’s hand. ‘Twere better far to lie in death

Than pain the bosom with each breath.

Hast ever felt the lust to kill That rises up within the breast?

Hast ever thought ‘twas thy duty still To rid the world of this pest?

This children of a savage race Whose savagery naught can efface.

‘Tis something in the breasts of men

That makes them fight against the wrong, ‘Tis something makes them answer when

They hear the deep inspiring song. O! happy thought to go and be Of those who fight for liberty.

THOS. IRELAND, Low-waters, Hamilton.

7 August 1915

KIRKBRIDE.

Another year has passed away Since last my eager feet did stray

Across the mountains which divide Our little hamlet from Kirkbride.

But this year when Fair Sunday came,

I did not, somehow, feel the same Anticipation, nor the glow

Which only those can feel, who go.

For with the passing of the year, Strange things have happened, and I fear

Some of the youths I sat beside Shall never see again Kirkbride.

In my mind’s eye I see past days,

And hear them sing the sacred praise On hillside by the old church-yard, Lying at ease on soft green sward.

The preacher did his story tell

Of the brave men who fought and fell For Freedom’s cause in days gone by, Whose ashes in the church-yard lie.

Our brave lads now repeat the tale,

Where cruel foes do us assail, And seek to fight for Freedom’s cause

Against the breakers of all laws.

Where’er they turn to face the foe, God of our fathers, with them go,

Lads from all quarters, far and wide, And some who worhsipped at Kirkbride.

DAVID STEWART, Leadhills.

7 August 1915

THE GALLANT SEVEN HUNDRED.

When Lord Kitchener posted his earnest appeal, Brave Blantyre lads answered the call,

And said, we have hearts that are truer than steel – We are ready to conquer and fall.

Seven hundred brave hearts, with hearts strong and true,

From a population just seven thousand strong, You must always give honour where honour is due,

It is worthy of story and song.

Over every regiment the Army enfolds Our brave Blantyre lads are now spread;

The honour of Blantyre each lad stiff upholds At the front their best blood they have shed.

Brave Park, and the sturdy Donald Reid,

Were wounded while facing the foe; An honour it is, and true courage indeed, For the brave Blantyre lads that we know.

Good accounts I can hear of their doings out there,

Bravely fighting amid cold and wet; How big Jim Crane, a comrade to cheer,

Will part with his last cigarette.

Success to our cause, may the war soon be o’er, May God bring our lads safely home

To our own peaceful village and dear native shore, From the dangers and death o’er the foam.

PRIVATE MATTHEW BARRIE, 3rd Battalion Seaforth Highlanders.

7 August 1915

THE LUSITANIA CHILDREN.

Kaiser! Kaiser! what do you see? Fair little faces that laughed in glee,

Still as marble at your decree? Do phantom figures your soul affright, Darken your day and haunt your night, Dim and grey ‘neath the sunlit skies,

Dim and white where the moon trail lies? Kaiser! Kaiser! these shall you see, These shall your visions of horror be

Till the sea gives up its dead.

Kaiser! Kaiser! what do you hear? Shrieks of terror and moans of fear,

Voices out of the sea and air, Voices calling you everywhere?

We of the dimpled and strengthless arm, How could we have ever done you harm? Those who never had worked you woe, How could you ever have slain them so?

Voices muffled and voices clear, Kaiser! Kaiser! these shall you hear


Kaiser! Kaiser! what do you feel? Ghostly touches as cold as steel,

Waxen hands on your own shall fold, Wee little fingers that clasp and hold,

High is the tide and rising fast, Tide that shall whelm your soul at last; All its waves shall go over your head Dragging you down to the ocean bed,

Far, far down with other dead, Cold, cold fingers and cold, cold waves,

Flowing over a thousand graves, Flowing under your shark ships’ keel


Kaiser! Kaiser! what have you done? Hurt and offended a little one,

The children angels have carried the word Up to the ear of the children’s Lord.

And better for you that you should be Drowned in the depths of the deepest sea;

Now we know that your boast is true, Never was Emperor more wordly than you;

Verily, this is the royal sign, Orthodox seal of a kingly line,

Scion of Pharaoh, Herod’s son, Soul of a Caesar and heart of the Hun.

How will you answer for what you have done When the sea gives up its dead?

MRS ADAM, Shieldmuir, Wishaw.

14 August 1915

KEEP THE HOME-FIRES BURNING. The accompanying chorus, which was a great favourite with the boys of the RNVR in training at Blandford, is from the song published by Messers Ascherberg, Hopwood

& Crew, Ltd.

When Tommy went to Germany to tame the brutal Hun, And teach him kultur different from the kultur of the gun,

‘Mid sad farewells, and long God-speeds, that fell from fastening tongue, He bravely lifted up his head and this the song he sung –

Chorus

Keep the home-fires burning While your hearts are yearning

Though your lads are far away they dream of home There’s a silver lining

Through the dark clouds shining Turn the dark cloud inside out till the boys come home.

When Jack went to the Dardanelles to meet his friend the Turk,

He knew there lay in front of him a bitter bit of work; But he ne’er looked behind him, though the way was rough and long,

His thoughts went to his folks to whom he sung this song –

And we at home will do our bit, just as our lads desire, We’ll do our best, day out, day in, to keep a bright home-fire;

And when the boys come marching home we’ll make the welkin ring, For fathers, mothers, sweethearts, wives, delightedly will sing –

JAS. C. STEWART, Strathaven.

14 August 1915

SANDFORD “JUCK” RACES.

Now Sandford is a village That nestles close to Kype,

A salubrious little hamlet When summer season’s ripe – And when the sun is shining

On Kype’s clear rippling stream, This is the vaunted Eden

Where lovers love to dream. There’s never much that happens

That’s worth recording there, Unless this one day gala

The Monday Glasgow Fair; There’s lots of bonny lassies

Assemble on the green, Weather least ways permitting,

It sometimes rains ‘twould seem. In confidence I give this,

Perhaps you’ll see the joke, Since they never advertise it,

Nor tell’t to Glesca folk. This year the dew was falling

In a very wetting wet, A real Scotch mist from moorlands

Inside we had to get. And here in close formation – Like herring tightly packed –

We swelled with mirth’s combustion, Till our sides fairly cracked. Now when the breezy piper

Had fairly warmed our blood, It threatened to boil over

And drown us in the flood; And what with warbling songsters,

Musicians galore, I think we had as good a day

As e’er we had before. So thanks to the committee, Who served the best of fare,

Success assured is surer, With the right man in the chair.

When Europe’s peace is settled, Let’s hope we’ll meet again,

Our hearts tuned with the victory, Sing “Rule Britannia’s” strain.

HAMISH O’GLEN.

14 August 1915

SOLDIER’S RECRUITING SONG

If you want to “put the boots” upon the Hun, If you’d have the Turk and German on the run,

And if you’re no Don at making shells For Flanders or the Dardanelles,

Do your bit and earn the nation’s grateful thanks, Just you come along with us and join the ranks; Don’t slink beneath the slighted slacker’s ban,

But come and prove yourself a man.

“Fall in and follow me, fall in and follow me, Come along and never mind the weather,

Altogether,” marching on, boys; I know the way to go to Berlin on the Spree,

Follow the old flag and you’ll do right, fall in and follow me.

We’ve left our homes, we’ve given up our all, For our country, and we’ll conquer or we’ll fall;

Yet the cause is yours as much as ours – From danger he’s a coward who cow’rs.

Don’t you hear your country calling out for men? Will you let the call unheeded pass again?

If so, you’ll have to stand the women’s jeers, And bear the shame of coming years.


Altogether,” marching on, boys; I know my way to go to Berlin on the Spree,

Follow the old flag and learn to fight, fall in and follow me.

Comrades, forward, we’ve a mighty task to do, Won’t you join us? Can we not rely on you?

Come and lend a hand at heroes’ work, And have a slap at Hun or Turk;

If you want to see this fearful fighting cease, If you want to build a solid, lasting peace,

Then come and end what we have well begun, Stem and conquer – crush the Hun.


Altogether,” marching on, boys; I’m on my way to go to Berlin on the Spree,

Fight for the old flag, for Truth and Right, fall in and follow me.

DUGALD MACFADYEN, Edinburgh.

21 August 1915

A SOLDIER’S FAREWELL.

Farewell tae auld Scotland, I may never see mair, The tear dims my e’e and my he’rt it is sair;

Farewell tae the auld haunts and frien’d that I ken, Farewell tae my hame in the green shady glen.

Farewell, dearest mither, the best freen I ha’e,

We Ken hoo we’ll wiss ye whaun in the cauld clay; Your kind words I’ll ponder and the advice ye gied me

When Leavin’ my hame for my king and country.

Ye’re blessings, dear mither‘ll spare my puir life, And God will protect thro’ the fierce battle’s strife;

Ye’re prayers he will answer an’ bring me safe hame, For His promise is true and his love’s aye the same.

Ye’re sweet voice, dear mither, speaks tae me in my dream,

As I wander ance mair by clear Calder’s stream; The hairst lassie’s love sang I hear ower the lea,

An’ my har’t’s back again in my ain country.

Tho’ only a dream it aye cheers my he’rt, An’ like mony brave lads I’ll aye play my paint;

My Captain’s command I will quickly obey, Though my bed it may be in the cauld foreign clay.

Mony brave heroes in death are laid low,

Orr motherland weeps, she is laden wi’ woe; Oh! whaur beats the he’rt that feels not the pain

For the gallant young sons who’ll return ne’er again?

A fond mother’s son on the battlefield lies, “Ah! mother, dear mother!” he tenderly cries;

His brave soul is wending its last journey noo, But nae loved haund tae wipe the death sweat frae his broo.

A glorious victory urges us on,

Oor swords maun avenge the brave sons wha ha’e fa’n; The kilted lads’ bayonet the enemy’ll feel,

He flees whaun he sees the cauld glint o’ oor steel.

Farewell, dearest mither, and sune may we meet, The enemy’s forces we’ll quickly defeat; And he’rts fu’ o’ joy and he’rts fu’ o’ pain

Will welcome the tidings o’ peace ance again.

MRS FRAME, Calder Glen.

21 August 1915

IN MEMORY OF PTE. ALEX. HUTCHISON, 6th SCOTTISH RIFLES, My Beloved Cousin, who Died in Action in France, June, 1915

“To the front,” the cry went ringing, “To the front, your place is there,” In the conflict men were wanted, And Pte. Hutchison did his share. Selfish claims did claim no right

From the battle’s post to take him, Fear did vanish in the fight,

For triumphant God did make him.

At the front the fight was raging, The Cameronians led the way,

Every thought and pwer engaging, Might Divine, their only stay.

They had heard that cry for help From the groaning millions round them,

Alex. was amongst that band Wheresoe’er his duty found him.

From the front the cry came ringing,

“Scottish Rifles’ heavy loss!” Then a letter, tidings bringing,

Pte. Hutchison was amiss. Oh! the anguish and the suspense, The heart its bitterness doth know,

Where, oh! where was my dear cousin? Was it weal or was it woe?

From the front again came ringing

News more awful than before; 2605 had fallen,

Pte. Hutchison was no more. Yes, my heart was filled with sadness, And mine eyes with tears were dim,

Scarcely could I realise it, Ne’er again would I see him.

One short year ago we wandered

Through the meadows side by side, Fondly dreaming of the future As we walked by Canderside.

Hopes have blasted been for ever, Fairest dreams have passed away,

But ever in my heart I’ll cherish Sweet memories that can ne’er decay.

To the front he went, dear Alex., Heedless of the cannons’ raor, Though he’s fallen in the battle

He has only gone before. For the cause of God and freedom,

Nobly did he give his all, Never did he shrink from duty

When he heard his country’s call.

Yes, he’s gone! beloved cousin, From this world of grief and pain,

Though I mourn his loss sincerely, I could not wish him back again. ‘Mid this world of sin and turmoil,

‘Tis sweet to know God giveth rest, And though ofttimes we fail to see it,

All is ordered for the best.

Friendship’s ties can ne’er be severed, Though eternity rolls between,

In every sound his voice is speaking, In every flower his image seen. Now his fighting days are over,

He has entered into rest, Many are the friends who mourn him,

They miss him most who loved him best.

Farewell, Alex! noble cousin, On earth I’ll hear your voice no more,

But I’ll meet you at the fountain, When I reach the Heavenly shore. Sorrowing days will then be over,

Parting tears will be unknown, We shall know each other better

When we meet around the throne.

MAGGIE HUTCHISON, Stonehouse.

28 August 1915

LINES. (To my old Sabbath School scholars, Dick Russell Ramsay and D. Robertson, who

responded to their country’s call.)

The dear old church bell’s sacred peal, Recalsl the happy days,

When in the class with holy zeal, We counted wisdom’s ways.

I see each face, I watch each smile, As God revealed His ‘Truth,’

That all might walk strong, free of guile, The slipp’ry paths of youth,

Enduring hardships for His sake, As soldiers good and true,

Prepared His armour for to take To march with strength anew.

Little we thought in those sweet hours,

When Heaven it seemed so near, Ere many years the wicked powers,

Would threaten loved ones here. In air, by land, on the deep sea, Their bolts of death would draw,

E’en to defy high Heaven’s decree, And international law.

Thou hast gone forth to meet this foe, Gret, great has been thy stand,

And while we mourn for some laid low, We yet shall clasp each hand.

On yonder verdant banks above,

We’ll meet each kindred soul Who died for country and whose love,

Shines out on honour’s roll. True to thy training and the trust

Reposed by God in thee – Good soldiers of a cause that’s just,

Dear lads in thee I see. Fight on, fight on, without a fear,

Remember right is might;

The end I see in radiant clear Our victory’s in sight.

But till we lay this evil low, To rise again no more,

Let us as in the long ago, On wings of prayer soar,

As in the Sabbath School we met To learn the things of God,

Oh! may we meet in spirit yet, Though rough now is the road.

Trust still in God, who cares for thee, Seek Him in war’s alarms,

The soul that seeks its God is free, And safe from all that harms.


28 August 1915

SUMMER.

By the green slopes of the Clyde, I wandered one fair Sabbath morn,

How gently its waters did glide! Sweet hawthorn its banks did adorn.

The birds sang their paean of praise ‘Mid the foliage luxuriant and green, So cheerful and thrilling their lays,

Now charming this fair woodland scene!

The mist rising up from the glen, The kine in the pasture land near, Away from the gay haunts of men, How pleasant to worship God here!

For His the bountiful hand,

That gives all those blessings sublime, The hills and the mountain peaks grand

Were fashioned by His word divine.

The tiniest flowert that grows, The sparrow so humble and small,

The trees and the soft wind that blows, The Great God above made them all.

The stars in the firmament high,

The moon with its clear sliver light, The tints of the blue azure sky,

The noontide and shadowy night.

What grandeur in Nature we see! No pen could describe half its worth,

Nor tell out in sweet melody What summer brings forth at its birth.

And here on this glad Sabbath morn

Our hearts would adore His great name, Who all things in Nature did form,

The valley, the mountain, and plain.

We’d join in the sweet choral song That rings thro’ the woodland today, The glad cheerful anthem prolong

In tune with all Nature so gay.

Amid all this war’s cruel strife, How peaceful in this quiet dell

To muse on the blessings of life Beneath summer’s mystical spell!

Mrs JEAN MILLIGAN, Bothwell.

28 August 1915

TO OUR FALLEN HEROES.

Just behind the line of trenches, Near the little town of ---

Oft we stand with thoughts of sadness For the comrades we adore.

There the graves of gallant soldiers,

Every one some mother’s son, Who have died for King and country,

Ere the fight has scarce begun.

They are some of Britain’s heroes, Every one a volunteer,

Though it meant some bitter partings From the friends they loved so dear.

Now, alas! they’re gone for ever,

Stricken by that fatal shell, Parting them from loving comrades,

And the life they loved so well.

Yet to me it seems so shortly Since I saw their smiling face,

Heard their cheery sound of laughter As we marched from place to place.

Now we think of wife or mother

Waiting patiently at home For the one now gone for ever

To his Heavenly Father’s home.

Courage, friends, be not disheartened, We will soon have our revenge, For we mean to crush the tyrant,

And on us you may depend.

Once again, with teeth set firmly, We have vowed as oft before,

They must cross our lifeless bodies Ere they reach old Scotia’s shore.

3059 PRIVATE J. MILLAR, 8th Black Watch, B. E. Force, France.

4 September 1915

A VISION OF THE END OF WAR

Before me in a vision fair, I saw a wondrous sight, Our gallant troops returning from a long and bloody fight,

Oh, God! how thin and bare the ranks, as our men marched proudly by, But victory, though dearly bought, flashed from each soldier’s eye.

The flag the led a thousand men to victory in France,

Now over scarce five hundred heads waved proudly in advance. Though blood-stained, rent, and torn, ‘twas Britain’s glory still,

That flag which led to victory at No. 60 Hill.

I saw the wives and mothers of our gallant soldier sons Turn out in thousands vast to see the men that fought the Huns, Some wept with joy and gladness, some wept for joys long past,

For their loved ones fell in Flanders, British heroes to the last.

I saw the fair young widow, just a bride for one short year, Parted at the altar from the lad she loved so dear,

For Britain;s King and Honour he had answered Duty’s call, And died within the trenches, where heroes fight and fall.

I saw the grey-haired father, who gave five stalwart sons

To uphold the British Union Jack against the accursed Huns, Right nobly they had done their part, four answered death’s roll call,

Just one returned, a D.C.M., the youngest of them all.

I saw ten thousand orphans of our heroes tried and true, Who fell for Britain’s honour wearing khaki and the blue.

These children are our heritage, then help us, God above, These orphans ne’er must want for bread, nor an earthly parent’s love.

I saw twenty thousand shirkers, oh! the blot on Britain’s fame,

Now peace proclaimed, all danger past, they felt no blush of shame, But mingling with the multitude, like the wild seas rushing waves, They sang our nation’s patriot song, that Britain won’t be slaves.

I saw upon a platform high our noble Monarch stand, A tear shone in the royal eye, his helmet in his hand,

And as each war battered column passed he bowed with courtly grace, And thanked the men who fought and bled to save the British race.

Warriors of Britain, cried our King, your sovereign homage pays, To you whose safe return we greet, to those in heroes’ graves,

The glorious victory gained by you all history shall proclaim, And generations yet unborn with pride shall hail your name.

When in my direst hour of need I called on Britain’s sons To uphold our nation’s honour against the invading Huns,

Right loyally your answer came – we are here from every clime To do honour to the Union Jack as in the olden time.

And you who in our hour of need refused a manly part,

Your sovereign would remind you with a sad and sorrowing heart, Had all our sons proved slackers and disloyal to their trust,

Then the British Lion rampant had been trampled in the dust.

The fairest of our daughters had been sport for German Huns, And Prussian cultured slavery the portion of our sons,

While you who proved but shirkers would have shared the self-same fate, For nothing that was British could escape the German hate.

You saw both friend and comrade fall in the bloody fray,

To save your home and loved ones from the invaders’ cruel sway, While you enjoyed your pleasure and increased your store of gold,

Your name will stain proud Britain’s fame where history’s read or told.


4 September 1915

HEROES ALL.

The word has gone round, there’s a charge to be made, And the first-sixth battalion (Scottish Rifle Brigade),

Have been given the honour to lead the attack, And they vow they’ll succeed or never come back.

To many there comes a review of their lives,

And they think of their loved ones, mothers, children, and wives, And although quite willing to answer the call, They think of the grief ‘twill cause if they fall.

Our guns in the rear have started to thunder,

The shells fall fast, with scarce ever a blunder, As you watch them burst, with a terrible roar, It makes you realise the full horrors of war.

The time has arrived, and men feelings stifle, As their bayonets they fix on each trusty rifle,

Their glittering brightness will soon be tarnished With the blood of the foe, when they meet in the carnage.

“Men! over the parapet,” the officer cries, And with a bound they swarm it like flies,

To be met with a hail of death dealing lead, That fills their ranks with wounded and dead.

The men never waver, they charge with a yell,

Over two hundred yards of a perfect hell, Each man in his brain a madness is feeling,

And some stagger on, though with wounds they are reeling.

Right into the trenches, first line of the Huns, With bayonet and bullet and butts of their guns, They deal death around, till the last of the foes

Have fallen ‘neath the weight of their terrible blows.

But the work is not finished, there’s still the reserve, Two more lines of trenches, but the men never swerve,

Though the ranks have been thinned by half of their numbers, And many brave lad in death’s grip no slumbers.

They’ve won the three trenches, their objective they reach,

In the enemy’s lines they have made a wide breach, The officers look anxious, and they get a report

That the General can’t send to them any support.

They had to retire to their won lines fall back, They were too weak to resist the strong counter attack,

But that glorious charge will always proclaim A place for our men on the fair scroll of fame.

SERGEANT JAMES ARMSTRONG 6th Scottish Rifles.

Ward 8, Norfolk War Hospital, Thorp, near Harwich.

11 September 1915

MAX PHILPOT’S TRIBUTE TO LANCE-CORPORAL ANGUS, V.C.

When the foot of the Teuton touched Belgian soil, And Britain’s fair honour was tried;

When up through the gloom rose the names of our great, Who for justice and honour had died –

When the taunt of the tyrant shed malice’s veil –

The taunt that our army was small – When the menacing legions of arrogant force

Determined on liberty’s fall:

From the mine and mill, from the castle and cot, Came the chivalrous sons of our race;

And you, Willie Angus, the pride of our shire, Took a front and a resolute place.

And true to the traits our traditions unfold,

Of daring and love inter-grown, You rescued a life from the hazard of death

By quite forgetting your own.

We hail thee as Hero, we treasure thy deed – A deed now accepted by Fame –

And glory declares an immortal response To brave Willie Angus’s name.

18 September 1915

CARLUKE’S WELCOME TO ITS V.C. (A crowd of something like thirty thousand extended a welcome home to Corporal

Angus, V. C., and the Right Hon. Lord Newlands presided at the reception in Market Place on 4th September).

The sun with animating smile

Beamed on our town superbly drest, Where old and young, with happy hearts,

Waited for one of Britain’s best.

The morning hours seemed slow to pass, All longing for the time to come

When the great hero would arrive, Accompanied by fyfe and drum.

From north and east, and south and west,

By road and rail, and devious ways, Thousands flocked to our Market Place To greet the brave with loud hoorays.

The children from our different schools,

So neatly clad, a happy throng, With waving handkerchiefs and flags,

All joined to give a welcome song.

And when the hero did arrive, Marked by many a wound and scar,

Assisted by a noble soul He found his place in waiting car.

The great procession then was formed,

And to the tune of martial air It passed along the well-decked streets,

And to the market did repair.

Their ringing cheers, both loud and long, Greeted the chairman, good and true,

Who to the V. C. tribute paid, As he alone could ably do.

A day of days it was indeed,

And one which in our hearts shall grow, That on the battlefield of life

We, too, the same great love may show.


25 September 1915

SOMEWHERE A VOICE IS CALLING.

Somewhere a voice is calling, Imploring you to go

Where loyal men are falling The echoes soft and low.

Resound o’er hill and valley,

Far o’er the ocean wave, Cometh the pleading, Rally To the colours, ye brave,

Sons of a great, proud nation,

That seeketh to maintain A glorious tradition,

Surely the call’s not vain.

Out where the shell is bursting Forh with its fiery flame,

And where the bullet’s flying, The warriors play the game.

Somewhere the grey mist’s creeping,

Dimming the glitt’ring lance, Somewhere heroes are sleeping, On red-stained fields of France.

Go then where duty calls you,

To battle without fear, Know that whate’er befalls you,

God will be ever near.


2 October 1915

THE HEROIC DEAD.

Through all the weary wasteful strife, With pain, and death, and sorrow rife, Even when the shadows closest fall,

And gloom droops like o’erwhelming pall, We know some thrills of proud delight When thinking of the men who fight.

How sad for those at home who stay

When dear ones fall so far away, Fond mothers, wives, and sisters dear, Shed many a seen and unseen tear; Yet there is comfort when we know Our soldiers nobly faced the foe.

All ye whose homes are sadly lone,

Who would not wish to soothe your moan, Who would not pray that healing balm May come your stricken souls to calm?

And tell you – your heroic dead In noble cause have fought and bled.

E’en in your sorrow dare rejoice,

And say, although with broken voice, Of those brave ones you cherished well –

“For home and motherland they fell, Thier lives for liberty they gave,

And died among the dauntless brave.”

JOHN BLACK.

9 October 1915

SCOTIA [This poem, the author of which is unknown, and which has never appeared in print to our knowledge in Scotland, has been forwarded to us for insertion by a Carnwath native in Canada, Mrs Jean Fisher, Carnwath Cottage, Oshawa. Our correspondent

states that it was a very popular recitation among the “Newbigging Orators” when her father was a young man, and he possessed a written copy dated 1859. Her brother-in-law, the late Mr John Donaldson, Toronto, was very much impressed by its merits and had it printed in the “Scottish Canadian” a little over twenty years ago, when his friend, the late Mr John Imrie, was editor, Mrs Fisher has been told that the author

was a Paisley weaver.]

There is a land, a lovely land, Encompassed by the sea,

Where ev’ry mountain, glen, and strand Thrice hallowed is to me.

It is the land whose heath’ry hills No foe e’er trod with scorn,

The land of rocks and dancing rills, The land where I was born.

Hail! Scotia, Hail! with love for thee

My raptured bosom swells, Land of the brave, the good, the free,

Of woods and flowery dells, Land where the thistle proudly blooms,

Fresh as the rising morn, I’ll love till time this heart consumes

The land where I was born.

Land where proud Rome in days of yore Forth led her countless hordes,

Till Scotia gleamed from shore to shore With empire-winning swords. But glory to our sires of old,

All stainless and untorn, Still bloom the laurels that enfold

The land where I was born.

In thee, when Southern foes assailed To lad thy neck with chains,

And Edward’s whittled vengeance pealed In thunder on thy plains.

A Wallace, dauntless, matchless, good, His threats defied with scorn,

And nobly saved in fields of blood The land where I was born.

Hail! Bruce, dread essence of the brave, Hail! monarch of my soul,

Thy deeds where thraldom found a grave To endless fame shall roll.

Thy deeds on Bannock’s bloody field, Thy name shall aye adorn,

Bright glory crowns and valour shields The land where I was born.

Land of the mist, where dauntless Knox

First rent the papal veil, Where cov’nant hymns from glens and rocks

Came floating on the gale. Where martyred hearts on piles of fire,

By papal vengeance torn, Upon thy breast for truth expired,

Great land where I was born.

Hail! land of song, where countless bards Have tuned the heavenly lyre,

Where Tannahill’s soft strains are heard To blend with Burns’s fire.

Where Scott in peerless splendour reigned, And Hogg awoke his horn,

Till echo swelled through wood and glen, Bright land where I was born.

Land of my love! Land of my joy!

Land where my life began, Land where I rambled when a boy

And sojourned when a man. Land where the eagle cleaves the sky

And views the world with scorn, I’ll breathe thy name in life’s last sigh,

Dear land where I was born.

16 October 1915

“AYE READY.” Tune, - - “The Wearing o’ the Green.”

(Written while under Shell Fire.)

There’s a gallant little regiment that’s somewhere now in France, And when they meet the Germans they do fairly take their chance, They are on the look-out day and night, and always on the spot,

The name of this famous regiment is the 13th Royal Scots.

We are longing for a cut at them, and I’m sure they know it well, And when we meet them, no matter where, they will never live to tell,

For we are all true British lads, and there to do or die, So here’s good luck where e’er we go the Huns we will defy.

And when they day of reckoning comes, and all the strife is o’er, The Kaiser will have learned a lesson he never learned before:

To try to conquer Europe is a task just rather tall, So give three cheers my gallant lads for our Allies one and all.

18343 PRIVATE HENRY HAMILTON.

13th Batt. R. Scots, “C” Coy., B.E.F., France.

23 October 1915

“THE FLYING SCOTSMAN”

Ae nicht some bosom pals an’ me In Glesca got upon the spree,

An’ whit wi’ drinking stout an’ beer I tell ye I wis feeling queer.

Ae thro’ the rain we frimly tramped, Oor claes an’ spirits sairly damped,

My heid wis fairly bizzin’ roon, An’ on the road I whiles sat doon,

Some angry words had jist been spoken About a bottle that wis broken,

An’ while we argued over this loss The last caur passed auld Glesca Cross.

The language noo wis getting rough, So thinking that I’d heard enough

I bade the ither chaps “Guid-nicht,” An’ set aff hame wi’ a’ my micht. I mind o’ passing thro’ Parkhead,

When something seemed tae skiff my heid An’ nearly knockit aff my hat.

I thocht at first it wis a bat, But ere a meenit had elapsed

It came again. I near collapsed, For there between me an’ the sky

Appeared a sicht which made me cry. Germans an’ Turks an’ sic like things We’re fleeing up an’ doon on wings;

I got a fricht, I must admit, I felt as if I’d ha’e a fit.

Oh! hoo I wished I’d had a gun, An’ jist by that the clock struck one.

The leader landed at my side, My trembling limbs I tried tae hide;

But still they would persist tae quake Until I thocht my heart wid break,

He said, “Vell, vhat’s your name, my man? Just speak ze truth now, if you can.”

I knew my face wis turning white, So calmed mysel’ wi’ a’ my might.

Then, tho’ my voice began tae falter, I cried, “My name is Johnnie Coulter.” He said, “You’ve got to come with me,

I’ll take you far across the sea.” He picked me up, away we flew, Just as I heard a clock strike two. We soon had left behind the land,

An’ water rose on ev’ry hand;

Nae place for landing could I view, I tell ye I was feeling blue.

I wondered whit my wife wid say When she heard that I wis away,

An’ as my thochts on her were bent My manly frame wi’ sobs was rent,

Aboot mysel’ I didna min’, An’ jist by that we crossed the Rhine;

Then as the sichts I tried tae see I heard a German clock strike three.

We noo were gaun twa mile a meenit, A toon we passed, I scarce had seen it;

I think it wis that place ca’d Essen, Where Britain micht ha’e learned a lesson.

An’ as we passed Aix-la-Chapelle, My heart got sad, my spirits fell,

I knew my hopes were getting thin, An’ that we soon would reach Berlin.

So on we went a wee while mair, An’ shair enough we landed there;

We reached auild Kaiser Bill’s front door Jist as the city clock struck four.

Twa chaps then grabbed me by the neck, That grip I still can recollect;

They led me tae a wee bit room, An’ left me there tae sink or soom.

I lay there mair deid than alive Until I heard a clock strike five.

A warder then brought in some tea, But stuff like yon wid ne’er suit mel

An’ when he asked, “Vell, vhat’s ze matter?” Says I, “Look here, that’s dirty watter.”

He drew his keys across my hip, An’ tell’t me I had too much lip.

He handed me some lumps o’ bread (I’ll mind yon stuff until I’m dead),

An’ told me I must eat it a’ Or he’d come back an’ break my jaw.

It wis as hard’s a coat o’ mail, But still I started tooth an’ nail,

An’ chewed until my gums were sair, I felt I couldna dae much mair;

However I got oot this fix, I finished as the clock struck six.

My heid wi’ pain noo gaed a stoon, So on the boards I laid me doon,

It wis a hard bed, mind I’ve said it, ‘Twas made jist when the jiners made it;

I rowed an ‘ twisted oot an’ in, But de’il the saft bit could I fin’.

An’ as I lay in grief an’ pain, I heard the warder’s step again, It made me shake jist like a leaf, I felt like some convicted thief.

An’ when he stampit up tae me, I saw a wild glint in his e’e,

The shout he gaed did me near deaven, He cried, “Get up, the clock’s chapped seven.”

He made me rise an’ dress mysel’, I felt like sending him tae – Well Ye ken the place as weel as me,

It’s somewhere faur below the sea. But as his power before I’d felt, I thocht I’d dae whit I wis tell’t,

Then when he led me oot the cell, Jist hoo I felt I couldna tell.

He led me through some passages A’ strung wi’ pork an’ sassiges,

Until we reached a stately throne Which Kaiser Bill sat upon;

I faced the man a’ Britons hate, When something struck the ‘oor o’ eight.

The trial began; a sham affair; I kenned that I’d get nae chance there;

Ere long I heard the Kaiser say, “Tie up this man; take him away.”

I knew my hopes were noo forlorn, I’d get tae face the guns that morn;

An’ as I lay wi’ bated breath, I vowed I’d dee a hero’s death.

The time soon passed on that hard bed, An’ soon outside I had been led;

There stood the shooters a’ in line; I faced them as the clock struck nine. They placed my back against a wa’,

An’ bade me pray a word or twa; An officer, gey lean and lanky,

Then tied across my e’en a hanky. Says I, “My man, jist shift that claith, I’m no’ afraid tae meet my death.”

He pu’d it aff then wi’ a sneer, An’ ist for spite he nipped my ear; Back tae his sodjers he then went,

An’ gave them orders tae “Present!” I raised my heid a wee bit higher, An’ jist by that he shouted “Fire!”

I saw a flash – then heard a tramp, It wis a Glesca Bobby’s lamp,

That showed me up frae heid tae feet As I lay stretched on Westmuir Street;

An’ as I gazed on that bright beam, I realized ‘twas all a dream.

I felt fair burning hot wi’ shame, So jumpit up an’ made for hame; I reached my wee bit but-an’-ben

Jist as the kitchen clock struck ten. I tell ye I wis feeling glad

When I got tumbled into bed; I wis that pleased at being leevin’,

I didna sleep till near eleven. Then I get wakened by the wife, An’ near haun frichtit oot my life; But in some parritch I did delve, An’ fell asleep again at twelve.

HARRY DALZIEL, Budhill, Shettleston.

30 October 1915

IN MEMORY OF PRIVATE JAMES WILLIAMSON, No. 9171, 2nd H.L.I., 71 Castlegate, Lanark. Died of wounds, 13th May, 1915. Buried at Bethune

Cemetery, France.

In deep regret we bow the head For one so brave who now lies dead

Beloved by all, who far or near Have in their hearts held him most dear Proudly he answered the nation’s call

Along with comrades – brave heroes all Men of the 2nd H.L.I.

To fight for victory or die The gallant sons of Scotland’s soil

Who for life and liberty did toil Who for their country’s cause did fight For those at home and freedom’s right. A helping hand e’er the war was won

Was given by Private James Williamson; At Bethune town he bravely fought

As every British soldier ought ‘Twas there while fighting at his post

He fell before the rebel host The scene, still foremost in his mind Of the loved ones he had left behind No hand was there to sooth his brow

To ease the pain, or tell him how If it’s God’s will that he should go

We say ‘Amen, Let it be so’ Gone to the land beyond recall

Where we must follow, one and all But the Lord has ta’en him by the hand

Unto that far off, better land.

S. A. CAMPBELL, Shettleston.

6 November 1915

A TRIBUTE TO CAPTAIN BROWN. Blantyre Coy., 1/6th Scottish Rifles.

Captain Brown like a hero fell

Leading his men who loved him well Gallant and brave, so eager to go To stop the guns of the cruel foe.

Manly and strong to do the right

E’en against such odds on that fatal night Stirring his men on to deeds of fame

That will his lustre shed on their honoured name.

Ah! we mourn today such a hero bold Of the stock of the Cameronians old

For this Blantyre lad will fresh laurels bring Of his deeds will the free-born minstrels sing.

A loving son to his parents dear

Shielding their lives from every fear And then when his country sought his aid,

To do his part he was not afraid.

Ah! bitter their loss and sore their pain That ne’er on earth they will see again

That dear loved form of such manly grace Or the kindly smile of that loving face.

But his glorious end must dispel the gloom

Of his early death and untimely tomb For his soul has gone to his God on high

He has fallen asleep – such can never die.


From Commonwealth War Graves Commission website: Captain James Brown

Died 15 June 1915, aged 38 Cameronians (Scottish Rifles), 6th Battalion

Son of David and Sarah McMillan Brown, of Douglas Place, Douglas Water, Lanarkshire. Native of Campbeltown, Argyll

6 November 1915

BRITONS – TO ARMS, YE BRAVE!

Another angel has to heaven gone,

The way is made clear by Edith Cavell; The Prussian “Blonde Beast” stands not alone,

Fight for Heaven, or with him go to Hell.

JOHN GLEN, N.R., Hope Street, Glasgow.

13 November 1915

IN LOVING MEMORY OF PRIVATE W. MITCHELL, BIGGAR, N.B., Died of enteric fever, 18th September, 1915, in Alexandria Hospital, aged 34 years.

1st Corinthians, xv., 55-57.

We cast a backward glance and see

A child of tender years Reach manhood’s prime, join in the ranks,

And now with bitter tears

We read the record of his death Amongst the many more,

Who’ve crossed the Jordan’s swelling flood, “Not lost, but gone before.”

Now far away in foreign land He sleeps beneath the sod,

Whom we had fondly called our own, But ‘twas the will of God

To take him to a higher life,

No more to suffer here, Amongst the warfare and the strife,

No more on earth to cheer

His comrades on in duty’s path, His part he’d bravely done, Enteric fever laid him low, Thus Scotland’s loyal son

Has passed away, we mourn his loss,

A soldier, there unknown Save to the few, but Jesus reigns,

And He receives his own.

Whene’er He wills, and thus He’s called Many in early day,

Life is a pilgrimage to all, And death opens the way

To everlasting bliss above,

To many mansions fair, “My Father’s House,” “Peace, Perfect Peace,”

“No sorrow enters there.”

We think of him as oft we’ve heard Him in the church choir sing

Praises unto the Lord our God, The Everlasting King.

God heal the hearts now stricken sore

By grace divine dispel The dark cloud hanging o’er his home,

The home where loved ones dwell.

J. P. A.

From the Commonwealth War Graves Commission website: Serjeant William Mitchell (No. 1108) died on 18 September 1915, aged 34. A saddler by trade, he served with the Royal Field Artillery, 4th Bty. Lowland Bde. He is buried at Alexandria (Chatby) Military and War Memorial Cemetery, Egypt. Son of the late

Thomas Mitchell, of Biggar, Lanarkshire.

13 November 1915

THE CALL

Arise ye sons of Lanarkshire And answer your country’s call

Do not be called a coward While your other brothers fall.

Arise and show your Scottish blood

And make your name be known To battle brutal German butchers Whose hate so strong has grown.

Arise and let your country know

Her sons are always fit And ready for the battles On sea, or plain, or pit.

Arise and let your kingdom Be proud of her brave men And when the war is over May you win the D.C.M.

Arise and come – we need your help

Victory for you is in store Come and join the Scottish lads

In the winning goal to score.

PRIVATE WILLIAM DOCHERTY (No. 353.) 1/6th Scottish Rifles, France.

20 November 1915

EDITH CAVELL.

Murdered, martyred Edith Cavell, Lady of the gentle heart,

In this bloody, reeking carnage, You have borne a noble part.

You, who succoured German savage, Resting now beneath the sod,

Will for ever be exalted In the sight of man and God.

In the inner heart of Britain You will ever find a place,

The whole sane world will cherish That fair, kind, and gentle face.

Oh! the shame of these foul felons Who shun the light of God’s good day,

And under cover of darkness Steal an angel’s life away.

Why then hesitate, my brother? Brace up that shrinking heart;

Think of the noble sacrifice Of Nurse Cavell’s glorious part.

Up, you sons of Britain, Rise, exert your might, Strike a blow for Edith, Britain, God, and Right.

R. BULLOCH,11 Grace Drive, South Govan, Glasgow.

20 November 1915

THE BATTLE OF LOOS.

Now that the Huns are quiet, I write the Battlefield of Loos, Won by our brave Black Watch, a regiment none could better choose;

We had been in the trenches for full five days or more, And our artillery bombarded as they never did before.

Upon that fateful morning, when the word came to advance, The officers led forth their men as if it were a dance;

We had scarcely reached the second line when our Colonel brave was hit, All he could shout when lying there was, “Now, Black Watch, stick it!”

We had to take a village ere our victory was won, And long before that place was reached some hard, stern work was done;

We kept advancing under shell fire, and machine guns, too, But nought could stay the Scottish lads from capturing their chateau. And when they reached that village fair, with courage stern and high,

Our men, though few, said to themselves, “Now let us do or die”; The orders came to bomb the cellars where our foes had fled, In every German hiding place a Hun’s base blood was shed. With bayonet we took the trench, and there our men did stay,

And thought upon their comrades who brave fighting fell that day. At length to us, waist-deep in mud, a welcome message came,

“A regiment to relieve us,” my comrades loud exclaim. And so we toddled back, quite glad to win a well-earned snooze,

But never more shall we forget the Battlefield of Loos.

J. R. McKAY, Ferniegair. Lance Corporal, Highland Brigade.

Note. – This is how we amuse ourselves when the Huns are quiet.

27 November 1915

AN EPIC POEM.

We hear but a chirp from the linnet, As he cowers in his thorny bush;

The blackbird is lulled into silence, No song comes forth from the thrush.

The air is filled with a stillness, And dark clouds cover the sky, All nature seems at variance,

Is there someone going to die?

The flowers hang their heads as in sadness, On their leaves no dewdrops cling,

The babe in the lap lies listless, For no mother is fond to sing.

The earth it seems to be shaken By a long and tempestuous cry,

From the east and west come moanings, Is there someone going to die?

But, hark! ‘tis the boom of the cannon

As nearer and nearer it comes, The gates of hell burst open And vomits forth her Huns.

With shouts of demoniac frenzy On their vulture wings they fly,

Their prey is Virtue and Innocence; Is there someone going to die?

They have pillaged, wrecked, and ruined

The cottage, palace, and state, The altars of God have crumbled

By their uncontrollable hate. But retribution will follow

As the nations wake out of their trance, And the scourge of Europe will vanish

From Belgium, Russia and France.

SAM. CURRIE, Broompark Avenue, High Blantyre.

27 November 1915

RECRUITING SONG.

Come along! come along! come along! Your country needs you all; Come, answer to the call,

The young, the fit, the strong; Your country’s need is great,

Come, ere it be too late To right a cruel wrong:

Come along!

Come along! come along! come along! Humanity’s demand

Is that you take your stand With Freedom’s fighting throng.

Don’t be a “slacker”; come, Fall in behind the drum

And help the cause along: Come along!

Come along! come along! come along!

Think of your comrades brave, Now daring all to save

Your land from brutal wrong! Be ready to begin

That Grand March to Berlin: Come: swell the victor’s song!!

Come along!!!

JAS. C. STEWART, Strathaven.

4 December 1915

RALLY TO THE FLAG.

On rock bound isle she sits in state, Not hers to chant at Hymns of Hate,

But arbiter of Europe’s fate And mistress of the seas.

When German hordes through Belgium came, Britannia bold, in honour’s name,

With courage high and heart aflame, Her flag flung to the breeze.

And round that flag from English dales,

From Scottish hiles and Irish vales, From Western isles and gallant Wales,

The martial legends pressed. And Canada, the fairest gem In all the Empire’s diadem,

Sent o’er the sea in quest of fame Her bravest and her best.

And fame was their’s, for vict’ry won,

‘Gainst poison fumes and savage Hun, Showed Canada each valiant son

Possessed a courage rare. A courage that at duty’s best

Makes adamant each gallant breast, A courage that is ever blest

With smiles of lady fair.

But still the foe in numbers vast, With monster guns in France hold fast,

And Poland’s realm is overcast, While injured Belgium bleeds.

And at this stage of stress and strain, Shall our brave lads have fought in vain?

No! Canada sends “Men, more men,” To emulate their deeds.

Then who that boasts of British strain Can hear the bugle’s blast in vain?

Who shows the march in honour’s train For him no minstrel lays:

Whose proudest boast to lead the dance, Or on the promenades to prance,

Whose guerdon great, a lady’s glance, For him no laurel buys.

Then laggards all fresh courage take, And fight for King and country’s sake, Acquit yourselves like men and make

The Teuton rue “Der Tag.” By the heroes gone before you

By the mothers fond who bore you, By your manhood we implore you

To rally round the flag.

JAMES THOM, 697 Victor Street, Winnipeg, Canada.

11 December 1915

THE MAN WHO STAYED AT HOME.

Often in the trench I think Of the poor chaps left at home,

And the perils that surround them Where’er they choose to roam.

The tram and train collision, The juggernaut motor bus,

Bacilli in the cows’ milk, And Zepp. raids which are worse.

How awful it must be at night

To sleep on feather beds, And find for breakfast daily Fresh butter on your bread.

With all these shocking worries A man’s life must be bad;

To think that I am missing this Makes me exceedingly glad.

Out here things are quite different,

Life is so grand and free; We don’t have butter on our bread

Nor cows’ milk in our tea, We have no fearsome eider down,

Nor feather beds at night; Zepps. never, never trouble us,

But keep well out of sight.

The only things that worry us Are bullets, bombs, and shells,

Bully beef and biscuits, And nasty horrid smells.

So to young men of Britain, I send this sound advice,

O come, come quick, for safety all, To this our paradise.

WM. NOTMAN, R. E., France.

11 December 1915

WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR FOR HIS GOLDEN WEDDING, 15th SEPTEMBER, 1915.

My guid auld wife, it’s fifty years

This day since we were wed; And Oh! that wis a happy day, And since I’ve aye been gled.

I never ance ha’e rued the day

I took the marriage vows, When you took me and I took you Till daith the knot should lowse.

That time noo canna be far aff –

We’re ower the allotted span; But we’re gaun hame tae be wi’ Him

Wha de’ed for us, that’s gran’!

We’ve had oor ups and doons, nae doot, Some sorrow and some care,

But managed aye tae warstle through, And had o’ joys oor share.

It wis a facht gaun up the hill,

But when we reached the croon, We found the ither side quite nice,

And pleasant comin’ doon.

And noo we’re coming near the fit, Whaur we may tak’ a rest;

We’re fain tae own, baith guid and ill Ha’e aye been for the best.

Noo, thanks for a’ ye’ve dune for me

Thro’ a’ thae fifty years; I’ll shairly dae ma best for you

As lang as I am here.

JAMES LINDSAY, Larkhall.

18 December 1915

IN MEMORIAM: JOSEPH WRIGHT.

He hae joined the countless number Who life’s long course have trod,

Over steep and chequered pathways, With faith and trust in God.

Not again earth’s pain or witness,

Nor toil, nor care can harm, Never more this world’s clamour

His spirit may alarm.

He has gained the hoped-for haven, Where God’s beloved sleep –

Oft he told the gospel message, That God can safely keep.

We shall hold him in remembrance

While still we journey on, Oft recall his smiling presence That from our sight has flown.

Son of song, his Doric musings Were cherished far and near,

His sweet songs of tender soothing Heart’s weary well could cheer.

All who loved his helpful kindness,

Their grateful thoughts extend Unto him who earned the title –

“The Showman’s Children’s Friend.”


18 December 1915

LINES TO MY NEPHEW, PRIVATE ROBERT FRASER, Who was badly wounded fighting at the Dardanelles in June last.

We’ve read your letter, brave young lad,

The contents made your uncle sad, You tell us how you fought and fell

When wounded sore by shot and shell; From home and friends far, far away,

You proved a hero in the fray. Your service, lad, was not in vain, A noble part you played, ‘tis plain;

You helped to make the wild Turks fly, Your aim was victory or die;

And now you write while suffering sore, Such pain you never felt before. We think of you and often pray

That God may bless you day by day, And send you home our hearts to cheer,

From your own lips the story hear, Of how you fought and ne’er would yield,

Till carried, wounded, off the field. We hope for news ‘fore very long,

You’re almost well, and feeling strong.

JOHN HOGG, Kirkfieldbank.

25 December 1915

A GREETING.

Old friends are true friends, true friends are few, That’s why I send this greeting to you; May we for ever true friends remain,

Each coming Christmas, greeting again.

AUNT TOTTIE, Xmas, 1915.

25 December 1915

KILLED IN ACTION.

Did you see this morning’s paper, the dear old “Mail,” you know? Did you see the list of faces, all photoed in a row?

These faces, bright and smiling, so manly, brave, and true, Why do they look from the paper? Alas! I know, do you?

These are the manly fellows who have answered the nation’s call, Who for justice, honour, and freedom, have bravely left their all.

Some had heard of the Germans raiding our English coast, Killing our women and children, and then off home to boast;

So, with faces set and steadfast, and hearts that could brave a storm, They walked to the recruiting station, and donned the uniform.

Some had read of the Lusitania, how the precious lives went down, How the Germans laughed with derision, leaving mother and child to drown;

In the morn they read the paper, their faces flush with shame, At eve they wore the khaki, they went to “play the game.”

But I still keep asking the question – Why are their photos here? And why, as you gaze at the faces, I see you drop a tear; Read me that little paragraph that’s printed underneath,

If someone has left a fortune, it will read, “I here bequeath.” But no, it is not a fortune, and it won’t take long to tell, Only three little simple words that any child can spell;

Three little simple, but terrible words, they have broken many a heart, They have left our world in mourning, caused many a friend to part; Brought many a sigh from the mother, sister and sweetheart so fair,

Left many a widow lonely, and many a vacant chair. It is easy to solve the riddle, those three little words you have seen,

Are merely “Killed in Action,” but oh! how much they mean.

22480 PRIVATE ROBERT TURNER No. 4 Coy., 3rd Batt. Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers,

Ebrington Barracks, Londonderry, Ireland

25 December 1915

TO ARMS!

The blood of Edith Cavell Is calling to you men, Sounding o’er the city,

Echoing through the glen. Buckle on your armour,

Forward to the fight, Avenge your murdered sister,

Show them Britain’s might.

One martyred Edith Cavell, Who defied Germany’s Godless laws,

Is worth ten thousand million Of easy, greasy German fraus.

On, then, to the battle front, Steady, ready, man the guns, Avenge her, sons of Britain,

Blast the dastard bastard Huns.

R. BULLOCH, 11 Grace Drive, South Govan, Glasgow.

1 January 1916

KAISER.

Why flash the sabres on the hill? Why roars the cannon on the sea?

The Christless answer echoing “Kill!” Comes ringing down the wind to me; Ambitious man of blood and shame,

Does this red work become thy name?

So vast thy power, so high thy pride, So blind thy mad presumption grew, You dared to fling God’s plans aside,

And shape the universe anew, Unmindful of the little things

That mould the destiny of kings.

What evil thought possessed thy brain To wake the slumbering brutes of war?

Was it some fearful wish to gain Full freedom for thy fancy’s car,

And watch the nations rock and reel Before the shock of Prussian steel?

And thou are vile and base and mean, And spattered with the blood you spilt;

The vampire on thy lips is seen, Thy furrowed brow bespeaks its guilt. Thy sleepless nights I would not share For all the robes of power you wear.

To thee the siege-guns flaming breath Was all thy brooding soul could crave,

The streets that smoked of blood and death, The trench at morn, ere night a grave,

Surpassed thy dreams and were to thee The honeyed sweets of victory.

That siege-gun’s strength is almost spent, And dazed the eyes that seek the range; Those honeyed sweets with carnage bent

To ashes on thy lips will change; The schemes thy cunning brain could spawn

Are rocks thy hopes must perish on.

What subtle balm can ever heal The gash that yawns in Belgium’s breast?

Panting beneath the lifted steel, Her throat with iron fingers pressed, She struggles on from field to field

Too weak to stand, too proud to yield.

And still thy bullying strength is flung Against a realm by thee accurst,

Wringing the wounds already wrung, Bruising the heart already burst; And still thy gory fingers slake

Her streets in blood for slaughter’s sake.

Is this thy mad ambition’s height? Is this the pinnacle sublime?

Can glorious deed and conquering might Go hand in hand with cut-throat crime? No! no! the fierce avenger’s strength

Hath marked thy tether’s blood-stained length.

Can murder raise its dripping blade And stalk unchallenged where it will?

Can butchered beauty’s death-cry fade From ears that heard thy password, “Kill!”

Take care; the sword of vengeance gleams Across the summit of thy dreams.

Can homeless childhood’s lonely cry

Be drowned amidst the sounds of strife? Can fainting age lie down and die With none to mark the ebbing life?

Take heed; the days of reckoning yet Will see thy star in blackness set.

Thy glorious armies stand repulsed –

Where are the dreams that lured them on? Their mightiest ranks recoil convulsed,

Their splendour wrecked, their glory gone; Blind madman, can you still afford To give thy people to the sword?

One gateway yet is left for thee To flee that ignominious night,

When men thy littleness will see, And curse thee in thy fallen night;

One gateway still is left ajar, The gate no earthly hand can bar.

There is a valley by the Aisne Where slaughtered dead in thousands lie,

Seek out that spot, or black Louvain, And find a fitting place to die;

Amidst the festering vaults of death ‘Twere best for thee to yield thy breath.

Or in the battle’s raging heart

Thy breast to slaughtering sabres yield, Not like the pampered cur thou art Behind thy palace walls concealed; Expire as manhood should expire, Thy feet in blood, thy face to fire.

H. W., Strathaven.

poetry published in lanarkshire - scotland’s war

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