"Ow, ow, guidwife, to think ye 've been Sae lang aboot the hoose,
An' no' to ken a moose frae a rat!
"Yon wasna a rat! 'twas a moose."
"I've seen mair mice than you, guidman, An' what think ye o' that?
Sae haud your tongue, an' say nae mair;
I tell ye, it was a rat!"
“Me haud my tongue for you, guidwife!
I'll be maister o' this hoose;
I saw 't as plain as een could see't ;
An' I tell ye, it was a moose!"
"If you're the maister o' this hoose,
It's I'm the mistress o't;
An' I ken best what 's in the hoose:
Sae I tell ye, it was a rat!"
"Weel, weel, guidwife, gae mak' the brose, An' ca' it what ye please.
up she rose, and made the brose, While John sat toastin' his taes.
"Sic fules we were to fa' oot, guidwife, Aboot a moose--""A what!
It's a lee ye tell, an' I say again,
It wasna a moose, 'twas a rat !”
Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face?
My faith, but ye craw croose!
I tell ye, Tib, I ne'er will bear't; [a moose!" 'Twas a moose!"""Twas a rat!" "Twas
Wi' her spoon she strack him owre the pow:
"Ye dour auld doit tak' that;
Gae to your bed, ye cankered sumph: [rat!"
'Twas a rat!" "Twas a moose!' 'Twas a
She sent the brose caup at his heels,
As he hirpled ben the hoose;
Yet he shoved oot his head as he steekit the And cried, "Twas a moose! 'twas a moose!" But, when the carle was fast asleep,
She paid him back for that,
And roar'd into his sleepin' lug,
"Twas a rat! 'twas a rat! 'twas a rat!"
The de'il be wi' me if I think
It was a beast ava!
Neist mornin', as she sweepit the flair,
She faund wee Johnnie's ba!
My whittle's lost, yet I dinna ken,
Lat's ripe, lat's ripe my pouch again;
Na! I hae turn'd owre a' that's in 'd;
But ne'er a whittle can I find.
A bit o' cauk, a bit red keel,
The clamp I twisted aff my heel,
A bit auld shoe to mak' a sling,
A peerie an' a peerie string,
The big auld button that I fand
When crossin' through the fallow land,
A bit o' lead, a pickle thrums,
An' last o' a', some ait-cake crumbs.
Yet ay, I turn them owre an' owre,
Thinkin' I'd been mista'en before,
An' aye my haun, wi' instinctive ettle,
Gangs to my pouch to seek my whittle.
I doot it's lost, but whaur or whan
Is mair than I can understan';
Whether it jamp oot o' my pouch
That time I loupit owre the ditch,
Or whether I didna tak' it up
When I cut a handle for my whip,
Or it in at the wrang slit,
put
An' it fell through, doon at my fit.
But mony a gaet I've been since then,
Owre hill an hollow, moor an' fen,
Outside, inside, but an' ben;
I doot I'll never see 't again.
Made of the very best o' metal,
I thought richt muckle o' my whittle;
It aye cam' in to be o' use,
Whether oot-by, or in the hoose,
For slicing neeps or whangs o' cheese,
Or cuttin' oot my name on trees,
To white a stick, or cut a string,
To mak' wind-mills, or onything.
Wi''t I was richt whaure'er I gaed,
An' a' was wrang when I didna hae't.
I kenna hoo I'll dae withoot it;
I'm sure I'm michty ill aboot it:
I micht as weel live without vittle.
As try to live withoot my whittle.
Yon birkies scamperin' doon the road---
I'd like to join the joysome crood :
The very air rings wi' their dattin',
Their rollickin', hallooin', laughin';
Flee on, my lads, I'll bide my lane,
My he'rt's as heavy as a stane,
My feet seem tied to ane anither,
I'm clean dung doited a' thegither;
Hear how they rant, an' roar, an' rattle;
Like me, they hinna lost a whittle.
It was the only thing o' worth
That I could ca' my ain on earth ;
An' aft I wad admiring stand,
Haudin' the whittle in my hand,
Breathin' upon its shinin' blade,
To see how quick the breath would fade;
An' weel I kenn'd it would reveal
The blade to be o' richt guid steel.
Puir whittle! whaur will ye be noo?
In wood, or lea, or hill, or howe?
Lying a covered owre wi' grass,
Or sinkin' deep in some morass?
Or may ye be already fand,
An' in some ither body's hand?
Or will ye lie, till, roosted owre,
You look like dug-up dirks o' yore?
Whan we're a' deid, an' sound eneugh,
Ye may be turned up by the pleuch,
Or fand in the middle o' a peat,
An' sent to Edinburgh in state,
There to be shown--a wondrous sicht
The jocteleg o' Wallace wicht!
Thus a' the comfort I can bring
Frae thee, thou lost, lamented thing,
Is to believe that on a board,
Wi' broken spear, wi' dirk, an' sword,
Wi' shield, an' helm, an' ancient kettle,
May some day lie my roosty whittle.
Oh! that I were the wee herd loon
That basks upon yon sunny lea,
Ilk ither wish I wad lay doon,
A laddie herdin' kye to be.
I'd lose the little lear I ha'e,
An' learn the herdie's simple arts,
To build a hoosie 'mang the strae,
To mak' wee neep an' tatie carts;
To mak' a kep o' rashes green,
An' learn the herdie's gleesome lauch ; To mak' a rattle for the wean,
Or cut a whistle frae the saugh ;
To licht a fire upo' the muir
That a' the herdies may sit doon, Or set the whins on bleezin' fire
That a' the herdies may rin roun';
To plait a whup for drivin' kye,
An learn the herdies' sangs to sing,
An' wi' the herdies' hooin' cry
Gar a', the echoing woodlands ring;
To climb the greenwood trees sae high,
An' shogin sit among the boughs,
An' watch the birdies flittin' by,
Or mark the burnie as it rows;
To mak' windmills an' waterwheels,
To be ilk thing that 's herdie-like ;
A wee thing feared o' ghaists an' deils,
Or ony ither unco tyke;
Get shoon wi' clampit heels an' taes,
An' five fu' raws o' muckle tackets; Corduroy and fustian claes,
Wi' pouches fu' o' queer nick-nackets.
O blithesome are the herdie's ways:
I had a wee wee tastin' o' them;
But Time's a flood that never stays.
A flood that beats mankind to fathom:
O blithesome are the herdie's ways:
I had a wee wee tastin' o' them;
Time wafted me frae herdin' days
Ere I was weel begun to ken them.
THE AULD GABERLUNZIE.
Wild was the e'enin', the wind it was howlin',
And souffin' and snellin' the drift it did blaw;
Doon in the moorland a doggie was yowlin'
For some weary body owreta'en by the snaw.
Sairly we wished for the dawn o' the day,
An' mony a saut tear o' sorrow did fa";
An' mony a heart in the parish was wae;
'Twas the auld gaberlunzie lay dead in the snaw!
Nae mair will we feast owre the news o' the clachan,
Or hear how the lairds gang wi' lairds to the law;
We'll hear nae mair clashes to set us a-lauchin';
The auld gaberlunzie is dead an' awa'!
Nae mair will auld grannie sit crackin' at e'en
Wi' the couthie auld carle ayont by the wa',
An' lauch owre the jokes o' the days that ha'e been,
Now the auld gaberlunzie is dead an' awa'!
Nae mair will the lassies wha work at the ferm
Ken how ither lassies are growin' sae braw,
Or wha's to be married at Martinmas term;
The auld gaberlunzie is dead an' awa.
Nae mair will auld grandfather crack o' the war
Wi' the skilly auld carle that ken'd o' it a';
His heart now is dowie an' heavy an' sair,
Since the auld gaberlunzie is dead an' awa'!
Nae mair will the laddies hear auld-farrant stories
O' ilka auld castle and queer biggit ha';
O' ghaists an' o' witches, o' warlocks an' fairies;
The auld gaberlunzie is dead an' awa'.
Wha could ha'e thocht we sid miss him sae ill?
The parish is no' like a parish ava!
Naething to cheer us now-a'-body's dull
Since the auld gaberlunzie is dead an' awa!
This rich abundance of the rose, its breath
On which I think my soul almost could live,
This sweet ambrosia, which even in death
Its leaves hold on to give ;
Whence is it? From dank earth or scentless
air?
Or from the inner sanctuaries of heaven? We probe the branch, the root, no incense O God, whence is it given? [there
Is it the essence of the morning dew,
Or distillation of a purer sphere--
The breath of the immortals passing through
To us immortals here?
Exquisite mystery, my heart devours
The living inspiration, and I know
Sweet revelations with the breath of flowers
Into our beings flow.
WIT ITH the death of William Leighton at Liverpool in 1869 there closed a career of great promise, and a life of singular sweetness. This poet was a nephew of Robert Leighton. Both died young, and within a few days of each other, and both exhibited many of those gifts and graces which seem to have been a family possession. William was born at Dundee in 1841, and at the age seven removed with his parents to the busy English city, where the family took up their permanent residence. From an early age the study of poetry was a passion with him; and before he had reached manhood he had written many of the poems now indissolubly linked with his name. Engrossed in business, his leisure was never ample; but his was the pen of a ready writer, and in addition to many such poems as represent him here, he wrote a number of valuable sketches and essays in prose, some of which have since his death appeared in his volumes and in various periodicals. Just before the short and severe attack of typhoid fever to which he succumbed, he had been busied preparing his poems for publication; and these appeared posthumously in 1870, in a volume of 150 pages. Quite a remarkable welcome was accorded the collection, and several large editions were exhausted.
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