BONNIE GASCON HA’.

    Lane, on the winding Earn there stands
      An unco tow’r, sae stern an’ auld,
    Biggit by lang forgotten hands,
      Ance refuge o’ the Wallace bauld.

    Time’s restless fingers sair hath waur’d
      And rived thy gray disjaskit wa’,
    But rougher hands nor Time’s hae daur’d
      To wrang thee, bonnie Gascon Ha’!

Oh, may a muse unkent to fame
For this dim greesome relic sue,
It ‘s linkit wi’ a patriot’s name,
The truest Scotland ever knew.

Just leave in peace each mossy stane
Tellin’ o’ nations’ rivalry,
An’ for succeeding ages hain
Remains o’ Scottish chivalry.

* * * * *

What though no monument to thee
Is biggit by thy country’s hand;
Engraved are thy immortal deeds
On every heart o’ this braid land.

Rude Time may monuments ding doun,
An’ tow’rs an’ wa’s maun a’ decay;
Enduring, deathless, noble chief,
Thy name can never pass away!

    Gi’e pillar’d fame to common men,—­
      Nae need o’ cairns for ane like thee;
    In every cave, wood, hill, and glen,
      “WALLACE” remember’d aye shall be.

THE AULD HOUSE.

    Oh, the auld house, the auld house! 
      What though the rooms were wee? 
    Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there,
      And bairnies fu’ o’ glee! 
    The wild-rose and the jesamine
      Still hang upon the wa’;
    How mony cherish’d memories
      Do they, sweet flowers, reca’!

    Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird! 
      Sae canty, kind, and crouse;
    How mony did he welcome to
      His ain wee dear auld house! 
    And the leddy too, sae genty,
      There shelter’d Scotland’s heir,
    And clipt a lock wi’ her ain hand
      Frae his lang yellow hair.

    The mavis still doth sweetly sing,
      The blue bells sweetly blaw,
    The bonnie Earn ’s clear winding still,
      But the auld house is awa’. 
    The auld house, the auld house,
      Deserted though ye be,
    There ne’er can be a new house,
      Will seem sae fair to me.

    Still flourishing the auld pear tree
      The bairnies liked to see,
    And oh, how aften did they speir
      When ripe they a’ wad be! 
    The voices sweet, the wee bit feet
      Aye rinnin’ here and there,
    The merry shout—­oh! whiles we greet
      To think we ’ll hear nae mair.

    For they are a’ wide scatter’d now,
      Some to the Indies gane,
    And ane, alas! to her lang hame;
      Not here we ’ll meet again. 
    The kirkyaird, the kirkyaird,
      Wi’ flowers o’ every hue,
    Shelter’d by the holly’s shade,
      An’ the dark sombre yew.